"That was ten minutes ago." Wade's eyes narrow, the same look he gives a horse that's acting out of character. "You feeling all right, boss?"
"I'm fine. Just running through training schedules in my head."
His expression says he doesn't buy a word of it, but Wade Faulkner isn't the type of man who pries. He moves on, which is one of the many reasons I like him.
"That bay mare is establishing herself as the lead," he continues, nodding toward the pasture where Colby's mares have gathered near the water trough. "She ran off two of the newer ones this morning. Colby watched the whole thing and didn't lift a hoof to intervene."
"He's a smart stallion. He knows a good lead mare makes his job easier."
"Either that or he's just plain lazy." Wade takes a long pull from his travel mug. "Hard to tell with that one." He pauses, scratching the back of his neck in the way that usually means Gran has been at him again. "Your grandmother cornered me after breakfast. She wants to know if I've heard anything about that equine specialist over in Fredericksburg, the one who's supposed to be good with difficult horses."
"That makes sense. We're bound to run into some problems as this herd grows."
Wade grunts. "She also suggested we color-code the medication chart and implement a digital tracking system for veterinary records." He delivers the words like a man reading his own death sentence.
I laugh. "How'd you respond to that?"
"I told her I'd get right on it as soon as I figured out what half those words meant." Wade's face doesn't move, making it impossible to tell whether he's joking. "She handed me a printed list of software options this morning. With ratings."
"Well, you have my sincere thanks for tolerating her. She can be a lot to handle, but her intentions are good."
Something changes in Wade's expression, a brief softening around the eyes that disappears almost as quickly as it arrives. "Your grandmother knows what she's doing." He tips his hat and glances toward the barn. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some errands to run in town."
I meander back to the house and find Gran holding court at the breakfast table, spreadsheets fanned out in front of her like battle plans. Oscar stands at her elbow, his posture as impeccable as always, one finger tracing a column of numbers while Gran marks corrections in red ink with the focus of a field general.
"Morning," I greet, heading for the coffeepot.
Gran glances up, reading glasses perched on her nose. "Charles. Oscar and I are overhauling the provisioning system. The waste on perishables alone is costing us seventeen percent more than it should."
"That sounds riveting."
"Don't be glib." She taps a circled figure with one manicured nail. "Seventeen percent across a year is real money, and I refuse to run a household that throws food in the trash."
I catch Oscar's eye over the rim of my coffee cup. His face remains perfectly neutral, but there's the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth that tells me he's been listening to this presentation for at least an hour. "I'm sure you'll sort it out, Gran."
"We already have. Oscar is implementing the new system starting Monday." She says it the way most people announce they've solved world hunger, then removes her glasses and fixes me with the look that means she's switching subjects. "How are the horses?"
"Thriving. Wade's got a strong handle on the herd dynamics."
"He needs better organizational systems, but we lucked out with him." Gran folds her spreadsheets with the crisp precision of a woman who irons her napkins. "Rachel called a few minutes ago. Mason wants to meet this afternoon to discuss breeding schedules, and she's tagging along."
"Good. We have some logistics to work through now that we're not a thousand miles apart."
Mason pulls up at noon with Rachel riding shotgun. She waves through the windshield, then disappears into the house to visit with Gran while Mason and I spread auction catalogs across my desk in the barn office.
"This one." Mason taps a photo of a black thoroughbred stallion, all clean lines and muscle, his credentials listed in a column that reads like royalty. "He's out of Seattle Slew's line. Perfect for what we're building."
I study the pedigree chart and race record, running my finger down his performance numbers. "He's pricey."
"But worth every cent. We breed him to three of your mares and we'll have foals that set the rodeo circuit on fire in four years."
"With the right training, yes," I agree.
Mason grunts with satisfaction and flips to the next page. "What about this three-year-old mare? Storm Cat's line."
"Good bone structure." I pull the catalog closer to study her conformation photos. "Let me see her race record." We work through the catalog page by page, marking prospects and debating bloodlines, then shift to the logistics of managing breeding and training programs across two ranches that are finally close enough to make it work.
By three o'clock, Rachel appears in the barn doorway, fanning herself with a folded auction flyer. "It's hotter than Satan's front porch out here."
