Shortly after, dinner was served. This time Emily wore a smile that was impossible to wipe away, and her husband watched her with quiet satisfaction; she had been worried about their son for a long time.
Jack's favorite dish had always been his mother's habanero BBQ ribs, and that night was no exception. Everyone was served a generous portion of ribs, fresh off the wood-fired grill.
The meat pulled cleanly from the bone—smoky, juicy, and coated in a thick, slightly sweet sauce. At the center of the table sat a large platter of homemade lamb-and-beef sausages, rustic and well browned, served with onions and chiles roasted directly over the coals.
On the side there was freshly baked cornbread and a simple cabbage salad dressed with vinegar. No frills—hearty food, meant to fill the stomach after a long day's work.
From a nutritional standpoint, the meal was a caloric disaster, but for men who worked from sunup to sundown, it was normal. Many days, they only ate twice.
As the dishes were set on the table, Jack's father slowly began to realize something: his son might be doing far better than he had admitted back in New York. It came as a surprise to learn that he had brought four bodyguards with him.
Emily insisted they dine with them and wouldn't take no for an answer.
What was unsettling was their presence. All of them were nearly as tall as Alexander himself, broad-bodied, standing with firm postures and steely gazes. No introductions were needed; more than five years in the United States Army were enough for him to recognize what he was seeing.
Those men weren't ordinary guards. They were well-trained veterans.
There was also the fact that Jack had bought two brand-new trucks that very day, upon arriving in Fort Worth. It was clear the family could afford that kind of expense without trouble, but Alexander remembered well that when his son had left for New York, he had cut off all financial support.
Even later, when his wife had convinced him to speak with Jack and offer him financial help, Jack had refused, insisting he didn't need it.
Those two facts alone were enough for one of the most stubborn men in all of Texas to admit—if only to himself—that his son was thriving. And that he was deeply proud of him… though he would never say it out loud.
Then Alexander noticed something else. One of the four bodyguards looked familiar.
—Ed… that's your name, right?
Alexander lifted a lamb sausage with his fork and studied the only white man among the four.
—You're George's son, aren't you? From the Southfork ranch in Parker County. I remember seeing you at the Fort Worth Stockyards during a cattle auction.
The Fort Worth cattle auction was the heart of the region's livestock trade and, for many, one of the most important in the country. Ranchers from all over Tarrant County and East Texas gathered there.
Alexander was a regular client. And a very well-known one.
Edward straightened immediately.
—Yes, sir. George Redford is my father. I've seen you there too.
Alexander chewed slowly, thoughtfully. George Redford was a rancher he knew well, and he remembered clearly that George had only one son. A son who had served in the Navy SEALs—the pride of his father, someone he never stopped bragging about whenever they met.
—I heard you were in the SEALs —Alexander finally said, his voice measured—. Is that true?
Edward shrugged, relaxed, and gave a calm smile—the kind that didn't try to impress.
—That's right, sir. I retired last year —Edward said as he took another bite of his food. He chewed unhurriedly, then wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin before adding—. Now I work for your son, Mr. Carter.
A Navy SEAL veteran… working as a bodyguard, Alexander thought. For the first time, he looked away from the man and turned his gaze to Jack.
His son was sitting beside his mother, speaking to her in a low voice. In that quiet gesture, Alexander understood that his wife had been far more in touch with him than she had admitted; she was far too well informed.
Suddenly, the entire visit began to make sense. None of it had been a coincidence. Emily had insisted that he ask Jack to come visit, but now it was clear they had been in close contact for quite some time.
Emily noticed Alexander's look and gently nudged Jack.
—Son —she said lightly—, your father seems to have a lot of questions about your life in New York. For my sake, why don't you help him clear up his doubts?
Jack smiled.
—Of course, Mom. But wouldn't it be better after dinner? —he said calmly, looking at his father—. What do you think, Dad? We can talk later… there are things I want to discuss with you too.
—I have another option —Alexander snorted, turning his attention back to his plate.
That night.
Jack and his father, Alexander, were sitting alone in a room lit by the steady glow of a fireplace.
The walls were lined with heavy cabinets, each one filled with firearms of every kind—rifles, pistols, shotguns—row after row, meticulously aligned. This room was the Carter family armory.
The collection was extensive enough that any gun enthusiast who stepped inside would feel as though they had entered paradise.
Beneath this room was a reinforced basement, divided into two sections. One stored food, fresh water, and essential survival supplies. The other was devoted entirely to ammunition—enough to feed every firearm in the armory many times over.
This place wasn't just a display room. It was the family's safe room.
Built during the Cold War, it had been designed to sustain five people for more than three months without resupply. Beneath the structure, an emergency escape tunnel lay hidden, intended for the worst-case scenario.
And now, father and son were here together.
Dinner had ended in an uneasy balance—Alexander's silence, Emily's concern mixed with relief, and Jack's calm indifference.
