Two letters. Two markedly different letters. Two equally dissimilar authors. Scott studied the letters side by side on the desk in front of him. His eyes shifted to one for a moment and then rested on the other. One writer so unlike the second, yet, they had a common ground.
“Me. I’m the common ground.” With pursed lips, he thoughtfully added, ‘And Kinsey.’
Both correspondences arrived this morning. He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. When dealing with Fletcher Garrett’s will and the onslaught of lawyers, inquiries couldn't sit in a dusty mail slot for a week or two. The solution - Scott struck a deal with the Green River post office errand boy, Ben. For a substantial tip, the young lad traveled the distance from town to hand deliver Scott’s letters. This solved the problem of legal questions requiring timely responses.
‘And unwanted family opinions.’
Scott renewed his agreement with the boy upon assuming responsibility regarding Kinsey's business investments. Receiving today’s letters confirmed his decision to continue his private postal service was a wise one. ‘Money well spent.’
Having no knowledge of the content of either letter, Scott chose to start with the one on the left. Leaning forward with a deep sigh, he picked up the paper and began to read.
Grandson,
I pray my letter finds you in fine health and good spirits. As with all your correspondences, your last post was a pleasure to read.
Scott raised an eyebrow. ‘A pleasure? With all due respect sir, I find that highly unlikely.’ It took minimal effort to visualize his grandfather’s pleased expression transforming into one of disdain as he read his grandson’s letter.
Autumn abandoned Boston early this year allowing winter’s invigorating chill to keep me company during my afternoon walks to the Union Club. It shouldn't be long until the beauty of the first snowfall blankets our city.
When did this change in Boston winters take place? Invigorating chill? The beauty of a snowfall? More like cold, damp air and gray, coal-dusted slush. Squinting at the handwriting Scott couldn't decide if he had become a grouchy cynic or his grandfather was a late-blooming poet.
Scotty, please reconsider spending the holidays this year in Boston. Bring Kinsey.
Scott rolled his eyes and spoke to an empty room. “No.”
It would be Kinsey’s first Christmas at the ranch. He wanted her to experience a family celebration. A Boston holiday would consist of nightly galas attended by indifferent strangers - so much like her holidays in Melbourne. No. This year would be different.
Quickly scanning the next few sentences only provided him with more of the same. Please visit… I'm your grandfather… Don’t be selfish…
Finally, the last paragraph addressed Scott’s questions in his previous letter to Boston.
Yes, I am acquainted with Mr. Patrick Culhane. He’s in my employment to keep me abreast with certain details. Details my grandson may innocently fail to mention in his correspondences regarding my niece’s financial future. I hope the champagne brought a smile to Kinsey's face.
“A Pinkerton man, no doubt.” Scott stared out the window. ‘I have a grandfather who won’t let go and a father who won’t hold on.’
Don’t be angry with an old man who cares about the only family he has left. Come to Boston for Christmas so we can talk over a good brandy in front of a warm fire. For auld lang syne, we'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, for auld lang syne.
Fondly, Grandfather
Scott examined how meticulously Harlan had folded his letter. Tracing one of the creases with his finger he then followed suit and placed the correspondence back in its envelope. ‘After the holidays Grandfather. The brandy will be good, the fire will be warm and I will have better footing on what we can talk about.’
Scott’s attention then turned to the letter remaining on his desk. A letter he hoped would put him in a positive frame of mind.
Mr. Lancer,
I was pleased to receive your recent correspondence outlining your thoughts regarding the winery and vineyards. I agree our meeting should take place after the upcoming holiday. I appreciate your invitation to your ranch but I feel it’s best we meet with a fine bottle of wine here at Westcott.
Scott nodded. ‘He’s more comfortable on his own high ground. Understood.’
My mind is open to your suggestion of a partnership. I will say no more. This is a discussion requiring a face to face conversation.
The Sacramento banks gave their final rejection to financing, no doubt. Fine. Their reluctance to take a chance is my gain. It was the first good news Scott had received since building a relationship with the older Westcott. A new challenge. A new adventure. The dimples returned to Scott’s face as he continued reading.
My grandson, Seth, has been sharing details from Miss Furlong’s frequent correspondences.
“Wait.” Scott sat up straighter and reread Westcott’s last statement. “Frequent?”
She paints a glowing picture of the land called Lancer. I believe this is one passion we all share - our love for the land and our legacy. Please give my regards to Miss Furlong. I look forward to meeting you both in the near future.
