“When will you start?” he asked.
“As soon as there are enough teens enrolled to make it worthwhile,” Wyatt answered. “That’s about thirty, give or take. Would you post a notice in next Sunday’s church bulletin and make an announcement from the pulpit? I’ll work on the schools.”
“I suppose that, like before, these sessions will be on the weekends?” Jacobson asked.
When Wyatt didn’t reply, Jacobson guessed that there was more news to come. Knowing Wyatt as he did, he decided to wait rather than ask. When Wyatt turned again to look at his friend and pastor, his expression was resolute.
“No,” he answered simply. “They’ll be three afternoons a week, provided we have enough takers.”
“But some days you work so late…,” Jacobson said.
“Not anymore,” Wyatt answered. “Last week I left the firm.”
Jacobson was stunned. “Does your father know?” he asked.
Wyatt smiled sadly. “I’ve told him,” he answered. “But these days, we can’t be sure of anything that he really knows. Sometimes his clarity’s as fickle as the wind.”
“Why did you quit?” Jacobson asked. “This is a big surprise.”
Wyatt crossed one long leg over the other and leaned his head back against the wall. “You know that I was never happy practicing law,” he answered. “Besides, Morgan and the other partners will still be there, working their tails off. Blaine and Blaine won’t vanish just because I’m gone. And as a partner, I’ll still be paid my weekly salary. It’s what Krista would have wanted.”
Jacobson understood, and he nodded his approval. He had known the Blaine family for many years. They had long been among St. Andrew’s strongest financial and spiritual supporters.
Of the two Blaine brothers, Wyatt was clearly the handsomest, and by all accounts the most enigmatic. Named by their rather eccentric father after the fabled Earp bothers, Wyatt and Morgan had grown up on the Flying B, the Blaine family horse ranch. Because Wyatt was as comfortable in ranch clothes as he was in a tailored suit, Jacobson had often wondered which lifestyle Wyatt preferred. If the reverend were a betting man, he would put his money on the former. But just now, Jacobson thought Wyatt looked every bit the polished Boca lawyer and highly eligible widower that most people took him for.
Standing just over six feet tall, Wyatt was lean and agile. His impeccable dark blue suit matched his penetrating eyes. The Rolex surrounding his left wrist was solid gold, as was the wedding ring that he had steadfastly refused to remove since Krista’s sudden death. When he’d turned forty years of age last summer, Wyatt had joked about the subtle gray appearing at his dark temples.
But as the reverend looked closer, Wyatt did not look like someone who spent most of his time indoors. His skin was tan and crow’s-feet etched the corners of his eyes, courtesy of his many days beneath the harsh Florida sun. His strong hands looked like they belonged to some manual laborer rather than to an accomplished counselor-at-law.
“I wish you well in this project,” Jacobson said. “If there’s anything else I can do, just let me know.”
When Wyatt stood, the reverend followed suit. Wyatt took Jacobson’s hand into his and shook it firmly.
“Thanks, James,” Wyatt said. “Please just start spreading the word.” For the first time today, Wyatt’s piratical smile surfaced. “That’s what you were put on this earth for, right? To spread the word?”
Jacobson smiled back. “That’s the rumor,” he answered.
“Good-bye, then,” Wyatt said.
“Good-bye, my son,” Jacobson said. “And thank you.”
While Wyatt walked away, Jacobson sat back down on the stone bench to fully absorb his friend’s unexpected news. This is truly a gift, he thought. His mind automatically assembled a list of parents who might wish to enroll their teenagers in Wyatt’s revived program.
Then he suddenly thought of Gabby and Trevor, and he caught his breath.
THREE
ALTHOUGH HE WAS seventy-seven, Ramsey Blaine, or “Ram,” as he was known to his friends and family, was still a resolute man, as strong as an old oak tree and nearly as gnarled. And much the same as an oak tree, his roots ran deep. Tall and lean like his son Wyatt, he possessed a gruff kind of charm that had served him well both on the family ranch and in the courtroom. Despite his diagnosis of Alzheimer’s disease, Ram remained the family patriarch, a position neither of his sons was eager to assume.
