Free Breeding Ground by Sally Wright Page B

money. We could use organized agendas, and set daily and weekly goals that have actual execution deadlines. The next day results could be reported, and more goals set. Tasks that cross over between departments could get the conflicts hammered out with everybody there to discuss the details, and the long-term effects.”
    Alice gazed at Spence for a minute, seeing the calm and the concentration, as she played with a colored pen. “Have you talked to Booker?”
    â€œDad’s out with a distributor, but I will when he gets back.”
    â€œGood. I know we need to become more professional. I can see that myself. Less ma-and-pa making it up as they go along.”
    â€œI think that’s exactly right.”
    â€œBut we’ll both need to talk to Booker. He hates anything that even suggests bureaucratic constraint.”
    â€œI’ve noticed,” Spence said, and laughed. “But nobody else can touch him when it comes to innovation and engineering, not in the whole industry.”
    â€œEven our competitors have been known to say that. So what else is on your mind?”
    â€œThere is something actually.” Spence leaned forward with his eyes fixed on his mom’s, and pushed his shirt sleeves up his arms, exposing three puckered shrapnel wounds. “I’ve decided to ask Tara to marry me.”
    Five seconds of silence followed while Alice took the blow to the chest she’d been waiting for for sometime. “I don’t expect she’ll turn you down, do you?”
    â€œNo. Probably not.” The smile was gone, and the blue eyes were careful, as the deep voice got quieter. “Is that all you’ve got to say?”
    â€œSpence, you know I want you to be happy.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd that I’ve always hoped you’d marry someone who complements you, and completes you too, if that makes any sense. The way your dad and I do each other. Not in our way, I don’t mean that. In whatever way fits you. It’s the greatest gift you get on this earth, the right husband or wife. And I hope she’s the right one.”
    â€œBut…”
    â€œYou’re thirty-eight years old. You fought your way through the Second World War, for heaven’s sake. It’s not up to me to say.”
    Spencer leaned forward, his arms on his thighs, his wheat-colored hair falling toward his eyes. “Then I guess that tells me where you stand. If you were thrilled you’d say so.”
    â€œIf there’s anything I can do to help with the wedding, or to help her in some way, you know I will.”
    â€œYes, I do. Thank you. I’m going to tell Dad tonight. You coming out to ride?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAlan Munro will be there to watch me use their experimental de-wormers. I think he’s someone you’ll like.”
    â€œGood.”
    â€œMom? Is something bothering you? You haven’t seemed quite yourself the last two or three weeks.”
    â€œNothing urgent really. There’re a couple of things I think you should know. We just haven’t had time to talk. Maybe we could have dinner when Booker’s up in Boston.”
    â€œSure. Just let me know what night.”
    Spencer Franklin had fifty acres of rolling pastureland on the south side of Versailles on a narrow road that meandered east from the main route to Shaker Village.
    He had two horses of his own, and boarded two for his parents. And it was his lifelong love of horses, from what Alan had pieced together, that helped him make real contributions to the design of trailers and horse vans, in spite of the fact that he’d studied history instead of engineering.
    Alan had met Spencer and his dad twice, though he’d only seen his mother in the hall at Blue Grass Horse Vans. But when Alan got to Spencer’s a little before six he saw Spencer’s mom, with a braid down her back, trotting a large bay gelding out of a patch of woods.
    She brought him