Chase awoke in his buddy’s RV, a night of whiskey his only indulgence, but it sat on his brain like a fat-ass rodeo clown. His mouth was pasty, his eyeballs charred. He didn’t remember falling asleep on the kitchenette bench, but he was relieved to be in the front of the vehicle. The back was bucking like a thousand-pound son-of-a-bitch, two different girls’ voices moaning. Loosely-hung colored bras and lines of white powder shifted all over the place, and it smelled like sweat and pussy.
He loved rodeo. He also fucking hated it.
Chase could have skipped town in any direction. He wasn’t yet prepared to tell his investors he had lost their new base, pissed away a hundred grand, and aimed to put the face of their brand back on a killer bull inside of twenty-four hours. To the north: Wyoming and Kansas City, too many days of travel when he itched to climb into the chute sooner than yesterday. Louisiana had a prospect east—small-time bulls, almost no payout. West Texas was filled with crazy bastards—Mexican bull riders who rode barefoot and wrapped the rope around their ankles—suicide runs. Not only did the coast seem the most logical choice, Corpus Christi happened to be Chase’s perfect storm on the professional circuit: Stalin’s Assassin, biggest payout of his career. He could pay back his investors and punish his body to boot.
After the events of the past few weeks, it seemed only fitting to let a bull kick his ass.
The life to which he had grown accustomed was diced into eight-second rides and one-day travels, town to town, tending equipment and sleeping off the previous day’s punishment. If time at home taught him anything, it was that he wasn’t cut out for things that stretched beyond a few days, much less a week, a year, a lifetime. When those things went away, the hurt rivaled anything he’d known in the arena. He couldn’t stomach being the Meier fuck-up the way his old man had predicted. A legacy of life-long anything—especially love—was admirable, inspiring, but Chase knew now that he had been wrong: his real risk was in doing something. His success was inside eight seconds, and he’d do well to stay in his arena.
Chase stretched out the kinks and winced when they didn’t fully leave his bones. Had to be afternoon, by the sun’s angle through the darkened blinds. He grabbed his toothbrush and toothpaste from his bag and a bottled water on his way out. A few people milled outside—vets, trainers, handlers. He found a fold-out chair inside a healthy strip of shade and settled to brush the tar from his tongue.
“Someone said I might find you here.”
Chase scuttled out of his skin. The intrusion rocked his senses; the voice, her voice, rocked everything.
“Jesus, Gretchen.” He settled the contents of his hand beneath the chair. Leaning forward, elbows on knees, he rubbed grit from his eyes, mostly to give him time to think. “The hell you doing here? Shouldn’t you be mayoring right now?”
“I resigned.”
Chase’s stomach dropped clear past his nuts. He sat up. “What? Why?”
“I didn’t do anything illegal, but what I planned was unethical, and that’s almost the greater crime. To me, at least.”
Gretchen took a few steps closer. He was glad his mouth still tasted like raw sewage. Kept him from giving in to the temptation to kiss her.
“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “Emile Pickford refused to accept it.”
“First smart thing I’ve heard from a Pickford in ages.”
“Here’s the second.”
She pulled a paper from her bag and handed it to him. Across the top, in old-fashioned script: Deed Record No. 17, Republic of Texas, Know All Men To Whom These Presents Shall Come. It was a copy, slightly skewed, with the corner ripped, but it had been certified with a date and illegible signature at the bottom. Stapled to the back was a legal document ceding all claim to the property, signed by Emile Pickford.
“Emile Pickford recognizes that your ancestor, Oscar Pettigrew, was the rightful owner of the land that became 1100 South Main Street in Close Call. He wants you to have the property, free and clear. Says you bringing jobs and growth is the best reason of all to settle the feud. And he wants to talk to you about investing in the distillery.”
“What about the zoning?”
“I spoke to every single council member on the drive out here. As of today, they’re all in agreement to grant you a permanent exception to the zoning and allow alcohol sales. Paperwork is processing as we speak. Changing the rest of the block for future businesses will have to come at the next meeting.”
His temples throbbed, a push-back against what should be good news.
“I already found a town that wants us.”
“Tell them you’ve changed your mind. Close Call is your home.”
“Is it? Because I sure didn’t recognize it the last time I was there.”
Gretchen moved closer, tight jeans hugging her curves, dust kicking up a bit from some girly boots, nothing at all meant for real ranching. Nice touch—the view crippling, actually—but it wouldn’t work. He’d never see her as anything but power suits and heels sharp enough to stab him between the shoulder blades.
She leaned against the post holding the awning above him. Used to be a food stand, some shit. She brought with her a thousand pounds of memories on her scent, still floral, still modestly powerful, enough to push back the smell of horse shit.
“You were right. I did hold the information for insurance, in case I failed to persuade the others on the council that the distillery was a bad idea. I didn’t count on you changing my mind, and I certainly didn’t count on falling in love with you.”
Heat rushed to his extremities. He felt as if he had climbed onto the back of a bull unprepared, without a proper grip, and the gate opened before he was ready.
“I’m sorry, Chase. I want to make this right. Come home with me.”
“It’s not that simple. I’ve signed contracts. Binding agreements. Paid entry fees.”