San Joaquin Valley
Lancer Ranch
A few years ago, a poem was published by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere. A good read but filled with historical inaccuracies which spurred other gaffes including Revere’s famous quote,“The British are coming,” which, in fact, the man never said. However, in writing and storytelling much can be overlooked in the name of creative imaginations.
During the past week on the ranch, a poet such as Longfellow would need little imagination to pen a lively, entertaining composition which could accurately end with the mantra, “Seth Westcott is coming.”
Before I allowed Kinsey to hang one lantern or two in the firebell tower, I suggested -
Scott stopped, read his last word written and crossed it out.
- insisted on being the one to inform my father of our impending guest.
“Westcott?” Murdoch replaced a recently read novel to the Great Room bookshelf. If he had intended to select another book it appeared that was no longer his intent. “Seth Westcott?”
“Yes, sir.” His father’s expression of confused disbelief with a smattering of annoyance produced a subtle grin on Scott’s face. “He’ll be arriving next week.”
“I thought I told that little girl she was to clear invited guests with me first. What part of clear with me first didn't she understand?”
Oh, that little girl understood your every word. “Well.” Hands on hips preceded Scott’s familiar casual stance as lame reasoning tried its best. “Sometimes Kinsey’s enthusiasm leads to forgetfulness. I'm certain it was an oversight.”
“Oversight.” Murdoch settled heavily into a chair with a roll of the eyes and a grunt. “Any other unexpected guests I should be aware of?”
“No. Queen Victoria sent her regrets.”
“I was thinking perhaps the Tyrant of Boston.”
Touché. Scott predicted his father would need this moment of blustery fencing. “Grandfather won't be joining us any time soon...God willing.”
“That being the case, I suggest you make the effort to attend church this Sunday.”
Scott’s full-fledged smile pushed away the subtle grin and skipped it to his father’s face. The conversation’s tempestuous weather shifted - blowing out to sea. “Yes, sir. I will seriously consider your recommendation.” Throwing caution to what wind was left, he continued. “Kinsey mentioned showing off Lancer hospitality with a small party in the courtyard in honor of our guest.”
Murdoch folded his hands over his midsection while stretching out his long legs - creating a few more pops and creaks than in the past. “Seth Westcott. How serious is this developing relationship?”
An excellent question with two different answers - one of which Scott wished he could get a good grasp on. The other answer was chosen for his reply. “Kinsey and I agree the Westcott Winery would be a sound investment. I don’t foresee our opinions changing after the gentleman’s visit.”
If it wasn’t the response the patriarch had anticipated, he gave no indication as he rose to admire the vista framed by the Great Room’s window. “I’ll see to it a fine Lancer steer is butchered for Westcott’s reception. Let the boy taste what this rich land should be used for.”
It was an often-expression opinion. If Murdoch had his way, cattle would graze on every square inch of California. Scott stepped up to the window to share in a view he never valued lightly. “Knowing Seth possesses the same pride for his family’s vineyards, I’m certain there will be superb Westcott wine to compliment that fine Lancer beef.”
My father’s grumbling was minimal when informed of Westcott’s arrival. I highly doubt the tune Kinsey hears will have the same melody.
It’s been some time since I've had an extensive talk with my cousin. It would be helpful to hear her current thoughts on the immediate future and beyond before Westcott's visit. I've tried but constant interruptions from others, demands of the ranch, -
Scott looked up from his journal to the sound of a door slamming somewhere in the hacienda. “Getting her to sit still for five minutes.”
- life, in general, makes it difficult. Some of our best talks have happened in train cabins, quiet kitchens and during lazy afternoon rides - having only Boots and Buck to add to our discussions. I decided accompanying Kinsey on her weekly mission visit would be a perfect opportunity. Traveling to and from Sister Rosa’s guaranteed no interruptions and a stationary cousin.
********
Cipriano was the first to spot the brindle horse. Considering how rare a sighting this would be, most doubted its existence. Even after describing the horse in detail - tawny base coat with chestnut streaks - everyone decided lighting had played tricks on the man’s eyes. Everyone, that is, except Johnny.
Whether it be riding the line or moving the herd, Scott would catch his brother scanning the crests and valleys hoping to spy the brindle. Gradually, Johnny’s off-handed comments reflected his plans if he were to spot the elusive horse.
“That dead-end gully west of the stream...bet that’d make a dandy make-shift corral...you know...if ever needed.”
Yes, obsession over the brindle knocked on the door and Johnny let it in.
Scott counted on his brother's new focus to gladly relinquish a day of escorting the midnight runaway to her designated consequence. Hours of freedom to go searching for Cipriano’s sighting would be hard to pass up.
“Did the old man give the nod?”
Scott found his brother brushing down Barranca, who had contributed to this day’s brindle search party, no doubt. “I don't need our father’s permission to spend time with my cousin.”
A bantering smirk acknowledged the defiant statement. “And so you need mine?”
