Max Ibach has fashioned another hemline ripper for his audience that takes place on a ranch in beautiful Idaho. When Uncle Charley dies, Jamie Sage inherits six million dollars, an Investment banking business, and a forty thousand acre ranch. The ranch adjoins the magnificent Frank Church, River of no Return Wilderness Area. Big Horn Ranch is eighty miles from a town of any sort.
Miss Sage, a gorgeous redhead, turns the place into a guest ranch following advice in her deceased uncleís will. Miss Sage has a masterís degree in business administration, but knows absolutely nothing about running a ranch. When she needs a manager, a talented thirty-two year old drifter knocks at her front door and both their lives are immediately changed.
Wilhelm Gerrig Dorback is a six-foot tall, ex-marine, whose home address is the Wind River Reservation, Fort Washakie, Wyoming. Will is half northern Arapahoe Indian. On the Tribal Registry as Black Walking Fox, he has never been married nor does he have any intent in that direction.
Miss Sage decides that Will, with his lean muscular body, black hair and dark eyes, is the most beautiful man she has ever seen. The problem is that Jamie Sage has a virginís contract. When Will is told that Jamie has been chaste from birth, he becomes her protector instead of her seducer.
In spite of good intentions, Jamie remains enchanted with the idea of taking him as her all-orifice-love-freak; all, but one. When she involves him in the Ďmany ways of gratification, without deflowering the maidení, Willís torment begins. He becomes infatuated with his bewitching redheaded boss. Jamieís doctorís appointment, followed by a three-day camping trip into the wilderness provides ample opportunity for naughty mischief and all the romantic interludes anyone could want.
As Jamie is packing for the trip home three armed outlaws kidnap her for their own pleasure. Will witnesses the criminals remove her at gunpoint, and blind with fury Black Walking Fox sets about rescuing her. You would rather invite a bull into your China shop, than turn an ex-Marine Arapahoe Indian warrior loose with a hunting knife and a mission to reclaim his beloved.
This story beams with primitive sexuality and humor that flows through the tale like an intravenous drip; a story told with tissue-thin delicacy and escalating pleasures. This is a time-stopper of a yarn that concludes with an emotionally draining climax. Be prepared for an all-nighter with this one.
I sit on the front deck of the elderly log ranch house in a comfortable old rocker until Iím bored nearly to death. My laptop lies on the end table near my left elbow and Iím fed up with that, as well. In four weeks, the first load of summer guests will arrive and weíre not nearly ready.
Six months ago my favorite uncle died and left me six million dollars, an investment banking business in New York City, and a wonderfully remote forty thousand acre ranch in Idaho. I love the money and the banking business, but am uncertain about the ranch. Now that Iím here, I just want to sit around, inhale the air, and stare at the snow capped mountains. Iíve decided during the past few days that I can write a book entitled ĎWhat I Donít Know About Ranchingí, but nobody will want to read it. There are simply too many things I donít understand about ranching, and it makes my ordinarily bright mind feel feeble. A half hour ago, I decided I need a ranch foreman in a hurry, but have no idea where to find or even look for one.
The idea of running a ranch is totally foreign to me. I grew up in north Chicago, and until this very trip have never traveled west of the Mississippi River at any elevation lower than twenty thousand feet. Idaho seems like a foreign country that lies somewhere beyond the horizon. The ranch is eighty miles from a grocery store and just as many miles from anything entertaining. I want to be back in Chicago enjoying the nightlife, while someone else figures out all this stuff and then reports to me.
One thing Uncle Charley and I agree on is that this place needs to be a Guest Ranch. Thatís the only way it has half a chance of supporting itself. If it doesnít support itself, then it is little more than beautiful scenery and a headache. We raise cattle, but with the price of beef the way it is, we will simply be giving away the grass they eat and all the labor associated with caring for them.
With the guest ranch plan in mind, I drove here two weeks ago to supervise getting the place in shape for the new venture. Iím not certain I havenít lost some brain cells in the process. The only thing Iíve accomplished is to make a new friend in Mandy Hastings. Sheís ten years my senior, has children on their own somewhere in the world, and she has a prince of a man in Ernie, her husband.
