by Lexi Whitlow
Mirabel appreciates this alteration in her perspective. They’ve become fast friends.
That’s just one way that Grace has demonstrated her capacity for finding new ways to make life worthwhile.
Not long after we were married she began transcribing the journals left by my fifth great-grandfather, Camden Spencer Davis. She spent close to two years researching every detail, name, event, and date, contained within the writings. Last year she submitted her manuscript to the University of Montana Press, with little hope that they would take it on for publication. A few months back Grace learned that her manuscript made it through the rigorous peer review process, and will be published later next year.
So, my wife is going to be a published author with the epic saga of my family’s history. It’s the tale of a man who shares my name, the son of a Welsh cattle drover who arrived in America with little except a knowledge of managing livestock, living frugally, and breeding horses for the hard work of the range. He crossed an entire continent with his best horses pulling a wagon and his family over the Rocky Mountains, finally deciding to settle on the western valley slopes of the Mission Range. The blood of those magnificent animals who brought him here run in the pedigree of every animal this ranch has produced since.
Grace has accomplished telling that story, on top of writing for various magazines and web sites, contributing her view of the ranching lifestyle, as well as some general history for tourists and locals alike.
The fact is that I have the smartest, highest-profile ranch wife in Montana. Her name is better known than mine in some circles, and that makes me proud.
We rebuilt the Kicking Horse ranch from the ground up. We upgraded the stables substantially, crafting luxury accommodations for our stock. We put in a state-of-the-art fire suppression system that should protect the stables and stock if another wildfire makes its way down the mountain in our direction. The new stables include an apartment for live-in groom staff. Hence forth, the horses will never be alone in the event of an emergency. We’ll never rely on blind luck for their well-being.
We rebuilt the house and barn too.
I thought that Grace would want something contemporary with exposed beams and tall glass windows, but as soon as we started talking to the architect, she said she preferred the traditional Montana ranch style home of the late 19th or early 20th century.
We made a few adjustments to the old house style to add extra private baths and higher ceilings, but in the end, we wound up building a home that resembled, in most respects, the century-old house built on the same spot by my ancestors. We used salvaged materials where we could to give the place an authentic feel, and put a metal roof on instead of shingles, to reduce the threat of fire from blowing embers. When it rains the roof sounds like a symphony playing above our heads. It took me awhile to get used to it, but now, lying in bed, wrapped up in Grace, listening to the music of spring rain, it’s comforting.
Grace’s favorite room of the house is, of course, the library. It’s taken her years to rebuild her collection of books, and she’s still working on it. We have plenty of shelves to fill. She adds to them every week.
Not long after we finished rebuilding, Grace turned up pregnant. We didn’t plan that or even expect it, but it was a welcome surprise to us both—and to Emma. We have twins now; a matched set of sturdy little boys who are almost six years old. We named them after my fifth great-grandfather Camden Spencer Davis, and his brother Dylan Rhys Davis, who laid the foundations of this ranch more than a century ago. I have an idea that they’re going to grow up to know a thing or two about horses and ranching. It’s just a hunch, but I’m putting money on it.
Tyler’s dad Jim passed away a few years back. His loss was keenly felt by all of us, but especially his only son. I figured that Tyler would go back across the valley and take over Heartland, but he surprised me by proposing an idea I wish I had the imagination to come up with first.
Heartland and Kicking Horse were separated by two linear miles of pasture, bisected by the Flathead River. Tyler proposed that we try to acquire the parcels of land between the two spreads, join them up, and form a partnership. It took the better part of a year to convince the property owners between our places to let us buy them out. As soon as it was done we started laying fences and finalizing the legal paperwork to create the Davis-Burke Mission Valley Partnership, Inc.
Today the corporation is among the largest privately held ranches in the state, with more than sixty thousand acres of pasture and range land under our stewardship. Our breeding program is nationally recognized. Last year Tyler and I won the RMBA Breeder of the Year Award, for the third year running. Next year we’re going to pull our ranch out of the competition to give someone else a chance. That only seems fair.
Sometimes, things turn out well. Looking back at all that went wrong and what it took to make things right, I’m feeling blessed with the simplest things life has brought. At the end of the day, I’m more in love with Grace than I was when I first declared myself to her. She still takes my breath away. She still makes me ache for her in the night, when we’re alone and the kids are asleep.
I still make her laugh and roll her eyes at me. I still make her tremble just like the first time we touched.
A man can’t ask for much more than that in life. I’m pretty sure I’m the luckiest hack cowboy in the world.
PowerBall
Prologue
Logan
Let me tell you a little something about me. If I had the cash to buy a Porsche 911 Turbo, I’d spend fifty lousy bucks every few months to change the oil.
These rich assholes don’t even know that much—a Porsche needs an oil change or the damn thing won’t drive right.
That’s asking way too much of the people who can afford a ride like that. They can’t be bothered to bring the thing in for regular maintenance. It’s baffling. Why would you lay out a hundred-fifty grand on a car, then destroy it with neglect? But hey, that’s the world we live in.
The bastards keep me employed.
