Page 14

B-Lazy-U Ranch Interlude

The Guests

The new waitress approached the server station at the side of the bar in the saloon and told the bartender, “Dirty gin martini, up, Hendrick’s; a glass of chardonnay; a double Maker’s Mark on the rocks with water on the side; and a vodka soda with a lime.”

When the bartender raised his eyebrows she quickly added, “Tito’s.” With that, the bartender shot her a thumbs-up and slid down the bar to start the cocktails.

The din in the room was rising in volume as Centurions and their spouses arrived for the opening cocktail reception. Most of the men were in their sixties or seventies, she guessed, with a few young fit men with short haircuts and earnest faces among them, listening intently to what the older men said. The wives generally split from their spouses after ordering drinks, and they quickly found each other. Their conversations were largely about which activities they’d signed up for in the coming days and if the fall weather would hold up enough for them to ride horses, fly-fish, do goat yoga, or hike.

The new waitress wore her uniform, along with a red bandanna to keep her hair in place. The jeans she’d been assigned were so tight they felt painted on, which she assumed was the idea.

Most of the guests wore Western clothing as well, or at least their interpretation of it: jeans, belts with silver buckles, cowboy boots, and all manner of cowboy hats. The mood was energetic and a little raucous as Centurions greeted their colleagues and fellow members they hadn’t seen since the last Centurions Week at the B-Lazy-U.

The new waitress marveled at the genuine enthusiasm the guests showed when they encountered Peaches Tyrell, who was also taking cocktail orders.

“Oh my God, it’s Peaches!” one of the women cried out. “How are you doing, girl?”

Peaches, to her credit, greeted every guest by name and never stopped smiling. The new waitress was stunned by Peaches’s effortless recall and hospitality.

—

The new waitress stepped to the side to let Peaches approach the bar and call out drink orders to the bartender.

“Everyone knows you,” the new waitress said.

“This is my fortieth year serving the Centurions,” Peaches said. “A few of ’em have been here every year, but there are always a couple of new faces and names to learn.”

“Are all the Centurions men?”

“Almost all. They let a lady general in a few years ago and some defense industry biggie, but I think they felt they had to. But yes, the rest of them are men. I don’t judge—that’s not my job.”

“You’re kind of amazing.”

Peaches shrugged. “Not really. This is much easier than it was when I started with this group. This is a walk in the park.”

“Meaning…”

“It used to be different. Wilder. A lot of the guys didn’t bring their wives then, and I was a lot younger and curvier. Some of those boys got a little handsy, and a few of them thought my job included cabin visits after the saloon closed down.”

She spoke with a half smile that belied what she was saying.

“And it used to be that, on the weekends, the ranch organized a ladies’ spa day in Warm Springs. They’d load up a bus and take the women to town. No sooner had the wives left, then a couple of vans from Steamboat and Rock Springs would show up filled with young women. I can’t call them ‘ladies,’ unless I call ’em ‘ladies of the night.’ They’d clear them out before the wives got back in the evening.”

The new waitress raised her eyebrows.

“That got shut down thirty years ago,” Peaches said. “Now it’s a lot more civilized.”

“Interesting.”

“You do know who these people are, don’t you?” Peaches asked.

“The Centurions?”

“The people in this room,” Peaches said. “Over there’s the secretary of defense, surrounded by his lackeys. He won’t go near the head of the Joint Chiefs over there in the corner, because I guess they really don’t like each other. I can’t keep a lot of their titles straight, to be honest. ‘Undersecretary of this or that,’ ‘special assistant to the blah-blah-blah.’ It’ll drive you crazy. Plus, their titles change from year to year. One year, they’ll be a senator, and the next year they’ll be the CEO of a lobbying outfit on behalf of a defense contractor. Or the other way around. It’s musical chairs out in D.C., and you’d need a scorecard to keep track of their official titles from year to year. What I’ve learned is that presidents and administrations change, but most of this group stays the same…Luckily for me. Otherwise, I’d never remember their names.”