The only real accomplishment during my weeks of servitude is that before I left Chicago, I set up an advertising campaign through an old classmate who knows about such things. Her company is small enough to be efficient and not as expensive as some of the bigger outfits. I gave her only one idea: we need to set up a booth in a couple of the hunting and fishing tradeshows to get us on the map and identify our competition. I am desperate for more workers, but few people are willing to live eighty miles from a movie theater. I need to learn where to hire people, and in a hurry.
Chuck had authored the original guest ranch idea before he died, and he had begun the initial planning and construction phases. The former bunkhouse had been converted into guest quarters and another larger structure was built of turned logs for a kitchen and dinning area combination. A small group of family oriented quarters had been tacked onto the end of the main ranch building. Further to the west a bunkhouse structure entirely away from the guests, would provide worker housing.
A much smaller structure had been erected near the swimming pool. The new addition housed a wash-a-teria and additional storage space. Twenty individual A-frame structures had been built for family living. They came complete with cooking facilities for those who desired that sort of thing. Of course, if you want to cook you first have to drive eighty miles to get something to fix. Either that or you need to be notified ahead of time in order to bring groceries with you.
Perhaps we should put in one of those expensive gas stations with high priced food items to pad our profit margin. I entertain that idea and place a bullet at the beginning of the paragraph so it has more of a chance of enactment than an idea in plain English. We have converted the end of the building nearest the swimming pool into a snack bar. The storage area is for those things required to maintain seventy-six guest rooms. According to the architect, the kitchen and dining hall will feed a hundred fifty people at one setting, if that many showed up.
There is a regular crew of twelve families who have worked the ranch forever. Among those workers in residence, age is becoming a factor I didnít want to consider. We need an infusion of new blood or the impending crisis appears bleak. Of course, I donít want to lay anyone off because of age, but I need some younger people desperately. They are a requirement to take over the intense manual labor the ranch requires. What immediately comes to mind is the incredible number of migrants flooding across the southern U.S. border? Some of those people should be familiar with farming and ranching. If they are illegal, we could get them into a program to earn a Green Card and become citizens. Surely, something like that would be an inducement to anyone wanting a permanent job that doesnít involve stoop labor, pumping septic tanks, or hanging onto the backside of a garbage truck.
Uncle Chuck dearly loved this place and stayed here year-round, a fact that eventually killed him. It was winter and he suffered a major heart attack at a time when weather prevented Flight for Life from bringing him out. Along with his coronary, the weather had turned abysmal and remained so for more than a week. The road to civilization had become blocked by four feet of snow, so the only help available was a helicopter or the snow cat. The cat was out for a transmission and without communications the staff had no way of ordering one to come to the ranch. When the helicopter was finally able to land at the ranch, Charley was dead. The ranch hands had stored his body in an unheated outbuilding for preservation until help arrived.
I pick up my laptop and stroll inside to sit at Charleyís old roll top desk. Iíve discovered I think best while Iím in the presence of the old desk. Its many cubbyholes are stuffed with ancient information steeped in the history of the place.
The only contact with the outside world at the height of winter is an ancient HAM radio that sometimes works, and now my new wireless computer hook up. Travel by snow cat or a snowmobile is the only way out of here when the place in the dead of winter. Clearing forty miles of gravel road with a plow after the first major snowstorm is not an option. At the time of Uncle Charleyís demise, the snow cat was out of commission and he couldnít travel sitting upright on the back of a snowmobile.
The only source of electrical power available to us year round is either a pair of twin diesel generators or the wind generator and its battery bank. The wind generator has proven only marginally successful. The reason for that is to use the wind generator for any length of time requires the wind to be blowing. Come to think of it, itís blown most of the time since Iíve been here.
The battery storage banks have been a source of unreliability; this is a problem I need to solve immediately. We either need none, more, or newer and I donít have enough electrical knowledge to solve the riddle. Reconstructing the wind generator system will be a summer job for someone who knows something about electricity, which I never will. There is also the dilemma of getting an electrician to drive eighty miles one way to tell us what to do. Following his outrageous estimate and my attempt to get the price down, he will undoubtedly tell me how far to shove the project up my you know what and depart in a huff.