Jack watched his father cross the room, take two glasses and a bottle of aged bourbon from the cabinet in front of him. Then he sat beside him and, unhurriedly, poured both glasses, handing one to him.
—Now it's just the two of us. You can tell me now. What did you really do in New York? —Alexander said in a low voice, fixing his gaze on his son.
His father's expression was severe. If any ranch hand or neighboring farmer had seen that look, they would have instinctively felt afraid.
Jack, however, remained composed. He knew his father might think he had done something illegal, that he had stained his future. But he also knew something else: as a man of military honor, seeing those men work for him, Alexander understood that Jack couldn't be involved in anything too dirty if they had agreed to follow him.
—Well, to put it in general terms, after I left I started operating on Wall Street and founded my own financial investment firm. I did very well after the dot-com bubble burst —Jack said evenly.
He wasn't afraid of his father. And this time he wanted his parents to understand what he had been doing, because what came next—his future plans—would require their help, and in particular, his father's.
—Did this company make a lot of money? —Alexander asked bluntly.
Otherwise, nothing he had seen that night made any sense.
—Yes. When I left three years ago, I started by trading online through a specialized broker, and I got into metals and currency trading. I took advantage of the bubble and made quite a bit of money —Jack replied, holding his gaze—. Then I founded my own fund, Carter Capital. That's when the real money came in.
He paused, then asked:
—Dad, but before that I need to know something. What is the Carter family's net worth?
Alexander frowned.
—Is that important?
—Yes, it is. I just want to give you a better perspective —Jack replied—. It has to do with my next step.
Alexander hesitated, then exhaled quietly.
—I was planning to tell you in due time —he said after a brief silence—. You're my only son. One day all of this will be yours, so sooner or later you had to know.
He paused, as if organizing figures he had spent years avoiding saying out loud.
—Iron River Agricultural Company is the backbone of everything. Under its name are our lands, farms, ranches, and properties. Altogether… about twenty-eight million dollars. Most of it comes from the land itself. The most fertile land in Tarrant County is ours.
Jack said nothing. He listened.
—Your mother and I also have some investments in Fort Worth. Not many. Around two million.
Alexander continued, in an almost administrative tone, as if he were reading a balance sheet.
—On a personal level, I own shares in the Houston Rockets and the Texas Rangers. Your grandfather bought them when no one was betting on them. Today they should be worth… about ten million.
He shrugged.
—As for savings, your mother has always handled that. Probably another one or two million more—I couldn't tell you the exact figure.
Jack lowered his gaze for a moment, doing the math in silence. His lips barely moved as he added the numbers in his head.
—So we're talking about… less than fifty million dollars? —he finally asked, lifting his eyes—. Is that all?
Alexander's expression hardened instantly. The calm with which he had listed his entire life cracked in a single second.
—What do you mean, "is that all"? —he snapped, visibly irritated—. This is the work of several generations of the Carter family; our family has shed blood and sweat on this land. —He leaned slightly forward, his tone heavy with irritation—. Aside from those damn oil men, no one in all of Tarrant County has a net worth that comes close to our family's.
—I'm sorry, I didn't mean it that way —Jack said quickly. He immediately realized how it had sounded: presumptuous. The last few years had made him more direct, more aggressive—. That wasn't my intention.
The silence that followed was thick. After a few seconds, Jack lowered his voice, almost as if he feared the walls might listen.
—But there's more.
He looked carefully around the room, lingering on the closed door, the covered windows, every familiar corner.
—Right here —he continued—. In this room is the real insurance for our family. The safeguard for hard times.
Alexander raised an eyebrow.
—The gold?
Alexander nodded, and a flicker of contained pride appeared in his eyes.
—My grandfather started buying gold in the thirties. My father followed his example, and I carried on the legacy —he said, leaning back a little more in his chair, now calmer—. Do you remember when your mother and I used to travel every month? Austin, Dallas, Houston. We told you they were business trips.
He gave a brief, almost nostalgic smile.
—In reality, we were buying gold. To this day, a third of the ranch's monthly profits still goes toward that.
His voice dropped to a whisper.
—Last month, Emily finished counting it. We had just passed one hundred twenty thousand ounces. With the purchases from the last two months… at least 120,450 ounces.
Jack froze.
One hundred twenty thousand four hundred fifty ounces.
In 2002, gold was trading at around $310 an ounce. He did the math immediately: a little over thirty-seven million dollars. On paper, it sounded almost modest… but the true magnitude hit him hard.
Which meant that even with all its influence and power, the Smith family's total assets barely exceeded ninety million dollars.
Impressive for a rancher—many people would never see that kind of money in their entire lives.
Jack straightened and looked his father directly in the eye.
—I'll be honest with you, Dad. I'm going to need your help.
The fire crackled softly.
And for the first time that night, Alexander didn't interrupt.