The rich aroma of Jolene’s pot roast lingered in the air as Grayson savored the final bite, a taste hinting at home and comfort.
With a contented sigh, he set down his fork, the clink against the plate echoing in the cozy kitchen.
“You’ve outdone yourself again, Jolene. This meal might just fortify me for what lies ahead today. ”
Jolene’s smile illuminated her features as she collected his empty plate, her eyes holding a depth of understanding. “Strength will be your ally, Gray. Sounds as if the town council is brewing up quite the storm lately.”
He stood and stretched, groaning. “True enough. As a council member, it’s my responsibility to talk sense into the others.”
In his study, Grayson shuffled through a stack of papers on his desk.
He found the document he was looking for—a neatly written proposal—and read it over one last time.
The words were as firm and unyielding as the Montana landscape.
He opposed the additional tax on businesses, advocating for donations and volunteer work instead.
He slid the proposal into a leather folio and latched it shut.
From the window, he could see the expanse of Wild Spirit Ranch, some of the finest land in the territory.
The Beckett family had carved this spread out of the wilderness, and every inch of it was steeped in their sweat and history.
The thought of new taxes biting into their livelihood made his blood run hot.
“Gray,” called a voice from the hallway. It was his younger brother, Joshua, tall and lean as a prairie wind. “You heading out soon?”
Grayson stepped into the hall, folder in hand. “About to. Why?”
Joshua scratched at a two-day beard. “Thought I might come along. Got some business in town.”
“Business, huh? Wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain newspaper editor, would it?”
Joshua’s face broke into a sheepish grin. “Maybe. I’m certain Faith and her Women’s Alliance will be at the meeting, given what’s on the docket.”
Grayson nodded. “Suit yourself. I’ll be leaving shortly.”
He strapped the holster holding his six-shooter around his hips. Sliding the gun out, he checked the chamber, then tucked it back into place.
The folio in his hand felt heavier than normal. The proposal was solid, but the council had been stubborn about insisting raising taxes was the only way to raise the money for the schoolhouse expansion.
He walked back to the kitchen, where Jolene stood on tiptoes, stretching to put a mixing bowl on a high shelf. Grayson kissed her on the cheek. “Don’t wait supper. This meeting may take a while.”
She touched his arm, concern etching lines in her otherwise youthful face. “Just come home safe, Gray.”
“Always do,” he said, though they both knew it wasn’t a promise he could keep.
In the yard, Joshua sat atop his horse and was holding the reins of Grayson’s roan gelding. Grayson handed the leather folio to him as he mounted up.
The dirt trail from Wild Spirit Ranch to Mystic was well-worn, a familiar stretch of road connecting the Beckett clan to the growing town. Grayson and Joshua rode side by side, the rhythm of hooves sounded a deliberate heartbeat.
“Faith’s in a tough spot, you know,” Joshua said after a stretch of silence. “If the new taxes pass, it’ll impact the smaller businesses the most.”
Grayson shot his brother a look. “You think I don’t know that? The ranch isn’t the only thing I’m worried about, Josh. Every business in town is stretched thin. That’s why my proposal has to pass.”
“It may be a hard sell if the council’s set on the taxes. They think it’s the quickest solution.”
“Quickest isn’t always best. And sometimes, the easy way out costs more in the long run. They’ll come around, you’ll see.”
Grayson was grateful Joshua let it go. He needed his focus on the task ahead, not on familial dissent. Though if he was honest, he valued Joshua’s blunt comments. His brother had a way of reading people Grayson sometimes lacked.
The landscape rolled by, a mosaic of varying orange colors.
Tall grasses and scrub brush, the occasional stand of cottonwoods, all set against the distant mountains.
A sharp wind cut through the valley, carrying with it the first hint of winter.
Grayson pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders and thought of Jolene’s welcome when he returned after the meeting.
They lapsed into silence again, each man lost in his own thoughts. The bond between them was strong, forged in the same crucible of hard work and shared loss.
They moved their horses into a trot as the first buildings of Mystic came into view, the air buzzing with the murmur of a waiting crowd.
The main street of Mystic was a hive of activity.
Townsfolk milled about, chatting in clusters and filling the air with a discordant hum.
Grayson and Joshua dismounted in front of the town hall, a modest two-story building used for a wide range of activities.
They tied their horses to a rail and surveyed the scene.
“Looks like half the town’s turned out,” Joshua said, eyes scanning the crowd. “And not all of them in a friendly mood.”
Grayson followed his brother’s gaze. He could see the worried faces of shopkeepers, ranchers, and laborers.
These were hardworking people, the backbone of Mystic, and many of them looked beleaguered.
What caught his attention most, though, was a rather large group of women standing near the front of the crowd. The Mystic Women’s Alliance.
“Looks like the Alliance is out in force,” Joshua observed. “Think they’ll make a ruckus?”
Grayson shrugged. “They’ve got every right to be here. Probably more than most.”
Joshua arched a brow. “Thought you were unsure about the group Faith founded.”
Grayson sighed. “I’m not against the group. Many of them are business owners or work in their family’s shop or restaurant. We’ll see what happens once the meeting starts.”
“Gray,” Joshua interrupted, his tone more serious as he nodded at someone in the crowd.
