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
“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
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