Mitch hadn’t seen Arturo in nearly nine years but, except for a few gray hairs, his manager hadn’t changed much. He was still tall and barrel-chested, with a permanent squint as if the sun was always in his eyes. As a kid Mitch had loved watching old Westerns on TV. He’d thought Arturo was the Latin version of John Wayne-big, brave and able to beat the bad guys, despite any odds.

“It’s good to see you, old man,” Mitch said.

Arturo dropped the gun onto the bench by the front door and grabbed Mitch by the upper arms. “I’m glad you’re back. We missed you. Every night Fidela prayed for your safe return.”

“She told me.”

“She worried. We both worried.”

There was love in the old man’s eyes. He had been there for Mitch far more than his own father had ever been. Arturo had taught him all he knew about life.

Carefully, aware of his balance, he hugged the other man. Arturo squeezed him tightly, then slapped him on the back.

“You look good. How do you feel?”

“About what you’d expect.”

“Fidela is going to fatten you up. Be prepared to eat. You know how she gets.”

“Tell me we’re not having chicken,” Mitch grumbled, hating the birds.

“We have plenty, even with the one that got away.”

“The coyotes can take them all.”

Arturo stepped back. “Why would you say that? They’re your chickens.”

“I don’t want ’em. We run beef here. We always have. When did you sell out? Chickens? And organic beef? What’s next? Do we all go around saving the spotted owl and hugging trees?”

Arturo frowned, then folded his arms across his big chest. “I told you what I wanted to do seven years ago. I explained everything and said to let me know if you didn’t want me to go ahead with the changes.”