Once A Rancher. Linda Lael Miller

call him Heck. The name comes from Drake. Even as a colt, this critter was causing trouble, and we hadn’t named him yet and your brother said, ‘Heck, he’s full of fire.’” Red paused, cleared his throat then glanced at Blythe and blushed. “Well, he didn’t exactly say ‘heck,’” he clarified. “Anyhow, we, uh, adapted the name, and it stuck.”

      Blythe rolled her eyes but said nothing. Red was an institution on the ranch; he’d worked for the family longer than Slater had been alive. A widower, the old man had never gotten over his long-dead wife. He still placed flowers on her grave every Sunday afternoon.

      Slater merely waited, nodding once, because it was obvious Red had more to say. “You’ll have to teach this stubborn cayuse a few manners,” the old cowboy said, rubbing his grizzled chin and assessing the gelding solemnly.

      “You know I like a challenge,” Slater said. “Once he and I come to an understanding, things will be fine.” With a sidelong glance at his mother, he threw in another observation. “Just like women.”

      Sure enough, Blythe elbowed him in the ribs. Hard.

      Since he’d been prepared for her reaction, Slater barely flinched.

      Red chuckled. “Now, there I’ll have to disagree with you, son. No man ever understood a woman. They’re a whole other species.”

      Blythe cleared her throat and folded her arms. “Excuse me? I—a woman, as it happens—am standing here listening, or have you two bone-headed males forgotten that?”

      “Mrs. Carson, ma’am.” Red touched the brim of his hat, still grinning irreverently, and politely held her horse while she mounted. Slater swung into his old familiar saddle, felt another pang at the loss of Walter, but was pleasantly surprised by the fluid smoothness of the bay’s gait as they cantered down the drive. The old cowhand was right; the horse ignored subtle commands like an irritable teenager, but basically behaved himself. Slater had been around horses since early childhood, and he knew a fine animal when he rode one. He applauded Drake on this particular choice.

      They slowed once they reached the first row of vines, which to his admittedly inexpert eye seemed to be doing well. “Mace put in an irrigation system that cost a staggering amount of money,” his mother told him as they walked alongside their horses. “But you know, when it comes to anything with leaves and branches, I trust him. He’s made several trips to the Willamette Valley, visited your uncle in California for hands-on harvest demonstrations several years in a row, and he’s really getting a feel for it. He’s grafted some varieties with surprising success, and if he can produce just the right grape, we might be in a position to stop ordering most of our fruit, like we do now, and produce enough ourselves. Certainly the apple wine he made last year was a big seller on a commercial level, but he’s tried a bit of everything, including cranberry and peach. Plus different varieties of red, from merlot to zinfandel, and whites from chardonnay to Riesling. You name it. He loves experimenting.”

      “I’m sure he’s having fun. He’s like a mad scientist,” Slater said. “I still remember when he was in college and he started making his own beer. His apartment looked—and smelled—as if he’d hijacked a still from the hills of Kentucky or something. I went there to visit him once, and he persuaded me, against my better judgment, to take a swig. The stuff tasted okay, but I don’t remember one damn thing about the rest of the night. As I recall, I slept upright in a chair, still fully clothed, and come morning, I had a crick in my neck you wouldn’t believe. I declined to repeat the experience. He thought it was funny.”

      Blythe sent him a mischievous grin. “I’ve heard that story a time or two. I hate to be the one to break the news, but he still repeats it.”

      “If he values his health, he’d better not do it in front of me.” Slater meant it. Adding insult to injury, he’d awakened with a vicious headache that memorable morning. Worse, he’d felt like seven kinds of fool.

      “Ah, there’s nothing like having three boys.” Blythe’s tone was wry.

      “Except having a little girl who’s getting to be not so little. Daisy’s ninth birthday is coming up. Any ideas?”

      “Yep, but it’s every man for himself, Slater. Both of her uncles have asked me the same question. I didn’t help them, either.”

      “I’m her father. That’s different.”

      His mother gave him a pointed glance he recognized. Drake and Mace were equally familiar with the expression, no doubt. “Don’t you think it’s time you got married and had a few more children?” she asked. “For Daisy’s sake, of course.”