“Protocol between gentlemen. You're her designated escort.” Grabbing another brush, Scott assisted his brother. Barranca approved.
“Designated escort. Fancy way of saying deputized nursemaid.”
“If memory serves me correctly, little brother, you volunteered for the position. Having second thoughts?”
“Nah. She’s been behavin’ herself well enough - even though half-pint figured out Murdoch’s threat to send her to the Good Sisters in Sacramento never held water. She plays along. The old man’s comin’ to Jesus meeting he had with her still carries weight.” Johnny tossed his brush into a nearby bucket. “We’re supposed to ride on out there tomorrow. Does that work for you?”
“Works just fine.” Scott tossed his brush to join his brother’s and turned to leave.
“Why?” The younger brother's one-word question sounded out of place.
“Why what?”
Hooking his thumbs in his belt, Johnny leaned against the barn post - squinted eyes created a Doubting Thomas expression. “Why the need to take a long hot ride with a little chatterbox - ending up in the middle of nowhere to spend a boring day with a few nuns and a herd of kids just to turn around and take a long hot ride with the same little magpie all the way back home?”
“Why the need to ask?” Why the need to make an easy request so damn hard? His brother’s suspicious nature wore thin, at times.
“Guess I’m just wanting to kill that cat with curiosity.”
“Why don’t you satisfy your curiosity with another look at the dead-end gully instead.”
A cocked head followed by a half-smile and quiet nod - signs his younger brother was saving his opinion for another day. Righting himself, Johnny sauntered toward the barn door, stopping to deliver a slap to Scott’s shoulder. “Tell Sister Rosa I said hello.”
The brotherly gesture was returned with a tug on the front brim of Johnny's hat. “Give my regards to the brindle.”
*******
The anticipation of spending a day filled with pleasant, long-overdue talks with Kinsey went up in a puff of smoke the next morning as Scott sat on the buckboard seat watching his cousin stomp out of the hacienda.
“He is the most intolerable, unreasonable, stubborn man I have ever MET!”
The Coming to Jesus Meeting appeared to have lost a few pounds.
Turning back to address no one visible, an air-stabbing finger aimed at the front door emphasized his cousin's obvious displeasure. “And I don’t care WHO hears me say that!”
Scott rolled his eyes. Obviously, confidence was high the intolerable, unreasonable, stubborn man couldn't hear the tirade - knowing it would be a raging bull charging out to find her.
“This situation is completely unacceptable!”
Agreed. Dressed in her painting clothes and sporting pigtails, Kinsey’s persona reflected one of a 10-year-old about to throw a classic temper tantrum to be recorded in the history books as epic. Unacceptable, indeed - calling for an immediate halt.
“Absolutely ridiculous! Expecting me to waste an entire day when Seth is coming next week! Asinine!” A kick to the wagon wheel served as an exclamation point.
Clambering up, the disgruntled passenger sat down hard on the buckboard’s seat and acknowledged her driver. “Why are you here?”
Why am I here? Take a guess. Assuming his best rendition of Winifred McLoughlin’s evil eye, Scott faced his little traveling companion from hell. “One.”
“Where’s Johnny?”
“Two.”
“What are you doing?”
“Counting to ten - which is exactly how long you have to climb down off this wagon and march yourself back inside where you will leave your disrespectful sarcasm and out-of-control temper by the door. You will then return here, an enlightened young lady - eager to spend an enjoyable day with her cousin - proudly showing him the good work at Sister Rosa’s mission. Three.”
Like a bluffing poker player, Kinsey’s eyes narrowed while calculating her odds. “Counting? You can’t be serious.”
An index finger pointed to the unchanged expression of a stern disciplinarian about to prove otherwise. “Four.”
“Mule!”
“Best leave that sass behind with the rest of your charm. Five.”
The slamming of a door signaled the young lady had re-entered the hacienda to ponder her grand entrance. A smile surfaced as Scott laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back...
“Six.”
… gazing at the bright blue sky. Well now. Congratulations to his father on the exemplary improvement achieved…
“Seven.”
...with the little filly’s attitude since taking the lead. Someone should tell him Kinsey's a bit tone deaf. Hearing footsteps on gravel, Scott’s role of authoritarian resumed with an erect posture and the warm greeting of -
“Eight.” His extended hand assisted a contrite companion in boarding the wagon.
“Good morning, sir.” Hands folded in her lap completed the picture of contentment.
His sideways glance met the brown eyes seated next to him. “Wait. Is that my white shirt you're wearing?”
“It never fit you well.”
She’s right. It never did. “Tell me, Kinsey Rose, what has the good Lord blessed us with today?”
“It appears the good Lord has blessed us with a beautiful day for traveling.”
“Agreed. We best get it started.” With a grin and a slight slap of the reins, Scott started the buckboard on its journey. Well, Murdoch Lancer may try and call the tune but, by God, it's his oldest son who can still effectively count to ten.