Page 8 of Cowboy in Colorado

I’m not sure what that means, but don’t see the point of saying so. “Brooklyn Bellanger.” I say my name with trepidation, expecting the usual reaction of awe and intimidation.

Instead, I get a blank expression and a sort-of friendly nod. “Well, pleased to meet ya, Brooklyn.”

We shake hands, and her grip nearly crushes my hand. “Pleased to meet you as well, Callie.”

We leave the store together and I clomp down the steps, slide into my car, and start the engine, cranking the A/C up high. I crack the top off the bottle of water and take a long sip. It’s flat, but I was so thirsty that I feel refreshed. I sigh, backing out of the spot with a glance in my rearview mirror, only to feel the car jerk to a stop on its own as the automatic braking system kicks in, bringing the car to an abrupt stop.

“Hey!” I hear an angry male voice snap—along with an irritated whinny. “Watch where the fuck you’re going,tourist!” The last word was said with venomous annoyance.

I shove the car into park and twist to look behind me—a man sits on a huge gray-and-white horse, which is prancing around nervously. The man is dressed as I’d expect: jeans, boots, T-shirt, cowboy hat. His expression is more than unfriendly—if looks could kill, I’d be six feet under.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” I call out. “I didn’t see you.”

“No shit you didn’t.” He spits on the ground. “You ain’t in the city, city girl. Hit my horse, I’ll hit you.”

I blink at his words. “I apologize. I’ll keep a better lookout.”

“Keep a better lookout on the highway,” he says, jerking a thumb back the way I’d come. “It’s that way.”

Meaning, get lost.

I don’t see the point in answering, so I wait until he guides his horse away, trotting down the dusty road. He wears a holstered pistol at his side—it’s not a pearl-handled revolver, but it’s not there for decoration or show, either. With no law enforcement in the area, I have a feeling that if I, or anyone else, were to piss off the wrong person and get shot, it would get swept under the boardwalk, so to speak.

My heart hammers, and my mouth is dry; again, I ask myself what I’m getting myself into.

I put the car in reverse, and this time check in every direction six times before slowly backing out. I slowly drive through the town, taking a mental note of things. There’s a post office, shuttered and dark, with a hand-painted sign nailed on the door advertising an ATM in the foyer. There’s a blacksmith—a low, old brick building with a high, steep roof, the front dominated by enormous double doors, both propped open by cement blocks, so the entire front of the building is open to the air. I hear theclink-clink-clinkof a hammer on metal and, as I pass, I see a burly man at an actual anvil, hammering away, sparks flying, a forge glowing red. Tools line the walls and hang from hooks over his head. Next door to the blacksmith is a long, low stable with open stalls; the heads of a few horses can be seen, and above the narrow entry door is a faded wooden sign reading “Livery Stable.” Horses for rent, maybe? There are several other buildings in town, and it seems like most of them are taverns, or saloons. Music comes from one of them, and as I pass it at a crawl, I see modern double doors propped open, with antique batwing doors. Actual batwing doors—probably the same doors that have been there for who knows how long. And yes, the piano is being played by an actual person.

I’m actually impressed, I realize, as I leave the town behind. It felt, for all the world, as if I’d stepped out of reality and into an alternate, Old West dimension. Overall, it had the feel of a well-loved place, a quaint little town that hadn’t really changed much at all over the years, and I could understand why Tina had recommended the place.

With the right vision, this town could be expanded to include an inn with rooms to let. With a well-devised marketing campaign and making some changes such as banning all automobiles within the town limits, developing activities for visitors …this could really become something unique. Lively, but not too hectic would be best—I wouldn’t want to lose the sleepy little village feel.

I roll various ideas and concepts over in my head as I follow the narrow gravel road out of town. Pastureland rolls away on both sides of the road, and I see horses here and there, some grazing, and some strolling lazily. The road curves to the left and climbs another hill, and then arcs away back down and to the left. Once again, I stop at the top of the hill and take in the new vista.

