Despite the air-conditioning, it was hot inside the van.He took off his sport coat, making sure Joe Gilardini’s home phone number was still tucked in the pocket.He and Joe had been released from the hospital emergency room the same day as the accident, Joe with a broken arm as well as the nasty cut on his chin, and T.R.with a mild concussion.Lavette was still in the hospital with lower back pain and no clear predictions from the doctors on whether he could resume his trucking career, but he was more eager to get in on the ranch deal than Gilardini.
The driver of the van was a certified cowboy named Duane, grizzled and taciturn.His sun-weathered skin made judging his age difficult, but he was probably about forty-five.T.R.gave up on conversation after a few monosyllabic responses from the man and watched Duane navigate the heavy city traffic of Tucson.It wasn’t hard to picture him guiding a cutting horse through a restless herd of cattle with the same dedication.
T.R.glanced out the window and grinned.He might be on a freeway, but there was no doubt he was in the West.Mountains surrounded the city, but the Santa Catalinas dominated it.It wasn’t a gentle range.
As they drove, civilization loosened its grip on the landscape and T.R.gazed at hillsides covered with giant saguaros standing fifty to sixty feet high, their massive arms lifted toward a sky so blue T.R.took off his sunglasses to make sure the color wasn’t an optical trick.It wasn’t.
The van turned off the main road where two battered rural mailboxes crouched, one marked Singleton in faded letters, and the other Whitlock.Near the boxes was a small white sign that read True Love Guest Ranch — 2 miles.Beneath the lettering was a heart with an arrow through it.T.R.could imagine what Joe would say about that.He had to convince the cop that none of that mattered.The name and the corny heart would disappear in a couple of years, anyway.They could even change the name immediately if Joe insisted on something more...manly.
The van jolted along a dirt road that needed grading, sending a plume of dust behind it.A lane branched off to the right, and a wooden sign announced a turnoff to the Rocking W Ranch —Whitlock’s property, T.R.concluded.Several yards down the lane, a gaunt figure in a battered straw cowboy hat supported himself with an aluminum walker as he inched along in the direction of the ranch house.A plastic shopping bag filled with mail hung on one side of the walker.
“Who’s that?”T.R.asked Duane.
“Dexter.”
As the van drew alongside, Dexter turned slowly and lifted one hand in a salute.Duane raised two fingers from the steering wheel and drove past.
“Aren’t you going to give him a ride?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t aim to insult Dex.”
T.R.glanced back at the old cowboy shuffling along the dirt road.“He picks up the mail every day?”
Duane shifted his tobacco to the other side of his lip.“Ye?.”
“How long does it take him?”
“Good days, an hour.”
T.R.settled in the seat and tried not to think about Dexter’s daily trek to the mailbox.It was too personal, too human — the sort of information he’d rather not know, considering his plans for the True Love.
The road forked again, and another sign appeared which read Main House — Registration, and pointed to the right.Beneath that was the word corrals and another arrow, this one pointing to the left.And below all that, the darned heart with an arrow through it.These people weren’t shy about their sentimentality.
Duane slowed the van at the fork.“Freddy’s down at the corrals.I should probably take you there first.”
T.R.was impressed that Duane was capable of making such a long speech.“Fine,” he agreed.He had to see all of it, so it didn’t much matter which end he started with.“What’s going on at the corrals?”he asked, not really expecting an explanation.
“Last I heard, Freddy was fixin’ to use the emasculator on Red Devil.”
T.R.swallowed.From the corner of his eye, he could see Duane watching him for a reaction.He’d never heard of an emasculator, but it didn’t take much imagination to figure out what was in store for Red Devil.He adopted the poker face that had served him so well as a deal maker.“Sounds interesting,” he said evenly.“Maybe I’ll be in time to watch.”
“Maybe you will,” Duane said, a slow grin spreading across his leathered face as he took the left fork in the road.
T.R.prayed the corrals were a long, long way down this winding road, and that Freddy had already finished the task.
Shortly, however, the corrals appeared.They didn’t look very much like the ones T.R.had seen in the movies.The fences were at least a foot thick and made with tree branches laid lengthwise inside upright braces to form a solid wall.The weathered nature of the branches indicated the corrals had been there a long time.One large enclosure containing at least thirty horses was surrounded by several smaller corrals, which were empty.
Not far from the corrals stood a large tin barn with two wings, one of tin, and one of stone, looking much older than its counterpart.Across a small clearing was a long one-story building, also of stone, that looked as though it might be a bunkhouse.
A group of cowboys clustered around one of the small corrals.Laughter wafted across the clearing, as if the men were at a party.
“I’ll park here, so we don’t get no dust over there,” Duane said.“Come on,” he urged, climbing down from the driver’s seat.“We’ll get a little closer so you can see.”
T.R.took a deep breath and loosened his tie.“Okay.”
