was fascinated by the play of muscles beneath their shiny coats, their smooth-gaited run and their tricolored manes and tails—brown to red to blond—that rippled in the wind. He didn’t know if that type of mane was rare or not. He’d have to ask Jason Littletrees about it.
It was relaxing to watch the horses run, to see the mustangs adjusting to their new home. The simple pleasure of it was something he could understand.
Lisa Thomas was something he didn’t understand at all. He’d gone to see her as soon as he’d returned to this place, gotten the herd moved in with Jason’s help and settled a few other things. It annoyed him that she wouldn’t talk to him, and he didn’t like being annoyed. He liked things settled, his relationships uncomplicated, easy. Not that he and Lisa had any kind of relationship. They didn’t even have a friendship.
He could blame Harley Morton for interrupting them today, but the truth was he wasn’t sure he could have convinced Lisa to have lunch with him. She hadn’t wanted to talk to him and she’d looked pale and distressed—really distressed—to have him in her office. He wasn’t accustomed to having that effect on a woman.
“Ben.”
His dad’s voice broke into his thoughts. Ben had almost forgotten he was there.
“Yes?”
“Are you sure about this, son?” Jim McAdams asked, grunting slightly as he pulled himself up beside Ben on the tall fence. “What is the purpose of having horses you can’t race, or train to work cattle, or train for the rodeo?”
“What are you talking about, Dad? These mustangs can do all those things and more, and have been doing it for centuries.” Ben looked at his father, who just shook his head. “They’re not big, but they’re bred for endurance and can outdistance most other breeds. I can’t believe you’ve lived your whole life in southeastern Oklahoma and you’ve never heard of the Choctaw Wild Mustangs.”
“I’ve heard of them. I just never saw any reason to own or breed them. I can’t believe Jason has talked you into starting your own herd. You don’t know much about horses.”
“I’ll learn. Besides, it’s an opportunity to help save the Oklahoma Heritage Horse.” Ben liked the idea of preserving the breed for posterity. And why not? He had the money and the resources.
Jim hooked an arm around a tall fence post and rubbed his chin. “Yeah, I guess that’s important, but it sounds expensive.”
Ben’s lips twisted ironically. “I don’t doubt it for a minute, but it’ll be worth it.”
“To each his own, I guess. I’ve given up trying to keep track of all the things you want to spend your money on.”
With a chuckle Ben said, “That’s probably a good choice.”
He watched as Jim looked around at the acreage that encompassed Riverbend Ranch, so named because the Kinnick River made a dogleg bend at the edge of the property. The grass-covered land, long since shorn of all but a few stands of trees, sloped to a stock pond then lifted to rolling hills. The acreage was big enough for the herd of thirty mustangs to run free, but the pastures were secured by solid fences. Two wooden barns were situated beside the corral, and the house stood on a rise a few hundred yards away.
Even at his most generous, the only word Ben could think of to describe it was ramshackle.
The main house had been built in the nineteen twenties, added onto several times since then and been unoccupied for many years. The floors were a patchwork of wood—some maple, some pine—and none of them flush. Most had a strip of wood at the bottom of the doorway to smoothen the transition from one room to the next, but Ben had tripped a dozen times already. He’d finally learned to walk on his heels and lift his toes when going from one room to another to minimize the danger of falling.
Most of the doors had warped in the heat and humidity of past summers so that now only a few of them would close all the way. The ones that did close were hard to open, only coming free with hard jerks and a few well-placed kicks. All the electrical and plumbing needed to be updated and the place cried for paint and wallpaper. His great-grandmother would probably have felt right at home with the ancient appliances in the kitchen.
But Ben didn’t care what the place looked like or how inconvenient it was. He’d never been a nester. Too many other things to do. Once he got the herd established, he wouldn’t be there much.
“I’d tear that house down if I were you. Build a smaller one,” Jim said. “It’s falling apart, anyway, and much too big for one person.” He gave Ben a sidelong look. “Unless you plan to have a family to fill it up.”
“Dad, you know that’s never been in my plans.” He lifted his hand and made a circular motion that encompassed the ranch. “At least I’ve got my own place in Reston so you know I’ll be around part of the year.”
Jim shook his head. “Just part of the year? Yeah, I know. Places to go, things to do. Your mother and I have long since given up any hope of being grandparents.”
“I know, Dad.” They’d had this conversation so many times Ben didn’t even feel the need to engage in it. He simply gave his stock answer. “I know it’s a disappointment to you, but that’s just the way it is.”
His father answered with a long-suffering sigh and went back to their original topic. “Who’s gonna take care of this place when you’re off on one of your projects, or chasing around the world on the next wild hare you get?”
Ben didn’t take offense. He and his dad would never see eye-to-eye. “Jason Littletrees is looking for someone.”
“He’ll find someone. The whole Littletrees family is involved with horses one way or another.”
“Yes. Hadn’t seen him in years, but we ran into each other at the Choctaw Nation Labor Day Festival in Tuskahoma last fall. He was showing some mustangs there—”
“And you thought, ‘Great! Here’s another way to burn up some money.’”
“Dad.”
Jim looked chagrined. “Sorry. Knee-jerk reaction. Well, at least Jason is trustworthy, and I guess he’ll find someone who knows these mustangs.”
“That’s the plan.”
“I was happy with registered quarter horses and, since I don’t ride anymore, it doesn’t matter.” Jim stepped down, taking a moment to steady himself against the cedar rails.
“Is your leg bothering you?” Ben asked, forgetting about his horses for a minute. He hopped down from the fence to stand beside Jim.
“Nah, no worse than usual,” Jim answered with a shrug, but he bent over to rub his left knee. “Five years since I rolled my truck on that ice patch, and it doesn’t get any better. Doesn’t matter. I can still do what I need to do. As long as I can keep working, I’m happy.”
“I know, Dad.” It saddened Ben to think of his father never taking time for a vacation, or any kind of break, but as the old man said, “To each his own.”
“By the way,” Jim said, “Harley Morton’s been trying to get in touch with you. Did he find you?”
“Yes.
