The Tycoon Read Online Free PDF Page A

native rock ranch house through the back door and the large utility room where at one time long ago, game and beef were butchered and packaged for freezing. The sprawling house had been built in 1902 by a Lockhart grandfather. It had been added on to and remodeled more than once. In many ways, it remained outdated. Still, it had an elegance about it.
    The aroma of lunch preparation set his taste buds to dancing. He laid his Stetson on the long stainless steel counter and hung his coat to the side of the door on a coat rack made of steer horns. A shudder passed over his shoulders as warmth seeped into his body.
    He found his dad and brother enjoying a blazing fire in the den’s fireplace. With the day being gloomy, the glow from two artfully-welded horseshoe lamps flanking a long cowhide sofa cast the room in an amber light. Heavy western-style furniture, a large TV, brown wood-paneled walls, a massive tan limestone fireplace and a few hunting trophies made the room’s ambience decidedly masculine.
    Two eight-foot sliding doors opened out onto a large concrete patio, but the roof that covered the patio never allowed bright light into the den, even on a sunny day. When Mom lived here, she had declared this room “a dark and depressing boar’s nest.” She had tried to change its appearance by adding flowers and candles, which the men in the family had barely tolerated. They liked the room as it was. Pic called it a man cave. Drake thought it one of the most relaxing places he had ever been.
    “You’ve been out there a long time,” Pic said, grinning from a massive leather recliner. “Thought we were gonna have to send out a search party. You’re gonna have a sore butt tomorrow, Brother.”
    Drake carried his gun scabbard to a built-in cabinet in an out-of-the-way corner, pulled out his rifle and began to unload it.
    Seated on the end of one of the sofa, his dad looked up from behind a newspaper. “How’d the new fence look?”
    Drake closed his rifle into the cabinet. “Didn’t see any breaks. Saw a little bit of grass peeking through.”
    “We need more rain,” his dad said, folding the newspaper. “I just hope this weather keeps  on coming.”
    Weather. A never-ending grievance of a rancher in Texas, Drake thought.
    His brother rose, walked over to the fireplace and stood in front of the blaze, his hands behind his back. “How many hogs did you shoot?”
    “Missed one,” Drake answered.
    “We’ve hunted hell out of those hogs,” Pic said, shaking his head. “Every hand’s taking a rifle every time they go out.”
    Feral hogs had become a scourge to stockmen and farmers all over rural Texas. They tore up fences, destroyed crops and attacked livestock. They were so prolific, the state had declared open season on them.
    “I’ll tell you this much,” Dad groused. “We can’t afford to lose even one more calf to rustlers and hogs. Damn rustling is at an all-time high and sheep raisers southwest of here? The paper says those bastard hogs are putting them clear out of business. Lambs are a hundred percent defenseless.”
    Drake and Pic traded looks, both knowing that repeating conversation about the financial
    loss the ranch had taken and continued to take was unnecessary. Dad was endlessly vocal in his belief that the fires and the hogs had cut the spring calf crop in half.
    Just then, Johnnie Sue stuck her head through the doorway. “You boys come eat ’fore it gets cold.”
    Dad stood. “Let’s eat dinner. Johnnie Sue’s fried up that mess of birds we shot.”
    Drake and his family were lifelong hunters. His father had taught him and his siblings gun care and shooting as children. They had grown up eating game meat. Bird hunting was one of Drake’s favorite activities. On this visit, he, Pic, and his dad had hunted quail every morning. With him going back tomorrow, today was the day for a quail feed.
    They filed into the breakfast room off one end of the kitchen and sat down at the round oak