“Yeah, but he wore that stuff only cause he was acting!” Trevor countered.
“That’s not true,” Marshall answered. “If memory serves, Dean liked Western clothes, and he wore them a lot before he died. He also took up roping, even when he didn’t need to. He did more than just act, brood, and race Porsches, you know.”
Marshall leaned closer, his gaze hardened. “So what’s it going to be? Are you in or out?”
For several long moments, silence hung in the air. “All right,” Trevor said grudgingly. “I’ll try. But it’s going to be really lame. Therapy…cowboys…Jesus…”
SIX
WHERE YOU HEADED, Mr. Wyatt?” Big John Beauregard asked. “Off to do a little hunting, are ya?”
Before answering, Wyatt slung a Western-style saddle onto the bay mare’s back. Next he hoisted up the saddle bags and tied them on. After cinching the saddle, he reached for a bridle hanging on the near wall.
“What tipped you off?” he asked.
Big John pointed across the wide concrete corridor that bisected the huge horse barn. The morning sun shone through its many skylights, bringing the promise of a beautiful day. Horse stalls built from dark hardwoods lined either side of the long divide. Nearby, Wyatt’s bolt-action rifle with a telescopic sight lay inside a tooled leather scabbard.
Big John grinned knowingly. “Cause that’s your gator gun,” he answered. “And when I see that gun, I always know.”
Wyatt smiled, his first since meeting with Gabrielle Powers and James Jacobson two days ago. His decision to allow Trevor into the therapy program still weighed on him, and he wanted to get away for a while to sort through his feelings. But little went unnoticed at the Flying B, and it seemed that his plan had been found out. Living at the ranch was sometimes like existing in a fishbowl—especially where his inquisitive father was concerned.
“I’m going out to my lake cabin,” Wyatt answered as he removed the mare’s halter.
He then pushed the bridle bit against the bay mare’s uniform teeth and gently slid it home. After mouthing it for a few moments, the mare snorted and pawed the concrete floor with one shod hoof.
“I have some thinking to do,” Wyatt added, “and I do it best out there. If I see a gator or two, so be it.”
After lifting the top of the bridle over the mare’s ears, he grabbed the loose straps and buckled them together under her jaw.
Big John smiled. “When you get that look on your face, you rarely come back empty-handed. Two of the hands said they saw a couple of the nasty bastards sunning themselves on the southeastern lakeshore yesterday, but they missed ’em. Must be they told you, too. Good thing they’re in season just now, cause God knows we don’t need those sons a bitches skulking around. Besides, I could do with a new pair of gator-hide boots.”
“And I could use a change of scenery,” Wyatt answered. “So you’ve got a deal.”
After retrieving his gun, Wyatt strode back to the horse. He slid the rifle and scabbard beneath the right-hand stirrup then tied them off. Without a need for the stirrup, he easily swung himself up into the saddle.
“Will you be gone overnight?” Big John asked. “You know Mr. Ram. If me or Lou don’t have the answer, he’ll cuss us out good.”
Wyatt shook his head. “Can’t say. But I have my cell phone with me. If I decide to stay, I’ll call.”
Wyatt suddenly realized what he had just said, and he scowled. Jesus…, he thought. A cowboy with a cell phone. Somewhere up in Wild West heaven, his famous namesake was surely laughing at him.
Before leaving, Wyatt looked appreciatively at Big John. Like everyone in his family, he loved the man. “B.J.,” as he was sometimes called, had been a fixture at the Flying B since before Wyatt and Morgan were born. Standing nearly six feet, five inches tall, Big John was a barrel-chested giant. His curly gray hair was slowly vanishing and an old gray Stetson sat on his head, its rakish angle matching his perpetually lopsided smile.
Big John’s casual appearance and poor grammar were deceptive, for he served not only as the Flying B foreman but also as the ranch veterinarian. Recently married and seeking work, Big John and Aunt Lou had shown up on the doorstep of the Flying B more than forty years ago. Seeing promise in the couple, Ram had assigned the running of the house to Lou, and had eventually paid for John’s college education and subsequent DVM.
