You're about to meet a very important new character who is a character in more ways than one. And who will loom large in the love troubles to come. So after a rather odd prelude, I give you Hugh Vaughn, AKA Lord Stanford, whose Downton Abbey upbringing and lofty pedigree will give you a giggle or two...

Everybody reacts the same way.

Let me backtrack. See, the babies needed to exercise those legs all the time now. You couldn’t keep them down. If they couldn’t walk they wanted to stand on your lap and bounce around. So I took them and Wyatt over to the 4H show, thinking the kids’d get a real kick out of all the animals.

And we had a couple of prize bulls out strutting around in a corral for all the cattlemen to wish over—they had pimp names, a lot of our bulls, by the way. Like the ones you see in the PBR. One was just called White Lightning, a big old blonde, Bodacious looking son of a gun—do you know Bodacious? That bucking bull that damned near killed every rider that got on him?

Yeah, he learned this “trick” that made them retire him early. He’d whip the rider forward and then bring his head up real fast to smash his face on that real hard spot between his horns. That’s right, he did that deliberately and audiences ate it up. You could feel the tension rise whenever someone was riding that sucker. People holding their breaths waiting for him to deliver the coup de grace.

There’s a whole bunch of riders who had to have serious cosmetic surgery after an encounter with Bad Ass Bodacious. They finally retired him because I mean, if he only did it once in a while, that’d be cool. But he was doing it every trip, and there had to be potential insurance or even legal issues.

He’s still the second best bull on the top bulls list, though. I don’t even wanna know what the top bull must’ve done to get past Bo.

White Lightning is bad ass, but he isn’t a bone crusher. In fact, once he’d slammed a rider to the dirt, he actually sort of tried not to step on him or anything. Bull fighters—the “clowns” who run interference ‘til the rider gets a safe distance after a ride—really liked him for that. They called him a gentle giant when they announced him in the arena.

But then we also have Skrilla Killa--that is a pimp name fo’ shizzle. Somebody got a whole list of names from one of those pimp name generators online, and he was the first one they named.

He’s a sik mutha, too, Killa. All rippling, rock hard muscle, under that shiny chocolate brown coat and so ginormous he barely fits in a bucking chute. Nobody could ride his crazy ass. I’m serious. He went two whole seasons without letting anybody make the whole eight seconds. So the head dudes at the ranch put him out to stud right quick.

And that was the part that cracked Wyatt and everyone up. The stud thing.

I mean, when I told her that we were in the bull semen business, she sort of missed a step,  stared at me, and said, “That’s a thing?”

Which made me laugh because she didn’t use that kind of slang as a rule. So I set Tyler on the top rail of the corral fence and let him go all nuts over the bulls—still holding onto him of course--while I tried to explain where a whole lot of her money would be coming from if she every finally settled down and took me seriously.

“It’s more than a thing,” I said. “It’s big business. Huge business.”

She looked at the two bulls and said, “That’s the life, huh? Chasing lady bulls all day.”

Here it comes. The moment when everybody freaks out:

I said, “Well, you know...there’s...no lady bulls involved a lot of the time.”

And she gave me the “Wha’chu talkin’ about Willis?” look that everyone always does. But I tried to make sense of it for her.

“That’d be wasteful,” I said. “Letting them mount the old fashioned way.”

“There’s another way?”

I sort of hesitated because I needed to decide how technical to be. And then I figured if she was going to be family, she’d need to know the details.

So I said, “Okay, see, we let ‘im do it the old fashioned way if it’s a female with a real good rep. Like, who was sired by a champion or who’s produced a few big winners or something. For a price. A pretty high price, too.”

“And that’s the only time they get to...?”

“Not the only time, but...well, actually, most of the time we try to...collect it. The semen.”

She gave me the puppy dog head tilt and said, “And how does one do that?”

I was almost relieved when Ty started trying to climb on me. I put him up on my shoulders to make him settle down, and then Taylor wanted up so I put her on the fence. But then she lunged at Wyatt, so Wyatt had to put her on her shoulders. They’re like squirrel monkeys at that age.

So once we’d gotten them settled, I said, “Well, you can sort of...um...stimulate them with scents or...this...machine that sort of...well, it...vibrates...”

She clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing, but then she did laugh. I mean, real guffaws, too. After which, she regrouped, and said, “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious. They call it the milk skaker, the ranch hands. Endless jokes about all the young guys bein’ in the barn with the door locked’n’ stuff like that.”

That seemed to trouble her—she got this little frown on her face, and said, “But they haven’t...” and couldn’t even finish the thought.

