After his father’s death, he reinstated the Flying B’s horse-breeding program, thereby returning the ranch to its original purpose. Ram recognized that his was a rare combination of professions. And like Wyatt, he had never truly decided which he loved most. His other son, Morgan, had always preferred the firm.

Just then Ram saw Wyatt’s Jaguar convertible turn off the highway in the distance and onto the long, paved road that led to the main house. Smiling slyly, he nudged Butch and Sundance awake.

“Look, boys!” he shouted. “Wyatt’s home! Go get ’im!”

At once the dogs leaped from the porch and tore off down the road to meet Wyatt’s car. As Wyatt watched them come, he shook his head. This was a scenario that had been repeated many times before, always at Ram’s bidding. The dogs loved Wyatt. Aunt Lou brazenly claimed that they cared more for him than they did for Ram—an opinion with which Ram stubbornly took issue. From behind the wheel of his car, Wyatt could only surrender to the inevitable.

As soon as Wyatt’s car slowed, Butch and Sundance started barking and jumping on the driver’s door in their eagerness to see him. The dogs’ claws had scratched the car door so many times that Wyatt had simply given up having it repainted. Wyatt’s “scratchy Jag,” as the family called it, looked terrible, but Wyatt had become resigned to it.

Ram put his boots back on top of the rail then swallowed another generous slug of bourbon as he watched Wyatt walk up the stone steps and onto the broad porch.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” he said. “Go get changed, then come have a drink with me. And bring the bottle back with you.”

After answering his father with an affectionate touch on one shoulder, Wyatt entered the house. The Blaine residence was a magnificent place, and Wyatt had lived there nearly all his life.

A series of massive white columns graced the front of the redbrick mansion. All around it lay sprawling, manicured lawns and rolling flower beds. A marble fountain set into the center of the circular drive playfully sprayed water into the air, and waxy-leafed magnolia trees lined either side of the paved road leading in from the highway that lay some three hundred feet to the east. All told, the mansion was three stories high, with more than fifty rooms. As Wyatt strode across the foyer’s checkerboard floor and headed for the huge curved staircase, he smelled chicken frying. On reaching the second floor, he turned down one of many red-carpeted hallways adorned with Old West paintings and Remington bronzes, then headed toward his private rooms.

Swinging the door open, he strode inside and tossed his suit coat onto the huge four-poster bed. He then walked to the leaded-glass balcony doors and opened them wide to admire the view from the front of the house. Because it was February, the air-conditioning wasn’t needed. He quickly changed into a pair of worn jeans, a denim shirt, and his most comfortable boots. Sunday dinner was mandatory at the Flying B, but it was never dressy.

He returned downstairs and entered the game room. Complete with a billiards table, a poker table, and a full-length bar, it was Wyatt’s favorite room in the house. Behind the bar, he poured some bourbon into a leaded highball glass and took an appreciative sip. Then he grabbed the bottle and made his way toward the kitchen. As he neared, he could hear Aunt Lou singing to herself, a sure sign that she was pleased with the way her dinner was progressing.

When Aunt Lou cooked she always did so manically, like she was at war with the food. And like any cook worth her salt, she considered the kitchen her own special province.