by Anna Jeffrey
He removed his chinks and spurs and hung them on a peg, then returned to where Silas was brushing Mouse. “Everybody but your mama’s folks turned out, didn’t they?” Silas said.
Drake had hoped his maternal grandparents might come for his birthday, but they had not. His mom said they were in Indiana. As fulltime RVers, they were rarely in Texas these days, thus, Drake and his siblings saw little of them. “Yeah, they did,” he said.
“With that big-deal horse show going on up in Fort Worth, I couldn’t believe it when Kate and Troy showed up.”
The “horse show” Silas referred to was a big deal. The American Cutting Horse Association World Championship Futurity was the be-all, end-all cutting competition in the country. The three-week event started the last part of November every year. Both Drake’s little sister and his half brother participated. Kate as a breeder and competitor and Troy as a trainer as well as a competitor. Drake chuckled. “Me either. I wasn’t expecting them.”
“Just goes to show how much folks miss you around here and how much they think of you,” Silas said. “Think you’ll ever come back to the ranch?”
The question startled Drake, but the answer startled him more. These days he never thought of returning to the Double-Barrel for anything other than a short visit. He couldn’t put his finger on when his attitude about that had changed. “Nah. Not any time soon.”
Just then, Drake’s phone warbled. He plucked it off his belt and saw the name of one of the associates in his Fort Worth company. “Hey, Gabe, what’s up?”
“Hey, Drake. How was Thanksgiving?”
Phone pressed to his ear, he mouthed to Silas, “I’m going to the house.”
He picked up his saddle scabbard, gave Silas a two-fingered salute and walked toward the ranch house. “Good, Gabe, good. You have a good visit with your family?”
“Ate like a horse, as usual. Listen, sorry to bother you when you’re on a holiday, but I didn’t want to let this wait.”
Gabe Mathison paid little attention to holidays and weekends. He was the youngest broker in Drake’s organization of forty-five real estate brokers and was still more or less in training. He was also one of the most ambitious. When it came to sniffing out a good deal for the company or a customer/investor, Gabe turned over every stone. In some ways, he reminded Drake of himself.
“You know that corner piece of land on the Fort Worth Highway just out of Camden?” he continued. “The one with the big oak trees? It’s across the highway from that new grocery store and strip mall Lincoln Properties built.”
Drake traveled through Camden every time he drove to the Double-Barrel. He had watched the small town’s rapid growth with only distant interest. His playing field was the Dallas/Fort
Worth Metroplex. “Vaguely. What’s up?”
“It’s for sale. We got a flyer from Emmet Hunt in Dallas.”
Drake’s interest piqued. Bare ground for sale in a hot growth area like Camden always had good potential. “How much land?”
“A little over five acres. Not a big chunk, but all the ground around it’s unimproved except for one old house that looks like it might fall down. I’m going to do some research to see who owns it. Could be a deal for the right buyer. It’s a perfect spot for a C-store. A Race Trac maybe.”
Drake involved himself in his agents’ deals only peripherally. He often didn’t even know the names of buyers and sellers. His primary concern was that his people performed ethically and legally. Otherwise, he left them to their own creative ventures. “Do some work on it,” he replied. “I’ll be back up there tomorrow and we can go over it.”
“Shouldn’t we go ahead and make an offer?”
“I don’t think anybody will snatch it out from under us before tomorrow. It’s the holidays. And knowing Emmet, it’s overpriced anyway.”
Gabe laughed. “Gotcha. See ya tomorrow.”
Chapter 4
Drake entered the Double-Barrel’s log and native rock ranch house through the back door and the large utility room where at one time long ago, game and beef were butchered and packaged for freezing. The sprawling house had been built in 1902 by a Lockhart grandfather. It had been added on to and remodeled more than once. In many ways, it remained outdated. Still, it had an elegance about it.
The aroma of lunch preparation set his taste buds to dancing. He laid his Stetson on the long stainless steel counter and hung his coat to the side of the door on a coat rack made of steer horns. A shudder passed over his shoulders as warmth seeped into his body.
He found his dad and brother enjoying a blazing fire in the den’s fireplace. With the day being gloomy, the glow from two artfully-welded horseshoe lamps flanking a long cowhide sofa cast the room in an amber light. Heavy western-style furniture, a large TV, brown wood-paneled walls, a massive tan limestone fireplace and a few hunting trophies made the room’s ambience decidedly masculine.
Two eight-foot sliding doors opened out onto a large concrete patio, but the roof that covered the patio never allowed bright light into the den, even on a sunny day. When Mom lived here, she had declared this room “a dark and depressing boar’s nest.” She had tried to change its appearance by adding flowers and candles, which the men in the family had barely tolerated. They liked the room as it was. Pic called it a man cave. Drake thought it one of the most relaxing places he had ever been.
“You’ve been out there a long time,” Pic said, grinning from a massive leather recliner. “Thought we were gonna have to send out a search party. You’re gonna have a sore butt tomorrow, Brother.”
Drake carried his gun scabbard to a built-in cabinet in an out-of-the-way corner, pulled out his rifle and began to unload it.