“C’mon! Nobody’s that desperate.”

“Well, not you, of course, but most boys your age can hardly think about anything else.”

“Yeah, well, most boys my age don’t have three foot...things, though. I mean, they wouldn’t fit.”

She gave me this other little look and said, “I know one who’s only a couple shy.”

That made me laugh, but I just said, “Okay, let’s just move on. Where were we?”

“Frustrating these poor creatures with vibrators.”

 “It’s not all that frustrating. Except...well, sometimes we tease ‘em into it by letting them mount just until they’re about to blow.”

“That would sound familiar to most boys your age, too.”

I couldn’t talk for a minute, I was laughing so hard. She was getting so comfy with me that she could come with the serious jokes, now. I really hated to kill the comedy with the next chapter of Sex Ed. for Bull Breeders. But we were in too deep to stop by then.

So I said, “Well, I mean, there’s also these fake...well...they’re like...the naughty bits of a cow. That they can hump all the way through ‘cause it has...it catches—you know, we’ve got little kids here.”

We both laughed. Because of course, they were too little to understand anything we said.

And she hit me with, “But you sell things like that, don’t you? On those sites of yours?”

“Damn, I walked right into that! You’re lovin’ this, aren’t you?”

She looked at the bulls again and asked, “Not nearly as much as they do. And how much do you earn from all this...coitus near interruptus?”

This is the good part. Listen and learn.

“Killa’s made us a few mil, actually,” I said.

One of her brows shot up. That always happens, too.

 So I said, “I mean talk about shakin’ your money maker, huh? And we can sell it as fast as he can make it. There’s a waiting list, actually. Back orders.”

 “What do you do? Bottle it?”

“You put it in these little...straws, they call ‘em. They look like those glass pipette things in chemistry class. And you can make a whole bunch of ‘em out of every—“

“All right, I get it. Just...continue.”

“Well, each one can sell for a couple thou if it’s a really great bull. Killa gets that, anyway. Lightning’s more average. Or, well, $500 is above average, but it’s not two grand.”

“Two thousand?”

“Yup. So multiply that times, like, well, it can be from 50 to as high as 500 if you’ve got a helluva stud. Killa gives about 400 a pop. Maybe more. So do the math.”

She paused, then gaped, and said, “Six. Hundred. Thousand. Dollars.”

“Sold!”

She looked over at Killa and said, “That bull, right there, makes you six hundred thousand dollars a pop?

I said, “Respect.” And did that fist pound over my heart like he was one of my boys or something.

“Oh, much respect,” Wyatt said. “This corral should be gold plated.”

I looked over at Killa, who was staring at us as if to say, “What the hell are you lookin’ at?” And then he slid that giant pinga out real slow and took a loud, forceful piss.

“Now that’s just showin’ off right there,” I told him.

And then this corny “La Cucharacha” car horn ended our crazy conversation once and for all. And I could not believe who was driving the UTV coming toward us.

It was someone I was supposed to meet in Vegas. And speaking of studs and all, Big Man calls him “Draw’ Dropper.” I’ll explain after I introduce him by name.

But for the record, Wyatt’s jaw dropped. I mean, she really tried, bless her, but she’s only human. Even men have trouble keeping it together when Hugh makes an entrance. Hugh Vaughn’s the name. One of the names. I’ll explain that in a minute, too.

I went, “What the hell are you doin’ here?”

And he slowed to a smooth stop and said, “I just could not face another day without you--do forgive.”

He was joking, don’t get it twisted. But then he looked at Wyatt and said, “Ravissent! And I hope you will forgive me, too.”

She just stared. Couldn’t even answer the man.

But of course, most women forget how to talk for a few minutes when they see him that first time. I mean, he gets out of the UTV and a shaft of sunlight comes down, right? Sort of like that time the moon shined down on her that first night we were there. So they were both supernatural. But she hadn’t quite figured that out yet. Hugh knows he’s God’s second best boy.

So I just chuckled and said, “Wyatt Taylor, Hugh Vaughn.”

And he walked up and gave her a little bow. But all she did was look at him, and then at me, and then at him...

“And you are Wyatt,” he said—he’s used to that dead air thing.

And he swept one hand in an arc just a little higher than his head and said, “Aaron Copland in the background. Voice over: Wyatt Taylor, Queen of the Wild Southwest...”

