For the second time in so many days, Scott found himself under the stars while smoking a cigar in the company of Seth Westcott. On the balcony of the Ebner Hotel, snatches of murmured conversations spoken by Sacramento’s evening pedestrians strolling below replaced distant lowing from Lancer cattle. Scott straddled a wooden chair with his arms resting on its back as he watched tobacco smoke curl and dip in the soft breeze. A mental note was made to purchase a box of cigars - replacements for the ones he’d borrowed from his father’s stash.
Seth rested a hand on the balcony’s rail and blew a smoke ring into the evening air. The ring briefly floated, expanded and then dissipated. “Each time I visit I’m impressed with Sacramento’s progress. Grandfather said those floods in ‘50 and ‘62 damn near wiped the town off the map. Proof that determination can overcome the odds. It can even give a stacked deck a run for its money.”
The total number of words in Westcott’s observation surpassed the sum of what he’d spoken since setting foot inside the hotel. Why? Perhaps travel fatigue enhanced by food and drink. However, Scott knew the why...correction...the who...for Seth’s limited communication.
********
“Mr. Scott Lancer.”
As if through the powers of telepathy, the voice from behind him recited the exact signature just written in the hotel register. Scott returned the pen to its silver inkwell and measuredly turned from the counter to address the announcement of his name.
A wide, toothy grin partially hidden by an impressive handlebar mustache greeted him. “Well, Scott, I must say I'm not surprised at all to find you standing in the middle of Sacramento.”
George West.
Scott surveyed the changes in the man since the visit to El Pinal - a complexion denied sunshine, the extra notch needed in a belt, an extended well-manicured hand. The diminutive differences signaled the gentleman spent less days in his vineyards and more time in closed-door meetings. “Sir.” Scott respectfully accepted the offered handshake.
“By God, Scott, we still need to work on prying loose those embedded Boston habits of yours. I answer to George. We’re all friends here.” West swept his arm out to include the bellboy corralling luggage. “I insist on you and the charming Miss Furlong joining me for dinner this evening.”
The dark-wolf expression on Seth’s face suggested he didn't receive West’s memorandum on the status of current friends as he acknowledged the El Pinal owner. “Miss Fulong had a previous engagement.”
“Ah, Seth, my boy,” - two well-manicured hands remained clasped behind West’s back - “A bearer of disappointing news. The young lady will be missed.” George’s eyes darted about the hotel lobby. “I have yet to spot your grandfather. Don’t tell me Phillip couldn't attend. Has he fallen ill again?” West’s concern lacked compassion.
“Grandfather is quite well. He wished to enjoy his accomplishments while standing in our vineyards - not a boardroom.”
“I’ve always admired Phillip’s ability to settle for the uncomplicated. Well, son, feel free to join Lancer and myself this evening, if you wish.” George winked. “I understand the wine here is superb.”
The corner of Scott’s mouth hinted upwards. Included in all of Seth’s documents, newspaper clippings, and statistics Scott had studied were the wine listings featured at the various Stockton, Sacramento and San Francisco hotels. The Ebner featured El Pinal’s. “With all due respect, sir, we must decline. Our dinner plans are set at the Arcade Hotel. I’ll admit - I’m feeling a little homesick. A thick steak from the Arcade courtesy of the Lancer ranch should cure it.” His brain reached into the leather portfolio to remind him of a read article. “And, according to a review recently published in The Daily Union, the wine served there is damn good.”
George’s gregarious facade faltered as his handlebar mustache wilted under the unaccustomed push back. “Well, then… until tomorrow. Nine o’clock sharp. Be prompt, gentlemen. Leland’s generosity to offer his home should be honored.” With a turn on his heels, West’s purposeful strides from the front desk caught the bellboy wrestling various bags to keep in step.
“What the hell?” Seth shook his head.
Scott had no response. He’d found the conversation’s dismissive finale all too familiar. Harlan Garrett had mastered it years ago.
********
“You do know why that mustachioed braggart spoke of our winery and encouraged you to invest?” Seth blew another smoke ring to replace his previous one.