At the end of every day I wash my hands, scrubbing soap into them with a heavy-bristled brush, trying to dissolve the black grease under my fingernails. No matter how hard I scrub, they always look like I haven’t washed in a year. My nails have a gray tinge, permanently dyed-in. There’s no way to wash away the imprint of my lot in life. People look at my hands, and they know I work with them, not with my brain. And then people, being people, behave accordingly.
Like I’m an idiot, in short.
Today is no different, or at least, it started that way.
Joe, my boss, hands me my check after I clock-out as I’m ducking toward the door. I don’t know why, but I always look at the number in the little box labeled ‘Amount.’ I’m an optimistic person, I guess. I keep hoping the number will change. It never does. Not in three years. It’s a pathetically low wage for the hours, sweat, and bullshit I put up with at Precision Auto. Joe treats us like we should pay him for the privilege of working on rich people’s cars. He’s the stingiest shop owner in the city.
If I could find a better gig I’d pop him the bird on my way out, but there aren’t many opportunities for a grease monkey with no other skills.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
At fifteen years-old and just a sophomore in high school, I was starting quarterback for a four-times in ten-years, state championship team. I was fast, graceful on my feet, with good hands, and a head for the game. By my junior year, college scouts were sniffing around, watching me do my thing. By homecoming of my senior year, I was signed with Ohio State; a full athletic scholarship and a dance card onto the field my freshman year. I was a smart player with my sights set on the NFL, the guarantee of millions in the bank, and a bright future.
And I wasn’t an idiot.
My last year of college eligibility, I led the Buckeyes to a National Championship and the Cotton Bowl. A team of scouts from the Redskins were parked in a box overlooking the forty-yard line on th
e north side of the stadium, a team from the Cowboys peered down from the south side, and a team from the Carolina Panthers was camped in VIP seats behind the Buckeyes’ benches. All of them had eyes on me.
No pressure or anything.
All I remember is, “Hike, hike, hike...” I caught the snap, looked for my receiver. And then I heard it, the sound that changed my life forever. I actually heard it before I felt it. People don’t believe that, but it’s true.
The sharp crack of bone and the tearing of muscle.
After that, everything is a blur. But that first crack—I’ll remember that on my death bed.
All my plans changed.
College didn’t want me after that, not without the money to pay. And I was too bullheaded to figure out a way to pay for the rest of it, opting instead for a steady job in my home town. It was supposed to be a pit stop on the way to a real career.
Instead, it turned into Plan B. And here I am, years later, living out that plan. I keep meaning to take a couple of classes at community college. Or sign up for a course in management to run my own place.
But life is life, and I have Drake to take care of.
Instead of advancing, I paddle in place just to keep my head above water.
Every Friday night after work, I observe the same ritual. First, I make it to the bank before six to deposit my paycheck. Next, I stop by the 7-Eleven on Peace Street to buy a six-pack of beer, a strawberry flavored milk for my brother, Drake, and two lottery tickets. After that I drop in at Hungry Howey’s and get a ten-dollar pizza for dinner.
Tonight, I’m changing things up. Just a little bit.
There’s a Triple Mega-Powerball lottery with the biggest jackpot in history. I’m putting my pizza money into it. Drake and I can eat bologna sandwiches tonight.
I’m living on the edge.
The lottery is the only dream I’ve got right now, and I’m going to hang onto it.
For me, for Drake. For the hope of a mechanic shop to call my own, and maybe a chance at a few of those dreams I never made come true.
Pathetic, I know.
I lay a fifty on the counter alongside my six-pack and Drake’s strawberry milk.
“Four on the Powerball,” I tell the Afghan guy behind the cash register.
He smiles. “Improving your odds tonight, ah?” he asks. He knows my routine.
I nod. “Why not?”
The machine spits out the tickets. He hands them to me, taking my money, returning my change. “Good luck for you,” he says, almost as if he feels sorry for me. I see him glance down at my dark hands, black rings of grease lining my cuticles.
“Hey, Chandler! Lookit you!” I hear a loud voice behind me. I glance back. It’s Charles Pearson.
Charles was a senior in high school when I was a sophomore. He also played varsity football, also as quarterback. He was slower than me, clumsier than me, and took fewer risks. Because of all that, he spent way more time on the bench than he spent in the game. He never much liked me. The feeling was mutual then. And it still is now.
He’s a lawyer now with the biggest firm in town. He’s just as tall as me, but soft. He hasn’t kept up at the gym. He looks more and more like his father every day: soft in the middle, tender around the edges, with the threat of a receding hairline fingering deep into his temples.
“Man, did you just drop fifty on lotto tickets?” Charles asks, speaking loudly enough for everyone in the store to hear. “Shit Chandler. Don’t you know the lottery is just a stupid tax designed to separate hicks like you from your cash?”
Fucking asshole. I’d like to separate his face from his skull, but I know better than that. I crack my knuckles instead and take a deep breath.
He’s not worth my time.
I turn to face him, leveling him with a chilly gaze.
“Why yes, I do know that. Anything else you’d like to say to me?” I ask, shoving the tickets in my ass pocket, sliding my six pack off the counter. I briefly consider using it against the side of his head, but instead, I just grin at the image.