Lush green pastures spread out before me, the fence line running away into the distance. The road rolls down the hill and angles straight toward a huge A-frame log home, the front gleaming and twinkling with glass, the roof a dark green metal, and a deck wrapping around the three visible sides. To the left of the house at a distance—maybe a half mile or so—is a gigantic barn, and I do mean gigantic. It is white with a shallow red metal roof featuring a large cupola at the center point, and three more on each side. It’s a horse stable, but on a commercial scale. It’s hard to visualize exactly how big it is, until I see a tiny speck moving near the base of the building—the speck is a person, which turns my sense of scale upside down. This barn is like a skyscraper laid on end. There is a large fenced area at the back of the mind-bogglingly huge structure, and within that section are horses—lots of them, too many to count from this distance. Some are bridled, and some are saddled, some are loose and some are tied to the fence, and people—again, tiny specks—come and go from the barn.

Wow.

Just…wow.

This is an operation on a scale I didn’t know even existed. I’m used to dealing with wealthy, powerful, influential people, so I’m not exactly intimidated, but this is a whole other world from the one I move in. I have no idea where to go or who I’m supposed to talk to. The head…rancher?

Mr. Auden? Callie Henderson said Will Auden, who I assume will be the owner of the ranch spread out before me.

Still stopped at the top of the hill, my foot on the brake, I take a moment to flip through the folder of information Tina was able to find about this ranch and its owners. Confirming what Callie Henderson told me, the ranch around me is called the Bar-A Ranch, owned and operated privately by the Auden family—six generations of Audens, to be specific, which is impressive. Henry and Eileen Auden, both in their midsixties; Richard Auden, thirty-eight, living in California; William Henry Auden—and really, WH Auden?—thirty-one; and Theo Auden, twenty-eight. The Auden Ranch raises and sells high-end horses; a quick perusal of their client list is impressive. They’re sixth-generation ranchers, and I’m unsure what to expect. My brain conjures up, as on the plane ride here, images of cranky, dusty, leathery old men who hate the thought of modernity, and whose idea of progress is indoor plumbing, never mind electricity, let alone the progress my proposal represents.

I summon my steel spine, my nerves of ice, and the huge titanium balls—figuratively speaking, obviously—that have gotten me this far in my professional life.

I gun the engine and head down the hill for the house—the Big House, Callie called it, and I understand why, the closer I get. It’s not anyone’s average A-frame log house, not by a long shot. This is a mansion, right and proper, just in a Western style rather than Cape Cod or Craftsman or French Estate. And, as I draw closer, I do indeed feel at least the tiniest bit intimidated. The barn is probably a solid mile away, and it’s titanically enormous even from here, and the house, as I pull to a stop in the broad circular driveway, is just as impressive.

The house is positioned against the crest of a rise, and is angled so the wall of glass faces the pasture and the barn—overlooking the domain. The front of the house has a huge porch held up by a series of posts that are made from the trunks of entire trees, and not small ones either, but giant, venerable old pines. Underneath the porch is a garage, six full-size bays, a few of them open to display three huge pickups, several ATVs and utility vehicles, a golf cart or three, and what appears to be a sleek sports car under a tarp.

Stairs—also handmade from tree trunks and branches—swing in wide arcs from either side of the garage from the porch to ground level, providing access to the main level of the house from the driveway without having to go through the garage, and even these stairs are built on a massive scale.

I’ve faced the executives of globally influential corporations with less trepidation than I feel standing at the base of those stairs. This is the unknown, I realize. I know what to expect from corporate CEOs and board chairmen—I’ve dealt with those types my whole life. They are a known quantity.

This is new, and even a little scary for me. But this is my chance to impress Dad, to make my own mark on the world. No backing out now—or ever.

I shove my nerves down, squash them flat, and lift my chin. As a little girl, whenever I was upset or scared, Dad would say to me, “Chin up, Brooklyn. Head high. You’re a Bellanger.” And I would take heart in his words, lift my chin up and hold my head high, and overcome whatever it was.