The next afternoon, he and Wyatt saddled up for a long ride out around the property. Bobby listened, mostly in silence, while the older man pointed out some of the worst of the problem areas and gave him a rundown of Highwood’s woeful finances.
“Things are bad,” Wyatt opened matter-of-factly, as they rode up to the high meadows on the far side of the creek that wound its way through the valley, below the old adobe houses and stable yard. “Real bad. But I’m guessin’ you already knew that, right?”
“I knew the big picture,” said Bobby, dismounting quickly to break off a rotten piece of fencing that had come loose and was jutting out dangerously. A sharp spike like that could have injured one of his cattle. “But you knew Dad. He never did like to talk numbers. Not with me anyway.”
Wyatt chuckled. “Don’t take it personal, son. I worked with your father for most of my life, and never once could I sit him down to look at the accounts without an almighty fight on my hands. Out here—” he waved a hand at the softly undulating pastures that surrounded them as Bobby hopped lithely back up onto his pony. “Out here, Hank was a genius, I can’t deny it. But down there”—he pointed to the ranch office, now a tiny red-roofed speck far down in the valley below them—“your father was about as much use as a water pistol in a forest fire.”
They rode on for a while while Wyatt explained the main issues that the ranch, as a business, was facing. The price of beef had almost halved in the last three years, so all the local ranches were suffering. But Hank’s insistence on rearing the traditional breeds, rather than the more common and more profitable standard British beef cattle, meant that Highwood had suffered more than most. His absolute refusal to diversify out of farming had also harmed the ranch financially.
“Truthfully,” said Wyatt, once he’d run through the whole sorry litany of their business problems, “if it hadn’t been for your earnings from horse training these past two years, I really don’t know if we’d have made our interest payments at all. I really don’t.”
“Jesus,” said Bobby, shaking his head in frustration more than in anger. He had always respected Dylan’s father immensely and always would. But how could Wyatt have allowed Hank to let things get quite this bad?
“Why didn’t you tell me any of this sooner? Maybe I could have done something to help.”
Wyatt fixed him with a gimlet stare.
“Now, Bobby Cameron,” he said gently. “You know the answer to that question. It wasn’t my place to do that. Your father was the boss.”
He was right, of course. Hank wouldn’t have dreamed of sharing his financial problems with anyone, least of all his wayward son. It would have been more than his pride could bear.
“I’m telling you now,” said Wyatt, “because you’re the boss now.”
So they keep telling me, thought Bobby.
How ironic, to think that it had been his earnings from horse training that had been propping Highwood up all this time. His old man had never approved of his career, particularly once it started taking him out of California. “That fancy-pants Kentucky crowd” was how he’d always referred to Bobby’s clients, with a disdain that encompassed everyone from small-time local breeders with a runner or two in the San Rafael Stakes, to Sheikh Mohammed himself. Had anyone asked him, he would probably have described the Queen of England as “one o’ them fancy-pants, Kentucky owners.”
Leaning back down in the saddle, Bobby loosened up his reins. They had almost reached the highest point of the property now. It was past five, but the late summer sun still had a kick to it, and he surveyed his little piece of paradise through a shimmering heat haze. In the far distance, beyond the borders of the ranch, the land looked dry and dusty, a testament to four long months without so much as a drop of rain. But Highwood, with her carefully tended, irrigated fields full of cattle, glowed green below him, like the Emerald City of Oz.
Looking down, he felt quite choked with love for the place. For a moment he thought that the tears he’d been unable to shed for his father might finally be about to flow.
“I’m not gonna lose this place, Wyatt,” he whispered. “I’m not gonna let us go under.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Wyatt, pulling his pony up to a stop beside him. “Never crossed my mind that you would, son.”
Wyatt loved Bobby almost like one of his own. Though he’d always disapproved of his rebelliousness, he understood the reasons behind it. Hank hadn’t been much of a father, and Diana was still a child herself when Bobby was born. It was little wonder the kid had learned to live by his own rules.
