Prologue
June, 2016
“Ain’t any readier than I’ll ever be.”
Toby Dixon swilled the dregs in his coffee mug and swiped his Stetson from the desk, plopping it onto his head. His daddy would roll over in his grave if he knew what his youngest son was about to do. Harold Dixon had been a hard man. He never would have entertained the idea of changing the future of the Legacy—the family ranch—or the future of Dixon Cattle Company.
“Daddy isn’t going to be around forever. No one says you can’t make the Legacy into your own after we’re gone and give it anew legacy.” The memory of his mother’s encouraging words threaded through his mind and bolstered him now. “Someday, I have faith you’ll see this, too. Someday, I have faith you’ll listen to what’s in your heart and go for it.”
He tamped down thoughts of her voice. For the first time, he was going for it. He finally felt as if he had a compass and knew which way to travel. He marched down the hallway and hopped down the step into the great room, cutting across it to the kitchen to deposit his mug in the sink. His truck keys sat on the counter where he’d left them that morning after riding out to the back forty to check on Sam, his foreman, who’d been working diligently to repair and rewire the fencing. Next to the keys sat the folder. Within that folder was a stack of financials and a proposition.
He snagged them, giving the keys a little toss to jingle them and grinned a one-sided grin that tipped up the corner of his lips, when he heard the roar of a truck engine rumble around the circle drive and park. Probably someone for Ms. Shirley, his office manager who took care of every vital detail to keep this ranch running smooth like Arbuckles’ though a coffee filter. And with her out on leave for the first time that Toby could ever remember, he’d been caught off guard by each task that’d cropped up, tasks Shirley normally handled.
Tucking his folder under his arm, he strode to the foyer as the truck door outside thudded shut and feet started clopping closer, closer. He squinted through the foggy, decorative glass windows beside the door but couldn’t get a read on who was coming. He snatched his wallet from the side table, slipped it into his rear pocket, tucked his cell phone into his front pocket—he still couldn’t bring himself to wear one of those cell phone belt clips like his dad had worn in his final years, the ultimate mark of an old man—and fished his feet into his boots, straightening the cuffs over them, ensuring his button-up shirt was still tucked in and looking right, giving the belt buckle he’d won in the National High School Rodeo—a relic of bygone days, but something he was still proud of—a tug to ensure it was good and centered.
The feet outside thudded slowly up the front steps. By the look of the distorted shape through the glass carrying a parcel, it was a delivery guy. Fine. They could leave the package on the porch, and he’d slip out the back. He could pick whatever it was up when he got home—
The doorbell chimed.
On a sigh, Toby grabbed the latch and succumbed to the moment’s inconvenience. He probably had to sign for whatever it was. Sam had requested new sheet-metal pliers the day before, and their supplier had promised next-day delivery. No matter. He’d be on his way soon enough.
He swung open the door. “Hey, thanks, man. I’ll take it…”
Toby’s words trailed away. He dropped his outstretched arm, withdrawing back a step. His face, no doubt, drained of color. His heart started pounding like a stampede, and his head began shaking back and forth of its own volition. No, no…
“Now Toby, son, you know I can’t hold onto this forever,” Mr. Richardson, in his dark sport coat and turquoise bolo tie, said gently, a cream-colored Stetson perched evenly on his head. “It’s been a year. It oughta been claimed by now. I’ve bent the rules for you, you know, but I’ve got to see this released.”
Words fled Toby. Thoughts scattered like birds after a shotgun discharge, and the sun that perpetually blazed down on this scorched, punished desert earth faded to the margins as his eyes locked onto the turquoise stone embedded in silver cinching the leather strings at Mr. Richardson’s neck—he couldn’t look at what the man was holding, resting against his paunch.
“Not now, Dale,” Toby finally croaked, chewing the corner of his lip.
“Toby—”
“I ain’t ready.”
“I don’t have a choice, son,” Mr. Richardson replied.
Toby’s chest clenched. He barely remembered scrawling his signature on the release papers. Barely remembered barking at Mr. Richardson to set it in the foyer. Barely remembered slamming the door, tossing his truck keys and folder onto the side table, and snatching up the keys to his Bronco as the man drove away. He strode out the door and locked it, jogging down the steps as he ripped off his nicely pressed pearl snap to reveal the cutoff T-shirt he wore underneath.
He hopped up into the Beast and turned over the engine on a roar, stuffed the shirt behind his seat, tore out of Park, and gunned it down the driveway onto the stretch of gravel ranch road leading to the main gate as a plume of dust streaked like a jet stream in his wake, leaving the pearlescent urn behind him exactly where the funeral home director had put it.