Cowboy in Colorado (Fifty States of Love)

by Jasinda Wilder

  For now, I focus on the topic at hand. “While the idea has merit, I have to say I agree with Jeremy. I think I would like to do an all-inclusive at some point—I think with the right location and theme, we could do it well enough to set us apart.” I leaf through the files we’ve already looked at, but there’s nothing special enough, nothing that’s going to stand out from the BRED properties already owned by my father; we’re running out of time. “What isn’t represented here that we could tap into? That’s the question we have to answer.”

  There are several minutes of silence.

  Tina: Asian-American, petite, fiery, fiercely intelligent, methodical and organized and focused; her black hair is cut in a sleek bob, minimal makeup, understated but sophisticated attire, with her brown eyes emphasized by a rotation of various cat’s eyeglasses in various shades, materials, and sizes.

  She’s leafing through the printouts as well, and I can see her wheels spinning. I’ve deduced that when she’s got something to say, her pen goes to her mouth—and she’s chewing on the cap of her ballpoint at the moment.

  “Spit it out, Tina,” I say.

  She pulls the pen from her teeth and spins it around her fingers. “Rural. That’s the only thing not here. Everything is urban.”

  I nod, realizing she’s right. “True, very true.”

  “But that’s for a good reason,” Jeremy points out. “It’s hard to make a return on rural investments, unless you’re going to buy out huge tracts of farmland and lease them back to the farmers, but that’s just not the Bellanger style, I don’t think.”

  I nod. “I agree with you, Jeremy, but…I think there’s got to be a way. If the only thing not represented in Dad’s holdings is a rural investment, then that’s where we have to go.” I tap my chin. “The question, now, becomes…what, and how do we put the Bellanger mark on it?”

  Tina is staring into space, up and to the left. “I may have an idea, but it’s kind of crazy.”

  “No idea is too crazy. I mean, we’re not investing on the moon—just yet.” This gets me a few laughs from the rest of the team.

  “So, bear with me, because to explain my idea you need a bit of backstory.” Tina slides her yellow legal pad closer to her and starts doodling as she talks. “Last summer, my boyfriend and I took a vacation in Colorado. My cousin owns a condo in Boulder and he was visiting family in Taiwan, so we stayed in his condo while he was over there. We did a lot of hiking and exploring around the Boulder area, but one weekend we took a road trip down to Colorado Springs.”

  Jeremy, ever impatient, frowns at her. “What are you angling at? There isn’t much to invest in over there. I have family in Colorado Springs, and I spend a few weeks every summer over there.”

  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 on little. 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. Bas
ically, 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 have a 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.

  And now, I still have my trust fund sitting there, accruing, and I rarely touch it—I’m too busy working, and since my apartment was a graduation gift from Dad, I have few actual expenses. I live in the city and take public transportation, or use an office car. My biggest expense, actually, is clothing…I have a three-bedroom penthouse in Uptown Manhattan, and both of the extra rooms are full of clothing. It’s a problem, but it’s my only vice.

  Three and a half hours after receiving my flight info, I’m in the first-class cabin, sipping a glass of red wine, and perusing Dad’s holdings again—looking for more gaps, more places to expand. Dad has a private jet—in fact, he has a small fleet of them—but I refuse to use them until this office he’s given me has started turning a profit. Once I’m in the black, I’ll have earned—in my own eyes—the privilege of flying private. Until then, I fly commercial. First class, albeit, but still commercial.

  I try not to overthink what I’m getting into. I’ve discovered, out of long habit, that when you anticipate too closely, you tend to be more closed off to the reality. It’s difficult, in this situation, though—this is so far outside my normal experiences that I’m totally unsure what to expect. I’ve never been to rural Colorado before. Come to think of it, I’ve never been to rural anywhere—all my work has been urban—high-rises, resorts, offices, strip malls, suburban developments.

  I doze off halfway to Denver, only to dream of stepping in cow pies, and wearing cowboy hats, and fanning myself in an un-air-conditioned little white church in a dusty cornfield.

  3

  Once I arrive at DIA I decide to do things a little differently, now that I’m in charge of this project. I don’t zip right out of Denver like I normally would; instead I take the entire next day to hang out in Denver. I sample local restaurants, pop into a recreational marijuana store just out of curiosity—even though I have no plans of buying or using any of it. I even buy a single ticket for a concert at Red Rocks—it’s not an artist I’m familiar with, some kind of folk or bluegrass performer, but it’s the principle of the thing—and while I don’t super love or identify with the music itself, I do enjoy the experience.

