For his father, ranching was a true vocation—Wyatt loved every second of it. But Dylan was different. A talented artist, he had produced some brilliant landscape canvases: vast, vibrant explosions of ocher and iris blue, easily good enough for the galleries in Los Olivos. But he kept his talent close to his chest, knowing that the life of a professional painter would forever be closed to him.
Not that he didn’t love the ranch. Highwood was his home, with its wonderfully lush pastures, its grand old trees, and its soil so rich and fecund you could almost smell it through the grass; and, like the rest of his family, he was inordinately proud of the place. But Maggie could tell that at times he felt trapped here—if not by the land itself then by the weight of Wyatt’s expectations lying heavy and immovable on his shoulders. He never complained about it—never—but she felt for him all the same.
“There’s coffee on the stove and bacon and muffins in the warming oven if you’re hungry,” she said.
“Oh, I’m okay. I ate with the guys a couple hours ago.” Pouring himself a cup of coffee into which he shoveled three heaped spoonfuls of sugar, he sat down to join her. “Summer said you were lookin’ for me?”
“What? Oh. Yeah.” Wyatt glanced up from his paperwork and rubbed his tired, baggy eyes with the back of his hand. Once very handsome, years of hard-riding, outdoor life had taken their toll on his skin, and it was now a permanent leathery brown crisscrossed with a fine latticework of wrinkles, like a dried-out riverbed. Usually his irrepressible energy shone through in his eyes, like two chips of lapis lazuli twinkling in the cracked earth of his face. Not today though. Today he looked beaten and exhausted, like he’d been hit by a truck.
Christ, thought Dylan. He must not have closed his eyes all night.
“Bobby’s flight lands this afternoon at three.” His voice also sounded tired but focused. There was still a lot to organize. “I figured you might like to go get him?”
“What about the new shipment?” asked Dylan, taking a big slug of his mom’s delicious coffee. “We have fifty head of cattle turning up here at twelve, remember?”
Wyatt put his head in his hands and groaned. “Darn it. I totally forgot. That’s all I need today, I tell you.”
“It’ll be okay,” said Maggie, reaching across the table and massaging the back of her husband’s neck. “I’m sure Willy can manage it.”
Wyatt shook his head doubtfully. “Not on his own he can’t.”
“Well, Little Bob can help him, can’t he? And one of the girls can go out for the afternoon roundup if need be. I really think Dylan needs to be there for Bobby. Who knows what state the poor kid’ll be in?”
Dylan and Bobby were only a month apart in age and had been inseparable best friends, brothers really, since Bobby had first shown up at Highwood as a scrawny little ten-year-old. Even back then, Dylan had never met anyone quite like him. Brought up to respect his own father almost like a god, he watched in silent awe as Bobby fought his corner with Hank on everything from his bedtime to school attendance to the amount of time he spent riding.
His parents had tried to explain to him that Bobby was troubled, that his bad behavior stemmed from the lawless, hippie existence he’d lived with his mother for so long. But Bobby seemed anything but troubled to Dylan. He seemed fearless and exotic and just wonderful in every way. When Hank would beat him for some misdemeanor or other, he’d show off his bruises to Dylan with all the macho pride of a returning war hero. And when kids at school, envious because they knew he would grow up to inherit Highwood, ostracized him from their little cliques and didn’t invite him to their birthday parties, he shrugged it off with a cool indifference that left Dylan speechless with admiration.
For his part, Bobby confided in Dylan and trusted him like no one else. He’d never encountered true loyalty in his short life—other than from horses—and Dylan’s steadfast friendship had been a revelation.
It was a testament to Dylan’s sweet, devoted nature that it had never occurred to him to feel envious that Bobby was to inherit Highwood, while he was destined to spend his life there as a hired hand. That his best friend would one day be his boss seemed as natural and inevitable to him as the sun rising in the morning. It was just the way it was.
