Page 10 of Buck

His Oakley sunglasses did little to filter out the brightness of sunlight refracted from the crystals that looked like a blanket of diamonds. The silence of the uninhabited wilderness was peaceful, downright freeing in its intensity. He loved riding on crisp, cold early mornings where he could see his breath and that of his mount’s misting the air. He took a deep breath and felt something in his gut let go.

At the turnoff, the driver went left, due east toward the ranch. The highway narrowed down to a single-span truss bridge that crossed over the Cheyenne River.

“That is always one spectacular view,” D-Day murmured.

Buck had to agree it was beautiful with the vista spread out. The ridge of bleak hills formed the natural rim of a valley. Off in the distance, the snowcapped Rocky Mountains loomed up dramatically, thrusting jaggedly into the clear blue sky, colored in hues of purple and gray. The feelings of expectation grew as the vehicle covered the final miles. The feelings became even stronger when they crested a small rise off to the right.

As the car slowed to turn into the long drive toward the ranch, there was a typical gate, bumping over the cattle guard, a pole arch with the Bucking Horse brand carved into the crossbar, finished out with ironwork.

There was an impressive row of gigantic spruce that lined the far side of the drive as a natural windbreak. Their roots went deep into Buckard land.

The lane curved down into a sheltered hollow, and Buck felt a rush of warmth as the house and buildings came into view. Several acres of land adjacent to the road had been left untouched, and thick stands of poplar and pine were scattered across the rolling terrain.

Beyond the spruce and the curving drive, ranch buildings came into view, and sunlight glinted off a huge, corrugated steel arena.

He absently wondered what Maritza would think about this spread, so different from her lush jungle home. He hadn’t been able to get the woman’s face out of his mind, or the soft sound of her voice.

The huge old-fashioned house, which faced the gravel drive, looked like it had been recently painted, its white trim sparkling against the deep, brick red. All the ranch buildings were painted the same color, with the barns having crisscrossed white wood across the doors.

A veranda stretched across the front of the house. The hedge of lilacs, which would soon show the first touch of spring, bordered the east side of the yard. There was another windbreak of trees behind the house, across an expanse of lawn.

Surrounding the house were outbuildings and barns, storage for the large machinery in between blocked paddocks and pastureland.

Nothing much had changed, except the trees were bigger and some of the corral fencing was new. Thinking about how some things stay the same, he got out of the vehicle.

The front door opened, and two black and white border collies rushed out. He winced as he reached down and scratched their necks.

Seeing his siblings, Cole, Wyatt, and their youngest sister, Daisy, was always a treat. Buck was right in the middle between two older brothers, and two younger sisters. Helen, who was a registered nurse, was in Haiti with Doctors Without Borders saving lives after their devastating earthquake, so he regretted he wouldn’t get a chance to see her this trip. But he was happy to be home.

* * *

Coffee. The journey started with the green bean and ended up as the perfect beverage entirely made to preference. Whether cold, dripped, filtered, espresso, and with all the modern bells and whistles, there was one common denominator—the green bean, or as her family created and branded it—the Golden Grain. In the roasting shed, surrounded by wood and stone, stirring the beans to make sure they got an even roast, she breathed in the sharp aromas and truly satisfying process of taking raw beans and transforming them into flavored deliciousness.

Her family used the oldest method of roasting, a metal cylinder, containing coffee, was rotated above heat, the hot air propelled by a blower. The tumbling action was key in getting an even roast.

She glanced out the window and couldn’t imagine a better office. Outside, buried in the rich, volcanic earth, were row upon row of thick green Arabica plants, cultivated by her brother Diego. She could just catch a glimpse of one of three greenhouses to the right of the roasting shed in the distance. Right now, he was nurturing new plants to augment the six-hundred and forty aces of their plantation, building a new generation of growth. They were in the middle of their harvesting season, all of the plants heavy with coffee berries, the ripe, red ones slated for picking.

Her family was also very dedicated to reducing their carbon footprint, and with that in mind, they had employed solar panels, optimizing resources, reducing water and electricity consumption, and paying attention to recycling opportunities. It gave them all satisfaction that they were supporting the planet instead of just consuming its bounty. That included the use of eco-friendly methods, such as composting and natural pest control.

Her thoughts went back to the conversation she’d had with her sisters this morning. The one where they seemed to think she was a workaholic. She didn’t think it was wrong to want people to see her as competent and successful. She felt good about her public persona because she did whatever it took to work hard and deliver. She bit her lip. She had been going strong for a while, learning the business. Obtaining more knowledge was time-consuming, so maybe it was difficult for her to slow down or stop.

But slowing down with someone like Buck might be very worthwhile. She couldn’t get that out of her mind. She gleaned that he’d been tall, had a leanness that corded his body with layer upon layer of hard muscle, enough to rope his shoulders with a dozen of those layers, enough to six-pack his abs and burn the memory of him into every single cell she had. She remembered his deep, forest-green eyes with those thick, dark lashes, and his mouth?—

That was a study in frustration, especially on a man who had been put on a chopper and probably not given her another thought.

But with Buck, there was that heroic effort of running from the crash site of the chopper, in pain, in the heat, through a dense mixture of cedar, manú, botarrama, and laurel trees, and heavy vegetation, staying ahead of murderous cartel members bent on their deaths. Yeah, that took amazing courage and a tough-mindedness that not many men possessed. The little she did know about him made her thirst for more information, more understanding, and…more contact.

The phone rang and she jumped, tumbling out of her thoughts about Buck. She turned and reached across her desk and picked up the receiver. “Your father would like you to come to the house as soon as possible.”

She frowned. Her dad didn’t normally interrupt her when she was roasting. It must be important. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” she responded. Her father was the authority on the plantation and when he summoned, everyone came running. It wasn’t just respect. It was a call to family duty. Her father didn’t participate in frivolous conversations, and family was everything.

She wrapped up her roasting session and stepped out of the air-conditioned shed, taking the beautiful winding steppingstones back to the main house, the coffee brown terracotta tiles on the roof, and the muted rust adobe architecture coming into view before she took river rock inserts on the stair risers, and bracketed by the same river rock walls. She entered through the thick stylized wooden doors, already knowing her father would be in his office located on the far side of the big mansion. There were several warm wooden glass double doors leading to a central courtyard, a disk-like fountain in the middle with whimsical frogs around it. It was one of her most favorite places to hang out.

She brushed back her hair as she walked down the hallway, the gentle breeze from open windows bringing in the smell of loam and vegetation, the sweet perfume of wild orchids and bougainvillea, vibrant scents of life. Their closest neighbors were monkeys, birds, and iguanas.

At the carved double wooden doors, she knocked and waited for her father’s deep voice telling her to enter before she turned the knob to step inside the beautiful room decorated in weathered wood, a big desk, leather sofa, and understated hand-painted tile lining the fireplace situated between two floor-to-ceiling built-ins with objects from three generations of the Golden Grain’s patrón.

“Ah, my light,” he said, calling her his pet name. Mi luz in Spanish.

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