by Kari August
Dickie then answered, “American versions of big cattle-type creatures, Mags.”
“Oh.”
Clarence continued. “Anyhoo, now that we’ve had our weird English cousins’ comment for the night, what do you think?”
Lindsey spoke up. “I’d be interested. But I’d have to see the place first.”
Charlena smiled. “Of course. And I’ve already asked Daddy if we all could fly in his bigger jet there tomorrow to look at the place. Then you could go on to Denver.”
Lindsey looked at Ned. “Why not?”
Ned asked, “Where is it in Wyoming?”
“Between Jackson and Rock Springs off of 191.”
Bridget revealed then eagerly, “Oh, my brother Charlie is heading to Jackson Hole. Perhaps he could join us.”
Clarence shrugged. “The more the merrier, Bridget.”
“So, it’s settled?” Charlena grinned. “Should I tell Daddy we want the plane for sure?”
As everyone nodded, Mags made a note to herself to read everything she could this evening about the planned trip. She would not be the ignorant one any longer, and perhaps, just perhaps, she could forget all about that irritating incident at the party.
The next day, Mags sat by herself in a huge car parked beside a gas station pump, staring at the scenery. The group of them had arrived in Wyoming about an hour ago and had been on their way to the ranch for sale when Clarence had announced he wanted to stop for a second. Out had bounded all the other passengers, including her brother, when they saw that tourist novelty items were being sold within the structure. Mags had had enough of shopping for a while no matter what it was for.
She gaped at the view out her open window. She had never seen mountains as tall as those in Estes Park when she had first arrived and had appreciated their special beauty. This place had mountains that appeared nearly as high as those but with a more expansive vista. The boundary from one end of the sky to the other seemed immense. She felt an immediate affinity. This was so different from the confined, timbered, views she had often seen on trails where she had travelled most of her life.
She contemplated whether this place was prettier than Estes Park . . . not really. That location was beyond stunning, with the mountains juxtaposed just perfectly together. Yet, these whereabouts were also pleasant. Surely, more to her liking than her last couple places of stay—if for no other reason than the air was cooler, dryer and livable.
She decided to get out of the car for a better look. She turned in a circle.
“Ma’am.”
She looked over. Walking by her was a tall man—about fifty—who nodded his head once in her direction. He was wearing boots, a belt with a huge buckle, jeans with an ironed crease, a plaid shirt with a string-like tie around his collar, and a wide-brimmed hat. She looked around to see if he was addressing anyone other than her.
No, just her.
Mags had already gotten used to the friendly, loud Americans who would smile at strangers on the street. But this was something different. This American was showing some manners and regard by at least calling her “Ma’am.” She liked that.
He kept walking towards a large truck.
“Excuse me.” She had a question to ask him that she had wanted to inquire of dozens of other people but had refrained. Now seemed the ideal opportunity, especially since she was essentially alone with a stranger—a polite stranger at that. She scurried over to catch up with him.
He turned back around. “Ma’am?”
Oh, she liked him.
“Could I ask you a question?”
He raised a brow. “You can ask, but I don’t have to answer, now, do I?” He half-smiled.
She became flustered. “Oh, I do beg your pardon. I did not mean to intrude.”
“You sound like you don’t come from around these parts—”
“I’m English.”
“Well, what I was going to say is that people don’t pry in the West. Comes from a long time ago when one didn’t always want to talk about their own private history.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Prying is so rude.” Oh, she was liking it here more than ever. “But . . . well, this question is not really so personal.”
“Ma’am?”
She plunged ahead. “Have you seen my video—A Message in Manners from the Duchess of Bordusey?” She wanted to find out if she had caught on any more with the general public.
He stared at her a moment, then chuckled. “That has got to be the most confounded question I have been asked in a while. What’s a Bordusey?”
She slumped slightly. She guessed he hadn’t, and by the way he was looking at her she figured she better not inquire of anyone else the same question. Obviously, he was confirming she had not caught on in some momentous way since it had already been a few days since she had made the video. And, oh dear, that meant she should definitely pursue other ways to build her reputation. But how?
He interrupted her thoughts. “Didn’t mean to disappoint you so. Perhaps where you’re headed, they’ll know what the heck you’re talking about.”
“You mean at the ranch?”
“I mean Sturgis. You look as if you’re going to the annual motorcycle rally.”
“Why would you think that?” She looked down at her favorite sixties outfit with her miniskirt and go-go boots.
“Well, ma’am, the clothes you’re wearing are kind of strange. Don’t usually see that kind of getup around here.”
Oh, she liked this place. If she were an immigrant, choosing where to settle in America, this would be the location. Finally, some honest to goodness candor from an American—who most of the time seemed more concerned with not offending someone than telling the truth . . . well, except for Clarence. She preferred the English who were more matter of fact, if in a charming way.
She now was curious about one more question. “Do people boast about themselves around these parts?” Mags had found herself frowning about that other American penchant, especially after she had watched some television. That was a definite no for the English to do.
He shook his head. “Nah. Only the Texans who moved up here, brag . . . but we don’t tend to like them much.” He smiled again.