Nor did his devotion waver when, as teenagers, Bobby always ended up with the best-looking girls. While they all thought Dylan was “cute” and “sweet,” the truth was he was far too nice to impress them in the same way that Bobby Cameron, Solvang’s answer to James Dean, could. Mostly they used him shamelessly to get close to Bobby, then after it all went wrong, returned to him as a shoulder to cry on. But Dylan, ever easygoing, ever the gentleman, didn’t seem to mind.
At nineteen, when Bobby had defied Hank once again to take a training job out in Florida, the boys were physically separated for the first time. But as different as their adult lives became, they never outgrew the bond they had forged in childhood. Bobby remained Dylan’s hero. And Dylan remained one of the few constants in Bobby’s otherwise tumultuous life—an anchor that he relied on more than he liked to admit.
“I guess you’re right,” said Wyatt, giving his wife a tired smile. “Bobby’s the most important thing right now. I’ll handle the shipment. Dyl should go to LAX.”
“Yes, sir.” Dylan nodded respectfully. He was glad to be able to go but also a little nervous. He knew, probably better than anyone, how difficult and complex Bobby and Hank’s relationship had been: how, deep down, all Bobby had ever wanted was for his father to recognize his talent as a horse trainer, to tell him that he was proud of him, to pat him on the back.
But it had never happened.
And now it never would.
Bobby had always been the strong one. But now he, Dylan, was supposed to take on that role and support his friend in his grief. Honestly, he had no idea where to begin.
By the time Dylan reached LAX, his bones had started to ache with tiredness.
He’d been up since five, which was his usual routine, but as no one on the ranch had gotten to sleep much before two A.M., he felt like he was running on empty. Plus the drive into LA had been as hellish as ever, with traffic on the 101 crawling to a virtual standstill in the blistering afternoon heat as he got closer and closer to the city. It wouldn’t have been so bad if his truck had AC. As it was, the halfhearted stuttering of his ancient fan had done nothing to combat temperatures in the low nineties, and by the time he reached the airport he was literally dripping in sweat, his T-shirt soaked through to the skin.
It was beyond him why anyone would choose to live in LA. He could understand the appeal of city life all right—Paris, London, even San Francisco were all places he dreamed of one day living. In his wilder, more fantastical daydreams he pictured his little artists’ studio and the cosmopolitan life he might lead there, if only he weren’t shackled to the ranch. But LA? It was like one huge, dry, ugly, soulless parking lot.
It seemed incredible that the rural idyll of Highwood, with its mind-blowing scenery, its work ethic, history, and family values, could exist so close to this smog-ridden, seething hive of materialism and sterility. To Dylan, LA was like suburbia gone mad but without the Brady Bunch suburban families to inject it with some heart, some kind of moral anchor. Every time he came here, he got depressed.
He’d tried to distract himself on the drive down by thinking about what he was going to say to Bobby when he saw him. What do you say to someone whose dad has just died? “Sorry for your loss” sounded way too formal, but his usual “how are you, man?” didn’t cut it either, under the circumstances.
Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, he had no experience of grief, his own or anyone else’s. The closest he’d ever come was when his beloved first pony, Sapphire Blue, broke her leg trying to kick her way out of her stall and had to be euthanized. He was eight at the time, and it took him months and months to get over it.
But even he could see that that hardly counted as adequate preparation for the task ahead of him today.
By the time Bobby finally emerged into arrivals, looking pretty exhausted himself, Dylan had given up on finding the perfect opening line. Marching forward he simply put his arms around his friend and enveloped him in a bear hug that he hoped would say it all.
“It’s good to see you,” he said, relieving Bobby of his bag when he eventually released him.
“You too,” said Bobby. He was smiling, which was a good sign. In typical Bobby style, he seemed to be coping better than everyone expected.
“I didn’t think you’d come meet me,” he said. “It’s not like the boss to give you that much time off on a workday.”
“The boss?” Dylan looked puzzled. Hank had always been referred to as the boss. “You mean Dad?”
“Sure,” said Bobby. “Who else? Now that Hank’s gone, Wyatt’s running the place, right?”
“Come on, man.” Dylan looked at him affectionately. “He always has run the place, you know that. But that doesn’t make him the boss. You’re the boss now. The one and only.”
Bobby frowned and stared down at his boots.
