K.N. Casper - As Big As Texas

She was tempted to add that this first lesson might not last very long but decided not to dampen the girl’s enthusiasm. Megan would be preoccupied enough in class today without worrying about how long she’d get to ride her precious horse. “Now hurry. You don’t want to miss the bus.”

Ten minutes later the house was quiet.

“Are you sure about this riding business?” her father asked, over his second cup of coffee.

“Maybe this is just a phase, like Ethan says, but, Dad, how can I deny her the opportunity to find out?”

“Is that what Ritter thinks?”

She didn’t miss his use of the neighbor’s last name. “He says adolescence will probably distract her—”

“Woo her away, huh?” He smiled at her over the rim of his cup.

“Something like that.”

“How much time is this latest obsession of hers going to eat up?”

His tone was more amused than critical. Megan wanted to see and try everything. Most of the time her interest waned after the initial experience, but her fascination with horses hadn’t so far, and his concern had merit. Work on the vineyard, this first year especially, would absorb all Kayla’s spare time, another reason why Ethan had been right in discouraging her from buying a horse—for a while at least.

“Three one-hour lessons a week, Monday, Wednesday and Friday. We’re only a few minutes away—it’ll actually be less intrusive than having to take her to soccer or basketball.”

Boyd drank down the last of his coffee and got up from the table. “I’m going to walk the lines one more time.”

There was nothing wrong with the miles of wire they’d strung for the vines. But starting from scratch was a new adventure for both of them, and he was as nervous about it as she was.

“Thanks, Dad.”

He turned at the door. “For what?”

“Being here for us.”

His expression, often so intense and pensive, softened. “I’m the one who should be thanking you—for having me.”

Kayla got up, walked over to him and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll let you know when they call.”

IT TOOK A MINUTE for Kayla to recognize the white Ford crew cab barreling up the long driveway that afternoon. It was common for neighbors here to visit, out of friendliness and curiosity. Several people from town had already dropped by to welcome her and ask how she was fixing to use the land.

“Hi.” Ethan opened the truck door. “I thought I’d take a look at how things are going. Hear you got your vines delivered today.”

“Welcome to Stony Hill Vineyard,” Kayla said, not sure why she felt so pleased to see him. Or why she thought he looked so good in a red-plaid flannel shirt and a down-filled vest.

He hooked his thumbs in the corners of his jeans pockets. “I don’t know anything about vineyards, or wine, for that matter, except I can tell what I like when I taste it.”

“That’s a good start. White or red?”

“White mostly. But I like a hearty red with a thick, juicy steak, too.”

“A man after my own heart.” In more ways than one. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”

She led him to the tin barn they were using as a warehouse. Large, wooden crates were lined up, open, each with dozens of clipped shoots sticking out like porcupine quills. A few showed green nubs ready to burst, but most were still dormant. Her father was in the far corner frowning over the contents of a damaged crate.

“Dad!”

Straightening, he saw their visitor and began walking toward them. At fifty-six he was beginning to develop the rounded shoulders of a man who spent his days bent over. He wasn’t overweight, but what he carried was beginning to settle.

“This is Ethan Ritter, our next-door neighbor.”

Boyd removed his work gloves and they shook hands. Kayla watched as the two men sized each other up.

“He’s here for the grand tour,” she said.

“Not a lot to see right now,” her father commented. “We just got these in a couple of hours ago. Wait a few months after we get them in the ground, though, and everything greens up. Prettiest sight you ever did see.”

Ethan surveyed the rows of oblong boxes, apparently surprised by the large number. “How many…vines do you have here?”

“Six thousand,” Boyd said, “Enough for ten acres.”

“What kind are they?”

“Chenin blanc.”

“Come on,” Kayla said. “I’ll show you where we’ll plant them.”

“I’ve got to get back to work. You two run along.” Boyd waved as he returned to the damaged crate. “Nice meeting you, Ethan. Stop by anytime.”

“He loves this, doesn’t he?” Ethan commented as they stepped out into the bright afternoon sun.

The remark pleased Kayla, perhaps because she also heard approval in it. The two would get along fine, she decided.

She led him to a slope that was out of sight of the house and the road.

Ethan took in the rows of poles and wires as Kayla explained that her father had used the augur on their tractor to make holes in the ground every eight feet.

“Our initial yields won’t be very high,” she acknowledged, “and of course we won’t know the quality until we taste it, but even poor grapes can be used in blending bulk wines.”

“The kind that comes in cardboard boxes.” At her shudder, he grinned. “Hey, I told you I’m no connoisseur.”

“You’re right—” she laughed “—about the market for them, I mean. And that’s where our first few harvests will undoubtedly go. As the vines mature, we hope our grapes develop the kind of complexity that’ll allow us to bottle under our own label.”

“How much can you expect from only ten acres?”

“Between seventy-five and a hundred tons of grapes.”

His mouth dropped open. “Did you say tons? How many bottles would that equal?”

“About three thousand cases.”

“I’m impressed,” he said. “So how’d you get interested in grapes anyway?”

“Dad’s a master winemaker. I grew up in Oregon surrounded by vineyards and majored in viticulture in college.”

“Where?”

“University of Washington.”

“What are you doing here in Texas? Why not Oregon or Washington or California?”

“Mostly because I had to get Megan away from the cold, damp Northwest.” They walked down a row and Ethan tested the tension on the wire trellises. Tight as a bowstring.

“As for California,” she went on, “no way could I afford to buy or even lease land there. I considered working for someone else, but the cost of living on the West Coast is beyond my budget. The Home Free program here is a godsend.”

“Miranda Wright’s brainstorm.”

She glanced at him. “You don’t approve?”

“On the contrary. The program is brilliant, economically and socially. It’ll probably save Homestead.”

“Do I hear a but at the end of that sentence?”

“The alternative was Clint Gallagher buying up all the land and annexing it to his ranch—the Four Aces. That sure wouldn’t have increased the population or brought in more tax revenue.”

Kayla had the feeling Ethan wasn’t telling her everything. She’d heard there’d been a few opponents to the mayor’s plan to take possession of a failed ranch, subdivide it and sell off the parcels as a way of bolstering the declining local economy.

“How long does it take to establish a vineyard?” he asked, as they came to the end of the row and turned back.

“It’ll be three years before our first harvest. Five to seven years before we know with any certainty what kind of quantity and quality we can produce.”

“A pretty long-term capital investment then,” he noted. “And a pig in a poke.”

“Good investments, like wine and love,” she said with a smile, “take time.”