This is the first time my father has ever let go of the reins. He let us go alone to the auction house, and we came home without one sale. I've been attending auctions with him since I was seven. Dallas might be new to the game, but I'm not. I know how they work. I knew exactly what to expect because I'd grown up watching the game played, and I still failed today.
"Warrick was there," Dallas answers for me as I lean onto the large granite island to keep myself upright.
"What's that got to do with anythin'? He's the competition. He's always there," he argues pointedly.
"He undersold us on everything," I say defeatedly.
"As you expected he would—" my father starts.
"No, this wasn't normal. There's no way we could have matched him," Dallas interjects.
"Nor would we want to. Dropping your prices that low calls our elite breeder status into question. I'm not even sure how he's making a profit," I point out.
"Hmm," is all my father says before he turns his face toward the barn that can be seen out the floor-to-ceiling windows of the kitchen.
Dallas and I share a questionable glance before I press my father.
"‘Hmm.’ That's it? I could have made a sale if you'd let me expand our breeding operation. There's money to be made breeding bulls."
He raises his hand. "A well-bred horse gets more."
"Our operating costs are higher. It's cheaper to breed bulls, and the market is bigger?—"
"No," he says firmly.
But something's different this time. In all the times I've brought up this conversation—and there have been many—I'd say this response has gone the best. And that's saying something.
I expected anger. Annoyance. A whole lot more berating for coming home with this kind of failure. My father has been a great dad since he found out about me at age five, after my adoptive parents knocked on his door as a last resort, desperate to save my life, asking him for a kidney. From that day on, he stepped up in ways that changed everything.
But here's the thing about him: he's not a coddler. He doesn't blow smoke up your ass or hand out participation trophies. When you succeed, he's proud. When you fail, he'll point out every single mistake without hesitation. He'll tell you exactly where you went wrong and what you need to do better. That's just who he is. It's how he's always been.So, what the hell is this?
I study him, trying to understand why. Then it hits me: he's barely listening. His mind is somewhere else.On someoneelse.
"Maybe Warrick wasn't trying to make a profit today," Dallas says, unknowingly bringing the topic full circle, back to the crux or, better yet, the person at the center of my father’s distraction.
"What other reason could he possibly have for underselling us like that?" I ask, believing my father suspects something he's not telling us.
"I guess he's lightenin' the barn," he says as he rubs the backs of his fingers against his beard.
There's more. I can tell there's more. There has to be. We just lost roughly a million dollars in revenue, and all he has to say is, ‘Hmm,’ and ‘I guess he's lightening the barn.’
"What’s your deal with Warrick Fairfield?"
"Deal?" He snaps his head toward me.
"Yes, this generational feud. Why did it start? I've never understood why you hated him so much. He's not the only competition. I've seen you be cordial and even share meals with other sellers, so why not him? Is it just because we're neighbors?"
"Son, when did I ever say I hated Warrick Fairfield?"
My brow furrows as I consider his question and try to recall an instance where he's said as much, but I come up empty, because he hasn't. I cross my arms and look him square in the eye. Regardless of what words he's used, he knows what I'm asking. Maybe he didn't say hate, but there is bad blood.
"The feud was never generational. It started when Maya married Warrick. Before then, there was nothin' but flowers and peace." My mind instantly starts searching for some small piece to latch onto, a clue or hint, anything that could help pinpoint a cause, because surely his answer supplied one. He must see the wheels in my mind spinning. "There's no point in diggin' up history, son." He heads to the back door. "I'll be attendin' thenext auction. In case you've forgotten, we're in the business of sellin' horses," he adds, walking out the door without another word.
There it is, the jab I was waiting for—deserved, I suppose—since I didn't make a sale, but he's wrong about digging up history. I have to know what happened so I can get the girl.
"If you ask me, that was progress," Dallas says, blowing out a breath. "Want to come with me to the Holiday Classic tonight?"
"Are you meeting up with the vaulter girl afterward?"