Kindest regards,
Philip Westcott
“Frequent.” Puzzled, he stared out the window. When in Stockton a few weeks ago, Scott made it clear the “Stick Like Glue” rule was back on the table for the time being. To the best of his knowledge, his wishes were being honored and she hadn't set foot off the ranch. “She’s had frequent correspondences with Seth Westcott?” How in the hell did she mail -
A slow nod and gradual smile accented his dimples. “Benjamin.” A crafty nineteen-year-old hired the services of a fourteen-year-old entrepreneur. ‘I believe my private postal service has been double dipping.’ He returned Westcott’s letter to its envelope and put both posts in his pocket.
Scott located his cousin sipping lemonade at the veranda’s table which displayed scattered papers. ‘Perfect setting to pen a letter, perhaps?’ Rubbing his hands together, his smile grew. ‘Time to do a little teasing.’
“Lemonade! I’m parched.” He watched his cousin jump slightly but not make eye contact. She instead casually corralled the papers to bring them together in a neat guarded pile in front of her.
Sitting down he reached for an empty glass. “You don’t mind if I join you?” Without waiting for an answer, he poured the lemonade.
Kinsey cleared her throat. “No. Of course not.”
“Can I pour you another glass?”
“No. Thank you.”
“Am I interrupting?”
Scott observed his cousin reach for a loose curl to twirl around her finger - her poker tell for bluffing. “Not at all.”
Scott took a sip of his lemonade. “Beautiful day.”
“Yes. It is.”
“So…” Scott peered over the top of his glass as he took another sip. “May I ask what you’re doing?”
Kinsey folded her hands to place on top of her papers. “Well…I was sitting here quietly to gather my thoughts.”
Scott raised his eyebrows as he pointed to the pen and ink. “You’re writing your memoirs!”
“No.”
“The next great novel?”
“No. Don't you have something to do? Brand a cow? Mend a fence?”
“Well..” Taking another sip. “I guess I could stack a bale of hay.”
“Yes! Lovely. You’re very good that. Please, stack a bale of hay.”
Scott grinned. “And you’re very good at keeping secrets.” Removing Philip Westcott’s letter from his pocket, he unfolded it. “My grandson, Seth, has been sharing details from Miss Furlong’s frequent correspondences. Frequent?” Holding the letter inches from her nose, the inquiry proceeded. “Care to comment?”
Kinsey clicked her tongue and let out a huff. “Honestly, Scott.”
There was a day he found this familiar reaction of hers annoying. Now, it was downright humorous. ‘I'm on the right track.’ Scott examined the letter. “Frequent. As in many - numerous - several -”
“All right! Yes. Seth and I have exchanged occasional correspondences.”
“Seth? We’re no longer using the proper surnames?”
“Oh to damn with that book of etiquette! What a silly rule. Yes, Seth. Our friendship is growing and I would like to see it continue. I know it’s not the proper way and I should have told you and I planned to but I didn’t so go ahead and chastise me...you’re smirking.”
“I am. And I approve.”
“You approve?”
Seeing his cousin’s jaw drop, Scott placed his hand under her chin to assist it back to its proper position. “You’re going to catch flies.”
“I have your approval?”
“You do. I like Seth Westcott. I think the gentleman possesses many fine qualities. Considering there’s a good chance we may all be business partners, well…”
Scott reached out and squeezed his cousin’s hand. “I approve.” Taking another sip of lemonade, he couldn't resist teasing a bit more. “However, I'm concerned with how your letters are frequently reaching the post office considering our agreement regarding sticking like glue-”
“You need not to be concerned. Benjamin-”
“Yes. Benjamin.”
Kinsey’s eyes widened. “You knew. Who told you.”
“Well…” Scott took another sip of his drink. “Kinsey Rose did. Just now.”
“Scott Lancer is a scoundrel.”
“So I've heard.” He offered his devilish grin to confirm the rumor.
“I’ve done no harm in also hiring the services of this fine young man. For a minimal fee, he’s been quite trustworthy and punctual. I'm very satisfied with his work ethic.”
“Minimal fee? How much are you paying Ben?”
“One silver dollar for his time taken to deliver and retrieve my correspondences.”
Scott’s boisterous laughter brought a scowl to his cousin’s face. “A silver dollar? Freckles, you’ve been bamboozled by a fourteen-year-old shyster. I’m paying the lad half that amount.”
“Perhaps.” Kinsey’s frown dissolved to a smug, satisfied demeanor as she rose and gathered her papers. Leaning down she whispered in Scott’s ear. “However, I know these last few weeks you’ve received two letters from Philip Westcott, one from your grandfather - no doubt, in your pocket at this very moment - and I believe - correct me if I’m wrong - another correspondence from the young lady in New Zealand. One silver dollar.” Kinsey kissed her cousin on the cheek. “Money well invested, if you ask me.”
Scott watched her walk away before finishing his lemonade. “Little girl, you are going to make a fine businesswoman, indeed.”
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