Page 45 of Trickster King

Some problems were worth dodging, and me drunk was one of them.

“If I do end up with any port, I’ll keep it small or snitch off with an entire bottle to add to my collection. My current bottles are lonely.”

The agents snickered, and Randy replied, “As nobody here would even dream of saying a word that might upset Eddie, I think it’s safe for you to have the port if you can otherwise behave.”

“I’ll do my best, but that’s all I’m willing to promise.”

ELEVEN

I clung to my temper by the thinnest of threads.

The dinner went better than I expected. True to the RPS’s belief, the puzzled staff struggled to figure out which of us was the king. They’d wanted to assign me their most senior servers, all men and old hands at containing the insanity. I’d gotten a rather young woman new to her job, and I took the time to whisper a few tips on how to help get through the night and the chaos, suggesting she use her notepad and write everything down. My suggestion of numbering the tables and seats brightened her expression, and she scribbled notes to herself on her pad before running off to fetch our drinks.

Eddie gorged on steak and seafood, consuming enough for three grown men. Only when he shook his head upon being asked if he wanted some of his favorite foods did I decide he’d eaten enough.

I earned my glass of port, and I’d spied an old, dusty bottle of port, still unopened. A quiet word to Randy sent the agent skittering off to potentially add to my collection. Over ten thousand dollars later, the bottle belonged to me, and I slid the transaction in with the ridiculous bill the herd of agents had managed to ring up with some help from Eddie.

The prized bottle would return to Dallas, where my wife would guard it until my return. I assumed one of the RPS agents would handle transporting it to the palace during one of our trips to relocate my horses and cattle.

That night, I slept deep and hard, and I was the last to get out of bed. I questioned how Geoff and Randy had wrangled our boy, but miracles had happened and I was the only loose end to be handled. According to my watch, I’d made a mess of the checkout times as it was almost one in the afternoon.

I thought about going back to sleep, but rather than panic the entire detail assigned to keeping me breathing, I got up, took a bath, and wasted an entire hour pampering my back rather than taking a shower. Once I emerged, feeling more like a human than a zombie, I checked my phone for messages, ignored everything that wasn’t from my wife, and grinned at the series of pictures she’d sent, which involved the kids passed out in a cushion fort.

“Coherent yet?” Randy asked, regarding me through narrowed eyes.

“I was taking the rest and relaxation portion of my vacation seriously,” I replied, putting my phone away before gathering my dirty clothes, shoving everything into the duffel the RPS agent gestured to, and did a check to make certain I wasn’t forgetting anything. “I can’t help but notice I slept through checkout time.”

“Most of us are checked out to avoid disrupting the hotel, but you were down and out for the count. The physicians said the best thing for you was the rest you clearly need, so you slept. Eddie has begun learning the art of planning a route.”

As it was a fairly straight haul between Senator Padrino’s ranch and Micky’s place, I furrowed my brows. “Which route?”

“While I fear I might regret this, Geoff and I surveyed a few ranches that might be of interest. Eddie has charted our route to the ranches, he has called the property owners, and he has made appointments for us to take a look at the places. There are a few head of cattle that might interest you. They qualify for your breeding program.”

According to Eddie’s grin, he was rather pleased with himself. I grinned back, praised the boy for his initiative, and asked, “How many ranches are there?”

“We are scheduled to see three today,” Eddie announced. “Your budget can afford all three, and two, according to the listings, don’t need much work. The third is a project, but it might be a good breeding ranch for horses. It’s a large equestrian center.”

While Texas had a great number of equestrians and horse lovers, Texas had few actual equestrian centers. The only one I could think of in the area was a Grand Prix training center serving most of Texas and neighboring kingdoms. In addition to the Grand Prix school, it boasted a racetrack, a complete event center, a dressage ring, and a steeplechase track. “The Montgomery Center is up for sale?”

Everyone nodded.

As I had a colt I wanted to take all the way to the Grand Prix, having a facility dedicated to the cause would help a lot. If I rigged my schedule right—and established an RPS center nearby—I could make it one of the retreats, handling the mandatory royal affairs before working my horses. “You have my attention. How much is it selling for?”

Eddie winced. “The public sale price is three million, but they’ll sell it for cheaper to the crown if the crown is going to keep the school intact. They’re willing to cut their profits if their staff can remain hired. If the crown is buying, they’re selling for a million.”

While I would have preferred having Eddie avoid the harsher realities of life, I would address the situation the best I could. “Severance for that many employees isn’t cheap, and if the crown keeps the employees, they can walk from the center in a much better position. However, a million is cheap for the land. Randy?”

“They have the fungus, they’re shut down due to the contamination, and all the horses there are infected—and are likely going to be abandoned by owners due to their inability to work. You can get the livestock for a hundred thousand.”

Rather than bellow my fury over the idea idiot owners would abandon horses because of fungus, I inhaled, counted to ten, and exhaled, drawing it out until I reached the count of twenty. “How many horses?”

“There are around two hundred. There’s a group of twenty mares, all with foals about to be weaned, and the rest are yearlings or up to three. They aren’t ready to be ridden yet, and the owners feel the hoof damage will compromise their ability to perform. There is talk of sending them to the market to cut their losses. The facility won’t reopen until the fungus has been eradicated from the pastures, and they have a lot of acres. When Eddie called, explaining you were looking around at ranching properties, the property owner made calls to the horse owners. He doesn’t want to see good stock killed because of, well, fungus.”

I clung to my temper by the thinnest of threads. However, I saw a way I could get the best of all worlds. The RPS needed to be able to handle jumpers, Eddie needed the exposure to equestrians and the idiotic reasons someone dumped a horse when they felt the horse couldn’t earn a purse, and I refused to see that many horses killed for no reason.

There was no reason the horses couldn’t become RPS animals down the road, and every member of the RPS received a horse—a good horse.

The facility would be loaded with good horses, ready for training as soon as they turned five.

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