The only language they understand is a clout on the head."
"I didn't think you cared that much about the horses," I said. "You never come down to the corral."
"I don't," he said quickly. "It's you I care about.
You've still got a lot to learn."
I laughed.
"Fat lot I learned from your hitting a bronc on its head."
"You learned that Nevada couldn't ride that horse until I made it possible."
"So?"
My father turned.
He was a big man, over six feet, but I was taller.
"So," he said slowly, "no matter how big you get, you won't be big enough to wear my shoes until I let you."
I followed my father into the dining room.
Rina's back was to me and her hair shone like silver as she raised her cheek for his morning kiss.
There was a quiet triumph in my father's eyes as he straightened up afterward and looked at me. He didn't speak as he sat down in his chair. He didn't have to. I knew what he was thinking. He didn't have to hit me over the head.
"Joining us for breakfast, Jonas?" Rina asked politely.
I stared at her for a moment, then at my father. I could feel the sick knot tying up my guts.
"No, thanks. I'm not hungry."
I turned and walked hurriedly back through the dining-room door, almost colliding with Robair, who was just entering with a tray.
By the time I got back to the corral, Nevada was walking the bronc up and down, breaking him to the meaning of the reins.
Father had been right. The horse wasn't giving Nevada any trouble.
And here it was twelve years later and I could still hear his voice as it had echoed quietly on the back porch that morning.
"Let go, old man, let go!" I said angrily, my fist smashing down on the empty desk.
The pain ran crazily up my arm into my shoulder.
"Mr. Cord!"
I looked up in surprise.
Morrissey was standing in the open doorway, his mouth partly open.
It took an effort for me to bring myself back to the present. "Don't stand there," I snapped. "Come in." He entered the office hesitantly, and a moment later, Forrester appeared in the doorway behind him. Silently they came into the office. "Sit down and have a drink," I said, pushing the bottle of bourbon toward them.
"Don't mind if I do," Forrester said, picking up the bottle and a paper cup.
He sloshed himself a good one. "Mud in your eye."
"Up the General's," I said.
"By the way, where is the old boy?"
"On his way back to the city. He has a date with a toilet-paper manufacturer."
I laughed.
"At least, that's one thing he can test for himself."
Forrester laughed but Morrissey sat there glumly.
I pushed the bottle toward him.
"You on the wagon?"
He shook his head.
"What are we going to do now?" he asked.
I stared at him for a moment, then picked up the bottle and refilled my paper cup.
"I was just thinking about declaring war on the United States.
That's one way we could show him how good our plane is."
Morrissey still didn't crack a smile.
"The CA-4 is the best plane I ever designed."
"So what?" I asked. "What the hell, it didn't cost you anything.
It was my dough.
Besides, how much did you ever make out of building planes?
It doesn't amount to one-twentieth of your annual royalties on that trick brassiere you designed for Rina Marlowe."
It was true.
But it had been McAllister who'd seen the commercial potential in the damn thing and applied for a patent in the name of Cord Aircraft.