by Mary Burton
“A bad attitude,” Mac said as he led the black horse out. “She’ll kick and bite if you don’t keep an eye on her.”
Kind of like me. “Did the farmer send feed like he promised?”
“In the back of the truck.” He handed the reins of the second horse to Greer.
The black horse snorted.
Greer couldn’t resist a smile. “Don’t worry, old lady, we’re gonna do just fine. I bet before summer’s end the vineyard guests will be spoiling you rotten.”
Like any vineyard, Bonneville’s survival depended on many factors beyond growing grapes. One of the reasons she’d built the tasting room was to earn income from hosting weddings, festivals, and tastings. It was about marketing. It would be a year or two before she held actual Bonneville wine tastings, but the facility itself was already booked for several events this fall. Perhaps the horse rescue would also add a hook that would draw customers.
She met Mac’s gaze as he came around toward her. “Do I owe you any money?”
“Nope, the seller paid all as agreed. But if you change your mind right now, I’d run these two back to where they came from, and you can just forget all this foolishness.”
The dapple horse nudged her shoulder and snorted. The black horse ignored her. “No, the girls are staying with me.”
Laughing, he shook his head. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
She rubbed the dapple on the snout. “I’ve been duly warned.”
“Well, I always did like your aunt Lydia. She was good to me, always treated me with respect. Was real sorry to hear she passed this winter. Always good and fair.” He cleared his throat as if emotion got the better of him.
Lydia had literally saved Greer’s life. As her release date from Shady Grove had approached, her parents had made it clear they couldn’t have her around as they worked through their grief for Jeff. She’d tried to reach out to Rory because he’d been such a good friend to her at the clinic. But he’d not answered her letters and then his brother had driven out to Shady Grove and told her to leave Rory alone. He’s a good kid. He doesn’t need your kind of trouble.
As she’d left the facility, she really did not know where to go and questioned again if she was meant to live. And then she’d spotted the old red truck with the rusted bumper sporting a faded tie-dyed peace sign sticker. Behind the wheel sat her aunt Lydia, her riot of gray curls framing her smiling face. She’d been waving as she climbed out of the truck.
Greer had stood and stared at the woman as she had approached. Lydia had wrapped Greer in a warm embrace, hugging her tight. Her aunt had smelled of grapes, earth, and sunshine. Greer had been stiff and fearful, but instead of letting go, Lydia had squeezed harder until Greer had wept and melted into her arms. Her aunt had offered her a home, a job, and a sanctuary she’d accepted gratefully.
“Lydia was real special,” Greer said softly.
“Well, you let me know if there’s something I can do for you and those nags. Name it and I’m your man.”
“Thanks, Mac. I appreciate it. Oh, what are their names?” As she reached out to shake his hand she caught a glimpse of Bragg in her side vision. For an instant, the horses had made her forget him. An achievement, she thought. He wasn’t someone easily forgotten.
Mac took her hand and clasped it firmly before he released it. “The horses? I don’t rightly know. I should have asked.”
“I’ll give the former owner a call.”
“Just give ’em a new name. It don’t matter so much.”
“Names do matter. But perhaps new names are a good idea. Signals their fresh start.” She had dropped her first name after leaving Shady Grove, opting to become Greer. In many ways, Elizabeth had died on that stretch of road with Jeff and Sydney.
Mac glanced at Bragg, touched the brim of his hat, and moved to the truck’s tailgate. “Where should I unload the feed?”
“See that storage shed over there?” She pointed to a small wood building that held all the extra tables, chairs, and props she would use for receptions. “Leave it by the door, and I’ll put it inside.”
“Okay.”
As she stood next to the horses and watched the farrier drive off toward the shed, the crunch of the Ranger’s boots against gravel had her back straightening and her breath slowing. She wanted to absorb more positive energy from the horses to ward off Bragg but suspected there wasn’t enough energy in the universe to fend him off.
“You going into the horse trading business?” He came up beside the black horse and petted her on the side of her neck. She jerked and nipped at him.
Greer already liked the horse. “No. Just offering a home to a couple of old horses.”
Bragg, not put off by the black mare, scratched her behind the ear. The horse shook her head as if to say, no. “You take in stray horses?”
When the black mare jerked her snout away from his hand, she swallowed a smile. “Not before today.”
Bragg eyed the mare but dropped his hand as if conceding this round. “You know how to handle a horse?”
“Not a lot. Some.” The dapple nudged her again and she wondered if the mare was trying to send her a message. Maybe she was hungry?
As if reading her mind, the Ranger rubbed the dapple horse’s neck. “Don’t feed them right away. Water’s okay, but feed right now will unsettle their stomachs.”
The old mare leaned into his strong fingers, clearly reveling in the attention. The black mare, not to be ignored, snorted. However, Bragg ignored the horse, letting her know right away he’d not tolerate any bad behavior. The Ranger expected to be met on his own terms or not at all.
Not at all suited her just fine.
He took the reins of the horses and led them to the corral. When they were both settled inside the gate, he met her gaze. “Ready for that tour.”
“Sure. Is there anything in particular you’d like to see?”
