Page 6 of Cruelest Contract
The sight of home always hits me square in the chest. Perhaps if there’s such a thing as a soul, that’s where it’s kept. I’m frequently sent away on family business and every time I return, relief is the primary emotion. A sense of belonging that’s impossible to express in words.
I feel it now as I scan the two long buildings where the horses are stabled. Then there’s the massive barn, the corrals, the shop building and the equipment shed. The colossal main house,known far and wide for its imposing size, was modeled after the Gilded Age tycoon mansions of old New York. In contrast, the modest dorm for the cowboys nearly blends into the scenery. The foreman’s cabin is hidden a quarter mile beyond the cowboy clubhouse.
From this spot, no one can see the building half a mile away at the bottom of a shallow slope. The ranch staff know to keep their distance and pretend they see nothing. The men who come and go from that place are not in the cattle business. We only refer to it as ‘the barracks’.
Overhead, heavy clouds skid across the sky and grow darker by the second. The south pasture is empty, the horses having all been moved inside. A spear of lightning flashes in the distance.
Miguel Estrada, longtime ranch foreman, strolls out to meet us. “You made it back just in time. We’re minutes away from a thunderstorm.”
A low growl from the sky confirms his forecast. I climb down from the saddle and he moves to take the reins.
“I’m not too high and mighty to see to my own horse,” I tell him. “But thanks.”
He flicks the brim of his cream-colored cowboy hat and jerks his head to the right. “Since your dad is waiting, you might want to reconsider.”
I shift my eyes and see his point. My father stands on the front porch, barely under the overhang. He’s having a word with Sonny Vitale, his most dedicated Capo and our full time security manager. Sonny’s dark suit is comically ill-suited to the environment and he looks like a lost stockbroker but there’s nobody tougher than him. Their conversation wraps up and Sonny steps back, plants his shiny shoe in a mud puddle and curses before waddling away in the direction of the barracks.
This time when Miguel reaches for the reins I hand them over. He whistles and two wiry flannel-clad ranch hands come trotting out to handle the rest of the horses.
Miguel shifts the toothpick in his mouth. “By the way, we lost a wrangler yesterday. Just skipped out with no notice. Never liked him. And I’d take a bet that he’s the one who stole a money clip from Jed’s footlocker.”
“Lesson learned,” I say, pretending this is news. “Next time we won’t be so careless when it comes to vetting our staff.”
“Definitely,” Miguel deadpans, holding my eye, not fooled for a second. After twenty years among us, he’s seen plenty on this ranch. I doubt anything surprises him by now.
Among my brothers, only Fort is annoyed to hand the horses over. He’d much rather linger in the stables than deal with our father’s scrutiny.
Cassio Tempesta stays on the front porch, the tips of his black boots hanging over the edge of the top step. He waits until we are collected at his feet before speaking.
“Did you boys have a nice overnight campout?” he says in a mild tone that any curious father might use. The question is addressed to us all but he looks to me when he expects an answer, as always.
“We did,” I tell my father, matching his easy tone. “It was a nice bonding exercise.”
The next crack of thunder is almost overhead and the rain is now spilling in sheets. But the four of us don’t make a move to take shelter until our father steps back.
“All of you get cleaned up and pay your respects to your mother.” The hinges of the thick iron door groan when he pulls it open and motions for us to file inside. “Then come to the dining room for a meal. We need to have a talk.”
2
JULIAN
Ten minutes with soap and water is all it takes to erase the acrid stench of smoke and sins. There’s no better modern luxury than a hot shower following a long ride in the rain. My stomach, however, still has plenty of complaints.
My father insists on formality at meal times. Seeing his four sons sitting around the table and looking respectable is one of the few things that make him happy so we don’t argue.
Freshly shaved and towel dry, I tuck a navy blue button down shirt into wrinkle free black pants and run a comb through my hair before leaving the room. Enzo, the ranch chef, has been busy. The smell of baking bread and sausage is torture as I jog down the stairs. But I don’t shirk my obligation and my first stop is my father’s study.
A two inch remnant of a recently smoked cigar lies in a horseshoe-shaped ashtray on my father’s broad desk, which is free of clutter. The broad bay window overlooks the corral and the big barn with the peaks of the distant Medicine Bow Mountains rounding out the view.
Turning from the window, I face the huge stone fireplace, which is empty and cold today. Above the thick wood blockmantle hangs my mother’s picture. The oil portrait of Teresa Castelli Tempesta was painted to be larger than life. Because it was commissioned after her death, the artist worked from her wedding photos.
My smiling mother is immortalized as a serene princess. White dress aside, she probably looks much as she did when Cass Tempesta saw her for the first time the day he walked into her family’s restaurant. He happened to be in New York on business when he was invited to join a mobster poker game in the basement of Gino’s Pizzeria. She was working behind the counter. I’m not a believer in love at first sight, but I have no other way of explaining what happened next.
Within weeks, they were married.
Nine months after their wedding day, I was born.
A whirlwind five years saw them welcome four sons, one right after the other.