Wyatt smiled. “I’ll see what I can do about getting a gator for you. But if I do, you’re going to have to take one of the Jeeps out there and drag the bastard back yourself!”
Big John laughed; Wyatt tipped his hat. Eager to go, Wyatt wheeled his mare around and started to ride out of the barn. No sooner had his mare trotted a few paces than Ram sauntered into view, blocking Wyatt’s way. Ram reached out and grasped the horse’s bridle, making it clear that Wyatt wouldn’t be leaving until the old patriarch had said his piece.
“Where are you headed?” Ram asked.
Wyatt leaned a forearm down on his saddle horn. “Two gators were seen out along the southeastern lakeshore. I thought I’d go look for them.”
“Are you sure you’re not hunting more than gators?” Ram asked.
“What else would it be?”
Ram’s eyes quickly acquired the same penetrating gaze that his many legal opponents had dreaded seeing in the courtroom. “Peace of mind, maybe?” he asked in return.
“I just hung up with Reverend Jacobson,” Ram continued. “He told me all about your meeting with the Powers woman. He knew that you left upset, and he wanted to see how you were doing. He’s surprised that you haven’t gone back and given him a good tongue lashing for sticking his pious nose into your personal business. He was also surprised that you hadn’t told me about it. But don’t blame him for spilling the beans, son. You know how persuasive I am. That’s just the lawyer in me, I guess.”
Ram looked at Big John. “Give us a moment, okay?”
After Big John departed, Ram walked to a pile of straw bales stacked against one wall and sat down among them. Wyatt tied his mare’s reins to a metal ring on the wall and then joined his father.
Wyatt didn’t know how this talk would go, but one thing was certain. For better or for worse, the decision to allow Trevor into the program had been his to make and he wouldn’t tolerate any guff over it. He had given his word, and he would keep it.
Ram finally looked into Wyatt’s eyes. “I’m proud of you, son,” he said. “You did the right thing. Then again, I’m halfway surprised that you didn’t tell Jacobson to go to hell for setting you up like that.”
“Don’t think that I didn’t want to!”
Ram laughed and slapped one knee. “That Jacobson’s the real deal! Don’t feel guilty about his getting the upper hand on you! More than once he’s conned me into doing things in the name of the Lord—especially when money was concerned. After all, it’s easy to shower morality down on others when you supposedly stand on a higher moral plane. I imagine that he used the shame angle on you, right?”
Wyatt nodded. “They both did. Gabrielle’s no slouch at that either.”
“Jacobson says she’s a real looker.”
Wyatt shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t notice.”
“Bullshit,” Ram answered. “From what he told me, a man would have to be dead not to notice her.”
“Then I guess that part of me is dead,” Wyatt answered.
“We need to talk,” Ram said simply.
“About what?”
“About you,” Ram answered. After thinking for a time, he turned and looked at his son.
“Lately you’ve been moping around here like the world is about to end,” he said. “And after talking to Jacobson, I know why. Like I said, you made the honorable decision about the Powers boy. What happened wasn’t his fault, after all. But I don’t want him and his mother to cause you even greater pain. So tell me—when the program starts three days from now, are you going to buck up? Or are you going to continue sulking around the ranch like some gelding that’s j
ust lost his family jewels?”
Ram’s bluntness hit Wyatt hard. Ram had always had a way of getting straight to the heart of things where his boys were concerned. Wyatt and Morgan knew that his unvarnished brand of parenting was caused by the untimely death of their mother. The boys could have used a bit more tenderness as they grew into manhood, but Wyatt believed that his father had done the best he could.
“I’ve never told you how to run your life,” Ram said, “although it must seem like it. Maybe that’s because you live out here with me, and Morg doesn’t. But you’re my son, and I only want what’s best for you. It’s high time that you got on with your life. I’d literally give a million bucks if you’d take up with some good woman and see what happens! Your heart is dying a slow death, Wyatt, and it seems that everyone knows it but you. No horse-therapy program in the world is going to change that. Just promise me that you won’t get so bound up in Krista’s revived program that you become a recluse out here. The Flying B is your home, and you’re right to love it. But you mustn’t let this ranch become some kind of self-imposed prison.”