He followed the direction of Joshua’s gaze, spotting a familiar face. An older woman, petite with graying brown hair pulled into a loose bun, stood at the periphery, observing the activity. Naomi Beckett, their indomitable mother.
“So, this is where she took off to before lunch,” Joshua said.
“She never misses a meeting,” Grayson said. “I hope she backs my proposal. Her word carries a lot of weight.”
Joshua gave a noncommittal grunt. “Well, I’m going to say hello. You coming?”
“In a bit. I need to check something first.”
Joshua started toward their mother, then hesitated. “Gray. Whatever happens, you know I’m with you, right?”
He looked at his brother, at the man he’d grown into. Joshua wasn’t a boy anymore, nor was he merely a younger version of Grayson. He was his own person, with his own ideas and loyalties.
“I know.” He grinned. “Thank you.”
Joshua held his gaze for a moment longer, then turned and weaved through the crowd toward his mother. Grayson watched him go before walking in the opposite direction.
He pulled the leather folder from inside his coat and opened it, glancing at the proposal.
The words stared back at him, uncompromising.
He closed the folder and looked around the crowd again, this time taking in individual faces.
These were the people he was fighting for, the people who made Mystic a wonderful place to live.
He spotted Joshua standing with their mother and talking quietly. Their expressions were unreadable from this distance. Still, the sight gave him a small measure of hope. If his mother backed her son’s proposal, it was as good as done.
Moving through the crowd, he entered the building along with the mayor and other members of the council. Taking their seats, Mayor Carl Jurgen nodded to a man who stood at the closed front door. Opening it, the people flowed inside, talking as they sat down.
The interior of the town hall was a stark contrast to the bustling street outside.
Plain wooden benches lined the walls, with several other benches placed in the center of the room.
At the table set up at the far side of the room sat the members of the Mystic town council, their faces set in various degrees of seriousness.
Grayson set the folio in front of him. He exchanged curt nods with the other council members.
Doyle Shaw, owner of the general store, Pastor Owen Ward, Tripp Lassiter, a fellow rancher and friend of the Becketts, and Artemis Graham, president of the local bank.
Casper Jennings, owner of Jennings Mercantile, leaned back in his chair with an air of studied indifference.
At the center of the table sat Mayor Carl Jurgen, the owner of the lumberyard.
“Let’s come to order,” Jurgen said, tapping the table with his gavel.
The room quieted, though a tense undercurrent remained.
“First on the agenda is the proposal for new taxes on businesses to support the expansion of the schoolhouse. We’ll open the floor to comments after the council has had a chance to speak. ”
Grayson noted the subtle shift in Jurgen’s wording. Jurgen wasn’t interested in an alternative to the proposed tax. He unclasped the folio and pulled out the proposal, holding it but making no move to pass it around.
“We all know times are tough,” Jurgen continued. “The schoolhouse is too small for the number of children. The proposed tax is a modest one, but it could make a big difference. Councilman Beckett, you had some concerns?”
All eyes turned to Grayson. He cleared his throat, feeling the gaze of the crowd, as well as the scrutiny of his fellow council members.
“I do. No one disputes the need to support the school. But adding new taxes in an already difficult time will overly burden our businesses. We need to find a solution without imposing another tax on our hardworking citizens.”
Casper Jennings leaned forward, no longer feigning his boredom. “And what solution do you suggest, Grayson? Cutting the school budget?”
“I suggest we look to the community for voluntary contributions. Donations would be used for materials, and volunteers would provide the labor. We can achieve the same goals without putting an additional burden on our shopkeepers and ranchers.”
Artemis Graham let out a derisive snort. “You mean relying on charity. That’s a fine idea in a church sermon, but we need something more reliable.”
“Charity builds community, Artemis,” Grayson shot back. “And it’s every bit as reliable as the people of Mystic. Do you not have faith in your neighbors?”
Pastor Ward raised a hand, palm outward. “Let’s not turn this into a theological debate. Grayson has a point. The question is whether enough people would step up.”
“They will,” Grayson said, with more conviction than he felt. “They always have. Remember when the mill shut down? We got through that because folks pitched in and helped each other. This is no different.”
Tripp Lassiter tapped a pencil on the table, a gesture reminding Grayson of him and Tripp when they were in school.
“It’s a nice thought, Gray, and I support what you’re saying.
I’d be willing to volunteer my time and a few of my ranch hands for a day or two.
But we’re in different times as far as donations.
People don’t have much extra money these days. ”
“Which is exactly why a new tax would hurt more than help,” Grayson said. “I’m not saying it’s an easy fix. Guess we won’t know about donations until we give it a try.”
The crowd agreed with him, clapping and cheering at his words.
Mayor Jurgen tapped his gavel on the table again. “All right, now. Quiet down. We’ll hear from the public now. Remember, we have two proposals.”
Grayson suppressed a sigh of relief. Jurgen wasn’t trying to railroad the issue.
The mayor gestured to the crowd, and several hands shot up, including Faith Goodell’s.
Before Carl called on anyone, people began shouting their opinions.
Finally, he banged the gavel loud enough to get everyone’s attention.
Once the crowd settled down, Mayor Jurgen nodded at Faith, then pointed the gavel at her. “The floor is yours, Miss Goodell.”