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not?” said Dylan. “It’s true.”
“It may be true.” Bobby sighed. “But it just sounds too weird, you know? I’m not ready, Dyl,” he admitted. “You don’t know what it’s like.”
It was a rare flash of vulnerability. Not knowing how to respond, Dylan listened in silence.
“All my life I’ve tried to make him proud. And all my life I’ve failed. And now he’s dead, and I wasn’t even there. I couldn’t even do that right.”
“Hey, c’mon,” protested Dylan. “That’s not true. You couldn’t have known—”
But Bobby waved him down.
“Maybe not. But that’s not the worst part. You know what the worst part is?” Dylan shook his head. “The only thing I’ve been thinking about since it happened—the only fucking thing—is how am I supposed to be the boss? I mean, how heartless is that? Hank’s dead, and I’m worried about myself. Worried I won’t fill his shoes.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, c’mon,” said Bobby. “You know what I mean. I’ll never be half the cowboy he was, and everybody knows it.”
Dylan’s heart went out to him. He had trouble enough dealing with his own father’s expectations. How much harder must it be for Bobby, as the son of a bona fide cowboy legend?
“Look,” he said firmly, striding out through the sliding double doors into the sweltering air in his bandy-legged gait, while Bobby mooched alongside him. “Forget about filling Hank’s shoes, okay? You’ve always been your own man, haven’t you?”
“I guess,” said Bobby.
“So? Wear your own shoes.”
Bobby gave a rueful smile. If only it were that easy.
He knew how Dylan saw him—how everyone saw him—as Hank’s rebel son, the kid who broke the rules, who always did exactly what he wanted. But now that his father was dead, there was no one left to kick against. And where did that leave him?
For the first time in his life he was faced with real responsibility. Highwood was his. Everyone who worked there would now depend on him for their livelihoods. It was time to bury the self-indulgent, rebellious kid he’d been once and for all—time to grow up. Quite frankly, the thought scared the shit out of him.
“Trust me,” said Dylan. “You’re gonna make a great boss. It’s what you’ve been waiting for all your life, isn’t it?”
Yeah, thought Bobby. Yeah, it is.
So why did he feel so terrified?
“Thanks, man,” he said. They’d emerged into the parking lot now, and he watched as Dylan hurled his suitcase unceremoniously into the back of the truck like it weighed nothing. For the thousandth time, he thanked whatever god might be up there for Dylan McDonald.
Whatever the future held for him and Highwood, he felt better knowing that Dylan would be in it.
CHAPTER FOUR
Jasper Lockwood Groves was shaking so much in the saddle he thought he might be about to throw up. Perched nervously on top of Marcus O’Reilly’s prancing bay filly, Marigold Kiss, he was also very aware that he was sweating profusely and unattractively in the blazing June sun as he made his final walk around the paddock at Epsom Downs.
Around him, race goers of all sexes, ages, and classes milled about between the various enclosures chatting happily. Some were glued to their race cards, darting back and forth between the stands of the ringside bookies. Others, apparently oblivious to either the betting or the racing, were focused purely on enjoying the party atmosphere—drinking, flirting, and generally enjoying themselves.
Almost everyone had dressed up for the occasion. In the cheapest seats up on the Hill, women had taken advantage of the hot weather to put on some of the shortest skirts and lowest-cut tops ever seen outside the King’s Cross red-light district. There were plenty of short skirts and stilettos in the Grandstand too but mingled with a good smattering of tweed, “sensible” shoes, and modestly covered, matronly bosoms heaving uncomfortably in the heat beneath their twin sets and pearls; while the most exclusive Queen’s Stand was a riot of multicolored hats and feathers.
The men had made an effort as well. Corporate parties, who had arrived this morning in pristine suits, were now in rolled-up shirtsleeves and loosened ties, enjoying their fourth or fifth pints of Guinness and discussing their (usually woeful) performance at the bookies so far. Country gents, flat-capped farmers, even gangs of tattooed barrow boys from the East End out on their mates’ stag weekend—they were all there and mingling happily, if somewhat drunkenly, around Epsom Downs.
