Chapter 6
maverick
Ibought Blackwood Prime, the premium (and only) steakhouse in Wildflower Canyon, when I first moved here.
I’d just bought a ranch that became Kincaid Farms, and I had money I wanted to invest. Since I love a good steak, I thought, why the hell not?
Moving to Wildflower Canyon had been a calculated decision.
I sold the ranch that had been in my family for three generations—1,200 acres of prime Texas land that had seen more droughts and developers in the past decade than it had rain.
It wasn’t a decision I made lightly. That land held my childhood, my parents’ memories, and the long days and longer nights that shaped me into the man I am.
But when the zoning committee voted to approve a luxury golf resort right on the edge of our property line, I knew it was time to go.
I wasn’t about to spend the rest of my life staring at a bulldozer eating through mesquite and brushland while tourists sipped cocktails in what used to be a cattle pasture.
I didn’t want that for myself, and sure as hell not for my sister.
So, I sold—at a damn good price—and started looking west for land that still breathed like it used to.
I found Wildflower Canyon on the back end of a cross-country trip, driving without a map, chasing something that felt like peace.
What I found was a place where ranching was still a way of life, not a photo op. Land that hadn’t forgotten what it was for. People who didn’t talk about “the next big thing” and were salt of the earth, doing the hard work of getting food on the table.
My sister, Joy, was eighteen then, and just finishing high school in Dallas.
I’d raised her from the time she was eight, after we lost our parents in a car crash just outside Amarillo.
She doesn’t remember much about the night it happened, but I do.
All of it. Especially the look in her eyes, the first time she realized I was all she had left.
I was a kid myself, but I promised her we’d make it. And, through grit, we did.
She moved to New York, went to college, and then became a buyer for Neiman Marcus. She was living a life that looked nothing like mine, but it suited her. Still, when she started calling to say the city was wearing her down, I told her Wildflower Canyon had room for one more.
I bought her a storefront on Main Street, helped her open her boutique, Bringing You Joy.
I am proud to say that it’s the best damn clothing shop in a hundred miles. Women looking for a cocktail dress and those who simply want a pair of cowboy boots—shop there. Joy has something for everyone, and she does it without being a snob.
She fit into Wildflower Canyon just as I did, seamlessly.
She still lives at Kincaid Farms, in the house that I built. It’s not opulent or even fancy, but it’s solid—like us. And no matter where the day takes us—cattle, couture, or carved ribeye—we always make it back there.
Because at the end of the day, family is all you can count on—land changes. People leave. But if you’ve got a front porch, a little stretch of sky, and someone who knows where you’ve been, you’re doing just fine.
I wonder who knows where Aria has been as I watch her walk into Blackwood Prime.
She’s not wearing a dress, which would not be out of place for my steakhouse, but she fits in much better like this—in a pair of worn tight jeans, a tucked-in button-down, boots that mean business, and a tan canvas jacket that’s probably seen a few hundred sunrises.
Her hair is still in a braid as it was during the funeral. Black as molasses. She says something to the host, who points her toward a table by the windows.
I see Amos Langley.
Many ranches in Wildflower Canyon work with him. I don’t. My accountant is in Texas, the same one who helped me sell the property and now helps me manage Kincaid Farms.
Amos has a reputation for having numbers in his blood and calluses on his hands. He has his own ranch, so he knows what it takes. I like the man. He doesn’t bullshit, and he has a strong and straight spine.
Amos rises and pulls a chair for Aria like the gentleman he isn’t. Something about this woman inspires men to do things for her. I recognize that. I think it’s that heady combination of vulnerability with strength.
She doesn’t need your help; she can stand on her own, and yet you want to extend a hand.
I remember what Celine said about her, “She’s manipulative. That’s why Mama didn’t want her around. She has a way with men, even Papa. It’s disgusting.”
I like seeing her in the low lighting and against the dark wood and leather booths of Blackwood Prime.
She stands out and blends in. She does this without making an effort.
“Now, Maverick,” Senator Otis Jessup interrupts my perusal of the woman who is occupying my mind a lot more than any other has in a very long while. “I know some of the locals are squirmy about this airport idea. But I swear to you, it’s going to be just what this community needs. A step forward.”
I turn my attention back to my dinner companions.
