San Joaquin Valley
Lancer Ranch
Emerson once said, “Make your own Bible. Select and collect all the words and sentences that in all your readings have been to you like the blast of a trumpet.”
This journal has indeed become my bible. I’m certain Winnie would deem that statement blasphemy but I believe the good Lord understands my point of view.
I can’t say the words and sentences I’ve gathered and written are like a blast of a trumpet.
The pencil pondered. Well, maybe a few.
Many of the pages hold my spontaneous thoughts resulting from disjointed conversations which tie together the unplanned occurrences that make up most of my days. My writings are like melodies. Some possess complicated passages with stanzas building upon stanzas while others are old familiar tunes sporting new verses. Then there are life’s unexpected banging drums and blasting trumpets.
Seth Westcott arrived early this morning and, yes, I swore I heard a distant bugle sound reveille.
Scott smiled. During his customary sunrise coffee while watching the purple sky turn salmon, he’d spotted Kinsey sitting on the fence near the gate waiting for a glimpse of road dust from a buckboard.
Seth’s visit will be brief, only a day or two. In this period of time we need to discuss expansion plans regarding the vineyard and distribution eastward.
Scott flexed his writing hand. Eastward meant Boston. Boston meant Grandfather. Grandfather meant writing a long overdue letter.
Mixed laughter of high and low tones filtered through the bedroom window. Glancing in the direction of the pleasant distraction, he spotted Seth and Kinsey on their way to the stables.
Most importantly, Seth has come to Lancer to seek, like the rest of us, Murdoch’s approval. May words and sentences gathered today play a good tune.
~ S.
“He calls her a wild pup.” Seth mimicked his grandfather’s gravel-laden voice. “Best get that wild pup of yours up here for a stay. I need to get to know this little gal.”
Scott grinned at his friend’s accurate rendition of Phillip Westcott. He’d had the pleasure of meeting the man in Boston as a surprise dinner guest courtesy of Harlan Garrett. The vineyard proprietor was a likable gentleman - honest, decent, hard-working. “A wild pup.” Scott’s nod added keen insight to the elder Westcott’s list of attributes.
“It’s a compliment. Trust me.” Seth rested his arms on the fence’s top rail. “It’s the term he used frequently to describe my grandmother. The woman could be a handful.”
Scott joined their business partner in a relaxed stance as Kinsey rode Buck around the large corral. Wearing equestrian attire, she would easily blend in at Boston’s North Shore riding stables but happily chose a San Joaquin Valley ranch instead. His mentoring had fine-tuned the little cousin’s horsemanship while an occasional finger-wagging curbed her free-spirited behavior. Luckily, the young lady possessed a long line of guardian angels and had avoided the services of Samuel Jenkins. It was the only explanation for her lack of broken bones Scott could think of which made sense. “I gather you’ve relayed a few of Kinsey’s finer moments to your grandfather.”
“Let’s say the man looks forward to smoking a cigar with her.”
“Buck’s bored riding around in circles.” The matter-of-fact statement came trotting across the corral to where the men stood.
Holding out his hand, Scott waited for the horse to nuzzle in and accept a few patted strokes. “Bored? Let me guess. He’d prefer to race across an open field like a bat out of hell.” An eyebrow raised, “What do you say, Buck? Maybe jump a few fallen logs along the way?” Scott listened intently to the horse’s reply. “Is that a fact?” Arms crossed. “Well… he says the idea suits him just fine. The last time he pulled that stunt, he got to retire his saddle, relax and eat sweet clover for two weeks.” Squinted eyes addressed the horse's companion. “If memory serves me correctly, Freckles, you didn’t fare as well. Although, Buck did appreciate coming back home at the end of each day to a pristine stall.”
The subtle, amusing reprimand in front of Seth splashed flushed embarrassment on Kinsey’s cheeks while creasing a smirk to her lips. “Perhaps a quiet jaunt in the cool of the evening would be better.”
