After putting his coffee and newspaper on his desk, Ram walked to the great bookcase that lined the far wall. Twenty feet long and ten feet high, its shelves were heavily burdened with law texts and other volumes, some of them very old. The higher shelves were reachable only via a wheeled library ladder.
Ram rolled the ladder across the floor and toward the area of the bookcase he needed to access. Hiding his secret documents in plain sight made him feel very clever, and he often chuckled to himself as he retrieved them. After replacing them he always moved the ladder to a different spot, thereby putting the finishing touch on his subterfuge. On climbing the ladder, he grasped two items lying deeply sandwiched between a pair of old law books and pulled them free. With what he needed in hand, he climbed down and returned to his desk.
After placing the books on his desk, he sat down. Several old photos of him jumping horses were arranged there, near one elbow. Ram had once been an award-winning horse jumper, and he still treasured those memories. But dealing with the present was what concerned him now, and it was the great irony of his life that it could best be done by remembering his past. The moment he’d learned of his shattering diagnosis, a stark conclusion had visited him. A man cannot know where he is going, Ram realized, without first remembering where he has been.
There was no personal computer on Ram’s desk, for he mistrusted them. He knew that they were essential devices in this day and age, but they were meant for other people. For him, computers were little more than electronic blackboards on which people painstakingly stored valuable information, every bit of which could be lost in the twinkle of an eye. Paper and ink, he had long reasoned, never failed. Moreover, he vastly preferred the sound of a high-quality fountain pen scratching across a page to the artificial tapping of cheap plastic keys.
Despite what many believed, Ram was not a skinflint. He was in fact willing to spend exorbitant sums, but only on items of world-class quality. This philosophy was evidenced by such possessions as his vintage wristwatch, his fountain pen, his prized collection of handmade shotguns, and his still pristine Packard convertible. Ram Blaine was not cheap by any means, but he ardently demanded quality in return for his money. More important, he stubbornly expected such investments to perform as advertised, and to last. As Ram settled into his chair, he was suddenly reminded of something his father had once told him.
“Now hear this, Ram, my boy,” Jacob had said. “There is only one sure way to double your money—legally, that is.”
“How?” Ram asked.
“That’s simple,” Jacob answered, flashing his larcenous smile. “Just fold it twice then put it back into your pocket.” Maybe my old man had a point, Ram thought, as he took another sip of coffee.
Returning to the present, he opened the first of his two secret books. The smaller one was a monthly calendar he had special-ordered from an upscale stationery shop in Boca. It was bound in leather, and its cover carried an embossed gold imprint of the winged letter B. Turning to the month just past, he found the date for yesterday, February 28.
Ram’s system was simple. In the space allowed for each day he wrote one of two letters. For every preceding day that he believed he could completely recall, in its designated space he wrote the letter G, for “Good.” Each day that he could not recall in its totality was given the letter B, for “Bad.” True to Ram’s nature, there was nothing in between. In the space designated for yesterday, February 28, he wrote G.
He then counted the letters recorded for February. There were twenty-five labeled G, and only three marked with the dreaded letter B. Nodding appreciatively, Ram sat back in his chair. February had been much like the several months preceding it. After recording the tally at the bottom of the page, he closed the calendar and set it aside.
Keeping track of his days this way gave Ram a sense of how quickly his mind was deteriorating. He realized that his method was crude, and only as reliable as the diseased brain that had created it. But its imperfections didn’t worry him. As best he knew, he had not suffered a month during which his bad days outnumbered his good ones, and for that he was thankful. His medication was helping, but it bothered his sleep and he longed to be without it.
The second book was larger. It, too, was a leather-bound journal purchased from the same store. Like the calendar, its cover was embossed with the flying B. After thumbing to the blank page that held yesterday’s date he paused for a moment, again doing his best to recall yesterday in its entirety. He then started to write, his finely crafted fountain pen weaving a broad trail of black ink across the page. Thirty minutes later he had filled one page and half of the next with his jagged, unmistakable penmanship.
