Authors: Kimball Lee
*
The tall iron gates that mark the entrance to the largest ranch in Texas are spectacular— hand-wrought and forged in fire. Worked into the center of the filigree design is the famous brand that marks every animal owned by the McCauley family—a heart within a diamond. We pass through the gates and under an equally impressive iron arch with big, scrawling letters proclaiming that we have indeed arrived at
El Rancho del Corazon Perdido
.
“Big gates, big sign,” I say, stretching my arm across the empty space between us to rest my hand on Holt’s thigh.
“Everything’s bigger in Texas you could say,” he says, covering my hand with his. “Nearly a million acres, and it could get bigger if Campbell caves in and marries Cassandra De La Garza, as per his father’s wishes. The De La Garza’s are about the only landowners who’ve refused to sell out and be swallowed up by the Corazon Perdido. This place makes my twelve-hundred acres look piss-poor, doesn’t it?”
“I love your place, this is way over the top,” I say as we pass herds of Longhorn and Hereford cattle grazing in green fields as that stretch as far as the eye can see. The land is prettier here, with thick-trunked oaks, their branches so long and heavy that many of them are supported by steel cables or wooden posts that are propped underneath. Barns and stables dot the landscape, long and steep-roofed, some are old and built from the same limestone as Holt’s grist mill. Others look new and are crafted from russet-stained wood set on dry-stacked stone with sloping copper roofs.
On the seemingly endless road that winds across the Corazon Perdido a cloud of dust appears on the horizon. When it draws closer Holt stops the truck and a black Range Rover pulls up next to us with a stern-looking but oh-so-very-handsome man behind the wheel. He gets out of his SUV and is suddenly standing at my window motioning for me to roll it down. This is unmistakably the head honcho, the ultimate alpha dog, leader of the pack, owner of the world’s most infamous ranch—Campbell McCauley.
He’s pure Texas male, hot and alluring in his rich-rancher off-white cowboy hat, starched jeans, button-down shirt, expensive cowboy boots, and even more expensive—make that INSANELY expensive—watch. He pushes his hat back a bit, lifts his sunglasses and I suddenly understand the few short texts Gigi sent to me and Penn over the last few weeks— (
OMG, OMG! OH. MY. GOD. BROTHERS!!!!! Fucking SWOON!!! Details too hot to text, pray for my wicked soul!!! Later, Sister girls, XOXOXO, Gigi
.) He’s a heartbreaker, that’s for sure, and I wonder if Gigi knows or cares that he’s engaged.
His eyes flash an unreal shade of blue-green as he lifts his smooth-shaven chin in a silent greeting to Holt. “Gotta run into town and drag the old man outta jail. I’ll give you one guess who he’s with, brain-dead bastards, neither one of them can hold their liquor or keep their dicks—sorry Miss—out of barely legal puss… girls. You’re dad sliced up a couple of our good vaqueros, he didn’t kill them, but Rafe has to hold him for a few days to see if they press charges.”
“Need me to go, too? No? I hope Rafe keeps Tom locked up for a good long while, my crazy old man should be in rehab. Do they have rehab for mean sumbitches who think they’re God with a switchblade?” Holt asks and he looks tired, just worn down by a lifetime of what he has briefly explained about his father’s deep-seated hatred of mankind in general and Holt in particular.
“I’ll handle it and catch up with you in the roping pen, shouldn’t take long. I believe I’ll confine my dad to his side of the house and threaten his fuc… his life, if he doesn’t reel in his ‘second go at puberty’ a couple of notches.” He shoots Holt a half smile and then notices that I’m not paying any attention to him, I’m staring at his watch. “My grandfather had good taste, right? It was his, the eccentric old bastard loved watches, he collected dozens of them and left them to my mother. Ridiculous to wear it out here on the ranch, but if not now, when?” He says, laughing a genuine laugh as he toys with it. He rubs a thumb across the thin gold face of the watch, and over its elegant leather band, then pulls the cuff of his sleeve down to cover it as if the fact that he’s wearing a vintage Patek Phillipe worth probably two or three million dollars might be a
little
weird. “It keeps perfect time, made in 1929 and still ticking, a good investment my old granddaddy Campbell always said. He never wore them, kept them locked away, but what’s the use of owning something beautiful if you can’t enjoy it?” He looks up at Holt, raises an eyebrow and shakes his head, and then he turns a panty-melting smile in my direction. “Don’t believe we’ve met, Holt is as uncouth and uncivilized as I am, we’re both the product of good women who made bad marital choices. I’m Campbell McCauley.”