But for all that he kicked against authority, especially his father’s, underneath it all Bobby clearly had a deep sense of duty not only to Highwood but to the cowboy traditions that the Cameron family had upheld, unbroken, for seven generations. Hank had always looked on Bobby’s horse training career as an abandonment of his roots and a betrayal of the Cameron name—but he was wrong. If he could see his son now, so patently overwhelmed with love for the ranch, he’d realize that the boy had always been a cowboy at heart, and always would be.
Sadly, it was more than Wyatt could say for his own son.
“The way I see it,” said Bobby, clearing his throat and, with an effort, marshaling control of his emotions, “we’ve got two choices. Either we keep going as we are, trying to make the cattle business work—”
“And go under,” said Wyatt.
“And go under,” agreed Bobby. “Or, we try something new.”
“Hmmm.” Wyatt decided to risk a little teasing. “This ‘something new.’ I don’t suppose it would have anything to do with training Thoroughbreds, now would it?”
“Close.” Bobby grinned. “But no cigar.”
“Oh?” Wyatt looked suitably surprised.
“Quarter horses,” Bobby explained.
“What about them?”
“Training, yes. But not Thoroughbreds. Quarter horses. They’re the answer.”
“To what?” said Wyatt. “Quit talking in riddles, wouldya? I’m too old for it.”
Throwing him his reins, Bobby vaulted down onto the ground, pacing backward and forward and waving his arms around excitedly as he spoke.
“I’ve been thinking about this a lot. Ever since I got the news in France . . . about Dad.” He pushed his hair back out of his eyes and looked at Wyatt directly. “And I’ve realized: I need to train horses. I need it, Wyatt. Like air, like water, like . . .” he struggled for the best way to put it. “It’s not just what I do. It’s who I am.”
“I know that,” said Wyatt gently. “We all understand, Bobby.”
“Yeah, well, Dad didn’t,” said Bobby truthfully. “He never understood. He disapproved like hell, and that’s the problem.”
“What do you mean?”
“I could open a racehorse training stables here tomorrow,” he said, turning back to look at the incredible view below them. “But I know I’d be kept awake at night by the sound of Dad spinning in his grave.”
Wyatt chuckled.
“I’m serious,” said Bobby. “I could never disrespect his memory like that. Whatever people around here might think of me, Wyatt, I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it.”
Wyatt was silent. Bobby was a better son than Hank had been a father, that was for sure. His loyalty, even after death, to a man who’d never shown him an ounce of affection was touching.
“So that’s why I figured quarter horses,” he went on. “Okay, so it’s not cattle. But quarter horse racing is a cowboy sport, right? No one, not even Dad, could say I was letting the family down or forgetting my roots by training quarter horses. And there’s serious money in it these days too.”
“I’m sure there is,” said Wyatt. “But aren’t you overlooking one key point here?”
Bobby looked blank.
“Money,” said Wyatt. “We’re this close to defaulting on our loans as it is.” He held up his thumb and forefinger, indicating the tiny distance between their current situation and insolvency. “Wher
e are you planning on getting the cash to start a training business, quarter horse or otherwise? Short of digging the place up for her oil . . .”
Bobby looked suitably horrified.
“Over my dead body!”
“Mine too,” said Wyatt. “Mine too. But training facilities don’t build themselves, Bobby. You haven’t thought this through.”
“Sure I have,” said Bobby arrogantly. Taking back his reins, he climbed into the saddle for the second time, patting his pony on the neck and rubbing her ears joyfully as he did so. He was a big man these days, thought Wyatt, but around horses he still had the look of a lovesick ten-year-old.
“I’ll finish my training commitments for the rest of the year, save up a little nest egg. I have a job in Florida coming up, then an eight-week stint in England. Lord someone or other’s offered me a small fortune to work with two of his colts.”
“That’s great,” said Wyatt, trying to sound enthusiastic. “But I still don’t think you get it. Six months’ wages isn’t going to buy you a horse farm. Besides, we already owe whatever money you earn to the bank. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell ya.”
