“Lucky you.” Chet made a face. “That’s Boyd’s truck. Now you’ll get to meet the devil himself.”
“Great,” I said, with unfeigned enthusiasm. “I’m curious about this guy.”
I was, too. Opinions differed on the man and I wanted to see what the fuss was all about. According to Ruby, Boyd Butler was extremely good-looking, charming, and accustomed to having his way, especially with women. He had apparently persuaded Maddie that the problems with the olive oil labels were somebody else’s fault and that he was not the one who was responsible for the legal battle over her inheritance. Maddie thought marriage to him might be a good plan, but Sofia thought it was a terrible idea—to use her word, impossible. Chet thought he was a snake, but that view might be based on the fact that Boyd had adroitly managed to insinuate himself between Chet and his heart’s desire. I was eager to form my own judgment.
But if I’d hoped to learn anything concrete about Boyd Butler during this close encounter, I was immediately disappointed. He came out the front door as we stepped up onto the porch, slamming the door behind him. He was in his mid-thirties, something over six feet and muscular, with a sun-darkened face. He was dressed in worn jeans, cowboy boots, and a gray Western shirt. He had blue eyes, chiseled features, dark blond hair, and a thick blond mustache. He was indeed good-looking.
And edgy. He wasn’t smiling, and he didn’t pause for introductions. He scowled at Chet, nodded curtly and without curiosity at me, clapped his black Stetson on his head, and strode to his truck, arcing a cigarette butt off to one side. He climbed in, slammed the door, and drove off with an irritated spray of gravel.
“Aww,” I said, and wrinkled my nose. “And I wanted to ask him for a date.”
Chet was chuckling at that when Jason opened the door to us.
“Hey, guys,” he said, stepping back. “Come in and make yourselves at home.”
“What was that all about?” Chet said as we followed Jason into the living room.
Jason made a face. “More trouble. Boyd’s east well has stopped producing and he wants to irrigate the olive orchard on his side of our fence. Our well is deeper. He wants to tie into it.”
“I hope you told him no,” Chet said seriously. “There’s not enough pressure in that well as it is.”
“That’s what I told him, all right,” Jason said. “But you know Boyd. He hates to take no for an answer.” With a wide grin, he turned to me and stuck out his hand. “And here’s China Bayles, for heaven’s sake. Chet’s heartthrob from his law school days. China, so glad to see you! How many years has it been?”
“Way more than any of us want to count,” I said, and felt my hand clasped hard in his. Jason was just as I remembered him—short and round and full of fun, and by now almost bald. But he had always had a very strong sense of who he was and what he wanted, and I wasn’t surprised by the sudden thought that his was probably the creative energy behind the Last Chance Vineyard and Winery.
Jason looked from one of us to the other. “Hey, I thought you were bringing Ruby.”
“She had a better offer.” Chet grinned. “Pete’s taking her country dancin’.”
“Glad to hear that,” Jason said. “Ruby is just the woman to take Pete’s mind off his troubles.”
For a moment, I was a little taken aback by his comment. Jason knew Ruby? But then I remembered that she had been coming out to the Last Chance for years. Of course Jason knew her. She and Pete had probably known each other for a while, too.
Andrea—auburn-haired, slender, and cute in jeans and green sleeveless top—came into the living room just then. She had a quick, friendly smile and an engaging manner, and since we hadn’t seen each other in years, we had a lot of catching up to do. Like Chet and Jason, she seemed dedicated to the idea of the vineyard and winery.
“It’s not an easy business,” she said to me in the kitchen a little later. “There’s so much to do—and to worry about. The grape harvest and the weather and the aquifer, just everything.” She went to the oven to pull out a baking pan filled with four beautifully browned Cornish hens and began clipping the strings that held the legs together. “And of course Boyd loves to throw monkey wrenches into the works.”
“Like the well he wants to tap into?” I sniffed. “Gosh, that smells gorgeous, Andrea. What’s in that stuffing?”
“Wild rice and mushrooms—and rosemary,” she said. “And yes, like the well.” She plated the game hens on individual plates and put them on the table. “And the fence—his cows keep getting into the vineyard. And the road he’s supposed to maintain and doesn’t. And the situation with Maddie’s inheritance.” She gave me a questioning look. “That’s the worst, of course. You know about that?”