“I’m Scarlet… Scarlet O’Neal. I’m doing the interiors of your fishing lodge… with Holt… he and I are….” I say, and he’s trapped my eyes with his, and I’m stuttering and stupid and thinking—
Holy shit, Gigi is in major trouble if she has to choose between Jon-Wylder and Campbell, they are both scorching hot!
“So you’re the girlfriend, good choice, Holt. I have to hand it to you, she’s a stunning beauty, no wonder you were moping around and about as happy as a scalded cat the last couple of months.” He says, and places his hands on the edge of the truck, taps it a couple of times as if he’s pondering the situation before he looks in my eyes and says sincerely. “Holt is a good man, the best man I’ve ever known. And unlike his best friend—my little brother—he isn’t impulsive. If he brought you here and you’re staying with him, that’s a serious first, maybe the beginning of something truly special. I’m a little envious.”
“I doubt that,” Holt says and he laughs and Campbell grins. “You love your martyred bachelorhood, don’t lie. How ‘bout you finish up in town and get your ass back to the ranch, let’s see who those kids are most impressed with. You’re hell on a horse, but you can’t rope and tie for shit.”
“Yeah? We’ll see about that. Okay then, back in a few. Miss Scarlet, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, I’d like to discuss the fishing lodge if we have a minute later today. You know, no frilly shit… pardon me… just want to make perfectly clear that it will actually be used for fishing, hunting, poker playing, and consuming mass quantities of good Scotch whiskey. A retreat where my brothers and our friends can indulge in those time-honored redneck male bonding rituals. So no frills, no roses on the pillows, please ma’am,” he says, tipping his hat before he climbs back in the Range Rover and roars off.
“My fucking idiot father,” Holt mutters as we continue down the road toward the main house and I don’t say a word. He made it clear from the start that dysfunctional doesn’t begin to cover his family life, and he doesn’t feel the need to share more than that.
“Wow!” I say when we stop in front of an elegant horse-barn set off to the side of the palatial ranch house. So this is what REAL money can buy. There’s hardly a term other than palace-like to describe the rambling mansion. If Queen Elizabeth had a ranch, this would be her royal residence, albeit in the rugged Lone Star tradition.
“Like I said, bigger is better, that should be the motto for the last four generations of Campbell descendants. That’s their family crest up there on the lowest flag,” he says pointing up to four flags— The American flag is highest, the Lone Star just beneath it, with the Corazon Perdido and Clan Campbell banners a bit lower— They wave a patriotic salute on a cluster of twenty-foot high flagpoles in front of the mansion. “Clan Campbell, sheep farmers from Glen Shira, Scotland, now cattle ranchers and oil barons in South Texas.”
The flags rise and fall, lifted in the hot breeze that rustles through the lush garden encircling the stolidly handsome brick and stucco mansion. A low iron fence separates the lawn from the dirt, caliche, and Bermuda grass that comprises the surrounding pasture land, a sharp study in contrasts. Holt points to a plaque near the garden gate, it declares that this house, erected to serve as the ranch headquarters in 1865, is listed on the National Register of Historic Places.
“C’mon beauty, the kids are here,” Holt says and I follow him over to a split-rail fence where a cowboy stands with two saddled horses. “Hey, Lonnie Jim, how’s it going today? This mare gonna behave herself? This is my girl, Scarlet, it’s her first time to ride—
ever
.”
The cowboy laughs hard as he looks me over from head to toe, he’s couldn’t be much older than fifty, but he seems ancient, weather-beaten and toothless. “This here mare’s actin’ up somethin’ pitiful, skittish as all git out. Yep, you’d a thought she was in a pit of rattlers this mornin’, she pitched a wall-eyed fit when I threw the saddle over her. I don’t believe you ought to let that purty gal try and tame her, but it looks like she’s done gone and tamed you, Holt!” He says and he and Holt laugh as my eyes widen and I back away from the white mare. “Aww, I’m pullin’ your leg Miss. Ol’ Sugar is sweet as a speckled pup, ain’t a gentler horse in the stables. And she is speckled if you’ll come on over here and give her a good pat and look her over. See how her coat is whit but mottled? This here is a Leopard Appaloosa, a fine, fine horse.”
“Okay,” I say, trembling at the size of these horses, they’re way bigger in person than they are in TV movies, and Sugar is a regal and gorgeous.
