Claiming The Cowboy (Meier Ranch Brothers 3)

“It would be wrong,

Ebba. Using them that way.”

Wouldn’t it?

“Right. Well then, I’ll just look into pulling off a heist in New Braunfels next weekend, and you can head down to The Gritty Somewhere and ask those mouth-breathing crumb catchers to cough up an entry fee to enter a beard contest.”

For someone so godly, Ebba could wield the golden staff of sarcasm like Moses when it suited her.

Gretchen thought back to Chase’s game. How at every turn, he had used fame to his advantage. Well, she had some advantage here, too. The inertia of an entire town she felt sure would come down to her way of thinking. What would a temporary sponsorship hurt? So long as their arrangement was clear. It was the only way she could live with herself while she figured out a way to save her beloved town.

5

Chase’s early morning consisted of meeting an out-of-town plumbing professional who specialized in large-scale, industrial buildings. The pipes in the old warehouse were a mess and one of the biggest conversion expenses the distillery would face. If the space hadn’t already had so much raw potential and charm with abundant brick, thick oak scaffolding, and space to expand on all sides, Chase’s investor team would have passed on it.

After the meeting, he walked the interior, snapping digital pictures to start the bidding process for construction and design companies from Austin, Dallas, Houston. Places that would bring an element of sophistication to the brand while still preserving its roots.

Deep at his core, he believed the distillery would be good for the town. Independent-label whiskey and fine spirits catered to a distinctive crowd. Educated. A crowd with money. A crowd who drove European import SUVs and lived in sprawling ranch-style homes and worked full-time at impressing others. And deep at his core, Chase believed the distillery would be good for him. He needed an excuse to stay home, to let the circuit buzz die, to hang his hat on a new dream. Following up being a champion with losing this place wasn’t an option.

A yawn took hold. The kind that began in all the internal organs and trembled outward like a quake. The kind that came from a sleepless night of sad memories: a girl with pigtails that hung to her waist, the same color as the leaves falling around them; same plaid dress each day; alone atop the monkey bars at recess; alone on the library steps, her nose buried in a thick book; unable to sing or bang on the xylophone in music class. Not once did Chase talk to her. She had been a celebrity of sorts, for all the wrong reasons. Mostly, he suspected, no eight-year-old knew what to say. Somehow, I’m sorry you don’t have a mom anymore seemed wrong.

“Busy night?”

Chase startled. He turned toward the woman’s voice, but he didn’t have to. He had memorized the notes in Gretchen’s words their freshmen year of high school geography, when she grew away from her sadness and toward something that always made him forget himself when she was around.

“Not what you think.” Not by a country mile.

She stood inside the building, but at a distance, looking like the Prime Minister of some foreign land: tartan-red heels; a black wool business suit that extinguished every bit of her spark; hair once gathered into two clusters, now swept up in complicated, tight swirls; arms crossed protectively before her. She lacked one protection, though, that he had to remedy. Close Call would never forgive him if his decrepit old building picked now to collapse and crush their most beloved mayor.

He removed his hard hat and approached her. “Gotta protect that Harvard brain.”

“Stanford.”

“Right.” Chase remembered, of course; he simply liked the way the error sparked her green eyes into live wires. He placed the hat over her fancy hair. His battered hands had no place there beside the shiny auburn waterfalls of curl at both temples, beside her flawless complexion.

She took the hat from his grasp and settled it herself.

He thought how exhausting it must be for her—always reaching for control, never showing weakness, a little like the distance all those years ago never let go.

“I haven’t been in here since I was twelve. On a dare. I can’t even remember a time when it was functional.”

An odd sliver of loss wiggled up between his ribs and settled mid-chest. That he knew of her at twelve but didn’t know her at all. That he might have taken the dare with her to sneak in here but for what—circumstance? His inability to think past his peer group?

“It’s bit like an old anchor. Weighs down the rest of the street. Not to mention the safety aspect. The No Trespassing signs are the stuff of dares. Wouldn’t want someone hurt on your watch.”

Gretchen glanced away, as if she had given something away she never intended.

Still, he pushed. “Be nice to see some life here again.”

She paced a bit, her gaze fully taking in her surroundings. He imagined her moving around a courtroom, commanding the attention of a jury the way she held his eye when she occupied the same space. For probably the hundredth time, he wondered why an attorney of such pedigree wanted to be a small-town mayor.

“Like a church or a youth center?”

“Close Call already has those,” said Chase. “And if the city decides to do something about this eyesore, there’s demolition fees to consider. Set the town back three dollars a square foot. Place like this? You’re looking at fifty-thousand dollars, easy.”

“I don’t want this town to become known as an alcohol destination.”

“Look what happened to the Hill Country. Twenty years ago, you walked the main streets of those forgotten towns, lucky if you could pass a boarded-up Piggy Wiggly market and a five-and-dime that sold postcards before you died of boredom. But once they expanded their crops, looked past the traditional German Rieslings of their heritage—which were awful, by the way—they became a world-renowned destination for the distinctive traveler—travelers who had been to Italy, who knew what a Montepulciano grape tasted like. Supporting businesses followed. Bed and breakfasts, hotels, restaurants, equipment suppliers, transport companies—everything from touristy bikes to limousines for special occasions. It isn’t simply what our distillery can do for Close Call—which is a lot—but the road we pave for other businesses to follow.”