“Point out the secretary of defense to me again,” the new waitress asked. Peaches chinned toward a large man with steel-gray hair and a hangdog expression. She did it without being obvious.

“And the head of the Joint Chiefs?”

Peaches pretended to be surveying the room for new arrivals. Her eyes lingered on a stout, fireplug-like man with coiffed hair and a booming voice. The new waitress followed Peaches’s gaze and she recognized him.

“I’ve seen him standing next to the president on television,” she said. “In fact, the last couple of presidents.”

“Now that he’s announced his retirement, I hear that he’s headed to Boeing or Raytheon,” Peaches said. “I heard a couple of the guys talking about that tonight.”

“It really is musical chairs,” the new waitress said.

“And we’re bound to hear all kinds of national security secrets,” Peaches said. “If you care about those kinds of things, which I don’t. A lot of people would like to be a fly on the wall here during this week, but they can’t get in.

“But, oh, how these guys love to come out here,” she enthused. “Once a year, they can drop all their titles and take off their ties and hang out with their buddies. Not all of the wives get along, though. Some of those women are more competitive than their husbands.”

—

The drinks arrived and both the new waitress and Peaches delivered them and took new orders. They reconvened at the bar a few minutes later. The new waitress blew a strand of hair from her face and tried to catch her breath.

“Wait until orientation night,” Peaches said. “Then you’ll really witness something you’ve never seen before, I can guarantee you that.”

“Orientation night?”

“Every year, the Centurions vote in new folks to replace the members who died in the past year. These guys don’t really retire, but if they’re too feeble to fly out here, they’re given some kind of special award and eased out. There are always exactly two hundred and fifty Centurions, and the list is pretty long to get in, I guess.”

“So what happens on orientation night?” the new waitress asked.

“It’s crazy,” Peaches said, grinning and shaking her head with awe. “It all takes place out on the ranch grounds. We set up luminary candles all over the grass and turn all the electric lights off. All the Centurions and their significant others sit on lawn chairs or blankets in the dark. Then there’s a big ceremony where the new Centurions march down the mountain holding torches until they arrive on a stage. The new members have to dress in Roman armor and such, and they have to kneel on the stage so the Imperial Legate and the Legion Legate can touch them on each shoulder with swords and swear them in as official Centurions for life.”

“The what ?”

Peaches arched her eyebrows and closed her eyes for a moment to recall the details of what she was about to say. “The Legatus Augusti pro praetore and the Legatus Legionis are the big cheeses of the Centurions. I learned those words quite a few years ago when I asked. All of the members come up through the ranks. There are broad-band tribunes, and camp prefects, and narrow-band tribunes, and other ranks I can’t remember. They’re structured like a real Roman army, I guess. It’s all pretty wild.”

“It sure is,” the new waitress said. “I can’t wait to see it. I can’t believe this thing is a secret from the public and that nobody has ever heard of it.”

“You signed an NDA, right?” Peaches asked.

“Yes.”

“Then they’ll let you on the grounds. Otherwise, they wouldn’t let you even get close. But someone has to serve drinks, right? We’re pretty important, too,” Peaches said with a wink.

—

The new waitress laughed at that.

The bartender filled their trays with orders. Peaches had so many drinks to deliver that balancing her tray required a deft hoisting maneuver. As she turned to deliver her orders, she shot a quick glance over her shoulder to the new waitress.

“You forgot your name tag,” Peaches said.

“Oh, damn,” the new waitress said. She reached into the back pocket of her jeans and found the badge she’d been given that morning and pinned it above the right pocket of her Western shirt.

“Don’t forget again, ‘Allison from Wyoming,’?” Peaches said with a warm smile. “These folks love to ask about where you’re from. It breaks the ice.”

Allison smiled to herself and thought, That’s not all that’s going to be broken here .