Holt reaches out and pulls me close to him, then stands behind me, his big hands guiding mine along the horse’s neck and ears, down to her soft muzzle. He talks low and gentle to me and the horse, “That’s right, girl, Scarlet’s new to this so let’s not spook her. Let her get your scent Scarlet, and don’t be afraid, a horse can smell fear. See there, you’re doing just fine, she trusts you, and she’s in love with my horse so we’ll have a good ride. This is Buck, he’s a good ol’ boy, best cutting horse I’ve ever had the pleasure to know and work with,” he says, clamping an arm under the thick caramel-colored neck of his horse, and whoa, that horse is even bigger than Sugar. But it nuzzles and butts its head against Holt’s shoulder like a humongous puppy, and grumbles out these low sounds so that Holt grins and whispers to him like a lover. “You have to love a horse like you love a human being, they’re smart and loyal, and I believe they have souls, but their souls are pure, with no inclination for malice.”
“Holt ain’t never met a horse he didn’t like or one that didn’t like him back,” Lonnie Jim says, grinning ear to ear. “He’s got the gift, like they say, a horse whisperer. Hell, when he was no more than a tot we’d find him asleep or readin’ a book in the stables, just curled up to Ol’ Midnight, God rest him, or one of the other stallions. He weren’t never scared, not a lick, and them thoroughbreds is testy and high-strung, let me tell ya.”
“Buck? Is that like, an urban-legend-cowboy-name for a horse?” I ask, and Lonnie Jim winks at Holt and goes to meet the bus load of boys that has just parked next to the barn.
“Here, feel his coat,” Holt says, dragging me between him and his horse. He smooths my hand over the velvety caramel coat and says, “He’s a buck-skin, see how his coat feels like suede? So, no, not much originality in his name—Buck the buckskin, period.”
“Holt!” “Holt!” “Hey, Holt!” A gaggle of boys, most of them around ten or twelve years old, rush up but stop short and get quiet before they reach him.
“Good morning, dudes,” Holt says and the boys tilt their heads and roll their eyes. “Sorry, not dudes anymore, you young men are bona fide cowboys now that you remember the rules. What’s rule number one?”
“Never run up behind a horse or you’ll get the snot kicked out of you!” They all chime in.
“That’s right, slow and easy, don’t spook your horse, and always mount on his left side. Okay, Lonnie Jim’s got your horses saddled, go mount up and let’s rope some calves. Today we’re gonna show my girlfriend Scarlet how real cowboys ride and rope, she’s not from these parts.”
“Holt has a girlfriend, Holt has a girlfriend!” They echo as they traipse into the barn with Lonnie Jim.
What’s clear to me as Holt settles my boot into the stirrup and urges me to grab the saddle horn and throw my other leg over the horse, is that just as Buck is the best horse he’s ever known, Holt is a man of many unseen layers, and by far the best man I’ve ever known.
The boys and I follow Holt on horseback out into a field where a few metal barriers are set up to form a spacious makeshift roping pen. “Ease up on your reins, Scarlet,” He calls to me when I stop next to the metal fence and Sugar starts backing away. “You’re holding them too tight, she thinks you want her to back up. These are cutting horses, they’re trained to back away and hold the rope taut when a calf is cut from the herd and roped. It’s alright, Sugar’s just doing what she thinks you want her to do. Nudge her with your knees a little and she’ll move next to the fence and stand still so you can watch. There you go, now loosen the reins and don’t lean forward when she lowers her head to get a mouthful of grass. I don’t want you to fall head first over her neck and break that pretty neck of
yours
!”
“Um, okay,” I say and I can’t help but marvel at the way he moves as one with his horse. It’s instinctual, the way he barely shifts his body and Buck moves left or right, slowing down or breaking into a gallop as Holt rounds up the calves and moves them into the pen with the boys following right behind him.
He talks each boy through the steps of handling a length of rope that hangs over the saddle horn and they listen to him reverently. His horse certainly knows its job, stopping and starting, weeding a single calf from the herd as Holt loosens the rope coiled in his hand and with a single graceful movement it sails through the air and lands around the calf’s neck. He wraps the end he holds to the saddle horn, yanks a thinner coil free from a loop on the back of his saddle as he jumps down and binds the calf’s feet together faster than humanly possible. “That’s how it’s done gentlemen, now let your horse do the work cutting your calf from the others, and then throw those ropes. It’s all in the wrist, Brady,” he says calmly to one boy, and then to another— “Look here, Justin, relax your grip, there you go! Now hog-tie him quick before he works his head loose. Way to go, get after it, Braedon, lemme see each one of you work these calves, tire them out and it’ll be a little easier. You got it going now, keep it up.”