We have a small filling station with underground tanks of diesel and regular grade gas. We are so far into the backcountry, any visitor has to have a vehicle with a range of 160 miles or be able to buy gas here for the return trip to civilization. We are so far from humanity, that fact in itself is a selling point. We have television only at the main house and there are no phones available, so anyone coming here needs to enjoy solitude. What we do have is an overabundance of mountains, tall pines, and trout streams. If the guests like those things, theyíll love it here.
Of the twelve family men and three teenagers in residence, all are involved with the ranching and farming end of the operation. The man who is the current temporary straw boss doesnít want to be a foremen, he would rather be driving a tractor or astride a horse. In his case, the Peter Principle has caught up with him. He has been promoted to his level of incompetence and is unconcerned with advancing further.
The female sides of the families are functioning as cooks and domestic help. They will feed the guests and maintain the living quarters, but there simply arenít enough of them to be practical. All workers are members of families where both parents work. In those families, several kids are on the payroll and several more are coming of age so that they can be put to work. They will provide additional willing hands to help with things where we are undermanned or other things not yet discovered.
The ranch had been Chuckís favorite toy, overcoming even his love of his Maine stationed sailboat. In his youth, he was a very successful Wall Street investment banker who had made his fortune early and retired at fifty. During his initial retirement he had been invited to Big Horn Ranch for a two-week vacation. When the owner died suddenly in a horse accident, Chuck Malloy bought the ranch at a bargain basement price for his own amusement.
Uncle Chuck looked like the original model for the Marlboro man, tall and lean with the rugged features of an outdoorsman. As soon as he took over the ranch, he began turning the place into a vacation attraction. His plan came together slowly, because he was in no hurry to finish fiddling with his ultimate plaything. His forty thousand acres of range and timberland backed up against the Frank Church River of No Return Wilderness Area. The wilderness area adds another 2,366,757 square miles of the most beautiful land God ever created.
I discover early in my investigation that we can build a sizable fishing and rafting business if we are able to meet all the safety, insurance, and licensing requirements of the National Park Service, the state of Idaho, and the Bureau of Land Management. That segment of the business will also require knowledge that I donít possess, but the fish and game slice of life at Big Horn will be essential to keeping the place profitable.
One of my several problems is that I canít stand the thought of owning something that doesnít pay for itself, even me. Since Iíve been here, Iíve wondered numerous times why Iíve never married. The men Iíve dated all had one thing in common: they all wanted unlimited sex on a regular basis. With todayís deck of sexually transmitted diseases available, I was fearful of what promiscuous men might deal me. Of course, one of my problems is my reluctance to become a slut to keep a man around. I am simply not into short-term relationships that require me to be mostly on my back with my heels in the air. What I want is a man who is not afraid of commitment, wants eventual marriage, and enjoys my company. Maybe then I could renounce the contract with my father. So far, none of the hobos Iíve encountered wanted any of that. What they seemed to want is a tramp that will perform all imagined sexual acts and do anything to keep them around. I was in college when I developed the philosophy of Ďmove on, Busterí. If they didnít want to play my way, then Ďmove on, Busterí. During my college years I was completely happy with the results. Once on my own in the world, I prepared to live as a spinster for the rest of my life, if thatís what is required.
There will be men and some women guests who will want to do float trips on the trout streams and the fact that we can provide such things will attract the entire family unit. We can have trail rides, camp outs, and barbecues that will furnish family entertainment appealing to everyone. Hunting season will also offer an aspect we need to explore. Another sentence, and another bullet. With an e-mail I put another friend in Chicago to work to discover how we can find some good Latinoís with legitimate Green Cards to work here. I ask for fifteen families to start with, and if those work out then we will get more.
The first fifteen families will probably have additional relatives south of the border to draw from. The initial group needs to be from areas in Mexico associated with ranching and farming and it would be best if they are families instead of single people. I need individuals with farming experience to run the livestock, hay and grain operations. The ranch has grandfather rights to irrigation water, so we have an extensive irrigation system to tend during the growing season.
We need three cuttings from the hay fields; because feeding sixty-two horses and mules; plus an unknown number of cattle, requires a strategy I am unfamiliar with.
I theorize that today there is a computer program for every thing. I obviously need to look into both farming and ranching programs and a high powered computer system. Another sentence and another bullet.