Blackwood Prime has become the place where politicians rub elbows with ranchers and never notice the blood on each other’s boots—so no surprise that I’m courting fucking Senator Jessup, whose son owns a development company.
He shills for him, finding him business.
His latest initiative—now that Piper Novak, the largest Texas developer, is struggling to keep her business afloat due to numerous federal investigations into her company—is to take over the commercialization of Wildflower Canyon.
My latest initiative is to make sure that shit doesn’t happen.
Since I’m smarter and wealthier than this asshole and his son, I’m going to prevail.
We’re seated at my table. It’s in the corner near the fireplace, giving me a full view of the restaurant. I can see who comes in and who goes out.
No one will ever accuse me of not being in control.
Jessup is pushing for a modest regional airport, which will come in handy for the luxury resorts he also wants to build in the name of modernization and bringing revenue to Wildflower Canyon.
“Modern infrastructure, better access, more visibility for your little slice of paradise,” the senator continues. “That’s what is needed here.”
His little slice of paradise comment grates, as does his thinking he knows what’s needed here, but I keep my expression polite.
“This place doesn’t need to become the next Jackson Hole,” I say calmly. “It needs water rights, grazing leases, and clean groundwater. Maybe a better high school.”
Candace Jessup, his wife, sits between her husband and me.
In a red cashmere sweater dress with diamonds on her ears, wrists, and neck, and half a bottle of some very good Bordeaux inside her, she’s slurring compliments as she touches my forearm when she laughs, which is often.
Candace sleeps around. It’s well known. It’s almost like her husband is her pimp. It’s disgusting as fuck, and I wish I didn’t have to break bread with pricks like them, but you can’t own a ranch the size of mine and not work with the government.
Jessup chuckles as he cuts into a succulent piece of filet mignon. “Sure, sure. But a little polish wouldn’t kill the place.”
I nod like I agree because that’s what we’re doing—playing nice.
The real talk is about the Public Lands Leasing Reform Provision, buried in the latest federal budget reconciliation package. If it passes, it’ll squeeze out ranchers further and give the advantage to land developers like this moron’s kid.
“This is ranch country, Senator, we don’t need no polish,” I drawl, letting my best Texan accent out for a spin.
Candace laughs. “You sound just like John Wayne from True Grit, Mav.”
My eyes land on Aria and Amos. He’s jovial and friendly, while she’s aloof. She nods and smiles, but it’s not genuine; I can see it from all the way here.
If she’s meeting with an accountant, that means she’s going to get the 411 on everything that’s going on at Longhorn. That’s good news for me. Once she sees the debt the ranch carries, she’ll be more inclined to sell.
“You know, Mav,” Candace purrs, her painted nails on my forearm. “My friend is the editor of Town & Country, and they’re doing a glossy feature on ranchers. I’d love for you to be part of it. Be on the cover of the magazine.”
I try not to wince. “Mrs. Jessup, that’s—”
“Candace, please…or Candy,” she protests huskily.
Her husband chuckles. He doesn’t seem to mind that every time she leans, she rubs her tits against me. If my wife did something like that, I’d divorce her so fast, her head would spin—and that would be after I killed the sumbitch who she touched.
“Tell him, Otis, how good it would be for Wildflower Canyon to have someone like Mav in Town & Country? It’ll give y’all a national profile.”
Before Otis can try and convince me of something that has a snowball’s chance in hell of happening, I ask about the public land leasing reform in the latest bill that Congress passed and is now going to be debated on in the Senate.
“This is why it’s important to develop the land here, Mav,” he insists. “Y’all are too sentimental about the land. But we know sentiment doesn’t pay property taxes.”
Candace rises, unsteadily, and titters about going to the little girl’s room.
Christ!
Once it’s just the senator and me, I twist his arm. “Otis, I need you to get that provision out of the bill,” I say simply.
Enough pussyfooting.
The man wants me to donate to his campaign, which I will (and do), then he needs to be a little more accommodating of my needs.
The senator swirls his wine and squints at me over the rim of his glass. “Mav, you know this reform is much needed to—”
“You need to get that provision removed before it makes it to the floor.” I smile and then drop the threat. “You’ve done it before.”