“A general tour will do for now.”
For now. As if he’d return. Great.
She nodded toward a house made of rough brick and stone. “That is the original ranch house. It belonged to my aunt and now is my home.”
He studied the wide front porch, the twin rockers, and the half wine barrels filled with dirt and wildflowers. “How old is the house?”
“At least a hundred years old. The family originally settling the land raised cattle. Lydia bought the house and land from the original settler’s great-grandson twenty years ago.”
He listened with a keen interest, not missing a word.
Unsettled, she nodded toward the dirt path leading to the tasting room. Without asking she started toward it. “The new building here will be the tasting room when we have wine, but for now we’ll be renting it out for parties. Steady income is always welcome. That clear plot of land behind it will be the new winery. It should be finished by spring.”
“Looks like Italy.”
“My aunt spent a good bit of her early twenties in Italy. When she returned to Texas and saw this land it reminded her of Italy.” She pushed through the front door of the tasting room and strolled toward the large bar made of gray granite, so polished light reflected back. Behind the counter stood ceiling-high shelves waiting to be stocked with wines. The floor was clay tile and the walls a stucco. Brick-lined arches hung above the tasting counter, windows, and doorways. Throughout the large room were round tables made from wine casks. “We own a total of five hundred acres and right now have vines planted on most of it.”
Her mind flashed to the new one thousand acres she’d once hoped to clear and cultivate. Rory had been found on that land.
He walked to the French doors opening out onto a brick patio that offered a stunning view of the rolling green landscape and the vineyards. “Impressive operation.”
Judgment and a hint of approval rolled off the statement. But she wasn’t swayed, too accustomed to being judged and found lacking. “Do you know much about wines?”
“Not a bit.”
She
appreciated the honesty. Too many folks tried to pretend they understood wines, and it always led to confusion. “We grow grapes for Zinfandel, Chablis, and Viognier wines. They thrive best in the Hill Country heat. My aunt preferred the taste and so do I. I’ll likely produce a thousand cases of wine next year and then it will depend.”
He faced her. “You have much competition?”
“So much I try not to think about it.”
He studied her as if trying to peel back the layers. “Opening this tasting room and the winery is going to put you out front. I also saw you’re hosting a fund-raiser.”
“Time to rejoin the world, I suppose.” She’d learned a steady tone made most statements sound true.
“Why jump back into the fray now? You’ve been tucked away here for a dozen years.”
A sigh trickled from her lungs. “My aunt asked me to.”
“So you’re just going to put yourself out there?”
How could she explain to him what she didn’t fully understand herself? “I owe her.”
“You’ll get a lot of questions about your accident.”
Every muscle in her body constricted. “I’m expecting some questions, but people have enough in their lives to worry about. I will quickly become yesterday’s news.”
“But you said you’ve been in hiding for going on a dozen years.”
“Hiding isn’t the right word.”
“How would you describe it?”
“Self-preservation.”
He arched a brow but kept quiet.
She was accustomed to silence and didn’t mind it, but silence took on an edgy meaning when Bragg stared at her. “After the accident, folks wanted details. They pretended to care, but they only wanted a bit of juicy gossip to share. It was easier to retreat. I also had to physically recover from the accident. I was pretty banged up. It took six months before I could walk without a limp.”
“And now you’re stepping up on center stage.”
She wasn’t sure why she’d been so candid about her past. Walls slid back into place. “Nothing so dramatic. I’m working at my vineyard and building my winery. That’s all. And I’m hoping the past stays buried.”
“Rory’s death might stir up the past.”
His words zinged like arrows. “I hope you’re wrong.” She flexed her fingers.
He checked his watch. “Your horses are gonna need watering. And I need to get back to Austin.”
Waves of relief washed through her, but she couldn’t resist poking the bear. “I thought you wanted a tour of the fields and the vehicles.”
“I’ll get to it another day.”
Had earlier demands for an extensive tour and vehicle inspection been a threat? Doubtful. He’d be back when it suited him.
Greer should have bid him a good day and left it, but again directness wouldn’t allow questions to remain unvoiced. “Why would the Rangers care about Rory’s death? It should be a matter for the local sheriff.”
“His brother has friends in high places, let’s just say.”
She’d not seen David Edwards in a dozen years but lingering memories were of a young man driven hard to succeed like their father. The one time they’d stood face to face, his gaze had been sharp and cold. “David can be a force.”
“You remember him?”
“Very clearly.”
“You don’t resent David?”
“I did then. But not now.” She managed a smile. “Time heals all wounds, right?”
His gaze remained on her a beat longer. “If I have more questions, Ms. Templeton, I can give you a call.”
A statement not a question. “Sure.”
“And you are still going to hire Mitch?”
For the first time she sensed disquiet in Bragg, perhaps even a flicker of vulnerability. His job was at odds with his family. “Why wouldn’t I?”
He studied her carefully. “As you might have guessed, with Mitch here I’ll be stopping by a lot until I know he’s doing better.”
“That just makes my day, Ranger Bragg.”
Her sarcasm gave him pause. “As long as we understand each other.”
“Loud and clear.”
