Employing his father’s earlier approach of repeating a word for it to make more
sense -
“Seth.”
- Scott experienced the same fleeting clarity.
“Seth Westcott.”
The addition of the last name proved equally unsuccessful.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt your game.” Thumbing over his shoulder, the potential business partner described his welcoming committee. “Nervous little fella told me I could find you out here. I think I startled him.”
“That would be Jelly. He spends most of his waking hours startled.”
The congenial smile resting on Seth’s face was a comfortable mix between amusement and embarrassment. “I’m guessing my last letter explaining the change in travel plans never reached Miss Furlong.”
That’s a damn good guess, Seth. Scott nodded. “I think it’s a safe bet your letter is collecting dust at the Green River mail office.”
A falling out had taken place between Kinsey and her private Pony Express, 14-year-old Benjamin. The young lad experienced a woman’s scorn early in life when handing over one of Miss Furlong’s letters to Scott branded the boy a traitor. The generous tip of two silver dollars for his expedited delivery dwindled to zero after the confrontation. The prompt dispatch of Kinsey’s mail gradually reflected his payment. You get what you pay for - a hard lesson in finances was soon to be taught to one little lady.
“Bloody hell!” Kinsey’s refrain of disapproval echoed across the pasture.
“Hey, if this a bad time…” Seth’s sentence drifted with his gaze toward the Lancer promenade.
Bad time? Scott squinted at the current skirmish on the field of play. Well, Seth, I’m standing here covered in a day’s sweat and dirt, my father is composing a tune with the sole purpose of bringing tears to a couple little lasses and pandemonium is about to ensue regarding -
“...is that a pile of horseshit they’re arguing over?” Their unexpected house guest sounded intrigued.
“Well…truth be told…it’s Kinsey’s croquet ball in the middle of the horseshit they’re arguing over.” Grinning, Scott extended his hand. “Welcome to Lancer, Seth. Not a bad time at all.”
“Scott! Do something!” Teresa’s frustration had followed her off the large, well-maintained grassy area to present itself in a high-pitched tone of total exasperation. “They won’t listen to me!”
It took a considerable effort to maintain his quizzical look of cluelessness, but Scott felt it was well worth it. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong? Look at them.” Teresa’s hands went to her hips. “They’re fighting over a pile of horse droppings like two children”
“I’ve got to admit -” Scott hoped his thoughtful expression appeared genuine. “As a child, I was never permitted to play with horse droppings so my experience is limited on how to handle this. How about you, Seth?”
“I had a few scraps growing up. Can’t say I ever threw a punch over horse droppings.”
Scott swore he heard Teresa’s eyes creak like a rusty hinge on a weather-worn gate as they slowly shifted to acknowledge the stranger-called-Seth who had shared a glimpse of his childhood. “Seth?”
Don’t bother with the last name, Teresa. I speak from experience. It doesn’t help.
“Seth Westcott?” As predicted, an improvement in Teresa's bewilderment was minimal.
The deeply embedded Boston social graces demanded proper introductions on the promenade. “Allow me the honor to present the charming Miss Teresa O’Brien. Teresa, standing before you is indeed, Mr. Seth Westcott.”
“Miss O’Brien.” With a nod, Seth tipped his hat while gifting a smile that gently guided Teresa in regaining her composure. “Miss Furlong has written on several occasions of her fondness for you and your friendship.”
“Mr. Westcott. I feel as if I already know you. Why Kinsey can’t say enough -”
“Bullocks!” An Australian accent grew stronger as it wafted across the freshly cut grass.
“Right.” Scott cleared his throat. “Teresa, why don’t you clue Murdoch our guest has arrived.”
“Oh, yes! And I’ll let Maria know… to set an extra plate… and a chair… one certainly needs a chair.” Kinsey’s colorful outburst restored her friend’s agitated befuddlement. “So nice to meet you, Mr. Westcott.” Teresa’s outstretched hand intended to welcome their guest surrendered her croquet mallet instead.
“Thank you. Probably a bit rusty.” Seth accepted the unintentional gift. “It’s been a while since I’ve played.”
“Exceptions? Exceptions? Well, let’s get out that rule book, half-pint, and show me where horse dung is listed!” Johnny’s tone, even at a distance, left little guesswork on the status of game decorum.
Opting for a hasty retreat from the battlefield, the charmingly flustered Miss O’Brien gathered up the skirts of her Sunday best to duck between the fence rails with all the grace of a knock kneed June bug. Scott grinned. Teresa didn't get ruffled often, but when she did...well...she was downright charming.
“Guess I owe you an explanation for my early arrival.” Seth leaned on a fence post - offering a nonchalant stance to the final remnants of a doomed croquet match.
Following his guest’s lead, Scott assumed a similar position but with a more intent gaze on his brother and cousin. His brain pointed out an immediate need to break up the escalating controversy. His feet, however, were in no hurry.
“There’s been ongoing talk among the winegrowers. Some of the smaller vineyards can’t compete and get swallowed up by the more aggressive viticulturists.” Seth’s sideways glance spoke of the distaste for his competitor. “El Pinal vineyard being at the top of the list.”
It came as no surprise to Scott when the El Pinal vineyard entered their conversation. The hospitality George West had shown the cousins during their stay was beyond compare. It wasn’t until their departure West hinted at the vehement businessman harboring just below the surface.
Young man, life is a kind of chess, with struggle, competition, good and ill events. I hope someday if we become competitors for more than just a pretty view, we find a way to remain friends.
