Secret Honor (Honor Bound 3)

He was followed by Enrico Rodríguez, on a magnificent roan. Enrico was wearing the billowing shirt, trousers, wide-brimmed black hat, and wide leather belt of a gaucho. The stock of a Mauser 7mm cavalry-model carbine rested on his thigh, and a .45 ACP pistol was in his wide belt.

When Señora Frade examined her husband more closely, she saw that he, too, was armed. An old Colt six-shooter was stuck in his waistband (he had shown her the weapon with great pride; it had belonged to his grandfather, el Coronel Guillermo Alejandro, and it had been his “working gun”—whatever that meant), and he had what Señora thought of as another “cowboy gun” in a scabbard attached to Julius Caesar’s saddle. This weapon, she had learned when her husband had found it in the estancia armory—with all the joy of a ten-year-old finding an electric train under his Christmas tree—was a Winchester Model 94 30.30 lever action.

One just like it—“my first high-power”—had been presented to Clete by his uncle Jim on his thirteenth birthday. This occasion had also been marked by “my first whitetail six-point buck.” He had explained to her this meant a deer with an unusually large rack of horns.

Dorotéa Frade could not imagine a responsible adult making a present of a dangerous weapon to a thirteen-year-old, much less taking him out to slaughter a helpless animal with it the same day—and this provided her with yet another opportunity to remind herself that she had married a Texan, not an Argentine, and that a Texan could not be expected to behave like an Argentine.

Don Cletus Frade dismounted from Julius Caesar with what Dorotéa Frade thought was effortless grace, tied his reins to one of the supporting poles of the gazebo, and walked to his wife. “Goddamn, you’re beautiful,” he

said, then kissed her.

Julius Caesar began to munch on the flowers that grew up on the supporting pole of the gazebo.

“We’re going to need a place set for Enrico,” Clete said.

“Oh, no, Señor Clete,” Enrico said.

“I thought we had been over this,” Clete said. “You’re my best friend, right?”

“Sí, Señor.”

“When I eat, my best friend eats,” Clete said. “Get off that ugly nag and sit down.”

Enrico looked at Dorotéa.

“Please, Enrico,” Dorotéa said.

“Sí, Señora. Gracias.”

“I’ll have a small glass of grapefruit juice, please,” Dorotéa ordered, “and a piece of toast. And tea with milk and two lumps of sugar, please.”

Enrico ordered a café cortado and helped himself to a croissant.

“I don’t understand how you people manage without a real breakfast,” Clete announced as the maid served him orange juice, milk, the steak, two eggs fried sunny-side up, home-fried potatoes, and toast. “A good breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

Dorotéa glanced at Enrico, who rolled his eyes.

“What I’m going to do, baby,” Clete announced, “is run some tests.”

“What kind of tests?”

“I’m going to put in about twenty acres—eight hectares—”

“I know what an acre is, darling.”

“—of corn. That’s where I was this morning, looking at the soil. Enrico and I found a place. I don’t know where I’m going to get the seed—good seed—but I’ll deal with that somehow. And then, when the corn has come in, I’m going to segregate maybe two hundred, maybe three, of calves when they’re weaned. There will be two groups of calves. One will eat nothing but grass. The other I’ll start on corn and grass. We’ll weigh them once a week.”

“You’re going to weigh three hundred calves once a week?” Dorotéa asked incredulously.

“And keep accurate records, to see if I’m right or not.”

In his mind, Dorotéa thought, the chances of his being wrong about this are about the same as those of the sun not setting this afternoon.

Antonio appeared, carrying a telephone on a silver tray. “Pardon the interruption, Señor Clete. Are you at home to Señor Leibermann?”

Clete gave the question some thought before replying. “Sure,” he said finally. “Why not? Plug it in.”

Antonio plugged the telephone into a jack mounted on one of the supporting poles.