Page 24 of Cowboy Dreams

They went on through three public works projects, getting a lot of negative comments for a proposal to replace the access route to a disposal site with a different one. Folks living along the new route didn’t want the heavy traffic going by, apparently. The council said they’d take the complaints under “advisement” and publish a decision later.

Then the chairman said, “Moving on to private applications for approval, let’s start with the big one. Mr. George-adis, you want to come up here and explain these plans for a hospitality and liquor permit?”

“Sure thing,” I told him. “Can I Bluetooth or log into your screen with some slides?”

“Maybe?” The chairman stared at his laptop with the expression of someone facing a nest of snakes.

A young guy in the front row jumped up and went over to the table, and between us, we got my tablet talking to their screen in less than a minute. I called up the first slide, the original ranch house with three rooms and beat-up siding, back in the 1920s.

“You all probably know the Circle K ranch. My grandfather and his father before him ran it for seventy years…” I said a few words about the history of the ranch, with a slide of its heyday, the big house, my great-grandfather’s nine children, of whom only two stayed to run the ranch and one died young. “And since my grandfather grew too old to run it, the property has languished, the barns, outbuildings, and fences falling into disrepair.” A shot of the old pumphouse, its roof caved in by a falling branch.

I went on, “I’m not the man to recreate a working cattle ranch on this property, but I want to preserve its beauty, its land, and its history.” I smiled. “While making money for myself and this community, of course.” I was pleased to get a couple of chuckles. “And the way I intend to do that is to develop it as an exclusive vacation ranch. I’ll have a small herd of cattle for the atmosphere, plus horses, and luxury accommodations within the big house itself. I have a talented chef who’s ready to sign on to provide an upscale dining experience, and the liquor license will allow me to serve wine and beers. My remodeling plans will pump as much as half a million dollars into the economy, followed by the added income provided by the presence of tourists in the community weekly for nine months of the year and the jobs the ranch will create. I’ve already spent twenty-eight thousand dollars locally, just to complete my feasibility studies.” I figured the horses and supplies counted.

I paused and the white guy who’d been glaring at Joe said, “Feasibility,” with a snort loud enough to be heard.

The council chairman said, “If you got a question, Morse, save it for the comment period.”

Morse?I stared at the man and yes, could see the resemblance that had nagged at me earlier, although this man was older than the cop on that dark, deserted road. Brother? Father? He didn’t seem to like me any more than the cop had, given the curl of his lip.

“And when’s that gonna be?” Older Morse folded his arms across his chest and tipped his chin at the chairman.

“When Mr. George-adis is done speaking.”

“You folks can call me Sylvester, Mr. Chairman,” I told him. “And if you think it serves you better for me to answer questions, I’m happy to do that.”

“All right then, let’s open the floor for questions. Come on up to the mic when you’re recognized and say your name before speaking. Morse, you might as well start.”

The man heaved himself out of his chair, trudged to a mic on a stand at the front of the audience. “You all know me, I’m Hal Morse. And my question is, are you the same guy my brother stopped after coming drunk out of Max’s gay bar and driving a hundred miles an hour?”

I said, “No. If he stopped a drunk driver, that man would be in jail. So it wasn’t me.”

Morse waved his hand. “Okay, maybe not drunk, but speeding with alcohol on his breath after spending time in that den of vice.”

I cocked my head, trying to think of the right tone to take. “Den of vice? Seriously? But yes, I was speeding. It was a lovely night and my cherry red 1967 Mustang seduced me into going over the speed limit.” I scanned the room. “I’m betting a bunch of you might’ve topped the limit a bit, behind the wheel of a car like that. I expect you folks appreciate fine, vintage, American-made machinery, am I right?”

A couple of “Hell, yeah,” mutters from the back made me smile.

Morse glared at me. “And the bar? You dofrequentMax’s, don’t you?”

I glanced at the Council table. “Mr. Chairman, could you ask him to explain what this has to do with the business proposal I have in front of you.”

That was a gamble, and maybe a miscalculation, because the chairman frowned at me before saying, “Morse, you care to answer that?”

“It’s about character, isn’t it?” Morse raised his voice. “We’re looking at a business that’s gonna bring strangers into our community—”

“To spend their good money,” I interjected.

“Strangers who for all we know could be queers and perverts, around our wives and kids. We’ve got onerainbowbar right now. We don’t need a whole other business catering to that kind of woke nonsense.”

The word “woke” got the audience rumbling, though it wasn’t clear who was for or against the term. One woman called, “This is Colorado, not Texas, Morse. You can’t ride the gay people out of town on a rail.”

“Who said anything about out of town? I’m just asking Mr. Sylvester, here, if this ranch of his is going to be family-friendly.”

I answered the letter of his question, not the slimy intent. “I don’t plan to open to families the first year. Keeping children happy, safe, and entertained would require additional facilities, like buying ponies and setting up an outdoor play area. Those are on the books for possible future expansion but not in the current business plan. We intend to cater to adults first.”

“What kind of adults?”

“Whatever kind wants to buy a vacation package with us. I’m not planning to discriminate against anyone. That would be illegal.” Although my stomach had gone a little sour at the thought of a hostile community response. I’d hoped the cop was an exception but the audience wasn’t leaping up to shout Morse down, the blond woman excluded.

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