It was the look on West’s face Scott remembered vividly while the man’s words came tumbling back. It was an expression Harlan Garrett donned often.
“Setting up a meeting in Sacramento for the region’s winegrowers finally took hold. Three days to discuss these progressive mergers...gentlemen’s agreement. Of course, it’s helpful to have true gentlemen seated at the table to agree with.” Seth examined the croquet mallet in his hand. “Then at the last minute, the dates were moved up a week. Don’t need to tell you who pulled the strings.”
Scott adjusted his hat to shade his eyes. “George West - hoping the small fry didn’t get the word or couldn’t afford to change their schedules.”
“I hear it worked with a few but not Westcott Winery. A few sharks are circling but Grandfather and I are prepared to take a stand and hold our ground.” Seth’s serious determination morphed into a laugh as he pointed toward the croquet lawn with Teresa’s mallet. “My God, look at her.”
Kinsey displayed a posture of defiance Scott had witnessed frequently - feet planted, chin jutting, a cannonball fist at her side. She was going nose-to-nose with Johnny Lancer. “Garrett Guts. Trust me, Seth. It’s a force to be reckoned with.”
“I need to have that gal’s guts seated at the negotiating table in Sacramento.” Seth swung his mallet up to rest on his shoulder. “Those pompous blowhards would never see it coming.”
“Most rarely do.” Scott’s admiration for their ancestors’ attributes vanished as he spied his cousin cock her mallet high and back behind the shoulder to provide a fine example of the never-see-it-coming. “Kinsey! NO. Don't you -”
Unleashing a mallet swing with such velocity, the connection with her croquet ball gave it the appearance of being shot out of a cannon. But it was horseshit that took center stage. Due to guilt by association with the ball, dung bestowed an impressive impact as it splattered on the two players - Johnny’s fine embroidered shirt suffering a direct hit.
Audience reaction to Kinsey’s tenacious game strategy varied. Seth pushed back his hat and expressed his surprise with a soft whistle. In contrast, a heavy sigh led to Scott’s hat dipping downward as his chin rested on the chest.
And then there was Johnny. “Mother blessed sonofawhore oh hell and Mary help me Holy Ghost.” A black striped mallet rocketed into the weeds. “Goddamn eyeless pig lovin’ naked bandit piss mongrel pus belching bastard…”
His little brother’s unique style of cussing, saved only for special occasions, flourished as it carried him across the pasture to stand in front of Scott. “That does it!” Johnny’s exaggerated hand gestures cut paths through the air. “I’m goin’ for a clean shirt -” Glancing down suggested a longer list was needed. “Pants and boots. And then I’m gettin’ ahold of that spoiled little brat and tossin’ her over my knee! And there’s not one goddamn word comin’ out of your mouth, Scott, that will change my mind!”
“Johnny, I’d like you to meet Seth Westcott.”
The younger brother’s first reaction was not to have one - he simply stared. A twitch at the corners of his mouth signaled slight indigestion as he chewed on the big brother’s spoken words. Ignoring the introduction, Johnny pivoted around to find Kinsey searching for the thrown mallet - ignorant of Westcott’s presence. The sight produced what Scott called his brother’s laughing grunt. “Well now, where are my manners?”
Squaring off in front of Seth Westcott, Johnny slowly wiped his right hand down the front of his shirt to pick up a bit more residue before offering it. “Welcome.” His wily smile grew with the smell of manure.
Without hesitation, Seth delivered a hearty handshake. “Good to meet you, John. Kinsey - I mean, Miss Furlong - has told me a lot about you.”
“Is that a fact?” Johnny’s attention returned to the promenade. “The little lady rarely mentions you.”
“I see.” Seth emphasized the height difference between the two men by casting his eyes downward. “Sounds like I have the advantage of knowledge.”
“That advantage won’t last long.”
“I look forward to our conversations so you can catch up.”
Johnny’s smile held steady as his eyes locked on Westcott. “I’ll have a bottle of tequila handy for our talk...unless you prefer those crushed grapes of yours.” Sniffing the air, he pulled at the front of his shirt. “I believe I O-fend. Best get cleaned up.”
Scott relayed his current thoughts to Johnny with one look. Yes, little brother, you and I will have a discussion. Leave the tequila behind. Silent, his eyes remained on Johnny until the back of the pink shirt disappeared around the corner of the barn. “My brother’s hospitality beds with rudeness occasionally. I apologize.”
Seth grinned while wiping off a few smears of horse dung from his right hand with spit and a bandana. “Nothing wrong with your brother’s hospitality. It’s good practice before I sit down with the boys in Sacramento. Fact is, I was no better and for that the apology is mine.” Judging his hand presentable, the kerchief was folded and stuck in the man’s back pocket while making an observation. “Now, the little lady heading our way...” Seth gestured with a nod of his head. “I might need a bit more preparation for this confrontation.”
Scott crossed his arms and joined in observing the spectacle marching across the pasture. A casualty of war, Kinsey’s lawn party bonnet was missing which allowed her hair the freedom to follow its own path of tangled mayhem. Thankfully, a croquet mallet was not in her hand - evidence the Good Lord and Winnie were still keeping watch. Smears of dirt, at least Scott hoped it was dirt, on her face joined a new crop of late summer freckles. All the details of her refined outward appearance came into focus as her demeanor of a tea party tantrum diminished with recognition of the gentleman standing next to her cousin.
Scott noted the location of the sun. “Sir, there’s not enough time left in the day to prepare for this.”