Margot Dalton - Cowboys and Cabernet

“Rotten?” Don gave his daughter a curious glance. “Why?”

Ruth shifted restlessly in her chair, gazing out the dark, rain-smeared window. “I don’t know,” she said at last. “I mean, Texas already has everything, right? They have oil, gas, beef, grain, textiles…every primary industry you can think of. Why do they have to horn in on our thing? Wine making is practically all we have out here.”

“Ruth, the domestic wine market is expanding at a tremendous, unheard-of rate. There’s room for everyone, you know. We’re certainly not going to suffer from the competition.”

“I know,” Ruth said, her eyes dark with rebellion. “But it still doesn’t seem right to me. People shouldn’t go into the wine industry just to make a whole lot of money. They should do it because they love it.”

“That’s a pretty idealistic attitude.”

“Well, how are the McKinneys planning to go about this? Just buy the best equipment, pay all the best people to come work for them and then, every time there’s a problem, throw a whole wad of money at it?”

“That seems to be the Texas style, all right,” Don said with a grin.

“Maybe so, but it sure won’t work in this business. You’d better tell your friends that, before they get in too deep.”

“Why don’t you tell them?”

“Me?” Ruth asked blankly.

“That’s what I was thinking. Why don’t you just fly out there for a little visit, see how advanced their plans are and what advice you can give them about the business?”

“Did J.T. ask for me to come?”

Don hesitated, recalling his old friend’s troubled voice on the phone. “Not exactly,” he confessed. “Actually, I invited Tyler to come and stay here with us for a few weeks, have a look at our operation.”

Ruth shook her head. “That’s crazy, Dad. There’s nothing to look at at this time of year but a whole row of casks. And he’d get awful weary,” she added with a fond teasing smile, “of listening to that boring lecture you give the tour groups six times a week.”

“It is boring, isn’t it?” Don said cheerfully. “But the tourists seem to enjoy it.”

“Oh, pooh. They just enjoy the wine tasting. They’ll suffer through any dry old lecture to get their hands on those free samples.”

Ruth was silent a moment, obviously deep in thought. Her father waited for her to speak as he cleaned his plate with care.

“What’s the climate like in Texas?” she asked finally.

“Which part? Texas ranges from tropical seacoast and eastern woodlands to grassy plains and western desert. Take your pick.”

“I mean where the McKinneys live. Near Austin, isn’t it? I can hardly remember anything about the ranch, it’s been so long since I was there.”

Don nodded. “The Hill Country. It’s a nice area. Close to a region four, I’d say.”

Ruth looked at her father in surprise. “Really? They have a heat summation that high?”

“Oh, I’d think so. There’s a lot of hot sunny days in Central Texas.”

Ruth frowned in concentration. “If they’re region four,” she said slowly, “then with some hybrid plants along with vinifera they could choose between table wines or dessert wines, right? That degree of sugar content gives them a lot of options.”

Don nodded again. “A good portion of the Texas industry seems to be centered farther west around Lubbock, where it’s hard to assign a heat summation. But their wineries show a lot of flexibility, and Austin actually has a slightly more moderate climate. Certainly they have less danger of hail than over at Lubbock.”

Ruth nodded again, her brown eyes sparkling with interest. “Worse and worse,” she said. “That means the whole thing is actually feasible. What does J.T. think about this little project? Somehow I can’t imagine him involved with anything but horses and cows.”

“Well, he’s not wild about it,” Don said honestly. “In fact, he sounds quite reluctant. I guess his wife was too, at first, but apparently Tyler’s won her over and now they’re both pushing poor J.T. to get the project off the ground.”

Ruth grinned. “For the sake of your old friendship, I guess the kindest thing would be to give J.T. some support, right? One of us could go out there in a semi-professional capacity, throw all kinds of cold water on the whole proposal and then just come back home.”

“I think J.T. might be very grateful for that,” Don said with a solemn twinkle.

“So, why don’t you go?” Ruth asked.

“I don’t need a holiday,” Don said, topping up his wineglass. “I’m not the one who’s breaking up with boyfriends and grumbling about the weather all day long. Besides,” he added, “I have my tour groups six times a week.”

“I could lead the tour groups.”

“Certainly not. You don’t take it seriously enough.”

“Wine making? Come on, Dad. Nobody takes this business more seriously than I do.”

“No, I meant tourism,” Don said with a grin. “You don’t have the proper level of respect for the importance of the tourist, my girl.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that,” Ruth confessed. She was silent a moment, resting her elbow on the table, chin cupped thoughtfully in one hand. “Maybe I will,” she said at last.

“Go to Texas?”

“Just to see what they’re planning, and give your old friend some backup. Texas cowboys really shouldn’t try to make wine, Dad. I think I’ll just go out there and tell them so. Let the dragon lady know that I’m too full for dessert, okay?”

With a sudden rush of energy Ruth bounded from her chair and whirled across the room to drop a kiss on the top of her father’s head, then vanished down the hallway in a blur of faded denim and blue plaid, leaving Don gazing after her in bemused silence.

While the rain hissed softly against the tall, leaded-glass windows, Don Holden sat alone in the quiet dining room and sipped his wine, wondering ruefully if he’d done his old friend any favor by suggesting this little holiday.

THE HOLDEN HOUSE was built in the manner of a traditional Spanish hacienda, a low pillared square surrounding a central courtyard. The decor was cool and rustic, with dark polished wood floors, clean plastered walls and bright splashes of color in the woven Indian rugs and wall hangings.

Ruth’s rooms were tucked away in a quiet corner of the house—a bedroom, bath and small sitting room with glass doors opening onto the courtyard. She wandered into the sitting room and shut the door carefully, her burst of energy already fading, replaced by a flood of doubt and a fresh wave of the lassitude and depression that had dogged her so much of the time lately.

For a moment Ruth stood restlessly by the windows and gazed out at the flowing darkness, then looked back into the room as if seeking comfort. But for once the gracious furnishings, the carefully chosen watercolor prints on the walls and the beautiful Navaho rugs did nothing to lighten her mood.

She went over to punch a disk into her player, and the cool liquid sounds of classical guitar spilled through the quiet rooms. Ruth adjusted the volume, then looked around with a questioning air.

“Hagar,” she called, sinking down to lie full-length on her small couch. “Hagar, where are you? I need you, sweetie.”

Pleasantly muscle-weary from her long day of physical labor in the cold and rain, she propped her moccasined feet on the opposite arm of the couch and adjusted the pillows behind her head, then smiled as a huge orange Persian cat came padding out from the bedroom, yawning voluptuously.

Hagar was a big fluffy Viking of a cat with a wild russet cloud of fur that rayed out all around him in bright splendor. Ruth adored him, loved the regal air and noble carriage that hid an unusually gentle and loving soul.