“Perhaps.” Scott’s thumb jabbed toward the stable. “Why don’t you give Buck a chance to think it over. In the meantime, join us inside. Seth has figures and drafts on the renovations.”
Watching Kinsey head off toward the barn, Westcott grinned. “I think you need to teach me how to talk to that horse.”
“Consider it done.” Scott gifted a slap to his friend’s shoulder. ”Tell me, have you been schooled in the fine art of counting to ten?”
*******
“Extraordinary.” Kinsey held the draftsman's rendering of Westcott Vineyard’s newly purchased steam-powered press. “It’s a work of art! We will have it framed.”
Unrolling the renovation drawings for the winery expansion, Seth posed a concern. “Will there be room to hang it next to Rembrandt?”
Scott tossed a tapestry runner over the arm of the settee. The table’s candelabra had previously dropped anchor next to Murdoch’s ship. “There shouldn’t be a problem once DaVinci moves to the outhouse.”
Male snickers were cut short by a female‘s tsk. “I’ve come to the conclusion that a man’s sense of humor never matures past the age of a ten-year-old boy.”
“Humor is just another defense against the universe.” Pilfering a few books from the shelf to serve as paperweights, Scott held up a favorite. “So says Emerson.”
With a smile, Seth extended his hand. “Ask the man if he could hold down this corner for a few minutes?”
Spread out building plans and scattered documents transformed the hacienda’s dining table into the business partners’ temporary boardroom.
“This will be removed” - Seth’s finger tapped a thick-drawn line representing an inner wall - “to increase floor space for the new wine press. It should fit nicely next to the manual basket press.”
Scott’s gaze lingered on the architect’s representation of the manual press. Discussions had been lengthy on whether to remove it for a second steam-powered press - a machine which greatly increased the efficiency of the process. However, it also reduced the amount of labor needed for operation.
Phillip Westcott was adamant on the issue of dismissing any Westcott help. They were family, thus would not be cast aside for personal gain. Scott understood about family. Maria and Ciparano worried over the Lancer children as if they were their own. The manual basket press stayed, anticipating the next harvest.
“Three El Pinal hands showed up at our doorstep last week looking for work.” Seth sighed. “You know what that means, don’t you?”
“Well, sir…” Scott rubbed the back of his neck. “I’d say it indicates George West had his steam-powered press delivered ahead of schedule courtesy of Leland Stanford’s railroad.”
Kinsey set aside the work of art. “What did your grandfather say to the three men?”
“The only thing he could say, Kinsey Rose.” A grin foretold the answer. “You’re hired.”
********
“By God, man.” Seth popped the last of the roast beef into his mouth. “Your ability to stack a fine sandwich rivals the Arcade’s.”
High noon found the dining table reverted back to its original duty. Among documents and drawings, the three business partners opted for a working man’s lunch, reminiscent of their stay in Sacramento.
“It’s a gift.” Scott set his empty plate aside and dusted off a few stray breadcrumbs from the papers in front of him. “I hate to brag.”
“What was the name of that talented and attractive chef at the Arcade? You know, the one who awarded you the blue ribbon for culinary bravery.”
“Emawleeeee” Kinsey’s teasing tone filtered through a mouthful of roast beef. “Scut’s ban writing ta har.”
An eyebrow raised as Scott’s index finger pointed at the informer. “A proper young lady finishes her sandwich before she sticks her freckled nose into other people’s business.”
“She is absolutely perfect for my cousin. Don’t you think, Seth?” An exasperated shake of the head spoke of great effort given to the cause. “I’ve been trying to convince him of a return trip to Sacramento in the near future, but he won’t listen.”
“Hmmmmm.” Westcott’s brow bunched in concentration. “Maybe he’d listen to Miss Providence. She could guide him through the Labyrinth of Love. At least that’s what the newspaper in my room claims.”
Miss Providence’s saucer-eyed stare blinked once. “Newspaper?”
“The one on my dresser… next to the bottle of tequila and two shot glasses.”
Scott’s abrupt laugh coincided with his little cousin’s clenched-jaw announcement of the culprit.
“Johnny.”