Free From the Boots Up by Andi Marquette Page A

name was
Margaret. But that’s not really me, so my dad started calling me Meg soon after
I was born. That stuck, too.”
    “A family name. On the record, now. What abut the
ranch? How far back does the Diamond Rock go?”
    These were questions she could handle, since guests
often asked them. She moved next to Gina so she, too, could lean against the
fence. She looked out over the paddock. “My dad’s grandfather Joseph. He came
here in 1890 from North Carolina when he was eighteen and built the lodge. We’ve
updated since then, obviously.” She smiled. “But we do have an outhouse, if you
want the full 1890 experience.”
    “I might. How could I tell people I’d been on a
Wyoming ranch and I didn’t use an outhouse a time or two?” She turned so she could
look out over the paddock, though she kept her gaze on Meg. “Then what?”
    “My grandfather Thomas—my dad’s dad—added
the motel part where you’re staying. That was 1954. He had this crazy idea that
people would go for a western dude ranch experience. His neighbors thought he
was nuts. But what do you know? He was a visionary.”
    “Did he start taking customers back in the fifties?”
    “The early sixties were better, as word got out, but the
fifties weren’t bad. Pop culture cowboys made people want to see if that was
for real. Which, of course, it pretty much isn’t, but a lot of times, people
liked the real thing, too.”
    “And your dad continued the ranching and guest
aspect.”
    Meg nodded. “My dad was born in the original lodge in
1953. I was born in Laramie.” She stopped, gazing at the horses.
    “You’re fourth generation. That’s amazing.” Gina’s
tone softened. “My mom’s parents immigrated from Italy. They started in New
York City but hated it and went all the way to California, where my family’s been
ever since.”
    “Wow.” She turned her head to look at her.
    “Yep. Californians all, now.”
    “That’s okay. I won’t hold it against you.”
    She laughed. “I’ll try to move beyond any city
slicker stereotypes you might have.”
    “Hey, my mom was born in Louisville, Kentucky, then
spent a good part of her life in Atlanta. So I won’t hold the city slicker
thing against you, either.”
    “Thank you.”
    “And my mom doesn’t live here anymore. She’s back in
Kentucky. Off the record, I think my dad and I drove her crazy.”
    “That or the winters here. So I take it you don’t have
any siblings.”
    She stared out across the paddock. “I did. An older
brother. He died three months after he was born. My folks didn’t want to try
again for a while after that. But then I came along.”
    “I’m sorry,” Gina said quietly. “I didn’t realize
that would end up being such a personal question.” She put her hand on Meg’s
arm and everything in the world faded and the only thing she knew was the
warmth of Gina’s palm.
    “It’s okay,” she said softly. “It was a few years
before I was born. My parents don’t talk about it much but he’s buried here.
His name was Thomas, too. After my grandfather.” She hoped Gina would leave her
hand there, and she did for a bit but then pulled it away, though she seemed to
let her fingers linger gently on her skin. Or maybe she imagined that.
    “What does your mom do?”
    “She’s re-married to a guy who owns very expensive
horses. She grew up on a horse farm and her family still raises horses, so they
ran in similar circles. Some of her husband’s horses have run the Derby.”
    “That explains the horse whisperer in you. You’ve got
horses on both sides of the family.” She studied her face and Meg allowed
herself a brief, luxurious swim in her eyes.
    “Yeah. Seems that way. What about you?” she asked, though
she didn’t expect Gina to answer, since she was here to extract information,
not the other way around. To her surprise, she did.
    “Mostly Italian, except for the poor souls who marry
in. Loud, big family. Two brothers and three sisters. I