“Well, if I had to guess, the man’s appetite would prefer I spend my money to assist with the Westcott renovations, expansions, and improvements before he makes his meal of your vineyards.”
Scott scrutinized the cigar’s glowing embers and was reminded of Kinsey’s fireflies in a mason jar at El Pinal. Momentary contentment. “Of course, a casual behind-a-back deal will be struck that I remain - renegotiate my holdings - keep investing - maybe get some Lancer land on the menu.” A puff was taken. “And then he’ll turn and gobble up my shares for dessert. Thing is he hasn’t considered the possibility I put more stock in a man’s integrity than his possessions.”
A vision of flying horse dung courtesy of a croquet mallet popped into Scott’s head. “But George’s real downfall will be his ignorance regarding the involvement and determination of Kinsey Rose Furlong. Therein lies his Waterloo.” A sideways glance was shot at his business partner. “How did I do?”
“That’s a damn good guess, in my opinion.” Seth motioned downward to K Street. “I wouldn’t be surprised to spy the little lady with her bag in hand.”
Scott gazed at the heavens above. I would.
********
“Your bed too lumpy?” Scott leaned against the post of the seldom used stall at the far end of the stable.
“Nope.” Johnny stood up from his reclined position and added more hay to the elongated pile.
“Your snoring finally got you kicked out of the house?”
A grin unfolded on Johnny’s face. “Nope.”
Three stalls over, Kinsey’s horse, Buck, snorted dismay.
“Well, let’s see…” Scott rubbed his chin. “Penance for your confession of sins to Father Andrew?” Even in brotherly jousting, he knew that one was a stretch.
“Leticia Lopez gave me her blessing.” The grin grew. “I'm absolved.” Satisfied with the depth of the makeshift mattress, a blanket was unrolled and a pillow tossed on top for good measure.
“So it's fool me once, shame on thee. Fool me twice, shame on me - your inspirational mantra while sleeping in a stall the entire time I'm in Sacramento.”
“Yep.”
Scott rolled his eyes. “Be reasonable. Kinsey is going nowhere. Murdoch -”
“Save your breath, big brother.” Johnny shut the stall gate and planted his hands firmly on the top rail. “The old man calls the tune and that little girl hums along like a Sunday mornin’ tone-deaf church goer. You, preacher, deliver one of your sermons and that same little girl hands out lip service better than a sinner in the back pew.”
Outside, Barranca whinnied an amen.
Scott pushed back his hat and glanced around the stable. “So where’s the bear trap you plan to catch her in?”
“Right here.” Johnny turned around, leaned against the gate and presented the palm of his hand. “This trap is gonna take ahold of her britches and haul her all the way back to the house where I’m takin’ a stick, pokin’ the old grizzly out of his cave and handin’ her over. I'm not doin’ another run to Stockton in the middle of the night, Scott.”
Removing the hat from his head, Scott brushed dust off from the brim while slowly nodding. “All right. Fair enough. Can’t say I blame you, brother.” The hat returned to its familiar position of low on the brow. “Just remember that little bear cub’s travel bag has a nasty right hook.”
********
“Think I’ll stroll over to the telegraph office and see if there’s a light on.” Seth flicked the last ashes from his extinguished cigar and set it aside. “Send a few words to our absent business partner.”
“I sent one earlier.” Scott stood up and stretched. “Although I highly doubt she’ll find your telegram redundant.”
Seth angled his hat to shade his awkward smile. “Let’s hope not.” Westcott’s attention turned in the direction of North Street. “Notice how old George couldn’t wait to drop Leland Stanford’s name into a conversation?”
“I did.”
“Think he has California’s ex-governor in his back pocket?”
“Not sure. Although the case of wine from the Arcade Hotel currently in route to Stanford’s residence should assist us in the answer tomorrow.” Scott’s cigar, held up, took on the role of a crystal goblet. “Compliments of the Westcott Vineyards.”
A devilish grin and wink completed the toast. Scott had mastered them both years ago.