Rocking Horse Ranch has been our family home for over a century. My rancher boy died, and my other boy is tied tight to his big city life. My wife, Betty, died 15 years ago. I made a promise to Betty a long time ago that I'd build her a real ranch house worthy of the finest rancher's wife in the Gila. We used to have picnics under that ponderosa over there across the meadow. Well, the tree fell over a couple years ago, but you can still see it. And that lump poking up is what's left of the table Betty built all by herself. Dad said town girls can't do ranch work, but he sure had to eat his words on that one.
Betty died of cancer 15 years ago. And our rancher boy, Jess, died a couple years later. Aids is what they called it—some new thing I don't understand. Jess had to see what all the fuss was about in San Francisco, but he promised to come back to work the ranch with me. But he didn't make it. Our older boy, Ral, lives in Dallas with his family. And he's made it pretty clear he's not ever coming back to live on Rocking Horse again.
But I decided I had to build Betty's dream house anyhow. I started it right after she was gone. And using her own plans. It was guilt that pushed me. Guilt about how Betty died. And it's a good thing I had that house to hold on to when our Jess died. Our rancher Jess. I had all the ranch work to do alone, with the help of our great neighbors, of course. But without Betty's dream house to fill every minute of every day, I'd of just fallen apart—even more than I have.
As it is, my arthritis and emphysema are making it tough to finish Rocking Horse West. That's the name Betty put on the house plans. But I'm real close to finishing it now. I'm going to get the last details of the stairway done by Christmas. If I can last that long with this angina that knocks me down all the time. But Christmas is the deadline. That's when I'm going to give West to Betty. That's another promise I made to her under that ponderosa. West would be a Christmas present to her. And I don't think I've got any more Christmases left in me.
Here comes the most worthless cow pony there ever was. Hobbling like he's got four broken shoes. He's in worse shape than I am. And he never even smoked. "George, you knock me down again, and I'll take a rock to that sorry-ass head of yours." He just looks at me. I expect to see him go down any day now. George wasn't always worthless, but he's just skin and bones now. We did a lot of hard cow-boying—back when we could cowboy together.
Got to get back to work on West. The clock is running.