“Okay, so we’ll find a partner then,” said Bobby breezily. “An investor. Some of the owners I’ve trained for have more money than God. One of ’em’ll back me. It’ll be a cinch.”
Wyatt fought down a gnawing sense of unease. The confidence of youth was all well and good, but it was a poor substitute for experience. In Bobby’s mind, clearly, the fantasy of training cowboy horses at Highwood had already taken hold as the perfect compromise solution, allowing him to follow his dreams and stay true to his Cameron heritage. But bringing a stranger into the business was a huge step, and not one to be taken lightly.
“Look,” he warned, “I’m not against the idea. And, like I say, you’re the boss now. But I do think we should discuss it some more. Bringing an outside investor into Highwood exposes you to a whole bunch of risks. Partnerships can be tricky, Bobby. Things could go wrong.”
“Things have already gone wrong,” said Bobby bluntly. “We’re broke.”
Wyatt sighed. Unfortunately, he couldn’t argue with that.
“Relax.” Bobby grinned. “I may not be a cowboy legend like my father. But I do know horses. And I know I can make this work. Trust me.”
“It’s not a question of trust . . .” began Wyatt. But Bobby wasn’t listening. He’d already nudged his horse in the ribs and was galloping back down the steep hill at breakneck speed, leaving his ranch manager nothing to talk to but a cloud of dust.
Back at Highwood, it was a veritable hive of commotion. Ranch hands were darting back and forth like worker ants from the cattle pens to the tractor barn, stables, and office, trying to get as much done as they could before the light faded completely.
Tara, the elder of the two McDonald daughters, was manning the phone in the cluttered former barn that served as the ranch office. It had been ringing off the hook all afternoon, mostly with angry or worried creditors wanting to speak to Wyatt, or would-be corporate investors seeking an appointment with Bobby. The Camerons may have vowed never to exploit Highwood for her oil reserves, but the rest of the world was not inclined to let the matter drop so easily. Hank’s notorious stubbornness during his lifetime had put off all but the most foolhardy of prospecting companies. But the old man’s death had opened a window of opportunity, and now every oil investor from Canada to Texas was trying to be the first to make the new boss of Highland an offer he couldn’t refuse.
Seeing Bobby come in, Tara flashed him a harassed smile and gestured for him to sit while she got rid of her current, tenacious caller.
“I will pass it on to him, Mr. O’Mahoney. You have my word on that. No, I don’t think there’d be any point in you calling back later tonight. We’re not expecting him back till very late. Yes. Yes, I will ask him to call you in the morning. Uh-huh. First thing, I promise.”
Putting down the receiver, she leaned back in her chair and ran her hands through her hair in exhaustion. “Holy shit, Bobby,” she said, shaking her head. “You would not believe what it’s been like in here today. The phone’s been goin’ crazy.”
“I can imagine.” He smiled.
She was two years younger than him and Dylan, but somehow Tara had always felt like his big sister. Less pretty and more solidly built than Summer, she was the sensible one of the family. Kind to the roots of her being, she was an optimist like her brother and had inherited the best qualities of both her parents—Maggie’s cool temper and Wyatt’s easy grace—combining them with her own naughty sense of humor. She might not be the sexiest girl in the world, but she was so much fun to be around that she was never short of boyfriends. Like everyone else at Highwood, Bobby adored her.
“Anything I need to do right away?” he asked.
She shook her head and passed him a neatly typed sheet of paper headed MESSAGES.
“I wrote the most important ones down. That guy at Wells Fargo called again for Dad.”
Bobby flinched. Wyatt had just been telling him that the bank had been practically beating the door down since the day the funeral was announced. If they were looking for more repayments, they were shit out of luck, at least until he’d been paid for his work with Pascal Bremeau.
“Tell them they need to deal with me from now on,” he said, pulling up a chair and putting both his feet up on the desk. Despite his misgivings and the problems they were facing, he was starting to realize there was also a positive side to being the boss. “And then tell them I’m unavailable. Indefinitely. Anything else?”
