Once a Rancher by Linda Lael Miller Page B

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.
    â€œYou 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?”
    â€œMrs. 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.”
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œIf 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.
    â€œAh, there’s nothing like having three boys.” Blythe’s tone was wry.
    â€œExcept having a little girl who’s getting to be not so little. Daisy’s ninth