The Van De Hornes.

Beryl Van De Horne stared out of her penthouse office, with en suite window and valet parking. She hadn’t made it in the world of cut-throat high end photography and monorails by beating around the bush. She turned and arched her back throwing caution to the wind and one of her shoulders out, she perused the young artist in front of her. She had seen his type eleven or twelve times before. Skin and bones, with killer cheekbones, a mop of tousled, sun kissed hair, eyes like an Italian pool, half finished, paint still drying on his hands and an enormous package. It was tied up with string and nestled under his thin yet strong yet manly arms, like a kitten being held by an Australian Vet. “So.” She said in her powerful business like way. “More of your art or your dry cleaning, Victor?” She snorted down her equine, patrician business like nose.

Meanwhile, in New Mexico…

Caprice Van De Horne signed off on the contracts, candy barn Stables were no longer hers. Twelve long years and two failed marriages, nine haircuts, fourteen lovers, hours of Pilates and a lot of salad, that’s what she had sacrificed to build up the biggest stud farm in New Mexico. Now she had just sold her dreams, lock stock and every last barrel of horse semen. Was it worth it? Would all that money finally bring her the peace she had sought all her life? There was a knock at the door. It was her head Horse Wrangler, Flex Manly. He touched a leather gloved hand to his dusty cowboy hat, the bunched muscles of his biceps straining against the worn cotton of his shirt. “Ma’am.’ He growled in his sexy cowboy drawl. “Zeke, Deke, Jeep, Pappy, PepĂ© and some of the other boys are a-gathered out in the yard. They was… I was a-wundrin if Y’all might say a few words?” Caprice shook out her hair and grabbed her rhinestone, pleather jacket. “You bet you ass, Flex.” And what a fine ass she thought, you could bounce a quarter off it and still make change out of a Twenty.

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