It was early evening in Florida, and the sun was setting behind the distant horizon of the Flying B Ranch. Ram’s two golden retrievers, Butch and Sundance, lounged lazily near his feet. By now most of the hired hands had gone home, leaving only Ram and two others behind. Ram smiled at that thought, for “Aunt Lou” and “Big John” Beauregard meant far more to him than the other hired hands. The Cajun couple were in their late sixties, and for more than forty years they had lived and worked on the ranch like part of the family.
Aunt Lou had virtually raised Wyatt and Morgan after the untimely death of their mother from cancer. Her husband, Big John, served as the Flying B foreman. Under Ram’s and Big John’s care, over the prior four decades the Flying B had been transformed from a sprawling citrus concern into one of the finest American quarter horse ranches in the country. Ram had put Aunt Lou and Big John’s son Peter through college and law school, and Peter had become a respected partner at Blaine & Blaine, LLC.
Today was Ram’s favorite day of the week, in no small part because Aunt Lou always cooked her wonderful fried chicken. Sunday dinner was a tradition at the Flying B, and as Ram waited for Wyatt to come home and for Morgan and his family to arrive from Boca, he could smell Aunt Lou’s marvelous handiwork wafting from the kitchen. Sunday dinner was always at seven o’clock sharp, and any family member not attending needed a damned good excuse.
Rocking back and forth in a white chair on the shaded porch of the magnificent house, Ram lit a cigarette. He then looked across the huge front lawn and toward the old family graveyard that lay near the main barn. The little cemetery’s manicured grounds and mildewed headstones were surrounded by a black wrought-iron fence that was nearly as old as the cemetery itself. Many generations of Blaines had been laid to rest there. Among them was Ram’s late wife, Phoebe, mother to Wyatt and Morgan. Alongside her lay Krista and Danny.
Ram was grateful that he could pay his respects this way, for it was far more appealing than visiting some crowded public cemetery. Moreover, personally keeping the grave sites well tended helped to soften his grief. Late in the day, he would sometimes sit on the porch and whisper softly to Phoebe, telling her the latest family news while the crickets chirped and he nursed his nightly bourbon.
Although he had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s two years before, Ram’s lucid days still outnumbered their darker counterparts. His medication helped, but he hated the idea of having to rely on it. Oddly enough, the forgetting came easily. The difficult part came when he learned that he had lost a day, or part of one. If Ram could not recall the entire preceding day, he insisted on being told about it. Because Wyatt found it too painful, it was usually Aunt Lou who obliged him.
How strange, he thought, as he propped his boots on top of the porch rail and took another sip of the smoky bourbon. To be afflicted with a disease that is most painful only when it’s in remission.
As he stared out at the small graveyard, for the thousandth time he took care to recall his family history. Since learning of his shattering diagnosis, doing so had become important to him. He treasured each instance that he still could, for it meant that he was spending another moment in clarity rather than confusion.
Ram snorted out a laugh as he also remembered his father, Jacob Blaine. During the roaring twenties Jacob had been one of the south’s most notorious moonshiners, and no small share of the family’s enduring wealth had been derived from Jacob’s dubious occupation. Because his father was frequently arrested, Ram had taken an interest in the law and become an attorney. Fifty-some years ago, it
was Ram who’d founded the Blaine law firm in the quickly growing burg of Boca Raton.
Since his earliest days, Ram loved anything that smacked of the Old West. After his father’s death, he reinstated the Flying B’s horse-breeding program, thereby returning the ranch to its original purpose. Ram recognized that his was a rare combination of professions. And like Wyatt, he had never truly decided which he loved most. His other son, Morgan, had always preferred the firm.
Just then Ram saw Wyatt’s Jaguar convertible turn off the highway in the distance and onto the long, paved road that led to the main house. Smiling slyly, he nudged Butch and Sundance awake.
“Look, boys!” he shouted. “Wyatt’s home! Go get ’im!”
At once the dogs leaped from the porch and tore off down the road to meet Wyatt’s car. As Wyatt watched them come, he shook his head. This was a scenario that had been repeated many times before, always at Ram’s bidding. The dogs loved Wyatt. Aunt Lou brazenly claimed that they cared more for him than they did for Ram—an opinion with which Ram stubbornly took issue. From behind the wheel of his car, Wyatt could only surrender to the inevitable.