He doesn’t deny it. He can’t. I know where all the skeletons are buried. Granted, if I push him down, he can take me with him, which is why I buy him the steak and a four-hundred-dollar bottle of Pauillac.
“You want me to put my neck out for a handful of ranchers?”
He’s not happy about this, that’s clear enough, but I’m not here to make this son of a bitch happy. I’m here to protect Wildflower Canyon.
I shake my head. “I want you to put your neck out for the last people in this state who still know how to make something out of nothing. You squeeze us out, you’re left with a few more condos, a couple of empty golf courses.”
He smirks. “That’s what you’re selling me—nostalgia?”
“No,” I say, leaning in just enough. “I’m selling you survival. And if that ain’t enough, I’m offering you a trade.”
His brows lift.
“You’ve got a son with a string of failed developments and a reputation that smells like old fish.
I’ve got contacts in the state land office, zoning board, and a few environmental groups I donate to regularly.
You make this provision disappear, I make sure your boy’s next project gets a green light with a write-up in the Business Journal. ”
The senator gives me a measured look.
“I met Duke Wilder for lunch a couple of days ago,” I continue. “He said something about you wanting to discuss your primary campaign with him. Heard it’s gonna be tough with all that new blood in politics y’all keep talking about.”
Otis freezes.
“I haven’t been in touch with Wilder,” Otis says, his jaw clenched.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I think it was Congressman Pinto!” I don’t even pretend to be anything but smug. Pinto is primarying the senator, and he knows that Duke and I are friends, so my information is not only real but is backed up by Duke.
He also knows that Duke did a one-eighty, going from wanting to get rid of his ancestral land to keeping it, wanting to grow it.
It’s not going to make Duke as rich as he would’ve been selling the land, piece by piece to shitty developers like the senator’s kid—but he’s now at least able to look himself in the mirror and be proud of his family’s legacy.
I give the senator a moment to process. Let the wheels turn. Let the sweat bead just slightly at his temple.
He sets down his glass a little too hard. “You threatening me, Mav?”
I shake my head slowly, smile just a touch. “I’m just making an appeal from the ranching community of Wildflower Canyon.”
Otis shifts in his seat, jaw tight.
He’s weighing the cost not just of the provision, but of pissing me off. He knows Duke switching sides could shift donors. It could cost him his base. It could cost him his job.
Finally, he exhales. “I’ll talk to the committee chair.”
I nod, then raise my glass. “We’re so grateful to you, Senator.”
And, pleased that you remember whose boots are really planted in the dirt around here, dipshit.
Candace floats back in just then, laughing too loudly at nothing. She flops into the booth beside me like a cat in heat.
“Miss me, cowboy?” she purrs.
Like a hole in the head.
“I do want to talk to you about one other thing,” the senator says, his face pinched, he isn’t happy.
Well, fuck him. None of us are happy with how there is this relentless pressure to sell our land so people like him can rape it.
He says something about mineral leases and pivoting rural America into “new directions,” but I zone him out.
Instead, I watch Aria as she tucks her hair behind her ear.
She’s wearing no makeup, I realize, as she’s in sharp contrast to the woman sitting next to me.
“I understand,” I say to the senator when he’s done spewing his nonsense. “You know that Duke and I…and others are rooting for you.”
Translation: We will contribute handsomely to your campaign.
Hidden subtext: I will also contribute to your challenger ‘cause I don’t want to get wrong-footed no matter who wins.
“Good, good.” He nods.
Candace can feel the air between us has changed, but she’s going to keep playing the good wife.
“I know Otis thinks you’re sentimental, Mav, but I think it’s romantic.”
This is her attempt to change the mood? Just shoot me now and end my fuckin’ misery!
I sip my wine slowly, give myself time to tamp down my irritation. “I’m not sentimental, Mrs. Jessup, I’m strategic.”
She looks flustered.
Across the room, Aria glances up.
Her eyes catch mine.
They’re flat, like her face. There isn’t even a hint of a smile to acknowledge me.
She holds my gaze for just a beat, then goes back to whatever Amos is saying.
When the senator and his wife are ready to leave, I walk them out of the restaurant and wait until their car shows up.
Once I get rid of them, I make a beeline for Aria’s table.
I’m going to crash her meeting with her accountant.
I’m looking forward to it.