“I wish I had time to do it,” he responded enigmatically. “Come on in.” He hesitated as curses echoed from the living room. His lips made a thin line. “Damn it! Mina, it might be better if you wait here…” he began.

She ignored him and went right into the hall and, from there, into the elegant living room with its crystal chandelier and Victorian furniture and big, open fireplace. A white-haired man, tall like Cort, was trying to pick up a table which he’d apparently overturned. He was staggering.

Mina went forward and righted the table as he finally got it back in place. She could almost feel his pain. She’d lived with alcoholics for a long time, but this one didn’t frighten her. She remembered what Cort had told her about his father. The older man looked down at her, his silver hair falling onto a broad forehead. Dark brown eyes met hers. He blinked. “Who are you?” he asked belligerently.

“I’m Cort’s wife,” she said softly.

He seemed disconcerted. While Cort looked on, spellbound, she reached for the elderly man’s hand. “Wouldn’t you like to sit down? You look very tired.”

“Well…well, yes, I am tired. A little.”

She led him to the sofa and waited while he sat down. She perched herself on the edge of a wing chair.

“You’re the rancher from Wyoming,” he said, slurring his words.

She nodded. “It’s just a little ranch, though,” she replied gently. “Not anything as big as yours and Cort’s.” She shook her head and sighed. “It looks as if you could ride all day and never leave Latigo.” She frowned slightly. “Latigo. That’s the leather strip on the saddletree that tightens the cinch,” she mused.

He chuckled. “Well, the history of the ranch is in a book somewhere.” He waved his hand in the general direction of a floor-to-ceiling bookcase in an adjoining room. “But the legend is that the first owner, a Spanish grandee, caught his hand in one while he was tightening the cinch and got dragged to the front gate. He had a grand sense of humor, apparently, because that’s the name he gave the ranch. It’s been Latigo ever since.”

“I like it,” she said.

Vic looked toward his son. “You never said she was pretty,” he chided.

Cort chuckled as he joined them. “You never asked.” He raised his voice. “Chaca, any chance of coffee and cake?”

A small, dark woman poked her head out of the kitchen. “Do you see that?” she asked, indicating a piece of equipment on an end table. “That is an intercom. You push the button and I answer.”

“More fun to just yell,” Cort retorted with a grin.

She threw up her hands. “You are the most troublesome man…” She stopped dead when she saw Mina. “Oh, excuse me,” she said hesitantly and she moved farther into the room, wiping her wet hands on the long, embroidered apron she was wearing. “I am Chiquita, but everyone in the family calls me Chaca, for short,” she said softly.