This is the first chapter of a seven part story that will run all this week.

Mason McCulloch was a pragmatist. He’d done well for himself. When he was young he attributed that to his skills and talents. Now that he was in the late autumn, or early winter of his life, he could look back and see it was more luck than talent. “As much the gene pool I was born into than anything,” he’d say while buying someone a beer at the Lucky Lady on the rare trips into town. It takes a big man to realize how small he is in the grand scheme of things.

A lot of folks thought Mason to be lonely, but he never looked at himself in those terms. Granted, he was one to enjoy his solitude, but he never felt a strong sense of longing to share time with others any more than was required. Most of those he would have enjoyed had passed. He made do out at his place. His books were his biggest companions. He kept a collection of old classic cars in the barn out behind the main house, all Fords. Some were worth a fair amount of money, but all of them had a deeper meaning that made them valuable.

To still call it a barn was a stretch . It was heated and cooled. Had a stone fireplace and a bar at one end. A pool table that hadn’t seen use in quite a while was off to the side. The leather furniture in front of the fireplace was probably as nice as anything in Pecos country, save perhaps the lobby of the Cattle Baron Hotel.

Cars had always been kind of a big deal for Mason. Had been ever since he was a kid. As a kid he could tell people what the make and model of every car in the LIFE magazines was long before he was taught to read. After that, he just enjoyed being around them. And being around people who enjoyed being around them. He never went for the overly exotic models, almost nothing that wasn’t American, mostly Fords, just like those in the collection. Those parked in the barn had been in there for a number of years, Mason hardly ever got rid of anything. But he rarely got them out anymore. It was enough to get a fire going in the big rock fireplace on a cold Saturday night, go over to the bar and pour himself a bourbon, grab a biography off the shelf and sit on one of the big leather couches, feet up on the cowhide covered coffee table and read. He took comfort in looking up and seeing the old Thunderbird, or the Continental behind him while turning the pages.

Cars and books were enough now, it seemed. He’d sold most the businesses that had given him his identity and funded his fortune. “Do you ever miss being in the thick of it, in the arena, as it were?” Hank asked him one night at the Lucky Lady.

“Not really,” he said without even having to think about it. “Thought I would, but never really did. That was a season, I suppose. That season’s over. The businesses wouldn’t even be recognizable now, from what little I hear. Nothing stays the same.” Mason’s voice trailed off a bit. “Different times.”

Mason had been a member of the Almost United Methodist Church in Fort Stockton for decades. Supported the church with his money, even in the years he didn’t support it with his attendance. “The man who doesn’t give back isn’t really a man at all,” he used to tell Pastor Peterson. His only stipulation on the funds he donated were that his name not be attached to them. “Hell will freeze over before there is ever a gold plaque with the McCulloch name on it on anything,” he told the pastor. “The money stops if anyone ever suggests such a thing.” Pastor Peterson honored his wishes. Only he and the chairman of the finance committee ever fully understood how things got done, even when collections were down in hard times.

Daniel Jack had worked out at the McCulloch place for as long as anyone could remember. Mason had hired him decades before when he didn’t have time to take care of everything around the place. Daniel was the same age as Mason. They graduated high school together. Mason always called him Jack Daniels, just an inversion of his actual name, but it tickled him when they were young. Then it became ‘Whiskey’, and had been for over forty years since. Whiskey kept the pastures mowed, the cows relatively healthy, and the cars in the barn maintained. “He’s the best friend money can buy,” Mason joked. But he wasn’t really joking all that much.

Mason felt the years every time he stood up from the leather couch after reading too long without getting up. His bones made noises that even his old cars didn’t; his joints talked back to him like an insolent child. “If my body was an employee,” he told Whiskey one afternoon, “I’d fire it and hire a new one.”

Whiskey could relate, probably even more so having earned his living through physical labor.  “Old age ain’t for the faint of heart,” 

“You’re the old one, Whiskey.” Mason said.  But he was moving slower than Whiskey despite them being the same age.

Still being a fan of automotive magazines, Bring a Trailer, and cars in general, Mason got a hankering to go into town and see what all the fuss was about with the new Ford Bronco.  He damn sure wasn’t going to make a special trip into town to see one, but thought next time he went in he’d stop at Frontier Ford and see if they had one in stock.