As soon as Wyatt’s car slowed, Butch and Sundance started barking and jumping on the driver’s door in their eagerness to see him. The dogs’ claws had scratched the car door so many times that Wyatt had simply given up having it repainted. Wyatt’s “scratchy Jag,” as the family called it, looked terrible, but Wyatt had become resigned to it.
Ram put his boots back on top of the rail then swallowed another generous slug of bourbon as he watched Wyatt walk up the stone steps and onto the broad porch.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” he said. “Go get changed, then come have a drink with me. And bring the bottle back with you.”
After answering his father with an affectionate touch on one shoulder, Wyatt entered the house. The Blaine residence was a magnificent place, and Wyatt had lived there nearly all his life.
A series of massive white columns graced the front of the redbrick mansion. All around it lay sprawling, manicured lawns and rolling flower beds. A marble fountain set into the center of the circular drive playfully sprayed water into the air, and waxy-leafed magnolia trees lined either side of the paved road leading in from the highway that lay some three hundred feet to the east. All told, the mansion was three stories high, with more than fifty rooms. As Wyatt strode across the foyer’s checkerboard floor and headed for the huge curved staircase, he smelled chicken frying. On reaching the second floor, he turned down one of many red-carpeted hallways adorned with Old West paintings and Remington bronzes, then headed toward his private rooms.
Swinging the door open, he strode inside and tossed his suit coat onto the huge four-poster bed. He then walked to the leaded-glass balcony doors and opened them wide to admire the view from the front of the house. Because it was February, the air-conditioning wasn’t needed. He quickly changed into a pair of worn jeans, a denim shirt, and his most comfortable boots. Sunday dinner was mandatory at the Flying B, but it was never dressy.
He returned downstairs and entered the game room. Complete with a billiards table, a poker table, and a full-length bar, it was Wyatt’s favorite room in the house. Behind the bar, he poured some bourbon into a leaded highball glass and took an appreciative sip. Then he grabbed the bottle and made his way toward the kitchen. As he neared, he could hear Aunt Lou singing to herself, a sure sign that she was pleased with the way her dinner was progressing.
When Aunt Lou cooked she always did so manically, like she was at war with the food. And like any cook worth her salt, she considered the kitchen her own special province. On occasion she had been known to banish even the abrasive Ram.
Like everything else about the Flying B, the kitchen was impressive. There were triple stainless-steel ovens, long granite countertops, and three Sub-Zero refrigerators with accompanying freezers. Copper pots and pans hung from the ceiling and walls. Aging southern hams and maple bacon clung to meat hooks in one corner, and ripening chilies, peppers, and garlic cloves hung in another. French doors lay open in the far wall, revealing the side yard with its stone terraces, gaslight torches, and kidney-shaped swimming pool.
As was usual for a Sunday, the three uniformed house girls and all the ranch hands besides Aunt Lou and Big John had gone home early, leaving Lou alone to create dinner. Wyatt knew that this was another reason Ram liked Sundays best. With most of the help gone, it was easier for him to hold court with his family.
“Hey, Aunt Lou,” Wyatt said. He walked into the kitchen, glass and bottle in hand.
After putting down her meat cleaver, Aunt Lou turned and gave Wyatt a look of mock ferociousness. She was a wide, commanding woman, her gray hair collected at the back of her head in a severe bun. She and her husband had been born and raised in New Orleans. Many of her old-time recipes were from there, and her cooking was extraordinary. Aunt Lou was worth her considerable weight in gold, and everyone at the Flying B knew it.
“Hey, yourself,” she answered back, while wiping her fingers on her apron. “It’s high time that you got home! I swear, your father must’ve asked about you ten times! He acts like I should somehow know your every movement, for God’s sake. Where have you been, anyway?”
“I had things to do,” Wyatt answered. “For one, I met with Reverend Jacobson. He was happy to hear about Krista’s revived program.”
Aunt Lou’s demeanor quickly mellowed. In her own way, she had loved Krista and Danny as much as anyone else. Walking closer, she gave Wyatt a kiss on one cheek.
“They would be proud of you, Mr. Wyatt,” she said. “I just know it.”
“I hope so,” he answered quietly.
Ever since Wyatt’s and Morgan’s births, Aunt Lou and Big John had called them “Mr.,” the same way they always respectfully addressed Ram. Despite repeated attempts by the brothers to get them to drop the habit and join the twenty-first century, the couple steadfastly refused. Wyatt had become resigned to it long ago, although it still embarrassed him slightly.