Ram had but one regret about keeping a journal; he wished he had started doing so much earlier. He couldn’t change that, but nothing could stop him from trying to record every day since his terrible diagnosis. He would continue to do so until his dementia precluded it, or he died. At first he was apprehensive about keeping a record of his remaining days. But as time went on, he came to treasure both journal and calendar.
This other secret task was not born of a vaunted sense of ego, nor in the belief that people would one day find his writings to be fascinating reading. Rather, he lamented the lost ability to recall any day of his life that he wished. Because his mind was going, his sudden need to do so had become a priority. This regret was especially true about his time with Phoebe.
If only all my short-lived days with her had been put down on paper, he thought, so that I could relive them at my choosing. How wonderful it would be to “see” her face again, to “hear” her laughter, to “feel” her presence…
Ram closed the journal and removed his spectacles. After placing the two precious documents back in their hiding places, he moved the bookcase ladder to a different spot then returned to his desk. It was unusual for him to fully open the plantation shutters, but he did so. He had some thinking to do, and he wanted to look out across the Flying B as he did it.
Today would be important, Ram knew. He firmly believed that the revived New Beginnings Program would succeed. He also believed that before the program’s twelve weeks were finished, more than one difficulty would come Wyatt’s way. But Wyatt was committed to its success, and Ram knew that Wyatt would see it through.
Aside from his illness, Ram had few concerns in his present life. He had started the family law firm and successfully guided the Flying B through another generation. He had raised two honest and capable sons to carry on the Blaine legacy. Two grandchildren thrived; the future of the Blaine clan seemed bright. Even so, one unresolved issue haunted Ram night and day.
Wyatt, the son who had always been his favorite, was clearly suffering. Before his mind was totally gone, Ram desperately wanted to see Wyatt happy again. Ram knew the signs of Wyatt’s torment well, for he had experienced much the same heart-wrenching trauma after the death of his beloved Phoebe from cancer, some thirty years ago.
Ram had dealt with his pain by burying himself in his work, both at the law firm and at the ranch. And like Wyatt, he had loved his wife so much that the very idea of becoming involved with another woman seemed treasonous. But recently, Ram had come to understand that he had been wrong, that remaining alone was not what Phoebe would have wanted. It was too late for him, and it broke his heart to know that Wyatt was committing the same grievous mistake. Worse, there was nothing Ram could do about it.
Ram had no such concerns about Morgan. Morgan’s marriage was as solid as a rock, his law career was highly successful, and he was happy with his life. But Wyatt was different. Wyatt had always been uneasy about working at the family law firm. He felt obligated to work there, and he was a good lawyer. But Wyatt was a rancher trapped in a lawyer’s clothes, perhaps even more so than Ram had been.
Ram’s two boys had always been vastly different. From the day of Wyatt’s birth, Ram had resisted his natural inclination to favor him over Morgan. But as time went on, Ram came to realize that denying his feelings was pointles
s, although he tried never to show them. Wyatt was the more physical one; he was the roustabout, and the one who always seemed to get into trouble. He was the more gifted student, but at the same time he didn’t mind getting his hands dirty. And rather unlike Morgan, Wyatt was a man’s man, through and through. But then Danny and Krista died, and everything had changed.
Ram desperately wanted to help Wyatt, but he didn’t know how. The best that he could do was to hope that Wyatt might one day find another woman with whom to share his future. If and when that happened, Ram believed that Wyatt’s soul would return to life.
Ram was about to leave his study when an idea occurred to him. He opened a desk drawer and removed a blank sheet of Flying B stationery. After thinking for a time, he again uncapped his fountain pen and started to write. Some time later, he finished. He folded the stationery and placed it in an envelope. He then sealed the envelope with red wax and addressed its front side. The job done, Ram nodded.
Later that night he showed Aunt Lou where the letter would be hidden, and issued to her a final set of secret instructions.
THIRTEEN
AFTER LEAVING HIS study, Ram went about a few chores. At noon he returned to the big house to supposedly get some lunch, but his real motive was to spy on the furious activity taking place in the kitchen.