  A day turns into two before I head out in search of the target location. I rent a cute little red BMW Z4 convertible, plug the address Tina gave me into the GPS, and head out of Denver. The GPS says the trip should take an hour and forty-five minutes, bringing me past Colorado Springs, and south and east into the open, rolling hills.

  It’s a breathtaking drive, winding and descending out of the mountains, rolling through the foothills with the mountains towering behind and around me in a blue-gray haze. Zipping through Colorado Springs with the top down and my favorite spin class playlist blaring at a deafening volume, the wind in my hair, I feel freer than I’ve ever felt in my life. The sun is shining, the sky is blue and the air is warm and, for the first time in my life, I’m the boss. I’m working for me. I mean, for Dad, yes, but the buck stops with me. Success or failure rests with me. My team is only as good as my leadership, and I’ve spent enough time with my team to know they really are the best.

  Mile after mile, and the mountains fall away, receding and shrinking into nothing, while the landscape around me flattens and opens, the space between trees expanding, the sky growing larger and larger. Suburbs fade, and soon the freeway is more of a highway, and then the GPS leads me off the freeway and onto a true two-lane county highway, with cattle fencing running mile after mile on both sides, cows and horses grazing in clusters and alone. There’s scrub and shrubs and a few trees here and there, but it’s mostly open grassland as far as the eye can see.

  I’ve felt tremors of claustrophobia before—live your life in high-rises like I have, and you get stuck in elevators rather frequently, and it’s never pleasant. I’ve been trapped in crowds of humanity surging in rush hour on the sidewalks of Hong Kong and Tokyo, feeling unable to breathe for the sheer overwhelming mass of humanity. I’ve taken tours of subway systems far underground—nothing but rock and earth and train tracks and that eerie underground stillness and silence.

  But this…is different.

  I’ve never been overwhelmed by the sheer absence of…anything. I’m still in the car, yet I’m already feeling—whatever the reverse of claustrophobia is.

  I turn the music up, mash the pedal down, and focus on the road ahead. Mile after mile, nothing but cows and cattle fences and horses and grass and the clear blue sky with puffs of white cloud like little shreds of torn-up cotton balls.

  Eventually, the GPS tells me to turn off the highway—I have to slow way down, because it’s not immediately apparent where to even turn onto: a narrow dirt road that cuts between fenced-off pastures. The BMW isn’t really made for this, I discover, as the bottom scrapes and bumps over ruts, and the rear en
d wants to squirrel to one side or another if I touch the gas too hard—I regret not asking for an X-drive version, but I hadn’t realized it would matter—the Z4 was just so sleek and sexy and fun-looking, I couldn’t resist. Now, though, I find myself wishing I’d gone for an SUV.

  The road winds and bumps away from the highway, gravel spitting under the tires, dust kicking up. At this slow speed, there’s no wind noise, and the engine is fairly quiet, so I can hear a mooooo in the distance, an answer from somewhere else.

  What the hell have I gotten myself into?

  Ahead, it seems like the landscape is actually beginning to vary from a straight, flat nothing—to curving up to a plateau, another long arc, and then a descent—and the downward journey takes my breath away anew.

  Rippling and rolling hills in the distance, with hazy hints of the mountains beyond them, the hills folding and flexing and rolling down to green grass pastures spreading to either side for…I don’t even know how far. Miles—mile upon mile, nothing but verdant, vivid green fields crisscrossed with fencing, dotted with horses. I slow to a stop at the top of the hill, taking it all in. Wide-open space, breathtakingly beautiful. I’m a city girl through and through, but this is…incredible.

  God’s country.

  The phrase pops into my head, and I snort out loud. I’m not religious or spiritual in any way at all, and I have no idea where that thought came from. But it sticks in my head and won’t go away. It’s so beautiful here that it makes my chest clench.

  A herd of horses gallops off to my left in a glinting, gleaming, roiling tumult of heaving backs and flashing legs and tossing manes, and I can hear them—snorting and whinnying, hooves pounding, grunts and sighs and shrieks and growls in a deafening chorus, and the herd isn’t even what I would call close to me.

  It’s terrifying.

  I gun the gas, and the tires spit gravel and my Z4 squirts forward down the hill. For the first time, I notice the…um—village? “Town” is far too magnanimous of a term. The gravel road I’m on goes right through it, becoming the main street before resuming its course toward the hills. I see immediately, when I’m still a couple miles away at least, why Tina was so struck by this place: it probably hasn’t changed much at all for…god, two hundred years, or close to it?