Wyatt walked to one of the cupboards and opened it. Taking out a glass, he poured two fingers of bourbon for Aunt Lou. She gave him a wide smile as he handed it to her. Aunt Lou liked her bourbon, but true to her stern work ethic, she drank only on weekends.
“Here’s to Krista and Danny,” Wyatt said reverently.
“You bet,” Aunt Lou answered.
After gently clinking her glass against his and taking a welcome sip, Aunt Lou turned back toward the countertop. She again brought her meat cleaver down, expertly splitting another chicken for her special brand of basting and frying.
Rolling his glass between his palms, Wyatt leaned back against the counter. After thinking for a time, he stared at Aunt Lou’s broad back.
“How was he today?” he asked. “He seems okay, but that doesn’t mean much sometimes.”
Aunt Lou turned back around. “Today was a good day, Mr. Wyatt. Old Mr. Ram didn’t miss a trick. Come tomorrow, I won’t be needin’ to tell him about it.”
“Good,” Wyatt said. “I’ll take all these normal days that I can get. I’m going to see how he’s doing. Besides, he asked me to bring the bottle.”
“That don’t surprise me none,” Aunt Lou answered. “Besides, I don’t need no men messing up my kitchen, anyway.”
Wyatt sneaked up behind her and pecked her cheek.
“Out!” she shouted, again waving the small cleaver in the air.
On leaving the kitchen, Wyatt sauntered back through the grand foyer. He stepped onto the porch and pulled a rocking chair up alongside his father’s.
“Took you long enough,” Ram said.
“I had a talk with Aunt Lou,” Wyatt answered. “Dinner will be ready soon. Where are Morgan and Sissy?”
Ram snorted out a laugh. “He’s always late. I swear, sometimes that man can’t get out of his own way.”
Wyatt smiled at that because he agreed with Ram about his brother. Morgan was a brilliant attorney, and a good husband and father.
He was also a bit obsessive-compulsive, especially when it came to lawyering. That was just as well, for Morgan had never been much of a rancher.
Just then they saw Morgan’s Mercedes pull off the highway and start up the drive toward the house. After giving Wyatt a sly grin, Ram nudged the dogs with one boot.
At once Butch and Sundance left the porch to go running toward Morgan’s car. Although he had taken no hand in it, Wyatt winced at the ensuing carnage. As Morgan, Sissy, and their two children exited the Mercedes, the look on Morgan’s face said it all. Morgan was heavier than Wyatt, his brown hair thinning at the temples.
“Jesus Christ, Dad!” Morgan shouted as he clambered up the steps. “That car’s brand new! Can’t you control those damn mutts of yours?”
“They love you, that’s all,” Ram answered innocently. “Besides, turning them loose like that was Wyatt’s idea.”
Wyatt was about to protest, but Morgan raised a hand. “Don’t worry, little brother,” he said. “I’m lawyer enough to know a lie when I hear it. Besides, I need a drink.” Without further ado, he stomped into the house.
Sissy next ascended the steps, followed by Jack and Esther, ages ten and twelve. Sissy was a pretty blonde, with long hair and an attractive figure. Leaning down, she gave Wyatt a peck on the cheek.
“Hey, hot stuff,” she said.
“Hey, Sissy,” he answered.
Sissy put her hands on her hips and gave Ram a ferocious glare that all three of them knew wasn’t real. “Hello, old man,” she said. “Does this little stunt of yours mean that it’s going to be one of those nights?”
“I dunno what you’re talking about,” Ram answered. “All I want is a nice, quiet drink, and then dinner with my family. When in hell did everybody’s vehicles become my problem?”
“Uh-huh,” Sissy answered. She looked over at Jack and Esther. “Come on, kids. Let’s go inside and see Aunt Lou.”
Ram and Wyatt drank in silence for a while as the sun set in earnest, the evening dew gathered, and the night creatures started to sing. This was Wyatt’s favorite time of day at the ranch. The hard, physical work was usually finished, and the first bourbon of the night was settling comfortably into his bones. For all he cared, everyone could just leave him out here while they feasted on fried chicken and shared the latest Boca gossip.
If Wishes Were Horses Page 2