He moved to the door, opened it, and held it for her while she passed. Gravel crunched under his boots as he followed her into the courtyard where the heat already beat on the earth.
Despite his stony expression, he cared about the boy and perhaps had come face to face with a problem that confounded him.
“This is a good place for Mitch,” Greer said. “It brought me back to life, and it might do the same for him.”
Questions clearly stirred behind his dark eyes, but he kept them to himself. “If there is a problem with Mitch, I want to know about it.”
She shook her head. “Short of it being a nine-one-one emergency kind of a problem, if you have something to say to him then say it. I’m not getting between you two.”
A smile tugged at the edge of his lips. “You already are.”
“No, I offered him a job. That’s between him and me. You showed up on my land and insinuated yourself into the mix.”
“Just doing my job.”
“As a Ranger or an uncle?”
“Both.” He touched the brim of his hat and turned to leave.
She didn’t wish him well or ask him to come again like she would have most. Instead she stood silent, afraid to turn her back, as he climbed into the front seat of his SUV. As the engine turned and roared, she remained in the same spot for a long time, watching the truck move along the dirt drive, chased by a cloud of dry Texas dust. Only when his vehicle vanished around the last bend did she let her shoulders slump a fraction.
“What did you get yourself into, Rory?” she said.
An hour later the sound of another approaching vehicle had her lifting her gaze from a collection of chairs she was assembling for the reception room. Another truck, but not Bragg’s truck. Instead, it was a dark pickup, with a back rusted wheel well, gun rack hanging inside the cab, and a Semper Fi sticker on the back bumper. She recognized the driver. Mitch Bragg.
She’d thought yesterday she’d seen the last of him. He’d shown next to no interest in her offer and in truth she’d wished he’d decline. That would eliminate a good bit of emotional turmoil and Ranger Bragg.
But she’d promised to extend the invitation and she kept her word. By her way of thinking, when Mitch was back up on his feet, she was off the hook.
Consider yourself paid in full, Aunt Lydia.
She waited and watched as the kid parked his car and reached for the hat on the passenger seat. He nestled it on his head as if he worried more about delaying their meeting than the sun. Finally, he eased out as if his body were stiff and when he walked toward her, his posture was erect despite a limp. Once a marine, always a marine.
Her heart clenched as she watched him. He so reminded her of Jeff. The broad shoulders. The swagger. The hint of uncertainty lingering behind the direct gaze.
She cleared her throat. “I didn’t think you’d show,” she said. She wouldn’t mention Bragg’s visit. She’d meant what she’d said about staying out of the middle.
His gaze roamed the land as if assessing the terrain and possible threats. “Almost didn’t.”
“Why’d you come, then?”
“Can’t rightly say. Maybe because I don’t really belong anywhere else and here is as good a place as any.”
Now he reminded her not of Jeff but of herself when she’d first ventured on this land. Lost. Desperate. Afraid. “Fair enough. Ready to get to work?”
He dug his hands into his jeans pocket. “What kind of work do you have in mind?”
The same work her aunt had given her all those years ago. “I’ve a couple of old horses. They need tending. They’ll need to be fed and their corral extended. After that, the vineyards always need work. It takes four of us to run the place. It’s me, my manager, José, and his two sons. The sons return to college mid-August and come fall I’ll be shorthanded. If
you work out, you can have a full-time job in the field.”
He didn’t balk at the job description as his gaze trailed hers to the horses. “Hope you didn’t pay a lot for them. They’ve one foot in the grave.”
“Had it in my head to rescue these old gals. They’re not good for much, but they’ve worked hard all their lives. They should enjoy the years they have left.”
She walked toward the corral hoping he’d follow. He did. When they reached the smooth fence the dark horse glared at them but made no move to approach. “They’re just the start. Like I said, we have harvest in a few weeks and come fall I can use the help.” She’d purposely left the fall open-ended. One moment, one hour, one day at a time.
He held out his hand to the horses. The black one snorted and turned her head away while the brown one ambled forward to nudge his fingers with her snout. He scratched the brown one under the chin, not smiling but not frowning so hard either. “Do they have names?”
“They didn’t come with names but they need ’em.”
Silent, he waited for her to handle the official naming.
Before she thought too hard, she said, “Beauty is the black one and Buttercup is the brown one.”
The black horse snorted and not to be ignored moved toward them. “Beauty has an attitude.”
“She’s had a rough go of it, I suspect. I imagine she’s loved and lost one too many people. Losing leaves a scar.”
Mitch didn’t respond, but his hand stilled for a moment on Buttercup’s snout. “You have feed for them?”
“Over by the utility shed.” She’d not thought about what she’d have done with the old horses if Mitch hadn’t shown. Last thing she needed was the added work let alone the expense of a couple of horses. But when she’d committed to take them she’d known one way or the other she’d have made it work.
“So what are they supposed to do?” he said.
“Not much they can do. When folks come out to tour, they can enjoy the picnic area and visit the horses. Maybe we’ll have carrots or feed for them to give the animals. Most folks like animals.”
“I had a dog growing up. Sergeant. Other than my mother he’s about the one thing I miss about my life before the Marines.”