Vintage Hugh. And of course, the Queen of the Wild Southwest knew who the hell Aaron Copland was. If you don’t, go Google him. He’s a classical composer that even I can understand. Sounds like the soundtrack to every old Western ever made, his stuff. They used it in all the old Westerns, actually. It’s pretty stirring stuff. You’ll walk a little taller after you hear it.

To help her past that initial shock—or make it a lot worse, maybe--I said, “Are you gonna tell ‘er all your names or should I?”

He said, “There’s only the one other,” like he really didn’t want to go there.  It embarrasses him, telling people who he really is.

But I said, “Oh, c’mon! Do the whole Baron Whosits von Whatsits thing for her just this once.”

 “I actually have no legal or hereditary claim to the ‘von und zu.’ That will pass through the sons he sired with his first wife--my stepfather, he’s speaking of. The very undistinguished gentleman my mother married in desperation after a rather nasty divorce. And about whom I would prefer to say as little as possible.”

I glared at him even after he said that last thing.

So he clasped his hands behind his back like Prince Charles and said, “Oh, all right, I suppose she should know the whole sordid story. I am the son of Lady Antoinette Evangeline Arbuthnot—I solemnly swear that is her name--and Sir William Henry Vaughn, Earl of Stanford. The “Sir” was bestowed, the “Earl,” hereditary.”

Wyatt sort of gaped a little bit, so he said, “I warned you. But happily, I am sans title here. And in Jolly Old, merely Lord Stanford, since Wills is still very much alive.”

I raised my chin and went, “And?”

And he said, “Really?”

“Hit it.”

He gave me a smirk, sighed, and finished the whole family history lesson looking like a kid who’d been caught drawing big boobs on Shakespeare in a textbook and was forced to recite a sonnet in front of the whole class or something.

“The ‘von und zu’ to which my liege referred has to do with my mother’s second husband, to whom I referred so reluctantly. He was Baron Heinrich von und zu Badenbourgh. And it is ‘von und zu’ because he is landed German gentry, meaning he still actually owns the area for which he is named. If he were named for a place the family came from but no longer owned, it would be merely ‘von.’ Or that’s how I understand it.”

And after all that, Wyatt just said, “Oh.” 

Which was pretty good, actually, since most people just stand there all cross-eyed when he tries to explain these things. So he smiled patiently and continued.

“Very near the end now, thankfully,” he assured her. “For a short while there was talk of passing the title on to me instead of the prodigal heir who had become an enormous embarrassment. And an expensive one as well, given both the vast sums he squandered and the vast sums which had to be paid to keep his ignoble exploits out of the tabloids. But as it can all become ridiculously complicated, rest assured that I will answer to Hugh, ‘Hey, you’ or a sharp whistle without the slightest hesitation.”

I swear to God, that’s how the man talks. I mean, he always tries to lighten up at the end, but I had to use Dictionary.com about a dozen times just to give you that one speech. It’s going to be a bitch for me from now on, believe me. I know what most of the words mean, but spelling them is a different thing altogether.

And let’s just dive on into his looks while we’re at it. Because if I’m better than average, Hugh is, like, that kid who ruins the “curve” for everyone else. Cause not only is he hot as hell, he’s got that super suave thing goin’ on.

I mean, the girls call him “Mr. Bond” all the time. Seriously, Mike will lean in and go, “Bond. James Bond,” when he’s trying to introduce himself, just to tease him. And whoever he’s introducing himself to always gets it immediately.

That’s why Big Man calls him Draw’ Dropper. Actually, it should be “drawers” but in Ghetto it’s just “draws,” right? And Hugh doesn’t even have to talk women out of ‘em. I mean, they forget their names when he walks over. This one hotel clerk looked up, saw him, and just said, “No way...” And I laughed every time I looked at him for the rest of the day.

Imagine...Jeez, I can’t even think of anyone to compare him to. He’s got the Robert Redford hair thing goin’ on, but he’s more refined—Redford’s too outdoorsy All American. And Hugh’s features are finer. Sharper. Not quite so “pretty” as mine, lucky bastard. Just very well sculpted.

For the rodeo, he was wearing jeans and an eggshell blue shirt. Simple, right? Except on him, it still felt like he was wearing a tux or something. Not one wrinkle, the collar sitting up just so. And it’s useless to hate the guy because like I said about me once, he was just born that way. Not wearing perfectly pressed shirts, but looking perfect no matter what kind of shirt he’s wearing.

And I don’t mean to compare myself to him because it’s no contest. And I’m another type altogether—let’s go on and use the Johnny Depp thing for a minute to make a point. Women do the my wild child vibe, that’s true. But next to Hugh, who gives you sexy with a side of sophisticated and a dash of old money, too, well I’m barely an amuse bouche. He eclipses me, when we walk into a room. It’s a very humbling experience.

