Seven Sisters by Earlene Fowler Read Free Book Online Page A

the arch, swinging from two chains, was a simple wooden sign: SEVEN SISTERS RANCH—EST. 1922. Underneath that sign dangled a slightly larger one carved with the outline of seven peaks: SEVEN SISTERS WINERY—EST. 1985. We drove through the open gates, passing still-green pastures with a few horses contentedly browsing the ground. Farther down the road, the pastures turned into rows of grapevines. Set among the rows were two gray-and-white farmhouses with window boxes filled with bright red flowers, too far away for me to name. One of the houses had tiny, blinking white Christmas lights scattered throughout the small bushes in front of the wraparound porch and a Volkswagen van painted with a colorful mural parked in front.
    “California fireflies,” I said, pointing at the lights.
    We went by a row of stables and then drove up a slight incline, passing the tasting room—once the original land-owner’s residence. Its whitewashed adobe walls and red tile roof were a twin to the folk art museum. We turned a corner where the “new” ranch house perched on top of a hill overlooking the valley. The Craftsman-style house was painted shades of tan and brown, blending in with the oaks and pines growing tall and lush around it. A sprawling three stories, and lit up bright as a ballpark, it looked large enough to house three or four families. In the circular driveway were parked a half dozen cars, including one of Daddy’s blue Ramsey Ranch trucks. We pulled in behind a gleaming maroon Jaguar.
    Gabe eyed the Jag and whistled under his breath. “The gang really is all here.”
    “What do you mean?” I asked.
    “That’s Lydia’s car. She said she wouldn’t be able to reschedule the trial she was working on, but apparently she did.”
    I looked through the windshield at the sleek, expensive car, my heart sinking, my armpits growing damp, thankful that it was almost dark so Gabe couldn’t see what was, no doubt, the cauliflower look on my face.

5
    THE DEEP-SET front porch was comfortably crowded with some bent willow tables and chairs, a long porch swing, and three Adirondack benches. All were covered with identical green plaid cushions. A large, triangular dinner bell, the kind Dove used to call Daddy and the hands in from the barn, hung next to the porch steps.
    “This is some place,” Gabe said in a low voice.
    “Eighteen thousand square feet,” I said, for some reason remembering that fact from the long-ago home tour. “Designed by Julia Morgan herself. She and the judge were personal friends, I heard.”
    “Who’s Julia Morgan?”
    “You’ve never heard of Julia Morgan?”
    His face was blank.
    “She only designed the Hearst Castle, a ton of YWCAs, some big conference center up in Pacific Grove that’s supposed to be the biggest arts and crafts-style complex in the country, and a good deal of the houses in Berkeley. Never got the credit she deserved, probably because she was a woman.”
    He groaned under his breath. “Don’t tell that to Lydia, or we’ll be hearing a lecture half the night on how men keep women down.”
    “Which might do you some good, el patrón ,” I said, my voice slightly mocking as I knocked on the carved front door. Maybe I’d like this Lydia after all.
    Cappy herself answered. She was dressed in neat black Wranglers, a black cowboy shirt with yellow roses embroidered on the yoke, and shiny black round-toed riding boots. Except for the occasional newspaper photo, I hadn’t seen her for probably ten years, but she hadn’t changed much with her cropped, iron gray hair, wide, strong jaw, and tanned skin, whose real beauty was found in the deep lines radiating from her clear, gray eyes and faintly over-bitten smile.
    “Benni Louise Harper, I swear you don’t look a day over eighteen,” she said, putting a wiry arm around my shoulders, giving me a hearty squeeze. “You still riding every day? Still practicing your rope tricks?” She looked up at Gabe. “You would be surprised