“Not really.” She rubbed her eyes. It had been a long day. “Bunch of lawyers, bunch of oil companies.” Bobby waved his hand impatiently as if swatting a fly. “Oh, and the guy called from the rodeo about that bull.”
“Hell, I totally forgot about that,” said Bobby. Most bulls ended up being slaughtered for low-quality cuts of beef, but every now and then Highwood would retire one of its most lively, aggressive males to the local rodeo, so some lunatic could risk life and limb trying to ride him. “Did they send someone to pick him up?”
“Dyl’s out there now,” said Tara with a grin. “It took him and Willy all afternoon to pen him, and now he’s mad as hell.”
Taking this as his cue, Bobby wandered back outside and across the yard to the cattle pens, where a small crowd of hands had gathered to watch Dylan struggle to drive two thousand pounds of angry, bovine muscle into a waiting cattle trailer.
Whoever ended up trying to ride this fella was going to have one hell of a fight on his hands. Dylan, his brow knitted in deep concentration, danced around the furious animal on horseback, trying to direct him to a gate that led first into a smaller pen and then into a narrow, wooden-fenced chute that would eventually channel him into the waiting trailer. So far, he was getting precisely nowhere.
“Come on now, big fella.” He chuckled as the bull flared his nostrils ominously and lowered his head for another charge. “That’s just bad manners.”
For a boy whose only ambition in life was to become a painter, Dylan was cursed with being naturally brilliant at ranching. If Bobby was a genius at calming difficult horses, then he had the same gift with cattle. Totally fearless, he was astonishingly skilled as a hand, as sure and steady as he was fast at his work. On branding days, he’d been known to handle two calves a minute, holding and clamping each frightened animal as he swabbed them, wormed them, and finally white branded them with the distinctive, curled HD for Highwood on their left flank.
“Is that the best you can do?” yelled Bobby, earning himself a quick flip of the bird from Dyl. Though devoted, the two boys had always been competitive in everything. Bobby was trying to throw him off his stroke, but it wasn’t going to work. If anything, his presence only served as added motivation.
Dylan’s horse, an aging mare called Helena, knew exactly what she was doing when it came to herding stubborn cattle and could still turn on a dime in the pen, despite her advanced years. Eas
ing her forward toward the bull’s rear end, Dylan finally managed to nudge the vast animal through the gate and into the smaller pen, where Willy, a sprightly leprechaun of a man in his early forties, was waiting to close the gate behind him. A few seconds later the bull sauntered casually up into the trailer, with a look in his eye that seemed to imply that was exactly what he’d intended on doing all along, if only they’d all left him alone to get on with it.
Dylan turned triumphantly to Bobby. “You were saying?”
“All right, all right, I admit it.” Bobby smiled. “You’re good.”
“Good?” Dylan raised his eyebrow in mock surprise. “How about brilliant?”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” said Bobby. “Helena was brilliant.” Reaching into his jeans pockets for a couple of the mare’s favorite hard candies, he held them out to her in his open palm while Dylan dismounted. “She just took you along for the ride.”
“Oh, that’s right, go ahead.” Dylan rolled his eyes. “Give the horse all the credit why don’t ya.”
It felt good to share a joke, and even better to get his feet out of the stirrups at last, knowing that he was finally done for the day. Since Hank’s death, his father had been so distracted that Dylan’s own workload had effectively doubled, leaving him even less time than usual for his beloved painting. He wouldn’t mind, but he suspected that once Bobby disappeared off training again, things would only get worse. Wyatt would be bogged down with the finances, which meant even more of the day-to-day ranch management would fall to him.
“Long day?” asked Bobby, clocking the bags under his eyes.
“Long? Oh, sure.” Dylan shrugged, trying not to look as depressed as he felt. “Aren’t they always?”
“Wanna talk about it?” Despite the brave face, Bobby could read him like a book. He knew how trapped his friend felt at the ranch, unable to pursue his art, and he sympathized, although there was not much practical help he could offer. In the end it was only loyalty to Wyatt that kept Dyl here. And no one could argue with that, least of all Bobby.
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