My, this place was wonderful. Like a heaven on Earth.
Chapter Eleven
Charlie was definitely in heaven. This vacation had been just the thing to get him out of his slump. His car was performing adequately—if a little slow on ascending turns and twists of the roadways. But people who had to pass him seemed to like viewing an automobile they had not seen for years on the road. He got lots of toots and friendly waves.
The weather was cooperating also. Thankfully not too hot since he had no air conditioning. He was relishing driving so much that he was making better time than he had thought he would—staying on the road for longer hours each day. He was stopping at rural diners for meals or take-out, had camped one night in a state park, and spent last night in one of those dinky country motels where the place was outdated but tidy.
He, himself, was not being tidy. It had been a while since he had bothered with a comb or razor. His cooler contained fishing bait next to his beer, a partially opened hotdog package and stale marshmallows. And he threw dirty boxers, orange peels, filthy socks, and empty cans and wrappers from his meals into the backseat with abandon. He loved this personal free-for-all.
He decided now to take another fishing break. He sniffed deeply at a stop sign before turning towards another state park. What was that stench? Okay, perhaps it was getting a little ripe in back. He then glanced down at the front of his shirt—the one he had wiped his hands on after catching those fish yesterday. Oh, yeah. It really reeked.
Perhaps the small town up ahead had a laundromat . . . geez, no. He couldn’t handle the thought of doing something so responsible. He took a quick look at the fishing pole he kept suspended between the back and front seats and had a thought. What he could manage—just perhaps—was hand-washing a few items of clothing in
the stream he was heading towards—like also some of those drawers he was running out of—then drying them on the rod. And if not? Well, he usually drove with the windows down anyways and would probably get used to the stink.
He rode a bit further on and saw a little tourist store with T-shirts for sale out front. He quickly pulled in. He grabbed the first shirt he found in his size. He shrugged. So what, that it had a large fish smiling in a jackass sort of fashion on the back. He certainly wasn’t out to impress anyone—at least not on this trip. He changed into the new shirt once inside his car again and threw the offending one into the back seat. There. All done. He was on his way again.
Hours later while eating a burger at a place called Chez Bubba Café, Charlie began having what he realized was a relapse of sorts. He started feeling guilty for irresponsibly not looking at his messages—for days. Oh, he had spouted all sorts of shit before leaving about people not being able to reach him and blah, blah, blah, but deep down he hadn’t really thought he would go through with it. After all, many depended on him at work.
Charlie took a deep breath and fought going out to his car trunk where he had stashed his Internet ball and chains. Goddammit, but his brothers Aron and Will should be able to handle the car dealership.
Charlie took a bite of his fries. But what if his family was trying to reach him for personal reasons? He grabbed the ketchup bottle and squirted some out—oopsie, some got on his shorts.
But . . . oh, come on. Nothing untoward had happened to his parents or siblings. He was sure of it. He dipped a fry, then threw it back onto the plate. Aw, hell.
He stomped out to his car. What was that saying? Oh, yeah. One Day at a Time. He was going to have to take his newfound freedom one day at a time. Then a thought occurred to Charlie. Instead of looking at all his messages, he would try squinting only for his family members’ names.
A few minutes later, Charlie realized he was in luck. He saw that the most recent top message sent to him was from his sister Bridget. He could read that one only and ignore the rest. Bridget would report if anything bad had happened to the family.
Charlie smiled as he read the note and then belched—yes, indeedy, he burped—in the parking lot with other restaurant patrons nearby. Sure, he could swing by this ranch in Wyoming that was for sale and visit for a spell.
He walked back into the diner and returned to his booth. He motioned for the waitress. He was going to have a big chocolate shake even if the thing gave him more gas.
Back on the road, Charlie thought Western Nebraska with its sweeping views was nice, but he found he really loved Wyoming. Once he had gotten past Cheyenne—Cheyenne crowded hour no less—he didn’t see practically a soul, at least by East Coast standards. Oh, Laramie was a bit of a town, but for the most part, there seemed to be miles and miles of rocky ranch land in every direction with the occasional pine tree grouping or small mountain in the distance.
He exited I-80 at Rock Springs and headed north on 191. He saw roadway signs to view herds of untamed horses and also a portion of the Oregon trail, where pioneers had led their wagon trains, and thought he would have liked to stop, but he had to reach the ranch by evening. That’s when everyone was expected to be there.
Apparently, this was such an expensive property for sale that the owners were going to give them use of the main house for a night—to entice a deal no doubt. He reached Pinedale and noted the slightly more upscale appearance to the mountain town. He stopped for fuel and thought briefly about changing into less dirty clothes—it was all relative at this point—but decided against it. After all, he would just be with extended family, and they knew he wasn’t always such a rumpled slob.
He drove on. The scenery became even more beautiful—the mountains bigger and the stream-fed valleys lusher. But it was the openness of the whole area that enchanted Charlie. He tried to figure just how many miles in the distance he was seeing.
He reached the turnoff he was supposed to take. The ranch was so huge that it had a road named after itself. He bumped over a cattle guard and steered his car for what seemed like miles over a dusty, gravel road. What amazed Charlie were the endless lines of barbed wire fence ranchers used to hold their cattle. Geez, the amount of work to install and maintain that. But geez, again. The views! Could it get more spectacular!