“Ruby told me.” I nodded. “Do you think it was really his lawyer’s idea? Challenging Eliza’s will, I mean.”
“Not a chance,” she said firmly. She picked up a pan filled with hot mashed potatoes and began spooning them into a glass bowl. “Jimmy Bob Elliott wouldn’t pick up a six-pack at the 7-Eleven without getting Boyd’s written instructions. If Maddie would just think for a minute or two, she would realize that.” She nodded at a large bowl of salad greens on the counter. “Would you mind grating some Parmesan into those greens?” She reached into a drawer and pulled out a vegetable peeler. “I like to use the peeler for that—grated Parmesan gets all clumpy.”
“Exactly the way I do it,” I said, and got to work slivering curly Parmesan peels into the fresh green romaine and arugula. Over my shoulder, I asked Andrea the same question I’d asked Sofia and Chet. “Do you think Maddie really wants to marry Boyd? I mean, if she loves him—”
“She doesn’t,” Andrea said firmly. “In fact, if Chet would just open his eyes and look, he’d see that she’s in love with him.”
I stopped peeling. “Oh, really? I guessed that might be true, but I don’t know Maddie well enough to be sure.”
“Yes, really. Until the last few weeks, he and Maddie were over here for supper regularly, and the four of us used to go fishing and swimming together. But that legal business has boxed her into a serious corner, and Boyd seems to be holding a door open.” She pulled down her mouth. “Not to be snarky, China, but Chet is such a dunce. I wish he’d be more assertive. He let Boyd elbow him out of the picture.”
“Assertive isn’t Chet’s nature.” I picked up the salad tongs and began to mix the Parmesan into the salad greens. Quickly, I added, “I’m not being critical, either. Just stating a fact.”
“And you’re exactly right,” Andrea said. “By nature, he’s low-key and easy-going. You can’t ruffle him, which I like. And which in an odd sort of way makes him just right for Maddie.”
I put the tongs into the salad bowl. “I talked to Sofia this afternoon,” I said. “She told me that it would be wrong for Maddie to marry Boyd.” I paused. “Actually, she said it would be impossible.”
Andrea cocked her head. “Sofia is a smart old gal. And she’s right. Marrying Boyd would be a disaster for Maddie. I don’t believe the guy loves her—he just wants to get his hands on her property. All of it. Not just the land here, but the West Texas land as well.”
I frowned. “I don’t think Sofia meant that it would be a mistake, or even a disaster,” I said. “She used the word impossible, as if she knows of an actual bar to the marriage. Any idea what she means? I’m curious.”
“I gave up trying to figure Sofia out a long time ago.” Andrea was half frowning. “That woman is sometimes simply inscrutable. But she was born on this ranch, you know. She and Eliza were sisters, and now that Eliza’s gone, Sofia is sort of the resident spirit of the place. If you find out what she’s talking about, please tell me. I’m curious, too.” She slid me a glance. “I heard Chet say that Ruby has gone out with Pete this evening. That’s why she’s not here.”
“Uh-huh.” Something Andrea had said puzzled me—I thought I had misheard, ac
tually. But I was distracted from that by her mention of Pete. “Chet told me that Pete’s had girl trouble lately,” I said.
Andrea nodded. “Ruby is a sweet, thoughtful person and I’m sure she wouldn’t intentionally hurt him. But . . .” She poured the gravy into a bowl and added a spoon. “Pete’s had a rough time. If you think it’s appropriate, you might let her know that his heart’s still a little bruised.”
“I will,” I said. “But I don’t know the full story. Okay if I ask her to talk to you, if she feels she needs some background?”
“Of course.” She glanced at the salad bowl. “Looks like you’re finished there. Let’s get the food on the table and call the guys. I’m sure they’re hungry.”
The dinner was excellent. We had salad, the Cornish hens with wild-rice-and-mushroom stuffing, garlicky mashed potatoes, carrots with a zingy ginger sauce, and, of course, Chet’s wine. After dinner, Jason pushed back his chair and announced that he and Chet were in charge of kitchen cleanup.
