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Hell, I’d been very successful shutting down all my feelings over the years, proving the point the powerful, strict man had made. That my father was a bad influence. They weren’t words that my grandfather had said. That wasn’t the kind of man he was. However, in every action he took, trying to undo what I’d been taught, I’d known his thoughts.
And I’d forgotten everything. Or I’d simply chosen to become a carbon copy of my father. Was it normal while grieving to lament over the possibilities of another path that could have been chosen? I was certain it was. The only problem was that I also hadn’t been taught how to grieve or even that sadness was allowed. My father would tell me right at this moment to buck up.
Huffing, I shook my head and grabbed the keys as well as the envelope of information on the ranch provided by Hank. As I climbed out, I quickly glanced at the stars already shining brightly in the twilight sky. They were brighter at this time of the evening than they ever were in Miami. Not that I would have taken a second to glance at the sky. Even during storms, I didn’t pay much attention.
I was always headed to an important destination, always dead intent on crushing an enemy. At least I could say I was damn good at something. A smirk remained on my face as I grabbed my bags, heading to the front porch. After removing the set of keys from the envelope, it took me some time to find the right one. As soon as I opened the door, I laughed softly to myself. All through grumbling about how many keys there were, I’d made plans to change the locks to keypads.
That just wouldn’t do for a ranch.
I flicked on the light and for a few seconds, it was as if I’d never left. It was one of the spaces that he’d kept much the same. The main room was vaulted, the three-story cathedral ceiling a focal point of the entire house. I’d loved sitting by the stone fireplace, the thick bluestone going all the way to the wooden beams. On the opposite wall was a bank of almost floor-to-ceiling windows culminating in a sharp peak. I remembered making fun of my grandfather about who he had to hire to clean the windows and how much he had to pay them.
That had become my first chore, one I’d never forget.
I’d hated him for it, holing up in my room for almost a week when I wasn’t being tortured with whatever orders he’d barked out like a drill sergeant. I’d never told him I’d been terrified because of my extreme fear of heights. The reason for that? The time when my father had lifted me over the edge of a protective fence of a skyscraper when visiting New York City. I’d been petrified, even peeing in my pants and my father had spanked me right there in front of tourists.
I’d never mentioned my fear again. Not to anyone. But somehow, my grandfather had known, tenderly guiding me into trusting not only my own instincts but the horse deemed mine and my surroundings. I’d even managed to go hiking on a mountain, enjoying every moment.
Where had those days gone?
Tough love wasn’t necessarily bad, but for a kid who had an even harsher father, I’d truly hated my grandfather in the beginning. Then I’d learned and had never wanted to leave. I’d even expressed that to my father when returning. That had resulted in his manly discipline, the four hard punches coming close to breaking my nose. They had bruised my ribs.
I lowered the bags to the floor, trying not to feel so melancholy. That wouldn’t be something my grandfather wanted. I remembered enough about the man that he’d been determined to provide me with an opportunity. But as he’d told me almost from day one, life was what I made it, that every decision made had consequences, whether good or bad.
After closing the door and hanging up my coat, I remained standing just shy of heading into the main part of the living room. The bookshelves were exactly as I remembered, although they’d been refinished just like the hardwood floor. Everything appeared pristine, which somehow surprised me.
And I wasn’t certain why.
For all my grandfather’s gruffness, something my father had called rough around the edges, the man had been meticulous with everything. Books lined the bookshelves, alongside a few of the man’s favorite pieces of sculpture and art from his days of traveling in the military. I finally found myself venturing forward, eager to spend time in both my grandfather’s and my favorite space.
As I stood in the center of the room, I noticed the only thing that seemed out of place was the rather tattered rug, also a piece he’d brought back from an exotic location somewhere in the South Seas. He’d refused to replace it, calling it timeless. It had certainly seen better days, but then again, so had I.
I moved toward the thick bluestone mantel, not surprised it was lined with picture frames, photographs of his favorite locations and times in his life. And of the only woman he’d loved, my grandmother. She’d died too soon, the victim of a horrific car accident. It was something he’d never gotten over nor had he ever become involved with anyone else. I’d never known her, the horrific event occurring long before I was born, but I’d suspected it had shaped my father more than he’d care to admit.
I fingered the picture, remembering how grandfather had kept it dusted, more so than he had any other picture. The sadness remained, this time for my grandfather and his love. As I scanned the others, I couldn’t help laughing to myself again. He’d managed to capture me on a horse, my favorite one… Thunder. He’d been so much like the horse I’d just met that some might consider it eerie. To me, having the new Thunder here had a grounding effect.
The horse was just as magnificent as the one I’d just seen, big and black, at least sixteen hands tall if not more. I’d insisted on riding the big boy when I had no clue what I was doing. How many times had I been frozen with fear, the horse making fun of me in his own way. Even Grandpops had laughed at the stupid city slicker trying to ride a horse. The name made me laugh. Maybe Big Red had been right. At least I’d persevered, Thunder and I becoming inseparable.
Until I’d left, mourning the big boy for months.
“My God.” The words echoed in the open space. It was far too quiet inside the room, something I’d hated as a boy. I lifted the picture, studying my face. I could see the same look in my eyes I had now, determined. But the major difference was that I wore a huge smile in the photograph. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d smiled. Maybe years.
No, that wasn’t true. That last time had been the night before, enjoying my time with Red more than I had anything in a long time. Was it possible I had a crush on a girl who I barely knew? After replacing the picture, I rolled my eyes, heading toward the kitchen. Surely there had to be something to drink left in the house. My grandfather had been full of surprises, enjoying a fine cognac or award-winning cabernet as much as he did his glass of scotch. And God, did he adore his scotch. I hadn’t realized I had the exact same tastes as he did until now.
That was a telling thought.
The kitchen was a surprise, completely redone with every modern appliance a chef’s kitchen could ever want, including a wine refrigerator as large as the regular one. And it was full of both red and white wines, champagne as well. Tonight, I craved scotch, the powerful man insisting on Macallan, something he called the elixir of the gods. I refused to have anything else. It would seem the old man had rubbed off on me more than I’d originally believed.
At least Hank hadn’t lied about providing the additional documents; a thick file with a sticky note attached had been placed on the kitchen island.
Looking forward to meeting you tomorrow.
Why was it that knowing he’d been inside the house as late as yesterday pissed me off? He’d known I was in town already. I yanked the note from the file, balling it into my palm. What was Mr. Barclay trying to do?
Maybe I was reading into things, but I certainly didn’t get a warm and fuzzy feeling from anyone. Even Luis had been leery of me.
After tossing the scrunched-up note into the empty trash, I continued my search for something to appease the anger.
I found what I was looking for in one of the cabinets, two full bottles of aged scotch just waiting to be cracked and consumed.