Eventually, he came to a rise and saw the spread before him. The house was situated in a sheltered valley with a stream meandering through it. He was smitten. He would love to be an owner of something as magnificent as this property. He wondered if Clarence would let him also go in on the deal.
As he got closer to what appeared to be a multilevel, timber-framed, western-style cabin with soaring windows, he saw there were a couple vehicles out front. The others must have arrived. He came to a stop and hopped out of his car.
He was really excited about this whole proposition. My God, he longed to own this place already. He hoped he could go trout fishing this evening. He had to explore more of the land. He wanted, well . . . the whole shebang—even if it did involve ranching which he recognized he scarcely grasped a thing about. He couldn’t imagine that the others were not as enthralled as he was.
He jumped onto the porch and knocked on the front door, then pushed it open without waiting. “Hey, everybody. I’m here.” He walked down an entrance foyer that led to more windows in back. He came to a large room where he found the others sitting in leather chairs. He grinned. “Hell. This place is great.”
They all turned to look his way.
And then more rapidly than it had formed, his enthusiastic bubble suddenly burst. Oh, nooo.
What was she doing here?
Chapter Twelve
“You made it.” Bridget bounced out of her chair and gave him a hug.
Charlena followed. “Have you had a good vacation?”
Charlie smiled. “Really great.”
“Well, have a seat. We’ve just started discussing the property.”
He sat in the nearest chair and tried to get grounded, but his mind spun to the party where he had had his rude encounter with the woman sitting across from him. Who was she? And what did she possibly have to do with this sale?
And oh, good God. Was he actually going to have to apologize to her after all?
Bridget smiled over at him. “Charlie, have you met Mags York?”
“She’s my sister,” Dickie explained.
What was he supposed to say?
But he was saved from replying because Mags responded for him. “Yes, we met briefly at the party you gave, Charlena.”
Charlie found himself suddenly turning red which was a very unusual occurrence for him. “Yes, uh, we had an interesting conversation. . . .”
Mags knitted her brow.
Charlie really did not want to apologize in front of everyone so he murmured, “Perhaps we can continue our discussion later . . . uh . . .”
Mags frown deepened, and Charlie guessed she thought he meant to argue some more. Now what should he do?
But then Mags raised her noggin in an imperial fashion and smirked. “And perhaps I could serve you some lemonade and cake.”
Sure, she was justified in being angry, but this was . . . he took a long look at her. Oh, she wasn’t as done up today—if still very pretty—and didn’t appear so high maintenance, but her superior demeanor was persisting unabated as if challenging him.
Ah, oh. Charlie could feel something snapping again in him. He tried to tamp it down.
But he could not help himself. He smiled sardonically. “No . . . thanks,” he declared distinctly. “I can serve myself.”
“Oh, can you? I’m all astounded,” she responded.
Huh? That wasn’t even logical. He had served her so why . . . oh, she was definitely trying for a fight.
Charlie could see that the others were looking on curiously, but Clarence then spoke. “Sooo . . . we were talking about what it would take to turn this land into what we want.”
Charlie turned to Clarence
and tried to ignore Mags. “Could I buy in also?”
Charlena responded, “Sure, why not? You’re family.” She smiled warmly.
“Actually, I’m feeling kinda hungry now,” Clarence announced. “Does anyone think they can whip something up for us to eat while we talk?”
“I can make some omelets,” Dickie proclaimed.
Mags then gaped. “You can cook? Where did you learn how to do that, Dickie? I can’t cook.”
“Oh, figures,” Charlie found himself muttering as Mags briefly glared at him.
“First time I visited Ned, I learned some culinary skills.”
“You never told me, Dickie.”
“Well, Mags, it isn’t the type of thing I actually desire to spread around.” Dickie got up and headed toward the kitchen.
Clarence raised his hands while following. “You sold cookies on a home buying network. How is that not broadcasting to the world that you can cook?”
“I mean I didn’t want to reveal my talent to my particular circle of acquaintances.”
Mags practically snorted, “Yes, I can see why.”
Charlie suppressed a chuckle. “Oh, yeah. Way too demeaning to ever admit to that.”
She glowered at him again before rising to join the others, who were all walking toward the kitchen. “Do you mind? I’m trying to have a conversation with my brother.”
Charlie followed her. He was actually starting to have some fun. “Go on ahead, Princess. Don’t let me stop you. This is entertaining as hell.”
She turned directly to him. “Firstly, I would appreciate if you would stop using derogatory language in my presence. And furthermore, if you must address me by my title, then call me Duchess.”
Charlie burst out in a guffaw. “Are you for real, Princess? I mean Duchess.”
“Oh, yeah.” Clarence grinned as he took a seat at the counter. “You missed it, Charlie. I saw her act just like a duchess the other night—”
“Another topic that should not be discussed, Clarence. Now what do you want in your omelet?” Dickie looked in the fridge. “Let’s see. We have some cheese . . . and mushrooms, peppers and tomatoes.”
