Page 20

We were seated in the private dining room at Blackwood Prime, a place well accustomed to gatherings like ours—where men carved up profits over expensive steaks, and women played their part, offering a break from business with the promise of a good fuck.
“Oh, Senator, I love how you told the Governor of Wyoming off.” This was from Sylvia, Congressman Bryce Thornton’s wife, who was all poise and calculation. Thornton’s family had invested in ski lodges across Colorado—and he was known to sway votes for campaign financing and expanding hiswealth.
The only person in our group who was probably as disgusted with these people as I was—and who did not buy any of this horse manure—was Nokoni Red Clay.
Nokoni was Comanche, born and raised on the Cedar River Reservation just east of Wildflower Canyon. He was chairman of the tribal council, a land steward, and the kind of man who never wasted words. He’d spent most of his life fighting men like the senator, the congressman, and Chase—men who saw land as something to be bought, sold, and paved over in the name of progress to make bucket loads of money.
To Nokoni, the land wasn’t a commodity. It was history, blood, and belonging. And just like Nash, he sure as hell wasn’t interested in watching Wildflower Canyon turn into another Jackson Hole, crawling with ski resorts and wealthy transplants who thought cowboy boots were a fashion statement.
But he wasn’t stupid, either.
Unlike my father, he knew how these men operated. He knew they saw him as an obstacle, a problem to negotiate around. That’s why he was here—to keep them from carving up the valley like a damn steak.
He was the only one at our table who wasn’t grinning about the millions to be made when we sold Wilder Ranch’s hundred thousand-odd acres to whoever would pay the most for the privilege.
He was going to do what he could to buy as much as he could to protect it. But he didn’t have the kind of money that these men could round up with investors. Heknew that, too. He hated them and believed they were a blight on humanity, and he wasn’t wrong.
But when his sharp, dark eyes flicked to me over the rim of his whiskey glass, I got the distinct feeling I offended him as much as they did.
When I invited him for dinner, telling him my plan, he’d been livid.
"This place isn’t meant to be another Jackson Hole," Nokoni raged. "You start carving up Wilder Ranch, selling pieces to out-of-state developers, and Wildflower Canyon won’t survive it."
"It’ll survive just fine," I countered smoothly. "It’ll just be worth a hell of a lot more."
"To people who don’t belong here," Nokoni shot back.
"That’s not how money works," I told him. "You can’t pick and choose who buys in, Nokoni. You know that."
"I know that once you sell, you can’t buy it back,” he warned me.
"Nokoni, I get it. But the ranch is mine now. And it’s not a legacy I give a damn about."
“So, have you heard of Piper Novak?” Senator Jessup casually threw the question out there.
Fiona grinned. "We certainly have, Senator.” Everyone who was in the land development business knew Novak Enterprises and the head of the company, the indomitable Piper Novak.
He nodded gravely and then added, “They’re very interested in building an airport on the south side of your ranch, Duke."
Of course, they were.
The south side was the flattest stretch of land on Wilder Ranch, wide open and already close to Highway 82, making access easy. There are no steep inclines, no rocky terrain—just rolling pastureland that could be paved over without much effort. It was also the part of the ranch I cared the least about—not prime grazing land, not near the river or the old homestead.
“From a development standpoint, it makes perfect sense,” the congressman agreed.
“From a moral standpoint, it’s a damn travesty,” Nokoni stated. He picked up his scotch and downed it.
“Nokoni, it’s called progress,” I quipped.
Nokoni’s dark eyes pinned me. Measured. Unimpressed. “What is progress? Paving over thousands of acres of ranchland so rich men can fly in on private jets, skiing gear in tow? Turning cattle country into a Goddamn runway?”
Fiona reached for my hand beneath the table, giving it a gentle squeeze, reminding me to keep my temper in check. It worked. Barely.
"Look, if you’re worried about losing the soul of this land, don’t be. I’m sure your tribe can open a few new gift shops with all the tourism money that’ll come in,” the senator mocked.
“Tourism is going to destroy Wildflower Canyon. We’re ranch country, not a place to have Spring Break on a ski slope,” Nokoni scoffed.
“You soundlike Nash,” I mocked.