Seated on the end of one of the sofa, his dad looked up from behind a newspaper. “How’d the new fence look?”
Drake closed his rifle into the cabinet. “Didn’t see any breaks. Saw a little bit of grass peeking through.”
“We need more rain,” his dad said, folding the newspaper. “I just hope this weather keeps on coming.”
Weather. A never-ending grievance of a rancher in Texas, Drake thought.
His brother rose, walked over to the fireplace and stood in front of the blaze, his hands behind his back. “How many hogs did you shoot?”
“Missed one,” Drake answered.
“We’ve hunted hell out of those hogs,” Pic said, shaking his head. “Every hand’s taking a rifle every time they go out.”
Feral hogs had become a scourge to stockmen and farmers all over rural Texas. They tore up fences, destroyed crops and attacked livestock. They were so prolific, the state had declared open season on them.
“I’ll tell you this much,” Dad groused. “We can’t afford to lose even one more calf to rustlers and hogs. Damn rustling is at an all-time high and sheep raisers southwest of here? The paper says those bastard hogs are putting them clear out of business. Lambs are a hundred percent defenseless.”
Drake and Pic traded looks, both knowing that repeating conversation about the financial
loss the ranch had taken and continued to take was unnecessary. Dad was endlessly vocal in his belief that the fires and the hogs had cut the spring calf crop in half.
Just then, Johnnie Sue stuck her head through the doorway. “You boys come eat ’fore it gets cold.”
Dad stood. “Let’s eat dinner. Johnnie Sue’s fried up that mess of birds we shot.”
Drake and his family were lifelong hunters. His father had taught him and his siblings gun care and shooting as children. They had grown up eating game meat. Bird hunting was one of Drake’s favorite activities. On this visit, he, Pic, and his dad had hunted quail every morning. With him going back tomorrow, today was the day for a quail feed.
They filed into the breakfast room off one end of the kitchen and sat down at the round oak table. The table in the formal dining room seated twelve, but they rarely ate there. All three of them liked the intimacy of dining in the breakfast room.
Johnnie Sue s
erved them fried quail, mashed potatoes and cream gravy and homemade biscuits. After the meal, she cleared the table and they sat talking. “When you going to Lubbock?” Dad asked.
The Lockhart family owned fourteen thousand acres of cotton farms and grazing land between Lubbock and Amarillo. Seven years ago, Drake had negotiated leases on a third of the land with an energy provider. Completed wind turbines stood in neat rows on part of the cotton fields and some were still under construction.
“Before the end of the year,” he answered.
“I’ve been thinking about what we talked about,” Dad said. “About getting involved in building those windmills. I’m dubious, Son. Lockharts have never gone out on a venture capital limb. I don’t think I need to tell you this isn’t a good year for gambling.”
His father spoke of Pennington Engineering, the company erecting wind turbines on the Lockhart cotton farms. Robert Pennington, the company’s owner had approached Drake a couple of years ago about partnering in a manufacturing operation and was now bringing the plan to a head. Drake hadn’t committed, but he hadn’t said no either.
In recent years, the ranch had come to be more dependent on its investments outside the cattle business. And the responsibility to make that successful had fallen on Drake. Shepherding the family’s wealth was different from risking his own. He’d had to learn to juggle between it and the edgier business his own company engaged in. Ironically, at this point in the Lockharts’ long history in Texas agriculture, it might very well be Drake’s business acumen and honed negotiating skills that saved the ranch.
“I understand, Dad. I don’t know all I need to yet. What I do know is that wind energy has support. And a manufacturing plant in that part of the state would mean a lot to the local people.”
“So what?” Dad said. “You into social engineering now? Not a damn one of those green energy companies has come up with anything that’ll get a Boeing 747 off the ground. And until they do, I’m not impressed. This family’s gonna just keep pumping oil as long as they’ll let us.”
During his week-long visit, Drake had had a year-end meeting with his whole family. The Double-Barrel was a family corporation and they got together several times a year to discuss the state of the ranch and plan for the future. He always had positive news to report at the year-end meeting, but this year, the atmosphere had been grim. The ranch wasn’t falling apart yet, but Mother Nature had not been kind. Everybody had to tighten his belt in the coming year. Or years.
“You don’t have to worry,” Drake said. “I’m not going to do anything that’ll sink the ship.”
“I know that, Son. I’m just reminding you I don’t like those damn windmills. They’re killing high-flying birds. A balls-out effort has been made to save the eagles and now they’re getting killed flying into windmills. Besides that, every time I turn on the news, I hear that another one’s gone broke. But I do like those energy company leases.”
“I say just keep leasing the land,” Pic put in. “Let somebody else take the risk of building the windmill engines.”
Drake tamped down his annoyance. Often these days, he found his vision of the future in conflict with that of his father and brother. He had confidence in his own judgment. He always had, even when he was younger. No matter what might be going on in the economy in general, he had never feared risk, had always had an expectation of success. Most of his gambles had been spot-on and profitable.
As for the windmills, as far as Drake was concerned, the jury was still out on large-scale green energy production. Though he hadn’t seen much success or profit in it so far, he wasn’t opposed to it. At this year’s family meeting, he had reported that the windmill construction was about half-finished and he was in talks with TXE about leasing more land. If he continued, at some point, all of the Lockhart West Texas holdings would be under lease for windmill sites.
