Although to be fair, Duke Augustus Lockhart was a smart sonofagun with a masterful ability for making money.
Duke had taken the modest Lockhart fortune he'd inherited, invested heavily in real estate during the boom, and managed to get out just before economic sands shifted and things collapsed on Wall Street. With that move, he'd become the richest man in Jeff Davis County, finally surpassing the privileged Fants.
The Fants had come from Baltimore old money and had a family history that harkened back to British royalty, and at one time had rubbed elbows with the likes of Wallis Simpson and Prince Edward.
The Lockharts had none of that pizzazz. Their pedigree was hard work, dogged tenacity, and Texas-sized chutzpah. Levi Lockhart, Ridge's three times great-grandfather had come to the Trans-Pecos in 1852 looking to strike it rich at silver mining.
From all accounts Levi had been a persistent cuss, part outlaw and part idealist, with a grand imagination and even grander schemes. Although many pronounced him a damn fool for daring to encroach on territory claimed by the fearsome Mescalero Apaches.
Levi not only managed to survive with his scalp intact, he also gained the lands that became the Silver Feather and a personal truce with the natives when he found a young Apache brave wounded in the desert.
Rather than leaving the teen to die, Levi nursed him back to health. The young brave turned out to be the tribal chief's son. In gratitude for saving the boy, the chieftan presented Levi with a silver hawk feather and a solemn vow that the Apaches would forever leave Levi and his family in peace.
That framed silver feather hung in his father's mansion.
While Levi did settle the homestead in the town that later become Cupid-so dubbed because of a stalagmite found in the local caverns that resembled the Roman god of love-he never did find the silver he came looking for. That discovery went to Levi's oldest son, Malachi, who took up his father's quest, staked a claim, and in 1884 founded Lockhart Silver Mining Company.
Stalwart ancestors, peace treaties with the Apaches, ranching, and silver mining cemented the Lockharts' legacy deep in the history of the Trans-Pecos. Ridge had a huge birthright to live up to and he did not take his responsibility lightly. He was the oldest son, of the oldest son, of the oldest son all the way back to Levi.
Never mind that he was illegitimate. Each subsequent generation of high achievers kept raising the bar.
The urge to prove himself to Duke drove Ridge. He was as good or better than any other Lockhart, and he would do whatever it took to show them all up.
Drive gnawed at him like hunger pangs. Spurred his galloping ambition. Dreams mattered. Success mattered. Money mattered.
The urge to excel colored everything he did. And that went for the best man duties he'd signed on for. If Ridge promised something, he delivered.
Always.
Where was Archer and why hadn't he come out to greet him?
Probably wrapped around his fiancée's little finger. The way the man talked about Casey made Ridge's teeth ache. He didn't mean that in a disparaging way. He liked Casey. Archer had brought her to Calgary to meet him at Christmas, and they'd gone skiing at Banff. She and Archer had cuddled and canoodled and got along like two peas in a pod.
It was just that . . . well . . . Ridge didn't much believe in all that sappy romance stuff. It colored people's reasoning and judgment. He knew that falling in lust could make for some pretty bad decisions.
He passed through the stables, rounded the corner of a stall and boom!
There was Duke, saddling up a mature stallion named Majestic, a horse that was once so untamable that only a rare few dared ride him. Was he still as wild? Or was he age-mellowed?
Involuntarily, Ridge's gut clenched and for a whisper of a breath, he was that three-year-old kid again, snatched up by his arm and dangled in Duke's face. This is your mess. Clean it up.
Majestic whinnied at the sight of Ridge. His gut loosened, and his heart swelled, and his pulse broke like floodgates.
Duke had bought the stallion for Ridge as a college graduation present, and he had loved that horse. But he'd left Majestic behind when he'd fled the ranch after catching Duke in his bed at his house with his girlfriend.
Ridge ground his teeth. Ancient history. Let it go.
His father raised his head, met Ridge's eyes. Grunted. "Son."
"Duke."
The old man had aged in a decade. Wrinkles lined his sun-weathered face and his hair was thinner, his moustache grayer. His father made an I-suppose-I-deserve-not-being-called-dad sound. Not an actual admission of guilt or regret, but it was something.
What had he expected? That his father would hug him and beg his forgiveness? The prospect of hell icing into a frozen Arctic skating rink was far more likely.