Ram’s words stung Wyatt again, largely because they were true. But Krista’s memory still lingered everywhere for him, touching his life every moment of every day. He had loved her so deeply that it seemed she would come breezing through the big-house doors at any moment, her unruly blond hair tousled and her bright smile lighting up the room like only hers could. And then she and Danny were taken away so suddenly, so cruelly…
Wyatt shoved his feelings aside, then he stood and untied the mare’s reins from the wall ring. He looked down at his father.
“Is there anything else?” he asked.
Ram unfolded his old legs and stood up. “Nope. You know what you’re doing with the gators. Just come home safe.”
“I will,” Wyatt answered.
“You want the dogs to tag along?”
Wyatt shook his head. “This trip is about being alone,” he answered quietly.
Ram nodded. “So be it. They’d probably scare the gators off before you could get a proper shot, anyway.”
Wyatt threw himself up into the saddle again then wheeled the mare around. After leaving the barn, he steered the horse toward a dirt road heading northwest, and he spurred her into a light canter. As Wyatt’s form grew smaller in the morning sunlight, Big John returned to Ram’s side.
“Is everything all right, Mr. Ram?” he asked.
“Can’t say, B.J.,” Ram answered as his son disappeared from view. “Where Wyatt’s concerned, you never know.”
SEVEN
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Wyatt arrived at the edge of a pristine lake. Shifting his weight in his saddle, he looked down from the little knoll on which his mare stood. He could have used one of the Flying B’s Jeeps to bring him here, but he loved coming on horseback. Besides, the sound of the Jeep would have scared off any alligators lounging on the lake shore.
Measuring about one mile across, the lake was in the shape of a lopsided circle. It lay about ten miles from the big house, and had been a godsend to past generations of Blaines who had worked the ranch as a citrus concern. Fed by underground springs, the deep lake was unusually cool for Florida and provided good fishing.
To keep out trespassers, Ram had bordered the entire ranch with a barbed-wire fence. Ram insisted that the fence always be in good repair, keeping many Flying B hands continually busy. Today the hands traveled the perimeter with four-wheel-drive Jeeps rather than on horseback. Even so, “riding fence” was only a slightly more agreeable job than it had been some 150 years ago, when the ranch was founded. Wyatt had worked many hours riding fence as a young man, and he knew firsthand how exhausting the task could be.
Because of their high monetary value, the Flying B horses roamed in far more luxurious settings. Whitewashed, split-rail paddocks hemmed in many acres of pasture lying near the main barn. The paddocks had cost Ram a small fortune, but they had been needed. It was there that the horses roamed safely, rather than across the scruffy tracts of land that Wyatt now rode. Despite this area’s lonely nature, Wyatt liked it here. Ten years ago he’d built the small lakeshore cabin that stood about half a mile away. But should the Blaines ever decide to again pasture their horses here, it was necessary that these lands be as free from predators as possible—especially alligators.
Few Floridians had much compassion for alligators. During the past few decades, the alligator ranks had in fact swelled to the point that there was now at least one for every nine of the state’s human beings. Worse, alligator attacks on humans were increasing. And given that an alligator could run upward of thirty miles an hour across open ground, children were particularly vulnerable.
In Florida it was legal to hunt adult alligators on private land, provided the landowner held a state permit. The permit-approval process was a complicated and arduous one, and by mutual agreement it had fallen to Morgan to make sure that all the needed paperwork for the Flying B was properly filed each year. From September through March, adult alligators greater than nine feet could be taken by firearms during daylight hours. So that state officials could best monitor the results, an alligator harvest report had to be submitted by the permittee within twenty-four hours of the kill.
Wyatt slipped his rifle from its scabbard. He then loaded it and set the safety. After taking the reins into his left hand, he rested the gunstock on his right thigh and pointed the muzzle skyward.
Wyatt had chosen to search this part of the lakeshore for two reasons. It held a sandy stretch of bank where alligators sometimes warmed themselves in the sun, and it wasn’t far from his cabin. He gently spurred his mare. Guiding her northeast, around the rim of the little knoll surrounding the lake, he surveyed the sandy bank.
