Claiming The Cowboy (Meier Ranch Brothers 3)

“You?” Her tone did an unintentional jaunt into the non-political arena of sarcasm.

“Me. I’m the face of the company.”

His face would make for a smooth, warming intoxication on the senses. But for the life of her, Gretchen never understood the whole rider-atop-an-angry-bull-as-celebrity thing. Bull riding seemed more like something twelve-year-old boys did on a double-dog dare than a four-million-dollar industry with high-profile endorsements.

“Quite a risk to marry your established brand with a fledgling operation,” she said.

“The real risk is in doing nothing. Living life afraid of what might happen.”

His words were like steamy piles of manure in her mental courthouse. He was Tony Robbins in alligator boots.

“Risk isn’t a political luxury.” Her stomach growled. She glanced at her donut, wanted another bite, chided herself for not wanting to give the cowboy a repeat show. “Why Close Call?”

“For one, I’m here. Off the circuit. For two? The land is already Meier property, leased out a dozen times over the years, but nothing really stuck. For three? This town needs…something.”

“Something? This town has a world-renowned Blake sculpture.”

“No offense, but I don’t know anyone who would drive five miles to see art, let alone hundreds of miles. If you’re not careful, Mayor, you’ll have a dying town inside of two years.”

The jelly donut rolled over in her stomach, triggering a wave of nausea to her brain. Determined not to detour into sarcasm again, Gretchen nailed her response with a blend of steel and sweet, Southern manners she had perfected.

“In my twenty-one months as leader of this town, Close Call has seen unprecedented growth. New building permits, residential and commercial, are up three percent. City services are now optimized to operate within budget constraints, freeing up money to invest more in infrastructure and hire police officers, which—in turn—has lowered the crime rate by nearly twelve percent. I ran on the platform Committed to Families, Committed to Growth, and I don’t see how manufacturing and selling liquor inside the town limits advances that promise.”

“No one doubts you’re a good mayor, Gretchen.” Chase paused for effect, no doubt to let that subtle dig at leveling their status sink in. “But your narrow vision drives certain people away.”

“People who drink whiskey, get behind the wheel of their car, and hurt others?”

“That’s not fair.”

“You can’t deny that such an enterprise tempts unsavory behavior. Behavior that’s completely at odds with putting families in the community first.”

“Plenty of family people enjoy alcohol responsibly.”

“And that’s their personal right. But under my watch, it won’t be encouraged.”

“Our distillery already has federal and state clearance from the first site chosen—hell, the whiskey’s been aging for damned near two years—but investors backed out of the full launch when that murder of the District Attorney’s family put Melba on the map for the wrong reasons. My partners want a rebrand, so they came to me. I didn’t seek you out for your permission, Mayor. I want to know the process here in Close Call.”

Her brain tried not to linger on the entrepreneurially-sound decision to distance a business from the media frenzy five counties away. If she wasn’t careful, Melba’s toxic climate of corruption and opioid-related crimes would infiltrate Close Call. She couldn’t think of one sound reason to help Chase Meier navigate town bureaucracy.

He added, “As a one-third shareholder of property that falls within the town’s boundaries and someone who contributes a sizable amount to the tax base, I voted you into office.”

Except that.

Gretchen had long ago learned about the underlying you-scratch-my-back-I’ll-scratch-yours expectation with elected officials—especially in small towns. But after nearly two years, her insides still went all gooey to hear that someone had laid their democratic privilege at her feet. She would have pegged Chase Meier for a Dale Euclid supporter. “Smarmy good-old-boy to the core” should have been Dale’s campaign slogan. Chase was right. As a service to a voter who put his political faith in her, she owed him a nudge toward the proper channels.

“You’ll need a lawyer to file the proper paperwork—rezoning applications, maps, schematics, drainage plans, declaration of land use, calculated distance from school zones. The City Secretary, Diane Mallory, can lead you through the paper trail. File a motion to add your business to a public meeting. Present your case. The city council votes, and more often than not, I cast the deciding vote as mayor.”

Chase propped his crossed arms on the chair back. He skimmed a thumbnail along his pouty bottom lip repeatedly, his eyes staring out the window in thought.

“Who else is on the city council?” he asked.

She had considered that the belt buckle might be severing circulation, crunched as it was against his internal organs, interfering with brain waves or some such, but apparently his mind had been calculating a way around her vote.

Even service to a voter had its limits. She shook her head.

“Ten people in this bakery can tell me the same information,” he said.

Gretchen glanced around: the Owens brother not on a portable oxygen tank; the matriarch of the Pickford