One Saturday morning Mason found the need to go into the Rusty Hammer Hardware Store for some fencing supplies and dropped by the dealership on his way. Sutton, Mason’s old Labrador retriever, rode along as he did most everywhere Mason went. “You got one of those new Broncos here I can take a look at?”

“Sure do.  I’ll take you around back so you can have a look at it.  We darn near gotta keep ‘em hidden,”  The young salesman walked Mason around the back of the dealership, right outside the Parts Department and showed him a 2023 Bronco Big Bend 2-door.  “Here you go.  If you like it, I can do the paperwork and get you one ordered.”

Mason walked around the thing a couple times and told the kid to go get the keys.  “I can’t rightly do that, sir.  This one is sold.”  Mason looked at him like a man who was rarely told ‘No’.

“Son,” Mason told him, “I don’t like to throw weight around.  But I own 17% of this dealership.  I’d prefer to not have to contact the partner who owns 52% of it, but I can if that’s what you prefer.  Now get your bony ass inside that office and the next time I see you I want to see a smile on your face, a set of keys in one hand, and a hot cup of fresh coffee in the other.”

“I had no idea, Mr. McCulloch.  So sorry.  Please just wait here a short minute and I’ll be right back.  I’m so  sorry.”  And with that, the kid was breaking out in a jog on the way to the office.

“Don’t forget the coffee!”

A moment later, the kid returned with all the things he was instructed to, along with one he wasn’t, the sales manager.  “Good morning Mr. McCulloch.  How can we help you this morning?”

“I’m interested in this new Bronco.  Hadn’t seen one before.  Been too busy to make it in till now,” Mason lied.  “I like it.  I think I’ll take it.”

“Well, Sir,” the poor sales manager said, “we’d be happy to get one on order for you, but this one is already sold.”  He knew before the words even fell off his cracked lips that they were for nothing.

“Paid for and titled?” Mason asked.

“No sir, Mr. McCulloch.  Waiting on financing approval, sir.”

Mason laughed.  “How much he put down?”

“Five thousand sir. Check is still paper-clipped to the sales contract.”

“Tell you what,” Mason said.  “If the bastard is having to finance it, he can’t afford it, anyway.  Give him his five grand back.  And I’ll kick in five grand more, for his troubles.  Tell him you’ll order him another one, or he can keep the money.  Or tell him whatever damn thing you want to.  But I’m taking this one.  I like the color.  I’ll write you a check for full sticker so we don’t have to call my partner.  He wouldn’t like it if you bothered him.”

The sales manager felt like he was in a hostage situation.  But he didn’t have an argument that was worth putting his job on the line.

“I’ve got to go over to the Rusty Hammer for some supplies. Be about an hour. I trust when I get back the paperwork will be ready to sign, the truck will be washed and full of gas and this transaction will be complete.” Mason wanted to remember the exact expression on the sales manager’s face so he could describe it to Whiskey when he relayed the story later that night.

“Yes sir.”

When Mason and Sutton got home that afternoon with a new Bronco, he told Whiskey the story about how he came to own it. Whiskey wasn’t surprised, but felt bad for the sales manager.  “You’re kind of a prick.  But that’s what got you where you are today.”

“Wherever the hell that is.”  Mason replied.

It was about three months after that and the Bronco didn’t have a thousand miles on it yet. He needed to go into town to see the doctor for his annual visit and stopped into the Grounds for Divorce for breakfast, leaving Sutton waiting in the passenger seat. It was always a treat to see Lucinda, and figured he might run into one or two others that seemed to congregate there most mornings. He wasn’t disappointed.

The big table in the middle had all the regulars.  Mason enjoyed catching up.  Swore he’d come in more often.  Mentioned the new Bronco.  “How’d you get it?  I’ve been on a waiting list for seven months,” Rusty said.  “Thought I had one locked up but then something happened.  At least I got five grand off the next one, whenever it comes in.”  Mason reflected on what a small world it was.

Pastor Peterson walked Mason out to the Bronco when it was time for him to head over to Doc’s office.  “Really like the color on this.  What do they call it?”