“Speaking of socializing,” Pic said, preventing the conversation from escalating into an argument, “I meant to show you something.” He left the table and returned with a newspaper folded in quarters. “You made the paper. The Dallas Morning News no less” He slid the paper across the table toward Drake.
“What’s this?” Drake picked up the paper and scanned it. He saw a picture set within an article on a feature page—a shot of himself and the blonde heiress he had been seeing for the past six months, Donna Stafford-Schoonover.
He recognized the background in the picture as the Adolphus Hotel in Dallas, where last week he had accompanied Donna to a function held by one of the many organizations she supported. He hated seeing himself in the newspaper, but as the only daughter of one of the richest, most powerful men in Texas, Donna made the paper if she sneezed. He’d had to learn to live with that, but he hadn’t learned to love it.
“She told the reporter that wrote this story that you and her are about to get hitched.” To Drake’s aggravation, his younger brother chortled. “She says you’re out shopping for a ring.”
“The hell,” Drake said and continued to read. Sure enough, the quote from Donna was there. A fresh annoyance niggled at him. He had never proposed to her. He hadn’t said he loved her. Except for his fiancé of thirteen years ago, when he was a dumb kid, he had never loved any woman.
“You got some news you’re not sharing, Son?” Dad asked. Now, he, too, was grinning. “Your mother says she’s Don Stafford’s daughter.”
Mom. Drake did a mental eye roll. His mother had heard about him and Donna on some golf course and had been practically breathless when she had quizzed him about it.
Everybody in Texas knew Don Stafford, either directly or indirectly. He had owned an oil company that he sold for a fortune, but continued to hold a major interest in. Now, semi-retired, he sat on many boards, owned a Cadillac dealership among other things and a part of the Texas Rangers baseball team. His influence had long tentacles.
Drake had never asked his father if he and Don Stafford were acquainted because he rarely discussed his social life with his family. But he was sure Pic and Dad both knew that if he were planning on getting married, he wouldn’t keep it a secret from them. They were just having fun needling him.
“Don’t forget, Mom’s planning your wedding,” Pic added, still laughing.
Mom again. He had ended his affair with Donna twice, most recently a month ago. Then,
somehow, influenced by his own mother and Donna’s father, he had let himself be dragged back into it. But he wasn’t happy. Donna was spoiled, self-centered, petulant and aggressive. She drank too much and he suspected she engaged in other substance abuse when she wasn’t with him.
He had been growing ever more vexed with her drinking, her aimless lifestyle, her superficial friends he viewed as being equally aimless, and her in general. He had difficulty relating to people who had nothing productive to do or who couldn’t carry on a conversation about anything more interesting than what somebody wore to some party or who’d had the latest plastic surgery.
For weeks, he had been thinking he and Donna had reached a dead end, wasn’t sure why he had stuck around this long. Six months was longer than his affairs ever lasted. He slid the newspaper back toward his little brother. “That’s garbage. It should go in the trash.” He left his seat and walked over to the counter and the coffee maker for a refill, leaving Pic chuckling behind him.
“I can’t trash it yet,” Pic said. “I’ve got to show it to Mandy. She’ll get a kick out of it.”
Amanda Breckenridge had been Pic’s girlfriend off and on since they were all in Drinkwell High School together. The fall after graduation, Pic had gone away to college, leaving her behind in high school. The next year Pic had met his future wife and eloped.
Before the midterm and before Pic brought his bride back to the Double-Barrel to meet the family, Mandy moved away to live with an aunt in West Texas. The Treadway County grapevine had blabbed about how she had left town because her heart had been broken by Pic’s choosing another girl. Drake didn’t know if that was true.
A few years later, she returned to help care for her widowed and ill father. At the same time, she went to work as a teacher and the girls’ swim coach in the Drinkwell school system. By that time, Pic had been divorced several years.
Pic and Mandy had been dating again. They appeared to be in love, or at least something like it. Neither of them saw anyone else, yet Pic never mentioned marrying her. That could be because Mom constantly ragged on him, telling him he could do better than Mandy. Drake had no idea what drove their mother’s thinking. After Pic’s disastrous marriage, why wouldn’t a mother want her son to marry someone who cared about him as much as Mandy obviously cared about Pic?
Having lived his adult life in a world apart from his brother, Drake’s history with the fairer sex was different. After Tammy, he had kept tight control of his relationships. Consequently, unlike his brother, no woman had ever led him down the garden path. His various female acquaintances had called him a litany of colorful names—rogue, commitment-phobe, self-centered bastard, among others. He let most of that roll off of him. He had trained himself not to worry about people’s opinions and name-calling.
Yet, a small part of him envied what his little brother had going on with Mandy. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have a woman who cared about him simply for the man he was. Most of the women he had known liked his local celebrity and his reputation as a business success, liked the Lockhart money and his status as an heir in a wealthy old Texas family, but he had never been convinced that any of them liked him all that much. What most women liked, he had concluded, was money and the power they could gain from marriage to a man with the right connections.