He poured oatmeal into his bowl from the saucepan on the stove, bustled around adding butter, milk (he had no philosophical problem with butter or milk), and brown sugar, then carried the steaming bowl to the kitchen table. The world beyond the windows was still black, with sunrise more than an hour away.
Ryan’s brain was a little foggy after staying late at Jackson and Kate’s party the night before. He didn’t drink much, knowing he had an early morning and a long workday ahead, but he did stay into the early hours, and he’d had to hit his snooze alarm three or four times this morning before he’d been able to drag himself out of bed.
He would never mention such a thing to Sandra, who wouldn’t tolerate nonsense like sleeping in. Parties were fine, staying out late was fine, hell, even getting drunk off your ass was fine on occasion. But that ass had better be up and seated at the breakfast table no later than six a.m.—five thirty was better—unless you were sick or dead.
Ryan was on his second cup of coffee, halfway into his breakfast, when his father came into the kitchen, dressed and ready for his day. Orin Delaney was an ox of a man even into his early sixties, tall and broad, with hair that was once dark brown, near black, but was now thinning to such an extent that the main color to reach one’s eye was the pink of his scalp. Now, the older man pulled a mug from the cupboard over the coffee pot and poured himself a cup, which he drank black. He took a seat at the table next to Ryan and peered into Ryan’s bowl.
“Why the hell would you want to eat horse food?” Orin asked, looking pained.
Sandra came to the table and set a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast in front of Orin.
“Why the hell would you want to eat dead pigs?” Ryan retorted.
Ryan’s uncle Redmond came in just as Sandra was placing his plate on the table. Similar in appearance to Orin—tall and broad, with a powerful build—Redmond had shrunk some with age. A good ten years older than Orin, Redmond had retired from actively working the ranch about five years before, but a lifetime of rising before the sun had made him incapable of sleeping in, even in what were supposed to be his leisure years.
“Morning, Uncle Redmond,” Ryan said as he got up from the table to take his empty bowl to the sink.
“Morning,” Redmond replied.
“How’s your back doing this morning?” Sandra inquired.
Redmond grunted as he lowered himself into his chair. “Been better.” As always, Redmond was a master of brevity.
The Delaney Ranch had been in operation for seven generations, since one of Ryan’s ancestors—an immigrant from Ireland—had received the acreage as part of a Mexican land grant in 1846. The original buildings weren’t standing anymore, except for the ruins of an old cabin on the eastern edge of the ranch. The modern buildings—main house, old barn, stables, guest house, and bunkhouse—were built in the 1950s, except for the new barn, which was built ten years ago. Most of the structures showed significant wear, but the house was in good shape, and it was big enough for Orin and Sandra, Redmond, Ryan, Ryan’s sister, Breanna, and Breanna’s two boys, ages five and seven. Breanna had moved back to the ranch a few years ago after her husband, a Marine, had been killed in the Middle East. It wasn’t an ideal situation for her, but she’d been grateful to have the family home to return to. At least here, she didn’t have to raise her boys alone.
Ryan had two brothers—Liam, who ran a ranch in Montana, and Colin, who was a lawyer in San Diego. With Redmond retired and Orin getting older, they were all looking to Ryan to take over the operation of the ranch. That was fine with him; it had always been his intention to manage the ranch when his father and uncle were no longer willing or able to do so. He’d gotten his degree in farm and ranch management from Iowa State with just such a goal in mind.
He had a different idea of how to do it than they did, but that was okay; he’d ease them along, and eventually they’d accept the changes he was planning to make.
When Ryan had announced his intention of taking the ranch organic—for the good of the land, for the benefit of the cattle, and for the increased prices organic beef brought over conventional—his family had looked at him the same way they had when he’d sworn off eating meat. True, raising cattle organically was more cumbersome and more costly, but he believed the benefits would outweigh the trouble and the expense.
Orin had been reluctant to accept the idea, but bit by bit, he was coming around.
Ryan had been less successful at persuading his father to invest money in upgrading the various buildings on the ranch. The money wasn’t the issue; Orin’s lifelong resistance to change was the problem. If something was still working, why fix it? If the house was still keeping the rain off their heads, why renovate it? Here it was ten years later, and Orin was still grousing about how they hadn’t really needed to build the new barn. But Ryan had plans for the ranch, plans to put his mark on things and make the place his own.
His parents and his uncle would just have to learn to roll with it.
By sunrise, Ryan had finished with his morning barn chores and was on his way out to check the fences in the northeast pasture. He’d be moving the herd there in the coming week, and he had to make sure they would be secure. Checking fences was a job that never seemed to end, especially on a ranch as large as this one. One broken fence and you’d be busting your ass to retrieve your herd from a neighbor’s land, and that was a dicey operation at best, especially this time of year, when the amount of hired help was minimal.
For many jobs, Ryan preferred his four-wheel-drive truck over the four-hooved variety of transportation. But for checking fences, it was horseback or nothing. He rode Annie, a five-year-old mare, through the heavy early morning fog as daylight began to brighten the gauzy world around him.
He loved this time of day, loved this time of year, when the air was cool and the world was softened by the mist at first light. Being out here by himself—just him and the powerful animal moving beneath him—gave him time to think, to reflect, to plan and prioritize.
He thought about the work he had ahead of him today, about his long-term plans for the ranch, about friends and women and his place in the world.
He thought about Lacy Jordan.