Claiming The Cowboy (Meier Ranch Brothers 3)

“Honestly, I think the label graphics and the glass shape are half the battle when you’re asking people to pay top dollar for premium water.”

“So what would make someone purchase this over, say, a virgin cocktail?”

“Sugar content. Today’s drinker is more health-conscious than ever. Most of the non-alcoholic cocktails have syrups and artificial ingredients to get the drink to taste anything close to the kick that alcohol brings. When people who can’t drink for whatever reason—religion, principles, medical reasons, designated drivers—go out with their friends, this offers them an alternative that’s distinctive.”

“How do they taste?”

“I don’t know yet. I thought maybe you’d want the honorary first sip.”

Gretchen turned all the labels: cucumber-rosemary-mint, basil-dill-lemon, kale citrus, pineapple-ginger, orange-fennel, star anise-hibiscus.

“Let’s each take one.”

She played it safe—cucumber, rosemary, and mint. Chase went for the unknown. Typical. Gretchen didn’t even know what star anise was.

The bottle chilled her lips. Rosemary wafted to her nostrils and lay potent on her tongue, before the mint and cucumber rounded out the refreshing sip. Gretchen loved it.

One glance at Chase nearly had her spitting out her mouthful. His label might as well have read anchovy-maple for all the delight that distorted his features.

“Oh, God…that tasted like dirt.”

A hearty laugh charged from Gretchen’s lungs. Enough to turn his frown to a smile.

They took turns sampling the other flavors. Gretchen passed on the star anise-hibiscus. She valued her delicious meal and didn’t want to see it splattered all over the meticulously groomed azaleas beside her. With each pass of the bottle, she grew more attuned to the familiarity of it all. Not once did they bother with the bar glasses. They simply sipped after each other as if there was no distinction where one mouth stopped and the other began.

When they had sampled all the flavors, Chase said, “We’ve already added one copper still to the inventory with plans for three more. The first batch of Rio Grande jalapeno-cactus could be ready by the time the distillery opens its doors.”

He was doing all this to impress her, to follow through on their agreement.

“Chase, there’s something I have to—"

“There’s more. Such an operation requires locally-sourced herbs. Helps advance the marketing. So I want to open a community garden not far from the distillery. Local school children could tend it and learn science and agriculture, and a percent of each bottle sold could go toward an annual college scholarship.”

It was so much more than she could have hoped for. At that point, it didn’t matter to her his reason, just that the town would reap so many benefits. “Chase—”

“One more thing. I can’t turn back time to the night someone drank too much and made the decision to get behind the wheel and changed your life forever. But I can make sure it doesn’t happen again. Not on my watch. The distillery wants to start a ride-share program. Anyone who drinks has to check their keys with the hostess, like a valet. Non-drinkers who offer to drive drinkers home will get complimentary food or drink vouchers for an alternate night. And we’ll make sure that someone on staff can always drive people home, as a backup.”

His ideas came faster and faster, like a deluge she was powerless to hold back, and she was left saturated in his respect. Respect she didn’t deserve.

“Chase, I don’t know what to say. You’ve clearly given this a great deal of thought.”

“Say we can do this. We can both be winners here.”

The rain had backed off to sprinkles as if it, too, leaned in to hear what she decided. Not predisposed to rash choices, she took a sip of the pineapple-ginger, her second-favorite of the six, to give herself time. Had she allowed her feelings for him to influence her temptation to say yes? No. No, she hadn’t. The logical side of her brain mounted the facts in this case: the benefits to Close Call above and beyond the obvious economic perks, that he had single-handedly saved her high-profile event, that he had brought her here because he knew what it might mean for her future. Most of all, saying yes made what happened a hundred and fifty years ago a moot point, a footnote in history where it belonged. With a yes vote, Chase got his distillery. She got her family-first agenda. All without messy legal entanglements for a cash-strappe

d town.

Still, she felt the gravity all the way through the soles of her feet.

Gretchen took a deep breath. “Yes.”

“Yes?”

She nodded.

Chase launched to his feet and scooped her up with him. At his full-bodied embrace, the energy he brought to the moment had to go somewhere, she supposed. He spun her, again and again, hooting and hollering as if he had won the state lottery and had completely lost himself in the possibility of it all. His exuberance was infectious. Not the most conventional way of sealing a deal in politics—usually a sweaty handshake sufficed—but this was no ordinary deal and Chase was no ordinary man.

“We thought we heard a bunch of carrying on,” Gabriel said. He had come out to the patio, hand in hand with Maria. “What are we celebrating?”