Claiming The Cowboy (Meier Ranch Brothers 3)

Fuck-fuck-fuck. He was going to get himself killed.

“The fuck you waitin’ on, boy?” barked his trainer, his expression as intense as a drill sergeant.

The inertia had already taken hold, the rote muscle memory of climbing atop a bull a thousand times, in training, in competition. Hands assisted him—his grip, his positioning, his chaps and number, one final tug on his vest, the only thing standing between him and an instant goring. He wanted to scream, clamber back up the gated steel box, but there were so many hands, so many voices, telling him what to do, what to remember. He had never been much of a praying man, much to his mother’s dismay, but he did a fair bit in the time it took him to suck in another fortifying inhale. Even added a deal to the mix.

Keep me alive, and I’m done.

His trainer barked in his ear. “Ready? Ready?”

Chase clenched his molars, lowered himself so that the bull filled the space between his thighs, with a gap of mere inches. He flexed his fingers and curled them. Hard.

And nodded.

The chute opened.

14

July’s city council meeting progressed with an abundance of business. Events of the past two months seemed to shake out a new layer of growth problems Close Call had never faced. In addition to new corporate business and housing shortage concerns for potential new businesses and talk of a school bond to accommodate the influx of new students in the coming year, the debate for the remainder of the 1100 block of South Main looked to be an ever-present issue throughout the remainder of Gretchen’s tenure as mayor. She had hosted several town halls since approval of the zoning change to give the townspeople a voice. Time and time again, overwhelmingly so, when government opened itself to the creativity and varied experiences of its citizens, people rose to the occasion. Her job, she had learned, was not merely to put forth her agenda, the one that adhered to the platform on which she had run and the promises she had made, but the agenda dictated by the needs of her town. And, yes, quite often, that involved surprises. Maybe government needed surprises to keep officials on their toes, dancing in the right direction.

Gretchen had assimilated to a new normal. She stopped filling her days quite so full. For short sprints, overwork was fine, even expected for woman who came at her job with an attorney’s attention to detail. Long term? She likened it to running a marathon backward in heels. Possible, but the potential for falling was too great. In her extra hours, she took in more Clint Eastwood flicks with her father, ate a jelly donut every morning, walked the streets of Close Call every evening with Lincoln—who insisted they scout out a prime location for the newly-proposed dog park—and laid out plans to run for state attorney general. Her visits to the cemetery became fewer, and the combine harvester that sat on her chest—the weight of what might have been—lifted, day by day, until she didn’t find it so hard to breathe anymore.

Through the rumor mill, Gretchen heard Chase had become the first cowboy to take Stalin’s Assassin to a full eight-second count. She also heard he was on a plane bound for New York to do a photo shoot, on a cattle run somewhere in the panhandle, with an actress filming a western in Vancouver, and in Spain with his brother Nat and sister-in-law January. She couldn’t say how much of it was true. At least she hadn’t heard that he was broken. Had she heard that, she might have broken, too.

The council concluded their last bit of new business. Gretchen thanked everyone for coming and announced that the PTA was selling refreshments in the hallway—one way to sustain attendance numbers that had spiked of late—effectively segueing into a motion to dismiss the meeting, when Yancy Roesen politely cleared his throat and leaned toward his microphone.

“Madam Mayor, it seems you might have an outdated agenda,” he said. “Ms. Valentine, could you supply the mayor with the most recent new business?”

Gretchen glanced down at her page. She had printed it from her phone moments before the meeting. How many more items could have been added? A quick glance at the clock in the back of the room told her the meeting was already running a half hour longer than usual.

“Is it possible to table any new items for next month? We want to ensure everyone who was kind enough to attend tonight’s meeting makes it ho

me with some daylight left.”

“Days are getting longer, mayor,” Bettye Lindsey chimed in.

Ebba Howard added, “Few more minutes couldn’t hurt.”

Not one person in attendance made a move toward the hallway. Not even her father, who was normally beating a path from the back row to sneak into the hallway and listen to the Texas Rangers radio broadcast. And Gretchen had it on solid rumor that Cake My Day had donated multi-flavored pinwheels of tortes to the bake sale.

Gretchen felt out-of-body. If there was one thing about a small town, it was that the people were as predictable as ice cream cone drips in July. Something was afoot. Never was she more certain than when she saw Darcy’s exaggerated smile as she approached the council table, new sheet in hand. It was her assistant’s favorite reality-show television night, and Darcy wasn’t happy unless she got wind of a single, hot, and foreign dignitary coming to Houston. Gretchen glanced down to new business.

The amended line simply read, “Proposal.”

Non-specific. Great.

“Councilman Roesen, can you elaborate on the nature of this proposal?” Gretchen said into her microphone.

“I can’t, Madam Mayor, but I know someone who can.”

No one stood.

The main doors to the hall opened. Chase Meier entered.

Gretchen stiffened. May have even stopped breathing.

Chase came in dressed in a suit and tie, much as he had been the night of his presentation. He wore boots that matched a forgettable leather belt, no flying-saucer-sized buckle to speak of, and enough sweat on his forehead to blind the front row of ladies, whispering and tittering at the sight of him. He approached the microphone in front of Councilwoman Lindsey.

“Um…” After a shaky start with no voice, he gave it a second go. “Permission to address the council?”