Taking the Reins(9)

“Calm down, boy. No harm done. Now, like I was saying, heard through the grapevine you were taking offers. Boss mentioned there’d be a prime spot for ya. Why don’t you hop on over and check it out?”

“And a decent pay raise for you, too, right?” Mac Callahan didn’t do anything, period, unless it benefited him in some way. Mostly financially.

“I’m hurt.” Mac laid it on thick, pulling out his best Don’t you trust me? voice. “Maybe I just want to see my boy every day. Do the father-son thing.”

“Thing.” You didn’t want to do the father-son thing when I was growing up . . . why now?

Red rubbed a hand over his face, scratched his jaw and winced at the bristle. Laying low for a break was one thing. Looking like a bum was something else entirely. Knowing there was no way he’d get back to sleep now, regardless of the time, he tossed back the covers and stood.

“Yeah. The bonding thing. Come on out. You’ll like the place.”

The place, as Red could easily guess, was likely nothing more than a two-bit breeding factory turning out half-rate ponies with no bloodlines. In other words, the exact thing he would run as fast the other way from as possible. But with his father’s less-than-stellar track record at both being reliable on the job and staying out of trouble with the law, the fact that he found work at all was something of a miracle.

“I’m going to pass.” He kept his voice hard, not allowing a hint of anything that might be seen as regret to leak in.

“Already got something lined up?” In true Mac fashion, he’d counted the chips, realized he was low, and moved on with minimal disappointment. That was the thing with his dad. The bastard was too charming for his own good.

“No, nothing lined up yet.” He got up to search for his boxers, pulled them on, then put the phone on speaker and set it on the bathroom counter while he splashed some water on his face. Staring at his own reflection, he knew it was time to stop dicking around and pick a spot. A week had passed, and he’d received too many offers to count. Most he’d discounted immediately for one reason or another. A few he’d hedged on, saying he’d give an answer soon. But his gut wasn’t talking. Not yet.

One thing was for sure, though. Wallowing in a hotel room didn’t agree with him. He had to get out of there.

“Dad? I’m gonna call you back, how’s that sound?” Before his father could respond, he snapped the phone shut. Mac wouldn’t care. No hard feelings, ever, with his dad. It was the beauty of their relationship, really. Sure, he got called for more favors and bailouts than any son wanted. But at least when he said no, his dad wasn’t likely to hold it against him.

Walking back to the double bed, he debated turning on the TV, but realized nothing would be on at this hour. So he picked up the folder where he’d kept the info on all the ranches that had reached out to him and spread each one over the rumpled bed.

No one ranch, spread, operation, or owner stood out to him as the clear winner. This hadn’t happened before. Usually within minutes, he knew exactly where his next move was. He’d made a few wrong turns based on his instinct, but not many. Not enough to discount it as the main motivator for his choices.

Blue Ridge was persistent. The owner had called several times, hinting the offered salary was merely a starting point, open to big negotiations. But it was small, both on land and in drive from the owner. Little room for growth. The man wanted the prestige of having Red work there, but wasn’t focused on the future.

Ten Fork was a good size, likely capable of growth. But they already had a good head trainer, and Red knew for a fact that man wasn’t going anywhere unless he was pushed out. Two head trainers in one operation spelled disaster. And he didn’t care for the fact that the owner might be willing to throw out a vet for someone new.

He stared at the papers until his eyes blurred, then blinked. It was coming down to this, then. He had to make a choice, had to get going. Not for the money, but to satisfy his own drive. A man without a purpose wasn’t a man at all, to his way of thinking. And if his gut wasn’t going to decide, he’d just have to do it the mature, rational, adult way.

Eeny, meeny, miny, moe it was.

Just as he started to sing the stupid rhyme in his head, a sharp knock startled him. He checked the clock. Only four-thirty. So not housekeeping then. And not a neighbor complaining, since he’d made no noise. Padding to the door, avoiding the window, he peeked through the hole.

And almost fell flat on his ass at the sight.

Yanking the door open, he drawled, “Well, isn’t this a surprise.”