Normally he didn’t consider himself a ‘first class’ kind of man. Wealthy, yes. Afford the best, no problem. But frills and fuss made him nervous. So did cities, and fine clothes. That’s why he travelled in his oldest jeans and denim jacket, complete with scuffed shoes. It was his way of saying that ‘first class’ wasn’t going to get him.
An elegant stewardess hovered over him as solicitously as if he didn’t look like a hobo. ‘Champagne, sir?’
He took a moment to relish her large blue eyes and seductively curved figure. It was an instinctive reaction, a tribute paid to every woman under fifty, and since he was a warm-hearted man he usually found something to enjoy.
‘Sir?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Would you like some champagne?’
‘Whisky would be better.’
‘Of course, sir. We have—’ she rattled off a list of expensive brands until Leo’s eyes glazed.
‘Just whisky,’ he said, with a touch of desperation.
As he sipped the drink he yawned and wished the journey away. Eleven hours gone and the last was the worst because he’d run out of distractions. He’d watched the film, enjoyed two excellent meals and flirted with the lady sitting beside him.
She’d responded cheerfully, attracted by his handsome, blunt-featured face framed by dark-brown hair with a touch of curl, and the lusty gleam in his blue eyes. They’d enjoyed a pleasant hour or two until she fell asleep. After that he flirted with the air hostesses.
But for the moment he was alone, with only his thoughts of the coming visit to occupy him. A couple of weeks on the Four-Ten, Barton Hanworth’s ranch near Stephenville, Texas, enjoying wide-open spaces, the outdoor life, riding, attending the nearby rodeo, was his idea of heaven.
At last the great jet was descending to Atlanta. Soon he’d be able to stretch his legs, even if only for a couple of hours before squeezing his protesting frame onto the connecting flight to Dallas.
Ben pared the bill to the bone because he was fond of Selena, and he knew her next few dollars would go on Elliot’s welfare. Any cents left over would buy food for herself, and if there were none, she’d go without. He helped her hitch the horse trailer onto the back of the van, kissed her cheek for luck and watched as she eased her way carefully out of his yard. As she vanished he sent up a prayer to whichever deity watched over crazy young women who had nothing in the world but a horse, a clapped-out van, the heart of a lion and a bellyful of stubbornness.
By the time Leo boarded the connecting flight at Atlanta jet lag was catching up with him and he managed to doze until they touched down. As he unfolded his long body he vowed never to get on another aeroplane as long as he lived. He did that after every flight.
As he came out of Customs he heard a booming voice.
‘Leo, you young rascal!’
Leo’s face lit up at the sight of his friend advancing on him with open arms.
‘Barton, you old rascal!’
The next moment the two men were pummelling each other joyfully.
Barton Hanworth was in his fifties, a large amiable man with grizzled hair and the start of a paunch that his height still disguised. His voice and his laugh were enormous. So were his car, his ranch and his heart.
Leo made sure to study the car. In the six weeks since this trip was planned he’d spoken to Barton several times on the telephone, and never once had his friend missed the chance to talk about his ‘new baby’. It was the latest, the loveliest, the fastest. He didn’t mention price, but Leo had checked it online, and it was the costliest.
So now he knew his duty, and lavished praise on the big, silver beauty, and was rewarded by Barton’s beaming smile.
Since Leo travelled light it took barely a moment to load his few bags, and they were away on the two-hour journey to the ranch near Stephenville.
‘How come you flew from Rome?’ Barton said, his eyes on the road. ‘I thought Pisa was closer for you.’
‘I was in Rome for my cousin Marco’s engagement party,’ Leo said. ‘Do you know him? I forget.’
Barton grunted. ‘He was at your farm when I came to Italy two years back, and bought those horses of yours. What’s she like?’
‘Harriet?’ A big grin broke over Leo’s handsome face. ‘I tell you, Barton, if she weren’t my cousin’s fiancée—well, she is, more’s the pity.’
‘So Marco drew the prize and he’s hog-tied at last?’
‘Yes, I think he is,’ Leo said thoughtfully. ‘But I’m not sure if he knows it yet. If you believe him, he’s making a “suitable” marriage to the granddaughter of his mother’s old friend, but there was something very odd about that party. I don’t know what happened exactly, but afterward Marco spent the night outside, sleeping on the ground. I went out for a breather at dawn, and saw him. He didn’t see me, so I vanished.’
‘No explanations?’
‘He never said a word. You know, Marco’s last engagement got broken off in a way nobody ever talks about.’
‘And you think this one’ll be the same?’
‘Could be. It depends on how soon he realises he’s crazy about Harriet.’
‘What about your brother? Isn’t he going the same way?’
‘Oh, Guido’s got enough sense to know when he’s crazy. He’s all right. Dulcie’s perfect for him.’
‘So that just leaves you on the loose?’ Barton said with a fat chuckle.
‘On the loose and happy to stay that way. They won’t catch me.’
‘That’s what they all say, but look around. Good men are going down like ninepins.’
‘Barton, have you any idea how many women there are in the world?’ Leo demanded. ‘And how few of them I’ve managed to meet so far? A man should be broad-minded, expand his horizons.’
‘You’ll find “the one”, in the end,’ Barton said.
‘But I do, time and again. Then the next day I find another one who is also “the one”. That’s how I get short-changed.’
‘You? Short-changed?’ Barton guffawed.
‘True, I swear it. Look at me, all alone. No loving wife, no kids.’ He sighed sorrowfully. ‘You don’t know what a tragedy it is for a man to realise that nature has made him fickle.’
‘Yeah, sure!’
This time they both laughed. Leo had a delightful laugh, full of sun and wine, lusty with life. He was a man of the earth, who instinctively sought the open air and the pleasures of the senses. It was all there in his eyes, and in his big, relaxed body. But above all it was there in his laugh.
On the last lap to Stephenville Barton began to yawn.
‘It’s enough to make a man cross-eyed to be staring at a horse’s ass for so long,’ he said.
Just ahead of them was an ancient, shabby horse trailer, displaying a large equine rump. It had been there for some time.
‘Plus I had to get up at some ungodly hour to be at the airport on time,’ Barton added.
‘Hey, I’m sorry. You should have told me.’
‘Well, it wasn’t just that. We were up late last night, celebrating your visit.’
‘But