Page 1 of The Perfect Hosts
Chapter 1
Madeline
Madeline Drake looks out her bedroom window, one hand resting on her belly, one hand shielding her eyes. The hard disk of sun sits like a crown atop what Wes calls their own personal stretch of the Tetons. In the long shadow of the mountain, beneath snowcapped peaks now blazing orange from the early evening sun, sits Lone Tree Ranch and their home. All fourteen thousand square feet of it designed from the ground up with its copper roof, charred cypress siding, and walls of windows.
Madeline knows it is presumptuous, calling the mountain and the three thousand acres at her feet theirs. She knows the mountain belongs only to itself, a stoic deity looking down at her with neither benevolence nor disdain, only indifference. The thought makes Madeline shiver despite the surprisingly warm May evening, and she cups the swell of her stomach protectively.
Below, the back lawn, as green and manicured as a golf course, ends abruptly and gives way to the horse paddocks and barns. A row of hay bales forms a barrier between the yard and a bald patch of earth where the horses chewed the alfalfa down to nubs. A hundred yards from the bales sits a champagne-colored ’55 Dodge pickup truck with a blackXpainted on the side and stuffed with explosives. Because what gender revealwould be complete without a mushroom cloud of pink or blue smoke to announce whether their baby is going to be a boy or a girl?
And then there is the rodeo. A goddamn rodeo where guests can take part in events like saddle bronc riding, bull riding, barrel racing, and team roping by local talent. There’s even a mechanical bull set up in a corner of the party barn. And to top it all off, Wes has somehow managed to get Reba McEntire to fly in to provide the entertainment.
This isn’t only about learning the gender of their baby, it’s an opportunity for her husband to network, to show off their horses, the property.
Madeline knows that everything Wes does is for her and now the baby. And while the land that comprises Lone Tree Ranch was left to Wes and his brother Dix by their father, they aren’t free and clear. There are taxes and the mortgage on the house, and the cost of raising and training world-class horses and riders is exorbitant. In short, the Drakes have to work hard to keep what they have.
Beyond the truck are miles and miles of tall, windswept native grasses that creep up to the base of mountain. Leggy lodgepole pines look down upon the narrow trout stream that meanders through the property, where gray wolves lower their shaggy heads to drink.
Most of the horses are in a paddock well away from the impending cacophony. Still, Madeline worries for them as she does for the animals who will take part in the rodeo. Any loud noises can be traumatic, especially for the young, skittish colts and fillies on the ranch. But Wes thinks it won’t be much different than the target skeet shooting he and the guys do. It will be better, he said. One loud boom and it will all be over.
“Hey, beautiful!” comes Wes’s voice from below. Madeline pulls her eyes from the snow-tinged mountains to see her husband, head thrown back, holding a bouquet of ivory-coloredballoons in one hand and a high-powered shotgun in the other. At his side is their big shaggy lug of a dog, a Great Pyrenees named Pip.
“Hey,” Madeline calls back, feeling anything but beautiful. Not today, anyway. The fabric of her white sundress strains against her midsection. It’s been expanding at an alarming rate over the past several days, and the cloth bites uncomfortably into her skin. But she knows her husband thinks she’s beautiful, and that’s enough.
“You coming down?” Wes asks, pulling his fawn Stetson from his head and pressing it to his chest. “The guests are arriving.”
Wes is right. The steady parade of friends and neighbors is making their way into the yard, where a photographer is waiting to snap their pictures as if they are strutting down a red carpet. Everyone looks as if they stepped from the set of a glam ’80s soap opera based in Wyoming dressed to match the baby’s gender reveal party theme: Pearls or Pistols. The women who normally wear yoga pants and ponytails are dressed in Western-chic cocktail dresses and pearls while the men wear stiff jeans, cowboy boots, hats, and holsters at their hips. Madeline is certain that many of those holsters hold loaded guns. Wes’s friends, rivals, business associates, area ranchers, horse brokers, and bankers certainly do like their guns. Madeline was ambivalent about the idea when the party planner, Alyssa, suggested it. Was it sexist? Definitely, but Alyssa was so convincing, and frankly, Madeline was tired of looking at swatches, menus, and balloons.
“I’m coming,” Madeline assures him. “I have to put my shoes on.”
“Well, hurry up,” Wes says good-naturedly. “I have no idea what to do with these balloons.”
Madeline watches as Wes moves toward the meadow and the truck, stopping periodically to greet guests, the balloons bouncing lazily above him, his million-dollar smile at theready. Ten years earlier Madeline fell hard for that smile when her sister introduced her to Wes. She was twenty-five and still on the competitive equestrian circuit. Despite the age difference, they were engaged within three months and then married less than a year later.
One of the waitresses approaches Wes, and Madeline sees him stiffen. Even from this distance Madeline can see she’s pretty with a heart-shaped face framed by short burgundy-dyed hair. She lays a hand on Wes’s arm, and he lowers his head as if trying to hear what the young woman is saying. He frowns, shakes his head, and hands the bouquet of balloons to her before walking away. The young woman stands there for a moment, holding the balloons, a defeated expression on her face, then rushes back toward the catering tent.
Though Wes is known for being a tough businessman and even tougher boss, his curt dismissal of the young woman is unusual even for him. Madeline chalks it up to the chaos of the day. It’s not every day that Reba is flown to the ranch for a private concert.
Madeline bends over, retrieving her handmade alligator boots from the floor, and sits down on the king-size bed. She looks down, barely able to see the tips of her toes, lifts one leg, and tries to slide her foot into the boot but is met with a hard stop by her swollen ankles. Tears prick at Madeline’s eyes, and she lies back on the bed and considers skipping the spectacle about to take place on their land. The party to reveal the gender of their baby has been scheduled for months, the planning has finally come together, and now she is too tired to enjoy it.
Besides, she doesn’t care if the baby is a boy or a girl. It doesn’t matter one bit, just as long as the child is healthy, which Johanna, her midwife and best friend of nine years, insists is the case.
“Sweetie,” comes a voice from the doorway. Madeline opens her eyes to find Johanna, dressed in a denim shirt anda long fringed suede skirt, standing over her. “Why are you hiding up here?”
“My boots don’t fit,” Madeline says tearfully. “I think the baby has migrated down to my ankles.”
“Not in all my years of being a midwife have I attended an ankle birth,” Johanna says, tossing her long black braid over her shoulder and sinking down on the bed next to Madeline.
“Well, that’s something,” Madeline says wearily, sliding over to make room for her.
“Everything is going to be okay,” Johanna assures her. “There are going to be no ankle-birthed babies, I promise. And even if there are, it will be okay. In approximately six weeks, your baby will be here, safe and sound. I’m going to make sure of it. And then you can start riding those dreadful creatures again.”
“Ha,” Madeline says. “You know you love them. Otherwise, you wouldn’t offer to ride Maize every time you come to check on me.” The horses on Lone Tree are, for the most part, docile, but Maize is Johanna’s favorite.
“I’m kidding. Now, come on,” Johanna says, throwing her legs over the side of the bed and getting to her feet. She holds out her hand. “Trust me?”
“You know I do,” Madeline says, grabbing Johanna’s hand and pulling herself up to a sitting position.
“Wait,” Johanna says, disappearing into Madeline’s walk-in closet. “Wear these,” she says, reemerging a few seconds later with a pair of white flip-flops. “Much more comfortable than cowboy boots.” Johanna bends over and gently slides the sandals onto Madeline’s feet.