Chapter 5
Wade meets me at the barn every morning at five AM with coffee in hand and that perpetual scowl etched into his craggy face, delivering a running commentary on which horses did what overnight, who kicked the stall door, who refused to eat, and who decided three in the morning was the perfect time to test the new fencing.
The first few mornings, I hang on every word.
By midweek, my attention has developed a mind of its own, drifting to blonde hair and blue eyes behind glass, to the faint glow of vineyard lights along the eastern property line that I've started watching from the veranda each evening like a man with nothing better to do.
Thursday morning, Wade is mid-sentence about Colby's mares when the silence registers. I blink and find him staring at me, his coffee cup frozen halfway to his mouth.
"Did you hear anything I just said?"
"Yeah. The bay mare."
"That was ten minutes ago." Wade's eyes narrow, the same look he gives a horse that's acting out of character. "You feeling all right, boss?"
"I'm fine. Just running through training schedules in my head."
His expression says he doesn't buy a word of it, but Wade Faulkner isn't the type of man who pries. He moves on, which is one of the many reasons I like him.
"That bay mare is establishing herself as the lead," he continues, nodding toward the pasture where Colby's mares have gathered near the water trough. "She ran off two of the newer ones this morning. Colby watched the whole thing and didn't lift a hoof to intervene."
"He's a smart stallion. He knows a good lead mare makes his job easier."
"Either that or he's just plain lazy." Wade takes a long pull from his travel mug.
"Hard to tell with that one." He pauses, scratching the back of his neck in the way that usually means Gran has been at him again.
"Your grandmother cornered me after breakfast. She wants to know if I've heard anything about that equine specialist over in Fredericksburg, the one who's supposed to be good with difficult horses. "
"That makes sense. We're bound to run into some problems as this herd grows."
Wade grunts. "She also suggested we color-code the medication chart and implement a digital tracking system for veterinary records." He delivers the words like a man reading his own death sentence.
I laugh. "How'd you respond to that?"
"I told her I'd get right on it as soon as I figured out what half those words meant." Wade's face doesn't move, making it impossible to tell whether he's joking. "She handed me a printed list of software options this morning. With ratings."
"Well, you have my sincere thanks for tolerating her. She can be a lot to handle, but her intentions are good."
Something changes in Wade's expression, a brief softening around the eyes that disappears almost as quickly as it arrives. "Your grandmother knows what she's doing." He tips his hat and glances toward the barn. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some errands to run in town."
I meander back to the house and find Gran holding court at the breakfast table, spreadsheets fanned out in front of her like battle plans.
Oscar stands at her elbow, his posture as impeccable as always, one finger tracing a column of numbers while Gran marks corrections in red ink with the focus of a field general.
"Morning," I greet, heading for the coffeepot.
Gran glances up, reading glasses perched on her nose. "Charles. Oscar and I are overhauling the provisioning system. The waste on perishables alone is costing us seventeen percent more than it should."
"That sounds riveting."
"Don't be glib." She taps a circled figure with one manicured nail. "Seventeen percent across a year is real money, and I refuse to run a household that throws food in the trash."
I catch Oscar's eye over the rim of my coffee cup. His face remains perfectly neutral, but there's the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth that tells me he's been listening to this presentation for at least an hour. "I'm sure you'll sort it out, Gran."
"We already have. Oscar is implementing the new system starting Monday." She says it the way most people announce they've solved world hunger, then removes her glasses and fixes me with the look that means she's switching subjects. "How are the horses?"
"Thriving. Wade's got a strong handle on the herd dynamics."
"He needs better organizational systems, but we lucked out with him." Gran folds her spreadsheets with the crisp precision of a woman who irons her napkins. "Rachel called a few minutes ago. Mason wants to meet this afternoon to discuss breeding schedules, and she's tagging along."
"Good. We have some logistics to work through now that we're not a thousand miles apart."
Mason pulls up at noon with Rachel riding shotgun. She waves through the windshield, then disappears into the house to visit with Gran while Mason and I spread auction catalogs across my desk in the barn office.