The more I study my problem, the more I realize the middle of winter is not the time to run out of feed for the livestock. Uncle Charley had equipped his ranch with the machinery to harvest hay in one ton bales. He even found two used, but in excellent condition, articulating forklifts to handle the bales at the barn or in the fields. He had erected the third hay enclosure to keep the bails out of the weather, and that made three in all. Somehow he had calculated that the contents of three barns was the necessary amount of hay he needed to feed his livestock through the winter. Before winter sets in every year he sold off enough cattle to make winter feeding manageable. Ernie Hastings seemed to have a handle on how many head to keep for calf production the following year. He used Brown Swiss Bulls instead of the standard Angus breed so popular in the area.
As I am in mid-thought, I look out the front window and see a hiker lugging a serious pack, trudging slowly up my entry road. The man wears a wide brimmed Australian style hat with a mosquito net rolled up and stowed around the brim. His shorts are of a camouflage material with zipper pockets all over the outside. He has knee length OD knit socks with the tops rolled down a couple of turns so they remained up where they should be. His above the ankle brogues look like something a Timber Cruiser might wear, and he carries a stout walking staff of at least six feet in length.
I am taken by his rugged appearance. Every item of his dress and equipment seems well thought out and planned before purchase. He looks completely prepared for the mountains further to the west. Although, eighty miles in the middle of nowhere seems quite a hike for exercise. Perhaps the guy is an idiot and has lost his way.
He climbs the steps, drops his pack, and leans it against the front wall. While I watch, he stretches himself past his full height and muscles pop out all over his visible torso. When he is comfortable in his own skin, he comes to the front door where he knocks by leaning the end of the staff repeatedly against the heavy wood of the door. I hurry in my housecoat to grant him entrance. And from the looks of him, anything else he might want.
When I open the door, he removes his hat and I am looking at the prettiest man I have ever seen. Handsome just doesnít cover it; he has the type of beauty a woman would envy. His assets cover flawless skin and long dark eyelashes surrounding intense blue eyes. He appears to be in his early to mid thirties. After he takes off his hat, dark curly locks frame his face. Nothing seems out of place in his features, he is even clean shaven, but would have looked good even if he wore a beard. I immediately imagine the tickle of a beard along the inside of both thighs and am instantly aroused. Damn you, Jamie, keep your wits about you.
"Yes? What can I do for you?"
"Iím looking for work, and wonder if your ranch might be hiring?"
How about providing stud service for the owner of the property, I think to myself, but ask him, "What do you have experience doing?"
"I worked on the Chatham Barnhard Ranch in Oklahoma for three years. I can break horses, work cattle, and tend a haying operation. Every thing you have here, I can do."
"Thatís damned impressive," I say, without even thinking. "Do you have any references I can contact?"
He reaches into what appears to be a WWII gas mask carrier strapped across his chest at an angle, and produces a plastic covered sheet of typing paper with a host of names, addresses, and phone numbers typed neatly beneath the coating.
"Any of those people will give me a reference," he says.
"Why are you here instead of working somewhere in Oklahoma? Iíve heard of three of these places, and any one of them provides year-round employment."
"Every one of those ranches will give me a great recommendation, and I can go back to any of them anytime I want. For the last few years, Iíve work somewhere until I earned enough money to continue my education, then Iíd go back to school until I need money again."
"That in itself is a negative recommendation to me," I tell him. "I need people I can rely on to work here year-round, not just until they satisfy their need for tuition."
"I understand that, maíam. I donít intend to do that for the rest of my life. Itís possible I can finish my education by computer and I wonít have to go somewhere for hands-on study. Iím just asking for a chance to show you what I can do. Iím certain you will be happy with my abilities. Just give me a couple weekís try and if you arenít satisfied, Iíll leave willingly."
I take another look at him and realize I would enjoy being in bed with him. Get a grip, Jamie, the man is looking for work, not romance.
"I see on your reference list your name as Wilhelm Gerrig Dorback. What do people call you?"
"Most everyone calls me Will, but some call me Willy and others Gerrig."
"Okay, Will, Iíll give you a try. You can drop your stuff in the bunkhouse, and then come back so we can discuss what you will be doing and your salary."
"Aye, aye, maíam. Which way is the bunkhouse?"