Given all that she had to do, Aunt Lou’s tolerance for trespassers was even lower than usual. She soon became so fed up with Ram’s snooping that she whacked him across the shoulder with a dirty spoon, banishing him from “her” kitchen. Ram laughed then went to sit on the front porch with his dogs to await the arrival of the visitors.
Wyatt had wisely left the menu planning to Aunt Lou. It was not his intention to feed everyone each time they visited the ranch, and he knew that they did not expect it. Wyatt decided to keep with Krista’s tradition of providing food on the first day. Besides, doing so was a good ice breaker.
Lou had proposed her menu to Wyatt ten days ago, and he had eagerly approved of her choices. There would be Cajun chicken, boiled sweet corn and salt potatoes, and assorted beverages. The food would be served poolside, and the gathering would be a paper-plate affair. Feeding so many people would be a formidable task, but Lou insisted that she and her three house girls were up to the challenge. Anyway, she had said, managing this little shindig was simple when compared with the annual Flying B ball. The first day of the New Beginnings Program was always the most difficult for everyone, but after a few sessions, things settled into a familiar pattern. For Wyatt, this day would be especially long.
As Ram sat on the porch in his favorite rocker, his anticipation grew. He was eager to meet Gabrielle Powers. He knew that she had attended Danny and Krista’s funerals, but he couldn’t remember her. So curious was he that two hours earlier he had secretly phoned Reverend Jacobson and extracted a detailed description of Gabrielle and Trevor. Jacobson was only too happy to participate in Ram’s little conspiracy, right down to telling him the make of her car and describing Trevor’s ever present red Windbreaker.
Because Wyatt kept his personal life so hidden, Ram doubted that his son would make a point of introducing Gabrielle and Trevor to him. And so Ram decided to personally welcome them the moment they stepped onto the porch. He knew that it would get under Wyatt’s skin, which made his mischievous decision even more delicious. He let go a wide smile. This should prove interesting, he thought.
A little after three o’clock, the two psychologists arrived in one car. Ram knew them from when Krista had run the program, and he greeted them warmly. Wyatt then ushered them into the library so they could iron out some last-minute details. Just as Ram settled back into his rocker, the first of the visitors started arriving.
Ram watched eagerly as automobiles both humble and proud crawled their way up the private drive. Soon Mercy appeared to show the drivers where to park on one of the side lawns. As Ram watched, a feeling of uneasiness crept up his spine.
Mercy was a wonderful woman, and Ram cared for her deeply. But he feared that her mercurial temper might erupt at any time, despite the warning he had issued to her. Because he had upset her, he also guessed that she had crawled into a booze bottle last night and awakened this morning with a terrific hangover. Going on benders was often her way of dealing with difficult situations, and Ram always worried for her when she did it. Let’s just hope that she behaves herself, he thought.
Soon Ram saw a battered green Honda sedan drive up the path. He watched closely as it parked among the other cars. A woman and her son exited the car then spoke to Mercy. When Ram saw the boy’s red Windbreaker, he knew.
For a few tense moments he watched Gabrielle and Mercy talk. Then the mother and son started for the big house. Ram let go a sigh of relief. If Mercy had learned Gabrielle’s identity, she hadn’t created a fuss about it.
Ram saw that Gabrielle was tall, with a shapely figure and long, dark hair. The boy was broad shouldered for his age, and the collar of his red Windbreaker was defiantly turned up, just as Jacobson had predicted. The look on the boy’s face announced to the entire world that he was not happy to be here. He marched clumsily in his stiff new boots, and the fresh Stetson sat awkwardly on his head.
As Big John politely ushered the visitors up the walk and through the mansion’s entryway, Ram sat in silence. Sporting his Cheshire cat smile, he calmly watched the visitors file by. When Gabrielle and Trevor neared, Ram stood. They took little notice of him until he sauntered directly into their path. Ram smiled and tipped his hat.
“Gabrielle Powers?” he asked.