He smirks. “Dude, you used to be such a big man, making all the girls cream their panties and all the guys wanna be you. Now look at you. Just a washed up, ex-jock, whose glory days peaked at twenty. You’re kinda sad.”
Titanium knees, steel pins, or otherwise, I could disassemble Charles Pearson’s face in six seconds flat. That said, he’s a lawyer. There’s two groups of people it’s ill-advised to drop kick and beat the shit out of: cops and lawyers. You might win the fight, but you’ll always lose the war.
“At least I had glory days,” I reply, grinning wider. “I kissed all the prettiest girls. I had a shitload of fun. As I recall, you were sitting on a bench with your thumb up your ass, while the entire cheerleading squad was singing out my name. So… whatever.”
I brush past him, racking his shoulder with my solid bulk, shoving him back a foot.
“There’s one you never got,” he calls as I pass through the door. “And you never will.”
As much as I want to turn around and stomp that shitbird’s ass into the dirty tile floor, I don’t. I don’t do it because I have people waiting at home for me who can’t manage if my sorry ass winds up in jail.
Besides, none of that shit matters anymore. My glory days ended in a flash, with two shattered, compound fractured knees on the ten-yard line at the Cotton Bowl.
I never made it to the NFL. I never graduated from college. I never even made it back to community college. And—as Charles Pearson so adeptly points out—I never got the only girl who mattered.
No one got that girl.
When I asked her to senior prom she laughed. She shook her head, saying, “My daddy would kill me if you showed up at my door.” She flashed that heart-breaking smile of hers and winked, walking away. “Come see me when you’re MVP in the NFL, then we’ll talk.”
Some stupid part of me always believed I’d get the chance to take her up on that challenge. As it turned out, life doesn’t work out the way you think it will when you’re seventeen years-old and you believe the world is your oyster to crack open.
The pearl in that oyster? Her name was Bryn Beckett, and she eluded everyone. She went off to school in New York, and I haven’t heard of her since. I’ve thought of her a lot over the years, but that just proves I’m still hanging on to glory days. I need to accept the fact that my life isn’t going to get a whole lot better, ever. I’m going to be just like my father, working my ass off until the day I pack it in and expire.
I put these grim considerations out of my mind before turning the car toward home, as I’ve got bigger problems ahead. It’s going to be a rough Friday night in the Chandler household. I’m coming home empty handed, and that’s not going down well with Drake. He’ll whine and scream at me for not bringing pizza, and if I let him, he’ll really melt down and start hitting me, himself, and the furniture.
Drake is autistic. Moderately high-functioning in the parlance of the experts. He can converse with relative ease, at least with people he knows. But he doesn’t process things the same way the rest of us do. He’s tense, and sometimes volatile. He doesn’t handle change in his routine well. He focuses on precise detail, incapable of seeing the big picture.
Maybe I can put some parmesan cheese on his bologna sandwich, and make him think it’s close to the same thing? Doubt it’ll work, but it’s worth a try.
This isn’t how things were supposed to be, but it’s how things are. I’m learning to accept them.
I could still nail every one of the prettiest girls in town. And I’ve probably gotten with half of them at one time or another. And at the end of the day, I’ve got more than that self righteous prick who needs to belittle other people to feel like he matters.
Besides, I’ve got a feeling I’m on the rise.
I’m an optimistic person.
I step out into the cool night air and take a long breath in.
Chapter 1
Bryn
This is not how I pl
anned my day.
I have a client meeting at two o’clock. I need to read the case files, so I don’t look like the clueless, green lawyer I am. That, and Daddy wants to take me to lunch with one of his partners.
I don’t have time for car trouble.
The Z was fine in the driveway, but two blocks from home, it started running rough. It’s never done that before. I tried to limp it to the office, but it died at a stoplight on Glenwood.
If I get it towed to the dealership all the way out on the north side of the city, I’ll be lucky to make it back downtown by two, much less make lunch with Daddy. There’s got to be a better option.
When the tow-truck driver arrives, he suggests a mechanic a few miles away.
“And they have some sort of expertise with this type of car?”
“They do European imports,” he says, lifting my BMW onto his flatbed with chains and a winch. “But, ideally, I’d take it to the dealership. This is a brand-new car. Everything should be under warranty.”
Everything is under warranty, but I don’t have time. I need this problem solved yesterday.
Unfortunately, yesterday isn’t on the service menu.
“Are they close?” I try to keep the desperation out of my voice.
“Close enough,” he says, shrugging.
I sigh heavily and hand him my keys. “Take it in.”
On the ride over, his car is hot—hotter than it should be. And it smells like the inside of a gas pump. Every breath I take is stifling. Maybe I should be glad that I could miss lunch with Daddy, but it’s simpler to fall in line and please him when I have the chance. I try not to focus too much on the time scale, instead opting to look out the window and let my mind go blank.
When we get there, the shop isn’t quite as I expect it to be. It’s got a cleaner, neater air than the place I took my car to in New York. And there are nice cars parked in neat rows out behind the shop. Lots of them.
“Shit,” I mutter, making my way over to the garage. I know what the manager is going to say to me even before he says it.