He'd make an impressive figure with that hundred-pound bundle on his shoulder alone there in the morning light, when they pulled up. Not such an old man, now, huh?
Philip wasn't that old, but when you're nineteen and full of dumb ideas, a man closer to his forties than his thirties must seem pretty damn old to be doing this kind of work.
What other work is he really qualified for, though? That's what he thought. None at all. Just running the ranch. It's about the only thing that he knows how to do. Even the damn computer was still too new for anything he needed to do with it.
The truck pulls up and the boys pile out. Three brothers, and it spares gas having them all driving together. Long as he doesn't need them running more than two errands at once, in which case it's a big damn hassle, but there's no way around that.
The boys scurry up and scoop the pile off his shoulder. All that in spite of him having carried it fifty yards from the barn, the damn idiots.
"You three take your sweet time getting here, or what?" It's supposed to come off like a joke, but Philip is unhappy to hear the very real annoyance in his voice that's overtaken his twisted-up mood.
The eldest puts on an apologetic face that's as deep and convincing as a puddle. "We're sorry, boss, it's just… when you're so young, time doesn't have any meaning at all, you know?"
"Exactly. That's the problem with you young people. No clocks."
"You see? So, y'see, if we could just get a raise, we could all buy a clock—"
Philip manages to maintain a straight face for a minute before letting out a snort. "Yeah, sure. Raises for everyone. What's a clock these days?"
There's almost a hopeful look in their eyes. Philip rolls his eyes. "The Black's busted up the fence. After that, back to the other'n."
He gestures vaguely off in the distance. He doesn't need to be specific. Some federal bull-shit says they need a fence for their grazing area, even though the property for miles around is his as much as anyone's.
Fine. Fence. Whatever. The boys can get busy digging posts and he can come around with stretchers between 'em after. Gives him more time to deal with the horses anyhow.
"You got it," they say.
The fence is important work. It must be done, or they'll face a fine at least as expensive as the new truck he bought last year, when the old one finally breathed its last breath. You always end up regretting it when you try to fuss with the government regulations, right or wrong.
But it's not the most important work. It's just necessary and needs to get done sooner than later.
The important work is making sure that the horses are in good spirits, making sure that you don't run into any trouble with them.
There's a fine line to be walked there, and it's hard to say which needs to get done first, but it's not hard to say which is more responsible for making him money.
You have good horses, you keep them trained, you make sure they're healthy, you make sure they've got good food to eat… all those things mean you get paid more. Every time you feed the horses, you might as well think of it as carrying a bag of feed straight into your bank account.
A fence, on the other hand? Nobody's gonna pay him for a god damn fence, no matter how good a job the boys do. It's just a reality of the ranch whether he likes it or not.
Philip takes a deep breath. He should have gotten rid of that Black a year ago. If he'd been picked up by a solid racing team, he wouldn't be here to kick down the damn fence.
But Philip had gotten funny about it after Sara, and when the time came to sell… well, he just hadn't done it. And now that he's thinking about it, he can't just keep ignoring it. The horse isn't as young as he should be, and he's not trained worth a God damn.
But he's going to get sold before all that money and time getting him here in the first place goes down the drain.
Chapter Two
Morgan Lowe settles back into her seat. She shouldn't be reading email. She should be making another call, another one that will be ignored. Just like the last seven.
After all, she'd said that she was going to do it after Brad—it's hard not to sneer at even the thought of his name—had gotten that damn condescending attitude about it.
So she owned the place. So what? She didn't know the first thing about real-estate. She didn't know the first thing about building and running a factory.
Never mind, of course, that she'd been instrumental in every single one that the company had built before her father had passed on. Never mind that she'd been on every build site, spoken to every contractor.
Not even her father could have said that before he passed on. But her father had been the boss, and the boys respected her father. Why couldn't she just get them to see that she wasn't some—ugh.
And of course, not being able to even get in touch with the Callahan ranch…