But it’s clear Mack wants to tell me more about himself. And maybe just clear up the myth that he’s just some lowly ranch hand around these parts before we get down to what I know we’d both rather be doing right now.
The house itself is solid stone with huge wooden beams holding up the more modern-looking pitched roof.
The floors are polished boards, wider than any modern house would have. And the flat, dull heads of blackened antiquated nails used the day they were laid still show through the thick gloss of modern varnish.
Much like the homestead we just came from, the cabin has walls lined with old photos, some so faded it’s hard to make them out in the dappled sunlight streaming in through the large rectangular windows that make up the entire front of the place.
Mack’s huge hand over mine, he leads me to the giant stone fireplace in the main living area, neatly furnished with heavy leather chairs and thick, woven rugs.
Modern fittings blend in with the old, and if I didn’t know any better, it feels as though we might really just have stepped back in time.
“This is Foxx Macintyre,” Mack announces, and I strain my eyes to make out the rugged features of a well-built man dressed in a style that matches the age of the house we’re in.
He pauses for effect but is quick to explain the origins of the ranch, and how it got its name.
“Old Foxx was a rancher, buying the original plot and building this homestead,” Mack begins.
“But Foxx was also a prospector, only being able to buy the ranch with the money he’d made in the California gold fields,” he says, pausing again, lifting his brows as he studies my reaction.
Which I hate to say, is a look of me kind of losing interest.
I’d rather Mack showed me the bedroom, to be honest. This feeling in me he’s unleashed. The country air, whatever it is.
I need Mack now, not some ancient history lesson.
But I can see how much it means to Mack, so I smile and nod with slightly feigned interest.
Mack hums knowingly before continuing.
“So, when Foxx was looking for property, he was looking for a place with running water as well as all the tell-tale signs that there might be gold about.
Okay, gold. Now that’s a little more interesting.
“Did he find gold?” I ask, suddenly curious.
Feeling the full effect of Mack’s dramatic pauses in the story, I sense he hasn’t told anyone.
Not the whole story anyhow.
“Silver,” Mack says abruptly, sounding disappointed, but he curls his lip into a sly grin, telling me that old Foxx Macintyre found more than just a nickel’s worth of the stuff.
“So, he found a silver mine?” I squeak, hoping that’s true. And it is.
“Oh yeah, he did. But the problem was, half of the claim he’d have to make was on land he didn’t own…yet. So old Foxx kept his discovery to himself. Biding his time until he could buy up the neighboring land without drawing too much attention to himself,” Mack reasons. “Only naming the place once he’d staked his claim and knew exactly what he was going to get out of it,” he adds, stopping to give me another intense look.
The shiver that runs up my spine when he emphasizes the words ‘staked his claim’ sends my mind and body straight back to the stables.
The fresh memory of Mack’s face between my thighs making my heart race and my head spin.
“And even though he was an old man by the time he made it happen, he mined more silver from the place in a day than he ever got in total from the gold fields,” Mack exclaims triumphantly. “Meaning, he became a very wealthy man,” he adds for my benefit.
I guess I’m like most people, and figured silver was never really worth much. Especially in olden times.
“So, what happened to him?” I hear myself asking. “Is there still a silver mine here?”
Mack looks around and lowers his voice as if he’s about to reveal his biggest secret.
“Some say that old Foxx was wily enough never to let anyone know what else he found in those hills, but the official story is the seam ran dry not long before he passed. The fortune he’d made was passed on to his only daughter,” Mack shrugs, making me think that’s the end of the story.
But the glint in his eye tells me it’s really just the start of it.
He shifts us both over to another withered photograph, a sour-faced woman in pants and boots manning a sluice, ankles deep on a muddy hillside.
“Millie Macintyre,” he says, as if he’s really introducing her in person. And I feel my mouth drift open as I look up at him.
Wondering if maybe Mack’s been stuck out in the woods for too long. Or maybe he just really likes the history of the ranch.