your money—and more?”
Nik dropped his fist, staring at the money still crumpled in his hand. “Then we are not partners?” he whispered, his dream shuttered. “There is no ranch?”
“A hundred and fifty bucks wouldn’t buy you much land, boy-o,” Jeb said dryly, “not even down there in the Santa Ynez Valley.”
Nik turned away as a great surge of despair hit him and tears threatened to spill from his eyes. He’d been fooled not only out of his money but also into believing he’d found a friend—and a partner….
Jeb watched him as he contemplated his luck last night. It had been strange, really, the way it had all worked out. Not only had he won a packet—but the dream he’d conjured up to part Nik from his money had been turned into reality on the last desperate bluff of a beaten man. He’d intended to convert it into hard cash at the bank, but now he wondered. He noted the breadth of Nik’s shoulders, the sheer power and strength of his torso and arms, rippling with muscles. He knew the boy was honest; he was certain he would be trustworthy—and he sure as hell would be a hard worker. And when you suddenly found yourself the owner of a ranch, what better qualities could a man need in a partner?
“Come on, partner,” he called, leaping onto the waiting horse. It skittered sideways across the cobbles, fresh and eager to be off. “I forgot to mention that your stake in the poker game also won us a ranch….”
Hope dawned in Nik’s eyes and then faded. “You fooling me. Again!” he said bitterly.
“No more foolingm, boy-o. I told you, I’m a lucky man. Now come on, will ya—or do I get somebody else to be my partner?”
Nik was on his horse in a flash. He didn’t know whether to believe the Irishman or not, but he would follow him anyway, because Jeb Mallory had that magical quality of
almost
making dreams come true. And even if they weren’t quite what they seemed, somehow, when you were with him, it didn’t seem to matter.
From the crest of the Santa Rosa hills to the Santa Ynez River snaking along the valley miles below, lay acres of rolling green pasture. Searching the horizon to the west, Nik could just make out a ridge of paler, golden-green young grain, while behind them were the dark shadows of canyons where grizzly bear lurked, emerging at nightfall in search of prey. In the distance, a coyote howled, and as if on cue, a breeze rippled the grasses, forcing dazzling silver reflections from the fast-moving river.
The valley was lush and green from the tumultuous early spring rains, and its spacious serenity seemed to promise a life impossible in ice-locked, darkly forested Arkhangelsk. Nik knew then that Jeb’s words were not mere dreams. This was truly the land of plenty.
This
was the richness of Amerika.
As Jeb stared across the valley, for the first time in years he recalled the old cottage in Ilskerry, in Ireland. He saw in his mind the bare, malnourished earth, as poor and starved as the people who scraped their existence from it. He remembered his father—a hunched, defeated figure at only thirty—his own age now. He thought of his mother, struggling to grow a few flowers, a patch of pathetic beauty in the rutted earth by the cottage door. And he compared all of his memories with the lush greenness he saw before him. Sniffing the deep, moist fragrance of fertile earth, he imagined it dotted with sheep and cattle, seeing it productive—
earning him a fortune!
Swinging from the saddle, he unfurled the roll of title deeds with a flourish. “We may not own all you can see,” he said, grinning at Nik, “but fifty of these acres can now be called the Rancho Santa Vittoria.” And then—because Jeb always played a big game—he added, “It’s enough for a
beginning
anyhow.” Nik grinned back at him as he shook his hand.
“You know something, boy-o,” added Jeb with a laugh, “my old father used to say that nothing comes to you in this life without hard work. It
Nik dropped his fist, staring at the money still crumpled in his hand. “Then we are not partners?” he whispered, his dream shuttered. “There is no ranch?”
“A hundred and fifty bucks wouldn’t buy you much land, boy-o,” Jeb said dryly, “not even down there in the Santa Ynez Valley.”
Nik turned away as a great surge of despair hit him and tears threatened to spill from his eyes. He’d been fooled not only out of his money but also into believing he’d found a friend—and a partner….
Jeb watched him as he contemplated his luck last night. It had been strange, really, the way it had all worked out. Not only had he won a packet—but the dream he’d conjured up to part Nik from his money had been turned into reality on the last desperate bluff of a beaten man. He’d intended to convert it into hard cash at the bank, but now he wondered. He noted the breadth of Nik’s shoulders, the sheer power and strength of his torso and arms, rippling with muscles. He knew the boy was honest; he was certain he would be trustworthy—and he sure as hell would be a hard worker. And when you suddenly found yourself the owner of a ranch, what better qualities could a man need in a partner?
“Come on, partner,” he called, leaping onto the waiting horse. It skittered sideways across the cobbles, fresh and eager to be off. “I forgot to mention that your stake in the poker game also won us a ranch….”
Hope dawned in Nik’s eyes and then faded. “You fooling me. Again!” he said bitterly.
“No more foolingm, boy-o. I told you, I’m a lucky man. Now come on, will ya—or do I get somebody else to be my partner?”
Nik was on his horse in a flash. He didn’t know whether to believe the Irishman or not, but he would follow him anyway, because Jeb Mallory had that magical quality of
almost
making dreams come true. And even if they weren’t quite what they seemed, somehow, when you were with him, it didn’t seem to matter.
From the crest of the Santa Rosa hills to the Santa Ynez River snaking along the valley miles below, lay acres of rolling green pasture. Searching the horizon to the west, Nik could just make out a ridge of paler, golden-green young grain, while behind them were the dark shadows of canyons where grizzly bear lurked, emerging at nightfall in search of prey. In the distance, a coyote howled, and as if on cue, a breeze rippled the grasses, forcing dazzling silver reflections from the fast-moving river.
The valley was lush and green from the tumultuous early spring rains, and its spacious serenity seemed to promise a life impossible in ice-locked, darkly forested Arkhangelsk. Nik knew then that Jeb’s words were not mere dreams. This was truly the land of plenty.
This
was the richness of Amerika.
As Jeb stared across the valley, for the first time in years he recalled the old cottage in Ilskerry, in Ireland. He saw in his mind the bare, malnourished earth, as poor and starved as the people who scraped their existence from it. He remembered his father—a hunched, defeated figure at only thirty—his own age now. He thought of his mother, struggling to grow a few flowers, a patch of pathetic beauty in the rutted earth by the cottage door. And he compared all of his memories with the lush greenness he saw before him. Sniffing the deep, moist fragrance of fertile earth, he imagined it dotted with sheep and cattle, seeing it productive—
earning him a fortune!
Swinging from the saddle, he unfurled the roll of title deeds with a flourish. “We may not own all you can see,” he said, grinning at Nik, “but fifty of these acres can now be called the Rancho Santa Vittoria.” And then—because Jeb always played a big game—he added, “It’s enough for a
beginning
anyhow.” Nik grinned back at him as he shook his hand.
“You know something, boy-o,” added Jeb with a laugh, “my old father used to say that nothing comes to you in this life without hard work. It
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