He had ridden along the lake bank for another half hour or so when his mare danced nervously. Trying to calm her down, he patted her neck and spoke to her softly. Wyatt raised his gun and looked into the telescopic sight to survey the distant shore. At first he saw nothing, but as he checked farther afield he found two alligators on the sandy bank.
The dark, leathery predators lay stock-still, basking in the sunshine. Wyatt was an excellent marksman, but they were too distant to shoot offhand. Looking around, he saw what he needed then steered his mare down the far side of the knoll. After sliding to the ground, he tied the reins to a nearby tree.
Wasting no time, Wyatt quickly crept back up the bank then took another look through the scope. The two alligators still lay motionless on the sunny shore. Each one looked about ten feet long. If he missed, the sound of his gunshot would immediately drive them both toward the water, so Wyatt decided to try to take the nearer one first. He might be quick enough to get off a second shot, but he doubted it.
Seeing the pine tree that he had searched for earlier, Wyatt stealthily worked his way closer. He stepped behind it then propped his gun up against its trunk. Reaching down, he quickly removed his leather belt.
After quietly picking up the gun, he looped the leather belt around the gun barrel, and then around one of the lower tree branches before buckling it. Twirling the gun in a circle, he tightened the belt until it steadied the gun barrel on top of the branch, but not so unforgivingly that he couldn’t adjust his aim for a second shot. He pressed the stock against his shoulder and again looked through the scope. Moments later his right index finger gently curved against the trigger, then his thumb silently disengaged the safety.
He gauged the distance to his target, and the wind direction and speed. The northeasterly breeze seemed brisk and steady. After situating the crosshairs just above the head of the nearest alligator and a bit to the right to compensate for distance and wind, Wyatt took a deep breath. When his aim was as perfect as he could make it, he squeezed the trigger.
With a loud report, the rifle jumped in his hands. Without taking his eye from the scope, Wyatt immediately retracted the bolt and shoved another round home. Just as Ram had taught him to do, Wyatt resisted the temptation to see whether he had hit
his first target and immediately searched for the other one. The second alligator was scurrying toward the water. Trying to gauge the animal’s speed as best he could, Wyatt let go with another round.
With one eye still looking through the scope, Wyatt exhaled and surveyed his handiwork. The near alligator had been killed by Wyatt’s first round. Quickly moving the gun to the left, he searched for the other one. It, too, had been stopped. As he lowered the gun he wished that Ram had been here, for trying to convince the old man of this would be nearly impossible.
After ejecting the second spent shell casing and ramming a fresh round home, Wyatt freed the gun from his leather belt and again propped it against the tree trunk. With the belt returned to his waist, he walked back to his mare. After untying her, he climbed up into the saddle and got her moving again. Given the keen ability to sense life and death that all horses seem to possess, this time the mare obeyed Wyatt’s bidding.
The two alligators appeared to be dead. He slid the rifle back into its scabbard, turned the big mare northward, and spurred her into a light gallop.
It seemed that Big John would be getting those new boots after all.
WYATT’S CABIN SAT on the northern edge of the lake. It was decidedly humble when compared with the big house, but in some ways Wyatt liked the cabin better. He and Krista had hired a Boca architect to design it for them. Following the architect’s plans, Wyatt and a group of ranch hands had built it themselves.
On reaching the cabin, Wyatt slid off his saddle and led the mare toward a small split-rail corral that stood nearby. He unsaddled the horse then walked her into the corral and removed her bridle. Glad to be free of her burdens, the horse rubbed her face against Wyatt’s shoulder then wandered off to test her new confines. Wyatt picked up the saddlebags and rifle and headed for the cabin.
About one hundred feet from the edge of the lake, the cabin stood on ten-foot-high stilts to guard it from predators. A grassy expanse lay between the cabin and the sandy lakeshore. With the help of some Flying B hands, Wyatt had built a wooden dock that extended thirty feet out over the lake. An aluminum fishing boat with a gas outboard motor lay on the shore, protected from the elements by a canvas tarp. A ramshackle barrel float with a wooden deck was anchored about seventy feet from shore, bobbing lightly on the waves.
If Wishes Were Horses Page 5