"This one." Mason taps a photo of a black thoroughbred stallion, all clean lines and muscle, his credentials listed in a column that reads like royalty. "He's out of Seattle Slew's line. Perfect for what we're building."
I study the pedigree chart and race record, running my finger down his performance numbers. "He's pricey."
"But worth every cent. We breed him to three of your mares and we'll have foals that set the rodeo circuit on fire in four years."
"With the right training, yes," I agree.
Mason grunts with satisfaction and flips to the next page. "What about this three-year-old mare? Storm Cat's line."
"Good bone structure." I pull the catalog closer to study her conformation photos.
"Let me see her race record." We work through the catalog page by page, marking prospects and debating bloodlines, then shift to the logistics of managing breeding and training programs across two ranches that are finally close enough to make it work.
By three o'clock, Rachel appears in the barn doorway, fanning herself with a folded auction flyer. "It's hotter than Satan's front porch out here."
"It's April, Princess," Mason notes, draping an arm around her waist as she reaches him.
"It's pregnancy, Cowboy." Rachel stretches up for a kiss. "I'm ready to go when you are, but I'll wait inside where there's air conditioning and ice cream."
Mason watches her walk back toward the house, his mouth opening like he's about to call after her before he thinks better of it. He shakes his head with a small, helpless smile. "She's been like this for a week. Everything is either too hot or too cold."
"Comes with the territory, I'd guess."
"Yeah, well, that territory has me sleeping on the couch half the time." Mason starts gathering the catalogs, but the grin hasn't left his face. He wouldn't trade a second of it, and we both know it.
We wrap up the auction planning and walk back to the house to collect Rachel. By the time Mason gets her settled in the passenger seat, her eyes are already closing, her head tipping against the headrest with the boneless surrender of someone who lost the fight against exhaustion ten minutes ago.
Mason eases the door shut with exaggerated care and turns to me, keeping his voice low. "Why don't you and your grandmother plan on Sunday dinner at our place. Mom's making brisket."
"We'll be there."
I watch them pull down the drive, then head to the kitchen to throw together a sandwich.
I'm two bites into ham and cheese when Gran materializes at my elbow with the silent precision of a woman who has spent seventy-plus years perfecting the art of the ambush.
She places a handwritten list on the counter beside my plate.
"I need you to pick something up in town for me."
I glance at the paper, still chewing. "This is a wine order."
"How very observant of you, Charles." She pours herself a cup of coffee with the unhurried movements of someone who has already decided how this conversation ends. "Can you go as soon as you finish here?"
"Gran, you rarely drink wine. You have a glass of sherry at Christmas and that's about it."
"I'm hosting a dinner party in two weeks.
The wine should be ordered in advance." She takes a delicate sip from her cup, watching me over the rim.
"Rachel mentioned that the Willow Sage Winery has an excellent selection and suggested we place the order in person.
She also recommended working directly with the winemaker to ensure the wines pair properly with the menu.
" Gran pauses, her brow furrowing with all the conviction of a stage actress.
"What was her name again? Sunny something? "
I set my sandwich down.
"I thought you could handle it," she continues, her voice as innocent as Sunday school teacher, "since you've already been there."
I stare at my grandmother, and the pieces click together with the subtlety of a freight train.
A wine order for a dinner party she's never once mentioned.
Rachel suggesting we place it in person instead of picking up the phone.
And Gran insisting I speak only with the winemaker, the same woman I couldn't keep my eyes off last week.
"You two are about as obvious as a skunk at a garden party."
"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about." She sniffs and nudges the list closer to my plate. "The winery is open right now. I suggest you get there before the afternoon rush."
"It's a Tuesday in Stone Creek. How damned busy could it possibly get?"
"Language, Charles." She pats my shoulder with the calm authority of a woman who's never lost an argument. "Handle this for me. And make sure you speak only with that winemaker."
She sweeps out of the kitchen before I can mount a defense, her coffee cup left behind on the counter.