Page 4 of Cowboy in Colorado
I hold up a hand. “Let her talk, Jeremy.”
He stifles a sigh, but sits back in his chair at the conference table and taps the end of his pen against the table.
Tina continues. “There isn’t much, if you’re thinking conventionally.” She gestures at the dozen people gathered at the table. “But this entire team is dedicated to nonconventional real estate.”
“So what’s your idea, then?” Jeremy asks.
She shoots him an annoyed glance. “If you’d stop interrupting and let me finish, I’d tell you.”
He holds up his hands. “Sorry, sorry.”
“While we were driving around, we stopped in this little village out in the country. A tiny little place in the middle of a horse ranch. It was this adorable little historic village, but the emphasis is onlittle. Literally, just a general store, an antique post office, a blacksmith shop, an old gas station, a stable where you can rent horses for the day, and that’s about it.” She pauses, twirling her pen. “It wasn’t much, but it was cute, and I distinctly remember thinking, ‘wow, it would be so cool to expand this place.’ I wasn’t sure what that would look like, or what it would entail, but I feel like there’s something there. A little historic village, maybe some area around it to turn into, like, rental property or a subdivision, or something. I don’t know. There’s something about the idea of an historic village that sticks in my mind.”
Jeremy opens his mouth, but I cut in over him, and his jaw closes. “Talk me through it, Tina. Spitball it.”
She doesn’t answer, and I don’t push her—she’s chewing on her pen again. “A resort, but…Old West, sort of. There’s a lot of tourist traffic in that general area, especially with pot being recreationally legal now. I’m not suggesting we get into that, mind you. Just saying, there’s tourist traffic. So there’s a market for it. I’m thinking a resort, but super low-key. Not kitschy or Disney. Just rustic enough to be interesting and fun, but still with modern conveniences, but maybe hidden, or disguised. Instead of a hotel, you have an inn, a saloon. No cars allowed. People, horses, bikes. Update the horse rental business, have guides, more horses, a bigger stable. Outside the actual historic village you could have an actual resort hotel-type place. I guess the idea is, a real living, working, Old West town.”
My heart thumps. “Tina, I think this is it. That’s our idea.”
Jeremy frowns. “Definitely outside the box.”
“Which is what we’re looking for. I’m not sure I’ve seen anything like it, not outside a theme park-type place, and that’s not what we’re looking at, here. This would be a working town.”
Tina nods vigorously. “I think it was actually a working village owned by one of the local ranching families. So we’d keep it what it is, retain the original feel of it, and just expand it. People it with in-character actors or actual locals, maybe, hire people to work the inns and saloons and such that would make it feel like an Old West sort of place.”
“Like, with fake shootouts?” Jeremy suggests.
Tina and I both frown at him. “No, Jeremy,” I drawl, annoyed. “That’s kitschy. It’s not entertainment, not like that. It’s not a theme park, it’s a functioning town—somewhere people can go and get a feel for an actual historical Old West village.”
“It sounds tricky. Riding the line between vintage and accurate and historic, without devolving into kitsch? At what point does it become a spaghetti western set?” Jeremy holds up a hand. “I’m just asking questions, keeping our heads on the ground.”
“That’s going to be the challenge, isn’t it?” I smile at him, to take the sting out of my rebuke, because his nature as a stickler for details is valuable—and then I turn my attention to Tina. “I think we have our idea. I want to see this place you visited. Get my feet on the ground and poke around, see if it captures my inspiration as much as the idea itself does.”
Tina grimaces. “That will be tough—we found it by accident. I’m not sure it’s even on a map.”
“Everything is on Google Earth,” Jeremy says.
Tina scratches her temple with her middle finger, a not-so-subtle gesture; these two bicker, I’m already finding, but they get things done.
To me, she says, “I’ll figure it out.”
I smile. “I know you will—that’s why you’re my assistant.” I stand up, gathering my materials. “I’m going to pack—send me my flight info when you have it.”
“Will do, boss.” Tina grins, beaming with pride.
I sweep my gaze over the rest of my team. “The rest of you should start researching historical villages—what will we need permits for? We’ll need a list of contractors and sub-contractors local to the Boulder and Colorado Springs area…do we need to hire actors and train them to do jobs, or do we find people to do the work and teach them to stay in some kind of character, or do we just have them go about their business and not worry about characterization? How much anachronism can we allow?” I make a vague, sweeping gesture. “This is just a short list of questions off the top of my head—come up with more, and find the answers. I want to anticipate as much as we can before we even start working on the pitch, much less breaking ground and starting construction. Get some intel on the current owner of the ranch, or whomever it is running the thing. Basically, find out everything you can, as fast as you can.” I hesitate, and then glance at Jeremy. “Jeremy—do some foundational legwork on a backup plan—the all-inclusive resort. It’s always worthwhile to have a Plan B in place. Figure out potential locations and themes.”
Jeremy nods. “Sure thing, boss.”
A hum of conversation erupts as my team goes to work, and I head home to start packing for a trip of unknown duration—it could be a matter of a day or two, needing only to find out who to talk to and make an offer to, or it could be several days, or even a week or more. If the owner is reluctant to sell—or, god forbid, the idea is a bust and we have to go back to the drawing board. I’m going on blind faith in Tina’s memory and instincts. If she was a new hire, this would be pretty risky on my part, but Tina is a transfer, and comes to me recommended personally by Dad and James, which means her skills, instincts, and work ethic were all vetted and above reproach before she came to work for me.
* * *
I havea go-bag pretty much ready at all times, having done a lot of work-related travel, so all I really have to do is update my clothing, throw in my toiletries, and add a few things. This trip is to Colorado, and to a ranch no less, so I just need my usual business wardrobe with a couple more casual “take clients to a bar for drinks” outfits. I trade a skirt for a pair of slacks, throw in some jeans and some nice boots with a chunky heel, and a blazer, add my makeup and toiletries. Just as I finish packing, Tina texts me with flight info to Colorado—a flight out of LaGuardia in three hours, with an open-ended return. I pack my carry-on with my laptop, iPad, chargers for both and my phone, my file containing all of Dad’s current holdings, a couple magazines, a paperback novel, and a few other odds and ends. It isn’t everything I’ll need, obviously, especially considering I have no idea how long I’ll be gone, but I was used to packing the bare necessities and buying whatever else I may need on location—which is why my go-bag always contained another smaller, collapsible carry-on-size duffel bag that compressed into a tiny cinch sack, so I’ll have somewhere to put the things I buy when I’m there.
I’ve rarely traveled for pleasure—Dad doesn’t believe in vacations, or downtime. Since he was thirteen years old, he has worked from before dawn to midnight and sometimes well past it, seven days a week, 365 days a year. His idea of relaxing is to read the Wall Street Journal, Financial Times, and the New York Times over coffee—at his desk, at four in the morning.
His work ethic was transferred to me at an early age: despite being the daughter of a billionaire, I received no allowance. If I wanted something, I was expected to work for the money. I would ask someone at his office for work, and in return I would be paid the going hourly rate in cash—the person who assigned me the work was repaid by Dad, with interest. Usually, the work was filing papers, sorting mail, organizing files, delivering memos and inter-office mail, and other such menial tasks. It got me acquainted with office work, taught me the value of money and the reward of hard work, but gosh, I’ve been working for money since I was eight years old. Even in college, despite having my trust fund to draw from, I was so used to having a job that I worked part-time just out of habit, and so I wouldn’t be dependent on Dad—and labeled a trust fund baby.