“I hear ya’, Dad. I just hope all these people haven’t come to compete with us for Amber Mac.”
Marshall cupped his hand over his mouth. “Blake and Warner seem to be right on about this animal and you can be sure Al knows what a winner he’s got—he’s invited enough people to ensure he’ll rake in every dollar he can. I guess he spent too much on Christmas presents and needs to replenish his bank account with this sale.” Keeping his voice low, Marshall turned to the man who’d been his head trainer for over thirty years. “Tell me one more time, Dobbs. The vet reports on Amber Mac are conclusive?”
Trevor Dobbs, stoop-shouldered from age but still clear-eyed and alert where horses were concerned, stared at his boss. “You know there’s no such animal as the perfect horse, Marsh. But yes, the reports look good. The digital X-rays showed no imperfections. The horse’s throat latch is wide-open. His lungs are clean.”
Seeing someone he knew, Dobbs walked off. Marshall looked at Brady. “And the horse’s conformation? You had another close look?”
“Of course, Dad. I told you before, I checked him over head to tail. His hocks and knees are straight. His neck is long. His eyes are wide and alert.” Brady smiled. “In fact, I had a personal conversation with him and he seemed interested in everything I had to say.”
Marshall tapped the sale catalog against his palm. “You kid about this, but there’s truth to what you just said. A horse that pays attention is easier to train.”
“I know. You’ve told me. And this isn’t my first day in the horse business. I grew up in it, remember?” He rubbed his knee. Standing for hours wasn’t good for the old football injury. Stating a sad fact, he said, “Believe me, Dad, this horse is in better shape than I am.”
“How about his hips?” Marshall asked.
“A bit narrow,” Brady admitted. “But not enough to affect his running ability.” He shook his head. “Look, you should examine him yourself. Then you wouldn’t be questioning everything I’m telling you.”
“I’ll look at him when he comes out. I’m just making sure you haven’t forgotten anything.”
Brady tried to ignore his building resentment. “Either you trust me on this horse or you don’t.”
Marshall waved off his comment. “I trust you. But you haven’t been home all that long.”
“Almost a year and a half,” Brady pointed out.
“I realize what this thoroughbred means to you. You’ve made it clear that you want me to consider you for Dobbs’s position when he retires in six months. And since I won’t do that just because you’re my son—”
“I wouldn’t expect you to. And I understand your reservations about me.”
“—you need Amber Mac to prove you can take over from Dobbs. I get it, son… It’s just that it’s hard to keep up with the value of horseflesh while you’re on a football field.”
Or inside a casino. Brady knew the restraint his father must have used not to mention the sore subject of his son’s ill-spent two years in Las Vegas. He wanted to point out that he’d been ready and willing to pull his weight in the family business since he’d come home. He kept silent, however, and watched as the gate at the end of the ring opened.
Henley’s stable foreman coaxed Amber Mac into the ring. And every rancher from around the state paid attention.
“He’s on a halter,” Marshall said. “Is he bridle-broke?”
“Not yet,” Brady said. He cast a sideways look at his father. “You can leave that up to me. Surely after thirty-two years of being a Carrick, I’ve proven to you that I can break horses to bridles and saddles.” As the horse was led closer, Brady stared in awe. “Look at that deep chestnut color. And check his gait. A good swinging walk, long strides.”
Al Henley came up behind them. “There he is, gentlemen. Amber Mac.” He smiled with the slickness of a used-car salesman who knew he had serious customers on the lot. “In case I need to remind you, Mac’s sire is Macintosh Red from Dufoil Stables in Virginia. Among his credits, Red won the Arkansas Derby, the Arlington Million and the Oak Leaf Stakes. His dam is our own Honey’s Gold. She foaled Amber Mac in March.”
“We know all that, Al,” Marshall said. “It doesn’t mean we’re going to buy this horse.”
Henley slapped Marshall on his back. “I think it does, Marsh. It’s all about the bloodlines and you know this is a top-notch animal.”
“I don’t know anything of the sort,” Marshall said. “He’s carrying around that extra flesh we see in a lot of weanlings. What do you think, son?”
Brady hid a smile. “It’s a shame, isn’t it?” he said. “Means I’ll have to put him on grass for a few weeks. Breeders should know better than to let a horse put on show fat.”
Henley laughed. “Why don’t you boys quit wasting time and make me an offer on this horse.”
Marshall rubbed his chin. “I might take a chance on him. Like you said, his bloodlines are impressive. I’m prepared to offer you ten thousand.”
Despite the cool January temperature, Brady removed his wide-brimmed hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. These two horse traders were a long way from coming to an agreement.
Henley scoffed at the offer. “Take Mac away,” he instructed his stableman as he headed toward another group of potential buyers. “Find some serious horsemen in this crowd.”
Brady started to protest, but Marshall lay a work-roughened hand on his shirtsleeve. “We can’t appear too anxious, son. I wouldn’t be surprised if Blue Bonnet had one of their own men in the crowd pretending to be interested in Mac.” He smiled with one side of his mouth. “One thing you should remember about horse traders…you can’t trust any of us. The best thing we can do now is have a look at that two-year-old Appaloosa over there and make Henley think we’ve lost interest.”
At their truck forty-five minutes and several conversations later, Marshall Carrick took his checkbook from his glove compartment. “Not bad,” he said as he wrote out the check. “I would have gone fifty grand on Mac, so I’m satisfied with forty-three thousand.”
Dobbs passed around bottles of beer from a six-pack. “At least Henley’s providing the refreshments.”
Brady accepted the drink and took a long swallow. Forty-three thousand dollars. He knew his father had the money, but despite the fair salary Brady was earning at Cross Fox, it had been a long time since he’d seen five-digit figures in his own checking account. He figured it would take at least ten minutes for his heart to stop jumping into his throat.
“I’ll find Al, pay our bill and make arrangements to pick up the horse,” Marshall said, heading back to the show ring. He stopped and called over his shoulder. “I’m starved. Where’d you say that restaurant is you always go to, Dobbs?”
“Only a couple of miles down the road in Prairie Bend,” the Irishman said. “Cliff’s Diner. Best food in Texas.”
“Meet you boys back here at the truck,” Marshall said. “I’m hungry enough to eat a…” He stopped, chuckled. “Guess I won’t say it.”
Brady drained the rest of his beer. “I’ll meet you at the truck, too, Dobbs. I’ve got to have one more look at Amber Mac.”
The trainer rested his arm on a fence post and smiled. “I thought you might.”
CLIFF’S DINER was like a hundred others surviving in Texas prairie towns. It looked like an Airstream travel trailer on steroids, all silvery chrome on the outside and red, black and white on the inside. Brady waited for his father to slide into the vinyl booth then sat beside him. Dobbs settled across from them and opened one of the three menus the hostess had set on the table.
Marshall