Sweating his guts out in the paddock, Jasper felt none of their carefree abandon. His primary concern right now was not the race—which he hadn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of winning anyway—but the thought of how his flushed face must be clashing horribly with the pink and purple silks he was wearing to signify he was riding for Marcus. Why couldn’t the bloody Paddy have chosen more flattering colors? Like the dark green and brown that Robbie Pemberton was looking so fucking smug in, chatting with his owner and trainer in a confident, relaxed little huddle on the other side of the paddock?
Rachel had shown up, as promised, looking even more fuckable than she had that day at Newells in a bottom-skimming, neon-pink minidress with huge black buttons down the front, knee-high black Jimmy Choos, and some elaborate, black-feathered headdress, no doubt from Philip Treacy or some other outrageously priced designer. It worked though, in a slutty, I’m-so-foxy-I-can-wear-what-I-like sort of a way. Just picturing her now was giving him the beginnings of an erection he could ill afford before the race. After weeks of anticipation, if he didn’t get to shag her tonight he reckoned his bollocks were going to explode.
She’d seemed keen enough when she came over to chat earlier: flicking her hair, giggling, and pressing her breasts together to give him a better view of her cleavage—a definite come-on if ever he saw one. But that was before he’d had to change into these hideous silks. And before that bastard Pemberton had shown up, preening about the paddock like he owned the place.
Every woman in the world seemed to fancy Robbie, and Jasper could only assume that Rachel was no exception. Even his goody-two-shoes little sister, who as far as he could tell had all the sexual awareness of an amoeba, drooled over the guy. Personally he had never understood what the fuss was about. Okay, so Pemberton was by far the most successful of the new generation of flat race jockeys snapping at Frankie Dettori’s heels. But that didn’t stop him being a swarthy little midget.
Unusually short, even for a jockey, with a tiny, ski-jump nose and floppy black hair, he looked, in Jasper’s opinion anyway, like the love child of a leprechaun and some greasy, dago waiter. Hardly Brad Pitt, however you cut it.
Being long on looks and short on talent himself, Jasper was chronically envious of anyone in whom this ratio was reversed. He resented Robbie’s success, both at the track and with women, bitterly.
As a little boy,
Jasper had dreamed of becoming famous. Unfortunately, it became apparent early on that while he might be a perfectly competent jockey, he lacked the talent necessary to make it to the very top of the sport that his father had frog-marched him into. It was Milly, with her instinctive rapport with horses and kamikaze determination to win at all costs, who was the undeniable equestrian star of the family.
If it hadn’t been for her accident, Jasper might well have given up competitive riding in his teens. But with his sister out of the picture, and his doting mother willing to throw not just money but Cecil’s first-rate horses and invaluable racing connections behind his career, it seemed churlish not to give it a shot—especially as the alternative was either the army or knuckling down to work at the stud. Unlike Milly, Jasper’s interest in breeding was strictly confined to human activity, preferably his own. All that bloodlines nonsense bored him to tears.
His father would have loved him to learn the family business. But Jasper was so lazy, getting him to set foot in the covering shed was like trying to get blood from a stone. It didn’t help that Linda, whose devotion bordered on the oedipal, backed her work-shy son to the hilt.
“He’s only young, darling,” she’d insisted last summer, after an apoplectic Cecil had found out about the three grand Jasper had blown on girls and parties before Sandown. “There’s plenty of time for him to learn the business later. We mustn’t begrudge him a little fun, or the chance to make the most of his talent now. He worked so hard to ride out his claim.”
“Talent? What talent?” Cecil had fumed.
But Linda didn’t want to hear it. No amount of hard evidence would ever convince her that her dashing, handsome boy was not the best jockey in England. As the years went by, she steadfastly blamed his lackluster performances on poor horses or inadequate trainers. Being naturally vain, it wasn’t long before he began to convince himself that perhaps his mother was right: maybe he did have more talent than people gave him credit for? With girls from York to Epsom reinforcing this impression by throwing themselves at him left, right, and center, dazzled by his smooth charm and toothpaste-ad good looks, his ego rapidly inflated to a point of no return.