“Nobody’s going to argue with that,” Andrea said. The rain had let up, so she and I walked out to the barn and she gave me a tour of the winery, an impressive production facility that had obviously required quite a financial investment. I thought of Chet’s remark about owing a bundle to the bank and hoped that the Last Chance Vineyards would turn out to be profitable—at least, profitable enough to pay the bills and give the three of them something to live on.
I also thought of what Andrea had said earlier—the thing that had puzzled me—and brought it up again. “Before supper, I thought I heard you say that Sofia and Eliza were sisters. I meant to ask you about it, but the conversation took a different turn. I’m curious. Did I mishear?”
“Nope.” Andrea gave me a sideways look. “You heard it right. They were sisters.”
I frowned. “But Ruby told me that Sofia’s father was the ranch foreman. And that her mother was the cook-housekeeper.” No, that wasn’t quite right, now that I thought about it. She had simply said that Sofia’s mother was married to Emilio Gonzales, the ranch foreman—not that he was Sofia’s father. I was the one who had put the two together—and jumped to the wrong conclusion.
We were standing beside a shoulder-high stack of shelves filled with wine bottles, all of them bearing the Last Chance label and the name of the wine. Andrea picked one up and looked at it. “Ruby’s mother was a good friend of Eliza’s—I’m sure she knows the truth.” Her smile was faintly ironic. “Rena Gonzales was Sofia’s mother, yes. But her father was old Mr. Butler. Roy Butler, Eliza’s father.” She put the bottle back. “They’re half sisters.”
“I see,” I said slowly, as pieces of the story fell into place. An old story. It wouldn’t be the first time the lord of the manor had exercised le droit du seigneur. “I assume that Sofia knows this,” I said. “And that Eliza knew it, too.”
Andrea nodded. “I don’t think there was ever any effort to keep it a secret, especially after Emilio Gonzales died. I knew it, when I was growing up. I don’t even remember who told me. My mother, probably.” She walked along the shelf, looking at the bottles. “Anyway, the girls grew up knowing they were sisters, and they were close when they were children. But Eliza went away to college and to New York and Paris to work, and then followed her lover to Spain.” She picked up another bottle. “Sofia stayed here. After her mother died, she took on the task of caring for old Mr. Butler—her father.” She handed the bottle to me. “Here. Give this to Sofia when you go back to your cabin. It’s a Dolcetto and Sangiovese red. It’s her favorite.”
“Didn’t Sofia think maybe life was a little unfair?” I asked, taking the bottle. “She did all the work, while her sister got all the advantages?”
“Oh, no,” Andrea said hurriedly. “I’m sure it wasn’t like that at all, China. Sofia wanted to be here. She thought it was her responsibility to take care of her father—who loved her, in his way. In fact, I think he was closer to Sofia than he was to his legitimate daughter. Eliza was rebellious. Growing up, she was always in his face, you know? Typical teenager, maybe. But Eliza pushed it a little far. She was defiant. When she left for New York, he made it clear that he didn’t care if she never came back. She was gone for over a decade, you know.”
“While Sofia stayed,” I said, reflecting. Two very different daughters with seemingly different loyalties.
“Yes. Sofia loved the ranch, you see. She didn’t want to leave. And then, of course, when Eliza came back to stay, she was overjoyed. And the old man, too—old Mr. Butler. All was forgiven, I guess. He and Eliza buried the hatchet, and the three of them were together for a time—half a year, maybe.” Andrea bent over and took another bottle off the bottom shelf. “Then, after he died, Sofia had her sister with her. That was really all she ever wanted, I think.” She looked at the label, then held it out to me. “Here. This is for you and Ruby. It’s a very nice white.”
“Thank you,” I said. “We’ll enjoy it.” I thought back to my conversation with Sofia, who hadn’t struck me as quite so compliant as Andrea pictured her. And there was something else—money.
“Ruby told me that Mr. Butler divided his fortune between Eliza and her brother,” I said. “He didn’t leave Sofia a dime. You don’t think she might have resented being left out of the inheritance, after she had given him her undivided time and attention for . . . what? Ten years? Fifteen?”
“If she resented it,” Andrea said, “she never gave any sign. She knew she was born on the wrong side of the blanket. She didn’t expect an inheritance. Her father loved her. That’s all she wanted.”