“Cactus,” Mason said.  “It almost takes on a shade of green in the right light.  But now that I think of it, so do I.  How much do you need?”

“You know I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t have to,” Pastor Peterson seemed genuinely embarrassed to have to come to him.  “We’d hoped to get another year or two out of the roof.  The storms this fall thought otherwise.  We’re getting some leaks.  We can’t put it off and materials have gone up since the original bids two years ago.  We’re seven thousand short.”

“Order the materials.  I’ll get a check dropped over.  Nobody knows, as usual.”  Mason said.

“You know we appreciate it. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t have to.” the pastor replied.

“Understood.”

In the Bronco, Mason called Clive over at Prairie View State Bank on his cell phone.  “Get a check to the church.  Seven grand.  Put ‘roof’ in the comments.  Make sure it goes straight to Pastor Peterson.”  He was in Doc’s parking lot as he hung up.

Mason marveled at the fact that Doc was half his age.  “When did I become the oldest guy in the room, in damn near every room I’m in?”

“Happens to the best of ‘em,” his doctor replied.  “Count yourself fortunate.  Not everyone reaches that lofty position.”

A week later, when Doc called him on his cell phone, there was a distinctly different tone in his voice. A formal edge that Mason didn’t remember hearing before. “I need you to stop by the office.”

“Okay,” Mason assured him.  “I’ll swing by next week some time.”

“No.  Today.”  

Mason knew at that point. He could have saved the trip to the office. All the doctor did was fill him in on timeframes and expectations and neither offered details that were encouraging or overly enlightening. More vague guesses than actual details and Mason McCulloch was a man who’d always dealt better with firm facts. But he was also a man who played the cards he was dealt and didn’t dwell on should-have-beens or why-nots. Some had called him a pessimist over the years. He never viewed himself that way. Just a realist. And the reality is that some things can’t be changed. Can’t be avoided.

He shook Doc’s hand and gave him a pat on his shoulder. Mason actually felt bad for Doc, having to be the one that handed out news like that. He wondered if the good news Doc gave people offset what he’d just told Mason. If telling someone they were finally going to have that baby they’d wanted for so long, or that their tests came back negative, or any number of other possible scenarios made up for days like the one he was having today.

As he climbed into the Bronco, Mason noticed the new car smell, despite Sutton’s best efforts to make the Bronco smell like the inside of a kennel. Hadn’t paid much attention to that since he brought it home. He thought about the fact that he hadn’t enjoyed that smell as much as he should have. Probably true with a lot of things. He needed a coffee.

Lucinda didn’t think much of it when Mason walked into the Grounds for Divorce, other than the fact that it had only been a couple weeks since he was last in. It was more the norm to see Mason every few months. He took the corner booth by the window. “No menu. A piece of pie and coffee. Hot. Black,” he told her.

She noticed something in his eyes that was off. But then, everyone has a day when not everything hits on all cylinders. She brought him apple because she knew it was his favorite. And waited at the Bunn-O-Matic till a fresh pot was made before she poured him a hot cup of Folgers. There was only one other customer in the cafe, over at the lunch counter, not even a regular. Lucinda went ahead and slid into the booth across from Mason for a minute. She tried to better read his eyes. She was pretty good at that, normally. But this time she couldn’t make out the story his eyes were telling.

They made small talk. Mason asked her about her family, something she couldn’t ever remember him doing before. He ate half his pie, but downed all the coffee. “How ‘bout another cup?” she asked him.

“Maybe half.”

She got up and walked over to the lunch counter to check on the other customer as she went back to the Bunn-O-Matic.  When she came back to the booth by the window, Mason was gone.  There was a ten-spot laying on the table for the pie and the coffee.  Beside the cash were two sets of keys to the Bronco.  Under the keys was the title to the almost brand new Bronco, signed over to Lucinda and signed by Mason McCulloch.

She looked out the window and saw him walking down Houston Street.  His gait was steady.  He seemed to be looking up slightly, letting the sun fully shine on his face.  Sutton had adopted the exact same pace, staying right next to Mason, step for step.  He walked all the way back home.