Claiming The Cowboy (Meier Ranch Brothers 3)

At the graveside, Gretchen cleared out the dying daisies from her previous visit and weeded the headstone. She gathered the trinkets her father left there, some weathered, some new, brushed the ledge free of dirt, and replaced the offerings. Her hands filled with the same earth her mother occupied, Gretchen settled on the stone bench.

She told her mother about Chase. Asked if she remembered him from school—he was the one with the boots that weighed down his little legs, even in kindergarten, and the crazy hair. “It’s still wild, Mama, just has more product now.” She implored her mother to forgive her ambitions that clouded her judgment—for surely the town may not when they found out the deal she struck with Chase. And what would become of the secret the papers unearthed? The ethical thing was to reveal the original Meier claim to the property immediately, tonight at dinner with Chase. But the mere idea of that triggered a loss of control inside her, on behalf of the town, that made her queasy and unable to finish relaying the tale for her mother. Still, her mother’s advice surfaced: that the hardest internal struggle was always between what was felt and what was known. Not surprisingly, it sounded a lot like the advice Gretchen had heard from her father many times.

She never stayed at the cemetery long. Gretchen preferred frequency to duration, but she usually waited for a sign that she had a job to do and less than zero time to stay any longer. On this day, that sign came in the form of a chatty starling with shiny black feathers squawking at her from a nearby branch.

“His mayor, nothing more,” she said to the bird. But when she failed to convince the feathered visitor of her conviction and he continued to insert his opinion, she added, “What do you know? You keep the company of blackbirds and grackles.”

On her way back to the office, she remembered Chase’s words: “Oh my God, you knocked me clear into a Disney movie.” And for the first time since yesterday morning, when Chase made that joke about strippers on the light poles, Gretchen laughed.

Inside, the clash between what she felt and what she knew strengthened.

Tanner’s Barbecue was a serious source of pride for Close Call. Niles Tanner had grown up on the oil rigs out in the Gulf for much of his young adult life. When one of them blew up, he faced years of rehabilitation. He promised himself that if he could get to rights again, he would walk until he found his passion. Niles didn’t find that passion in only one place. He found it clear west to Odessa and east to Memphis, north to Kansas City and south to Mexico. Niles gathered up the know-how to smoke any meat to perfection and the tenacity to ensure his twenty-six-ingredient sauce captured the best from every place his artificial legs carried him.

And if Niles’s number one passion was barbecue tangy enough to make customers weep, his second passion was displaying the stuffed heads of his twin brother’s most accomplished hunts. Chase supposed he was equally proud of his brothers’ accomplishments—book writing and soldiering—but if Niles’s pride had crowded out the walls in Ted Nugent-fashion and involved a bull elk’s rack the size of a short bus, Chase would have celebrated family in a more understated way. Like a Burning Man effigy paired with a never-ending Carnival.

Even where he waited on the front porch of the restaurant, country music at Tanner’s blared through the speakers—normally Chase’s vibe, but in retrospect, not the best place to hold a conversation. In truth, the loud twang triggered the headache that always set in when he felt crowded, with too many people wanting too many things from him. His manager wanted him back out on the circuit. Called him with an event that carried a heavy purse and a lock for Stetson sponsorship. His investors parted with their hundred grand along with some scathing consequences should Chase not deliver on the distillery’s location. Likely, though, the headache had a name: Widowmaker. The surly longhorn had damned near cost him his right eye. Chase pushed through the ache, settled on a bench outside the restaurant, breathed deeply of the smoke-tinged air, and locked in on the one thing, of late, that seemed to ease the ache.

Gretchen de Havilland.

She was right on time, a few minutes early, actually, but an elderly couple had stopped her in the parking lot. The woman was animated, gesturing so that her bat-wing arms drafted her husband, who fanned a folded copy of the Close Caller-Times. The same edition with two side-by-side, front-page photographs that had turned Chase’s stomach that morning over cold eggs and grits.

Ranch hands had filtered through the kitchen to top off their coffee mugs and gave him attaboy pats on his back. January rolled her eyes then followed with a fist bump. And Mona? About his double-fingered photograph, she advised him to “cork those pistols” before they got him in trouble. Regarding the strategically-framed image that looked as if he was holding hands with the mayor instead of exchanging a hard hat? Mona thought it best that a horse thief not hang his wash on the sheriff’s clothes line. The woman had watched one too many Gunsmoke reruns.

By the time Gretchen joined him, her mayoral armor was firmly in place: polished appearance with flawless makeup; a subtle spritz of cologne that was both feminine and powerful; a buttoned-up suit jacket, navy with military-style buttons; and a pageant smile that Chase had come to know was not her most beautiful. He much preferred her tentative, thoughtful smile that came on the cusp of something revealing, and he decided that, headache or no, fake animal heads and good food were the best route behind her masquerade.

“My apologies.” She nodded toward the old couple now pulling out of the parking lot in their economy coupe. “I encouraged a private appointment, but they have difficulty getting out.”

Even her speech was podium-worthy.

“Everything all right?” he asked.

“Fine.”

One note, too pitched, too enthusiastic. Most certainly not fine.

Inside, they grabbed a clean table by the window. From her bag, she pulled out a fancy notebook, a voice recorder, and three pens—presumably second- and third-string contingency plans should the first fail—and opened to the first clean sheet that followed crowded, inked-to-hell pages. She titled the page Sesquicentennial Plans – Meeting then followed it with the place, date, and time and two bold underlines. By the time she had chronicled what hadn’t yet happened, Chase was exhausted.

He took the pen from her hand, gave the journal a one-eighty turn, and wrote What would you like for dinner? My treat.

She glanced up. He caught a ghost of her best smile—shy, without planning or foresight—but it was a little like the second the rodeo chute door opened: blink and it was gone. Just like his words. With a tidy box-like pattern filled in with Xs, quite artistic and wholly efficient, she concealed his handwriting, maybe all evidence he had ever been present.

“Whatever Niles has on special today,” she said. “I’m not particular.”

That was like saying ropes didn’t fray or coon dogs didn’t hunt. Chase was about to call out the absurdity of her statement, but she glanced around, intermittently blinking back at the stares and whispers and the occasional not-so-covert pointing of the other patrons, and his wise-ass comment died on his tongue.

Some of the restaurant patrons held newspapers.

Chase damned near lost his appetite. The music knocked around his head. His right temple throbbed.

He went up to Niles at his butcher block counter and ordered two specials. To go. Armed with a paper sack of the best meal in the county cradled in the crook of his elbow and a cup of iced tea in each hand—one sweet, one unsweet so that he covered his bases whichever way her not-particular opinion swayed, he returned to the table and said, “Grab your things.”

“What? Why?” Her voice was a one-alarm blaze, still unaccustomed to winging it.

Still, she packed her notebook, voice recorder, and three pens and followed him out the door.

He couldn’t tell her the real reason—that he wanted to take her somewhere she could be Gretchen, not Mayor de Havilland. That she deserved time to spend somewhere she wasn’t on display, measuring every word. Hell, he wasn’t entirely sure where that place was; he simply knew it wasn’t at Tanner’s.

Chase put the to-go bag behind the passenger seat and the teas in his cup holders.