Well, maybe, I thought. But was it really that simple?
“And she knew her sister would always take care of her,” Andrea went on. “She had no worries on that score.”
Maybe again. But then, families live by their own familial logic, impossible for outsiders to understand. “And after Eliza died and left everything to Maddie?”
“She knew Maddie would take care of her.” Andrea sounded confident. “Maddie has been like a daughter to both of them. And of course Maddie knows—that Sofia and Eliza were sisters, I mean. She’s committed to making a home for Sofia.”
I was beginning to see the larger picture. But there was something Andrea was leaving out. On purpose? And did it have anything to do with what Sofia had said to me about the impossibility of Maddie marrying Boyd?
“Maddie may not be able to take care of her,” I said quietly. “If she loses the ranch to Boyd—” I stopped, musing. “I suppose Boyd knows. That Sofia is his aunt, I mean.”
Andrea pursed her lips. “Yes, but there’s something of a mystery about that. I don’t know whether it was a moral judgment or race prejudice or something else. But Howard—Boyd’s father—was never happy with the fact that he had a Hispanic half sister. Boyd ignores Sofia. He simply pretends she doesn’t exist.”
“Families,” I said, shaking my head. “There’s always a backstory, isn’t there?”
“Oh, you bet,” Andrea said with a laugh. “Don’t get me started on my family.” She flicked off the light. “The guys have been at it long enough. Let’s go see if they’ve finished their cleanup.”
Back at the house, Jason and Chet came out of the kitchen and served us slices of Andrea’s lemon olive oil cake, which had a nicely rustic look and was a light, lemony finish to our dinner. Jason played his guitar, we sang and chatted and enjoyed a last glass of wine. Then, as dark fell, it began to rain lightly again, and I thought it was time I went back to the cabin.
“Tomorrow’s a busy day,” I said. “Looks like we’ll have quite a few people at the workshop.”
“Maddie told me she’s really pleased at the turnout,” Andrea said. “She asked me to come over and give her a hand, so I’ll see you. Will you need any help with the setup?”
“That’s what I’ve got Ruby for,” I replied with a laugh.
“Well, let me know if I can help,”
Andrea said. “Hang on while I cut a piece of that cake for Sofia. She likes it.”
In a moment she was back with a slice of cake in a small plastic container and a bag for the two bottles of wine. With hugs all around, Chet and I said our good nights and went out to the Jeep.
“What a lovely evening,” I said, as we got into the vehicle. “That’s quite an impressive wine-making operation you have there. And Jason and Andrea are wonderful people.”
“Yes, they are,” Chet replied emphatically. “They’re the best friends I have in the world.” He paused. “Except for Maddie, of course.”
“I hope you’re thinking seriously about what I told you.”
He turned toward me and I could see his crooked grin in the light of the dash. “You got it, Counselor,” he said, and turned the key in the ignition.
We could have returned to the ranch the way we came, across the bridge on the county road. But since we weren’t going back to the vineyard, Chet elected to take us on a shorter ranch road that forded the Guadalupe at a low-water crossing, a place where the shallow water ran clear and just hubcap-deep over a firm, thick bed of flat limestone rocks. The washboard road was a rocky, rutted lane connecting the two halves of the old Last Chance, navigable by truck and unused except for ranch vehicles. The Jeep bounced from one rut to another and I bounced with it.
After the rain, the night was warm as bathwater and black as pitch—not a sign of the moon or stars. Once we had left the winery yard and Jason and Andrea’s house behind us, there were no visible lights, only a distant glow in the southeastern sky over San Antonio and another, closer and to the southwest, over the smaller town of Boerne. Once I saw a small pair of yellow-green eyes glowing in the tall brush beside the road. A raccoon, Chet said, and then changed his mind as the unmistakable tang of skunk drifted into the Jeep, mixing with the fragrance of sage, cedar, and damp earth. At another point, a stunning whitetail doe and twin spotted fawns bounded effortlessly across the road in front of us. That was the only traffic—until we forded the river and climbed the rise on the other side and headlights rounded a bend and came toward us, eighty yards or so in the distance. Truck headlights, with three lights unevenly spaced beneath them.
The Last Chance Olive Ranch Page 18