Which is kind of why I had him run the pedigree for Wyatt. To see what she did and decide whether I should start weaning myself, maybe. Because he was an English major’s dream, of course. I mean, she had a Masterpiece Theater vocab but he was the whole damned show. And it wasn’t make-believe, in his case. He grew up in fucking Downton Abbey. Or, Stanford Abbey is his house. For real, that’s what it’s called.

She seemed to get over him pretty quickly, though. She smiled and gave a little nod and said, “Very complicated. But fascinating.”

“Is it? I suppose it might be,” he said. “But inbreeding’s reduced most of us to blithering idiots like Prince Charles. I do like Harry, though. Of course, his father may not have been in the stud book. Which explains everything.”

“Debrett’s?”

“Burke’s. Peerage. Although Debrett’s carries nearly as much weight these days. Colton’s family is in both, by the way.”

“Allegedly,” I said. “We’re inbred enough to qualify, though.”

He and Wyatt both laughed at that one. And then he sighed and said, “I have come bearing semi sad news, dear boy. And the sooner it’s said and done, the better. Where’s the nearest relatively private place you can slip off to?”

“Semi sad?”

“Well, it’s nothing we can’t handle but it could be a bit of a fly in the ointment over the next few days. More annoying than dire.”

We didn’t get away fast enough. The girls and Joie came screaming—literally—through the crowd and just jumped all over Hugh like little fan girls for a minute or two.

And then Mike stepped back, looked him over and said, “Check out 007 rockin’ jeans and shit.”

“And Mama like,” Joie said, taking a little stroll to get a rear view.

Aisha smirked and said, “Y’all leave ‘im alone,” and then grinned up at Hugh and said, “He got a woman talk jus’ like you. Don’t she, Papi?”

“She’s delightful,” Hugh said. “We’ve met.”

Aisha looked over at Wyatt and said, “See, I knew he would like you. You the kinda woman can keep up wit all fancy people. I cain’t even eat a meal at his house, ‘cause they be bringin’ out these funny lookin’ forks and whatnot I ain’t even seen before. What’s that one you tolt me about that time?”

“Ah, the marrow scoop. Clayton is tremendously fond of that—our butler,” Hugh said. “They’re rather outdated, but he loves to play ‘What that hell is that thing?’ with our guests.”

 “It looked like something they’d have in an operating room,” Cat said. “Had this long, probe lookin’ thing at one end.”

“You should’ve seen Aisha’s face when she got a big old mouthful of marrow,” I told Wyatt.

“Taste like a blob o’ bacon grease,” she told us.

“I like marrow,” Wyatt said. “On a toasted crouton.”

“There she go! Speakin’ that French, too!”

Hugh asked Wyatt, in French, if she spoke French. And she answered, in French, that she spoke enough to order marrow bones, maybe. And I spoke enough French to laugh, which made Hugh’s eyes light up.

“Ah, you haven’t lost it all! JJ is smiling up there today!” he said.

“You gonna tell me the semi sad news in French?”

“What kinda sad news?” Cat asked.

And then Big Man came strolling up, patted Hugh on the shoulder a couple of times and said, “Mr. Bond! What’s the haps, man? Out here hob knobbing with the hoi polloi.”

Hugh adores Big Man. And is the only person in the entire world who calls him Terrence.

In fact, he turned, grinned and said, “Terrence! How have you been? Rather busy, I take it. Given the sturm und drang.”

And Big Man looked at me and said, “Translation, please.”

“Drama,” I said.

“Aw, you know I’m used to some drama by now,” he told Hugh. “Livin’ with your boy here.”

“I wanna hear more about this semi sad news,” Mike said.

And Hugh looked at me and said, “I suppose it does involve all hands currently on deck.”

“Talk that talk, playa,” Big Man teased him. “The Mack is back!”

I told you men like him. But he was giving me a look that said this was ‘way more serious than he was letting on. And the way his eyes softened when he knew I’d figured that out made me even more nervous.

Wyatt gave me that touch on the small of the back I’ve talked about. And which actually made me feel better. I smiled at her to let her know that. And she smiled as if to tell me to quit worrying about Mr. Wonderful.

It was almost smug, like we had some kind of secret between us too deep for even Hugh to figure out. And also like she wanted him to see it.

So don’t ever wonder what I saw in her again, if you have been. That one thing explains it all.