“We just crossed over into Hayden Ranch territory,” my father says, his flattened palm running the length of an imaginary horizontal line.
“How could you possibly know that?” I ask, certain he’s about to make a joke.
“I studied a map of Beau Hayden’s property last night before I fell asleep.”
“Me too. The town, I mean. I researched the town. I learned a lot about what I think Sierra Grande is missing in terms of retail space.”
My dad glances over. He’s impressed. “You should tell Beau in the meeting.”
I nod, and nerves turn over in my stomach.
We continue to climb in elevation, and soon we’re running parallel to the town. The roads look like a grid, and a large street which I’ve learned is called High Street, runs through what is obviously the center of town where all the shops and stores are, and eventually gives way to homes. It has a decent-size population, but the way Jo automatically knew about the Hayden family makes me think it’s a place where everyone knows everyone else. Or, at least, everyone knows the Haydens.
“And here we are,” Dad announces, slowing as we approach a large metal sign held up by two wooden posts. The sign reads Hayden Cattle Company. He turns, the car tumbling off the paved road and onto a long dirt driveway, where maybe a half-mile away a house sits. Despite my dad’s slowed speed, dust kicks up on either side of the car, and it hits me that this is a convenient way to force visitors to announce their presence.
Or maybe it’s just an unpaved road, Dakota. Jo’s reaction coupled with the Rich Calloway story has me building a fantasy of the Haydens in my head, and it mainly centers around some hillbillies stepping out of the massive house at the end of the long driveway chewing on a piece of wheat and pointing shotguns at us.
I remind myself it was Beau Hayden who agreed to this meeting, and my overactive imagination needs to take a Valium.
“Well,” is the only word I can think to say as we get closer to the house. It’s really not a house. It’s a compound. The home is a two-story and sprawling. Richly-colored dark brown logs and stone in varying shades of gray make up the exterior. A huge porch makes the front of the house look inviting, and plants flank the walkway leading to the front door. It’s rustic and western and unexpectedly elegant.
We come to a stop thirty yards from the home’s entrance, the dust settling around the car.
“We’ve got this, Junior.” My dad holds out a fist and I bump it.
I climb from the car and am met with the smell of horses and dirt, grass and pine. It’s earthy and comforting. Together we walk toward the oversized front door, and I’m no longer entertaining the thought that hillbillies are going to walk out. Now I’m seeing a blonde woman, hair in an elegant bun, wearing a cream silk blouse tucked into Wranglers and embroidered cowgirl boots. Obviously these are details I’ve picked up from movies, because where the hell am I getting these ideas?
We climb the steps and pause at the door, sharing a look. Dad knocks on the door, and while we wait I look around. A set of chairs and a table sits off to the side of the long porch. It looks like the perfect place to relax and drink coffee in the morning, the steam rising up from your cup while you listen to the horses whinny, or watch a bunny scamper around the flowers in the beds on either side of the porch steps.
The door opens and my attention snaps to it like a rubber band. Standing in the opening is a young girl with hair the color of honey. It’s piled on top of her head. She wears too much eyeliner and hot pink sparkly eyeshadow.
“Hi,” she says cheerfully. Her ready grin reminds me of Jo from last night.
“Hello,” my father says. “We have a meeting with Beau Hayden.”
“Yep.” She nods. “He asked me to get the door when you knocked. He and my brother had to check on one of the foals. They’ll be right back.” She steps away from the door and sweeps her arm out. “Come on in.”
If I was impressed by the outside, I’m a thousand times more in awe of the inside.
The walls are made of the same wood, and the vaulted ceilings have beams running the length and then meeting at the apex. A fireplace sits in the middle of the room, two-sided and made of the same stone as the exterior, and it reaches all the way to the ceiling.
“Your home is lovely,” I remark, taking in the leather couches and cow-print rug near the fireplace.
“Thank you,” a different voice responds.
Turning, I watch a woman enter the foyer. She’s not wearing a cream silk blouse, but she is wearing Wranglers and boots (not embroidered). Her hair, the same color as the young girl who answered the door, brushes her collarbone.
“Juliette Hayden,” she says, hand extended as she walks closer.
“Dakota Wright.” I step into her handshake. Her grip is firm, and just from this single, quick interaction, I get the feeling she is no-nonsense. “This is my dad—”
“Mitch Wright, Mrs. Hayden,” my dad interjects, introducing himself. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Likewise, Mr. Wright.” Her tone is clipped, but not in a rude way. She has a restless energy, like maybe she was doing something when we showed up and she needs to get back to it.
“You and Miss Wright can wait in my husband’s office, if you’d like. He’ll be along any moment, along with the realtor.” She offers a tight smile. “Seems like everyone is running a bit behind today.”
“Mom, I can show them the way.”
My shoulders jump a little at the young girl’s voice behind me. I’d completely forgotten she was there.
“Thank you, Jessie.” With a nod at my dad and me, the Hayden matriarch strides away.
“This way, guys,” Jessie says, stepping around me.
If Mrs. Hayden hadn’t said Jessie’s name, I wouldn’t know it. Not that it’s the young girl’s fault. I’m guessing she’s about seventeen, and I can say with one hundred percent certainty that when I was seventeen, I wasn’t answering doors politely and showing people to my father’s office. Getting high, getting drunk, and cutting class were my three biggest hobbies, until my parents threatened to kick me out. After that, I took care of the problem for them, by moving out the day I turned eighteen.
Jessie leads us through the living room and down a long hallway, then into a room. “The table is set up for the meeting.” She motions at a round table near a window. A silver tray with water bottles sits in the center of the table.
“Thank you, Jessie.” I walk to the table and pull out a seat. My dad chooses the seat beside me, and Jessie disappears from the room.
“Nice pile of bricks,” my dad elbows me as he says it.
I laugh. “You mean wood and stone?”
“Something like that, yeah.” Just as I finish my sentence I hear it… the unmistakable sound of boots on the floor, getting closer and closer. My fingers curl into fists at my sides, and for a quick second, I feel like retching. My first meeting with my dad, and a high-stakes one at that.
What if I fall on my face? What if I say um too much? What if I say something idiotic or struggle to find the correct word? What if—
Beau Hayden strides through the open door. He’s a big man. His shoulders barely fit through the doorframe, and he’s tall too. Wrinkles etch his forehead and his eyes. He’s an intimidating man.