Cowboys and Cabernet. Margot Dalton
nodded abstractedly, chewing appreciatively on the last of the anchovies. “Probably,” she said at last, swallowing and looking up at her father. “Do we have one up here?”
“Well now, we just might,” Don said mysteriously. He got up and hurried over to the big antique sideboard where he took out two wine goblets and a bottle from a lower cabinet.
“Oh, my,” Ruth murmured behind him as Mrs. Ward entered with the fish course. The salmon rested in a creamy golden coating of perfect hollandaise, tender and flaky, exquisitely pink, delicately toasted around the edges and oozing a delectable rice filling.
“Ruined,” Mrs. Ward announced, her face grim. “Completely ruined.”
Ruth and Don both nodded solemnly, watching in respectful silence as the woman swept out of the room. Then they exchanged a glance and burst into laughter that they stifled hastily, casting nervous glances at the hallway.
“Burned to a crisp,” Ruth said in a fair imitation of Mrs. Ward’s haughty tone.
“Dry as old leather,” Don agreed, crossing the room and glancing at the tender pink fish. “Try the Chardonnay,” he added, handing his daughter a goblet brimming with clear pale wine.
She accepted it and sipped obediently, then nodded. “That’s nice,” she said. “Which one is it, Dad?”
Her father looked down at her in disbelief, moving around to seat himself at the opposite end of the table. “Ruthie, I can’t believe you don’t recognize this.”
“Why? Should I?”
“It’s our new Chardonnay. The one we’ve been waiting to sample. Johann said it was ready yesterday, and I thought I’d surprise you with it.”
“Oh.” Ruth sipped at the wine again, then tried to smile. “Well, I guess we were right, Dad. It’s really a lot better than the last one, isn’t it?”
Don continued to gaze at the slender young woman, his eyes darkening with concern. “Ruth,” he said gently, “is everything all right?”
“What do you mean? Oh, Dad, can you spoon up a little more of that sauce for me? Just there on the edge, please, and some more rice…”
“I mean,” Don said, filling her plate carefully, “that you just don’t seem like yourself lately. You seem kind of…depressed,” he finished awkwardly. “Not my cheerful optimistic girl at all.”
Ruth avoided his eyes, concentrating on the plate of food in front of her. “It’s probably the weather,” she said. “You know how blue I always get in the winter, with all these clouds and rain and no real work to do outside. It just makes me crazy, Dad, waiting and waiting for spring to come so the world can start again.”
“I know, but this year things seem different, somehow,” Don persisted gently. “Is it something to do with Harlan?”
Ruth’s cheeks tinted delicately and she flashed a glance at her father, then looked quickly down at her plate again. “Harlan is no longer part of my life,” she said without expression.
“Yes?” Don looked with sudden alertness at his daughter’s glossy head. “Since when?”
“Since forever, I guess,” Ruth said with a bleak smile. “I mean, that relationship was doomed from the beginning. But it was officially laid to rest last night.”
“I see.” Don hesitated, sipping the delicious pale liquid. “By whose choice?”
“Oh, mine, absolutely,” Ruth said. “Harlan would have been very content to marry me, move us both into a nice house with a three-car garage and have two-point-one children. He says he’s ready for…quote…that particular stage in one’s life.”
“And you’re not?”
“Not with him,” Ruth said helplessly.
“Poor Harlan.” Don shook his head, though if the truth were told, he wasn’t really all that devastated by this piece of news.
“Dad, he’s so boring,” Ruth said with a hint of desperation creeping into her voice. “I mean, he and his friends are so horribly predictable. They all say the same things, do the same things, buy the same things, and I swear to God they have the very same conversations every time they get together. They talk about their golf games, their stock portfolios and their new cars, and then they sit around and gossip about each other. It’s just deadly.”
Don nodded, his face carefully noncommittal. “Maybe,” he said, setting down the wine goblet and toying with the heavily engraved handle of his butter knife, “you just need a holiday.”
“A holiday? Where would I go?”
Don cleared his throat. “Well, how about Texas?”
“Texas?” Ruth stared at her father as if he’d suddenly taken leave of his senses. “What would I do in Texas?”
“Well, for instance, you could pay a little visit to the McKinneys, spend some time on the ranch and see how they’re—”
“Why would I want to do that?” Ruth interrupted. “I’ve never even liked the McKinneys all that much. They’re your friends, Dad, not mine. And now J.T. has this new little fluff ball of a child bride…”
“She’s thirty-five years old,” Don said mildly. “And she’s an investment banker. Hardly a fluff ball, Ruthie.”
“Well, I just hope you don’t get any ideas,” Ruth said, glancing at him severely.
“About what?”
“About following the example of your old friend J.T. McKinney and bringing home some woman my own age to be my stepmother.”
“Not likely,” Don told her with a wolfish grin. “Bear in mind that you’re almost thirty, my girl. I’d want somebody a lot younger and fresher than that, if I were to get involved again.”
Ruth chuckled and her face lightened a little. “Isn’t this salmon just the most wonderful thing you’ve ever tasted? By the way, Dad,” she added, reaching for the salt, “why did you suddenly start thinking about visiting the McKinneys?”
Don cleared his throat again and tried to look casual. “Well,” he began, “actually, J.T. called last night, and we talked for quite a while.”
“Really? You didn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t see you. It was after midnight when you got home, and then this morning you were already up and out in the yards before I left for Sacramento.”
“I just felt so restless,” Ruth confessed. “After last night, all I wanted this morning was to get out there and work with the vines for a while.”
“Even in the rain?”
“Even in the rain,” Ruth said. “Besides, if I waited for it to stop raining,” she added bitterly, “I’d be in the house for a month. I’d have to take up knitting or something.”
“Knitting is a fine womanly art,” Don said cheerfully, toasting her with his wineglass.
Ruth gave him a lopsided grin, her delicate face animated by a flash of the old sparkle. “Yeah, right,” she said with amiable contempt, sipping her wine.
Don smiled back at her, encouraged by this welcome change of mood.
“About J.T.,” his daughter prompted. “What did you two discuss last night?”
“Well, let me see. Apparently his honeymoon is progressing well, the staff and family are all finally adjusting to his new wife, young Cal is still deeply involved in rodeo, Lynn’s shocked the whole countryside by getting interested in Thoroughbreds rather than quarter horses, and Tyler’s still thinking about opening a winery on the Double C.”
Ruth choked and took a hasty gulp from her water glass, then stared at her father