Once A Rancher. Linda Miller Lael

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СКАЧАТЬ While most boys wanted a new bicycle, he’d busied himself with tackling the GP as Slater and Drake called it (translation: the Garden Project), and they’d eaten green beans with supper every night until they’d finally begged for an ear of corn or even some spinach.

      Slater wasn’t a picky eater, but he wasn’t a big fan of spinach, either.

      A few years ago their mother, Blythe, had revisited her roots in the wine country of Northern California and decided to plant vineyards and produce a brand of her own. Mace had been the natural choice to run the operation. If a plant had leaves, he could make it grow—and thrive—in just about any soil.

      “When did you get back?” Mace asked, serving himself up a second breakfast, now that he’d wiped out the first. Slater wondered if his brother’s appetite would catch up with him one day, if Mace would pack a layer or two of fat over those lean muscles of his.

      No sign of it so far.

      “I got in last night,” Slater answered. He’d slept like the proverbial rock, although he vaguely recalled a series of dreams involving a certain feisty redhead. No surprise there. Grace Emery was the last person he’d seen before he’d stripped off his clothes, showered and fallen face-first into bed. Meeting a woman like that was bound to be a memorable experience, even for somebody half-dead with fatigue.

      Mace nodded.

      Slater, not usually given to idle chitchat, kept talking. “The production went well and we wrapped early, which almost never happens. Not by much, but early is still early.”

      “Sweet.” Mace picked up a piece of toast. “Now you go into the cutting and editing thing, huh?”

      “The director will handle most of that.”

      “What comes next?”

      He’d been thinking about that; on some level, he was always thinking about the next project. “I’ve been playing with the idea of doing a history of Wyoming—how it was settled and all that—but what it also is today. Too many people seem to believe the whole state is barren, except for a ski resort or two and a couple of million sheep. I figure it might be time to update the image a little.”

      Mace nodded again, his expression thoughtful. “You could throw in some stuff about the ranch—you know, about Dad’s family and the railroad money his grandfather inherited and then used to establish the ranch. You might even include the estate in California Mom’s people founded.” He was warming to the idea, visibly picking up steam. Trust Mace to find a way to work the winery angle, never mind the logic of highlighting California history in a movie about Wyoming.

      Slater smiled—and listened. His brother was on a roll, and some of his ideas were good.

      “And what about this place?” Mace went on. “How many historic Wyoming ranch houses were specifically designed to look like something out of Gone with the Wind? There’s a story there, don’t forget.”

      There was indeed a story. The mansion had been built, back in the day, to assuage the homesickness of their great-grandmother, a young Southern bride, far from home and yearning for the plantation of her childhood.

      By now, Mace was so caught up in the impromptu brainstorming session that he waved his fork in enthusiasm. “I think it would make a great project. You could call it ‘The Carson Legacy: One Family’s Journey in the Great West.’”

      Slater smiled again. “Okay, the Carson clan made its mark, I’ll grant you that. But there were a lot of other pioneers, too.”

      Mace grinned back at him. “I wouldn’t mind seeing myself immortalized on film,” he said.

      That was when Drake wandered in, yawning, probably not from lack of sleep but because he’d been out tending horses since the crack of dawn. “Now why, little brother,” he asked, “would anybody want to immortalize the likes of you?”

      Drake was built like Slater and Mace—tall, lean and broad through the shoulders; unlike them, he had dark blond hair. He looked like a cowboy, could handle a horse like no one Slater had ever seen and was just plain born to be outdoors. He yawned again, swung a leg over his customary chair and sat, reaching for the coffee. He scowled at Mace and grunted to underscore his previous remark. “Why should you be immortalized? You’re not all that special, except in your own opinion.”

      Mace tried not to seem affronted. “Look who’s talkin’,” he drawled.

      Drake flashed that cowboy grin of his. “The voice of reason, that’s who,” he said affably. He nodded at his older brother. “Hey, Slate. Heard you were home. I would’ve said hello before now, but we’re moving a herd to the south pasture, so I’ve been at it for a while. Anyhow, it’s good to see you back.”

      It was good to be back.

      “Mace has been doing his damnedest to inspire me.” Slater drank the last of his coffee. “Says I ought to include our family’s history in the next documentary.”

      “Oh, jeez.” Drake rolled his eyes and sipped from his mug. “Plenty of skeletons rattling around in these closets. If you’re planning on turning them loose, well, I’d appreciate it if you left my name out of the script.”

      Mace raised his eyebrows, nudged Drake with a light jab of his elbow. “You could do a feature on our fascinating brother here,” he suggested drily. “Focusing on his love life. The title could be ‘Boring on the Range.’”

      “Ha-ha.” Drake shot his younger brother a glare. “That’s a brilliant idea,” he said. “Oh, and by the way, I was up and around long before you finished getting your beauty sleep. Now, I’m thinking maybe you should go back to bed for a while. You obviously need some more shut-eye.”

      Slater slid back his chair and stood, empty mug in hand. “You two need to drum up some new insults,” he said. “If I can change the subject—Mace, aren’t we supplying wines for the Bliss River Resort now? How’s that going?”

      His brothers exchanged glances—and grins.

      Mace said, “I was right! Big Brother did find a way to get her into the conversation. You owe me ten bucks.”

      Drake made no move to pull out his wallet. “Damn,” he agreed, “that was fast, Slate. You have some special radar or something? ‘Beep, beep, pretty redhead within range. Sound the alarm. Man your battle stations.’”

      Okay, so he hadn’t been as subtle as he’d thought in bringing their discussion around to Grace Emery.

      Slater decided to brazen it out, anyway. “You mind telling me what you two loco cowboys are talking about? All I asked was how the deal with the resort was going.” God knew he couldn’t have asked Grace the night before, with her all worked up the way she’d been. He sat down again, grabbed a sausage link from what remained of Mace’s double breakfast and took a bite. Harriet Armstrong, the Carsons’ longtime cook and housekeeper, mixed the ingredients herself. Yet another reason there was no place like home.

      He’d eaten in some fancy restaurants, but whatever Harriet put on the table would do just fine. She ran the house with the same kind of no-sweat finesse. He and his brothers referred to the housekeeper as “Harry,” because that was Blythe’s name for her. Harry was like a second mother to all of them, and she’d never had a problem calling bullshit when they tried to put anything over СКАЧАТЬ