She regarded Ram with uncertainty. “Yes,” she answered. “And you are…”
“Ramsey Blaine, ma’am. I’m Wyatt’s father, and I’m pleased to meet you.” Then he turned and looked at Trevor. “You must be Trevor,” he said. Ram extended his hand to the boy.
At first, Trevor scowled. Only after Gabby unnecessarily cleared her throat did he try to smile. His mother had cautioned him to be polite to everyone at the ranch. He would obey her, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. As his smile slipped away, he reached out to take Ram’s hand.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Blaine,” he said quietly.
Trevor’s answer had been polite enough. But his handshake was overly firm, like he was telling Ram that he wasn’t going to be pushed around. Ram responded in kind for a few seconds then released his grip, allowing their first skirmish to end in a draw. Jacobson was right, he thought. This is one tough kid.
Ram turned his attention to Gabby. “Might I have a moment alone with you?” he asked. When Gabby gave him an unsure look, he smiled. “It won’t take long. Trevor can go on ahead.”
“It’s okay,” Gabby said to Trevor. “I’ll be there in a moment.”
Before Trevor left, Ram reached out and took the Stetson from Trevor’s head. “Men don’t wear hats inside the house, son,” he said. He handed the Stetson to Trevor. “Flying B rules.”
If Ram’s gesture had angered Trevor, the boy was wise enough not to show it. Hat in hand, he simply nodded then joined the others entering the house. As Trevor walked away, Ram pursed his lips in thought. He also doesn’t like rules…
After Trevor disappeared, Gabby looked back at Ram. “Please call me Gabby,” she said.
Ram gave Gabby another smile. “Will do,” he said. “And you may call me Ram. Please come this way.”
Ram escorted Gabby toward a white wicker table and four chairs that sat near one end of the great porch. The dogs followed, slumping lazily beside Ram’s chair like the pair of ever present gorgons they were.
Gabby smiled. “Butch and Sundance, I presume?” she asked.
Ram smiled back. “Yep. Did Wyatt tell you about them?”
Gabby shook her head. “No,” she answered. “Reverend Jacobson did.”
Ram smiled and lit a cigarette. “I want you to know that the way you and Jacobson bushwhacked Wyatt never bothered me,” he said. “You did what you had to to help your son. Besides, sometimes Wyatt needs a push in
the right direction—especially where his feelings are concerned.”
Ram looked up to see one of the housemaids approaching. Betsy was tall, about twenty-five, and was dressed in a black-and-white maid’s outfit. Smiling, she placed two glasses filled with iced tea on the table.
Ram gave her a quizzical look. “Where’d this come from, Betsy?” he asked.
“Aunt Lou sent it to y’all,” Betsy answered, in a heavy southern drawl. Georgia, Gabby guessed.
“How’d she know that Gabby and I were out here?” Ram asked.
“Same way she knows everything, I guess,” Betsy answered. “That’s just Aunt Lou.”
“You’re right,” he said to Betsy. “Please go back and thank her for us. I’m sure that she must need you in the kitchen.”
Gabby smiled as Betsy returned to the house. “Wyatt told me a little about Aunt Lou,” she admitted. “She sounds like quite a woman.”
Ram sipped his tea. “That’s putting it mildly! She’s an institution around here, and you’ll meet her soon enough.” He held his glass a bit higher then shook it, rattling the ice cubes. “This tea was her little way of telling me that she knew we were out here.”
Looking over the top of his glass, Ram gave Gabby an unobtrusive once-over. Jacobson had said that she was attractive, but his description hadn’t done her justice. Gabby was wearing jeans that were worn, but serviceable. The sleeves of her red-and-white-checkered shirt were rolled up above her elbows; its tails were tied in a bow at her slim waist. Ram guessed that she had chosen her new cowboy boots at the same time she’d purchased Trevor’s. She didn’t look like a Flying B ranch hand, but Ram found her attempt to fit in endearing. As he put down his glass, he smiled.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I pulled you aside,” he said.
If Wishes Were Horses Page 10