Chapter Two
Belle
Six months ago, when newly minted Dr. Annabelle Forsythe finished her residency and found out that the tiny town of Burning Scrub had been the mysterious benefactor behind the many generous scholarships she’d won over the years, and that Benny Jenkins, its ninety-three-year-old mayor, had offered to pay off her massive four-hundred-thousand-dollar student loan debt in exchange for five years of medical service, she’d been beyond grateful.
She should have asked questions.
Burning Scrub, Montana, had been sold to her as a modest little tourist town where the locals were one big, happy family badly in need of a doctor.
Belle, who’d spent her teen years in the foster care system, had been charmed by the image, even though she’d suspected from the start what Burning Scrub really was and why it had targeted her as the beneficiary of its largesse.
It turned out the town was more commune than cult—to her great relief—but her lack of family and close friends meant there was no one who’d miss her if she dropped off the grid. And Burning Scrub was about as far off the grid as it was possible to get.
Sixty or so years ago, Benny, a kind-hearted opportunist—with heavy emphasis on the latter—had stumbled upon a small, long-forgotten ghost town occupying federal land deep in the West Pioneer Mountains.
He’d struck a deal with the Ride No More Ranch, which owned the only known right-of-way to the town, and Burning Scrub saw its revival.
Money to operate a town off the grid quickly became a concern.
Benny, who’d begun life as an evangelist, had envisioned starting his own religion here, and he upheld those beliefs to this day.
His beliefs, however, had never included cooperation with the US government, which he viewed with complete and utter contempt—particularly after its attempts to conscript him.
He’d first relied on the life savings of the converts who’d wandered into the commune via word of mouth. But to his credit, Benny didn’t have the stomach to sustain that kind of evangelism for long. He was fine with amassing communal wealth. Communal poverty?
Not so much.
Stealing from the poor didn’t hold much cachet for a modern-day Friar Tuck, so he’d come up with a better, more soul-satisfying, longer-term plan for funding his vision.
He’d turned Burning Scrub into a high-end, international tourist destination that offered a pseudo-Western experience to people willing to pay for how they believed the Wild West was won.
He went after an elite market—the type of people who invested in art acquired through sketchy channels.
The type of people who had no problem poaching endangered species, as long as they got an exclusive big-game-hunting experience.
The type of people who shared their experiences with equally rich and entitled friends who would never dream of letting word leak to the common masses.
In short, these days Burning Scrub was an exclusive club for the philanthropically disinclined and the morally ambivalent, with a registered church on the side to satisfy any IRS inquiries.
None of this came as a shock to Belle, who was well acquainted with cash transactions and a reluctance to pay taxes.
She’d never known her mother. Her father, a quiet-spoken college professor—in economics, of all things—had enlisted Annabelle early on to help him deliver hockey bags stuffed with cash to casinos in major Canadian cities.
She’d accompanied him on cross-border expeditions, driving high-end luxury cars into the US, where he’d traded them for economy cars for the return trip.
She’d been with him when he was arrested trying to cross into Canada, and then in the courtroom the day he’d received a twenty-year sentence for laundering money.
She had no idea how he’d ended up where he did, but he’d made her promise not to follow his path.
“You’re smart, Annabelle. Get a good education. Make something of yourself.”
Practicing medicine in a commune probably wasn’t what he’d intended.
She liked most of what Burning Scrub stood for.
It invested heavily in the local community.
Their tourist operation contributed to the county’s economy by buying local and paying top dollar.
Plus, its residents were kind, decent people.
She had a real home for the first time in her life.
Her very own medical practice was the cherry on top—even if role playing, more than medicine, was what kept her busy.
Tonight, all she had to do was sit through one simple town hall meeting and wait for her turn to speak.
Normally, sitting quietly and listening came easy for her.
A shadowy early childhood, then foster care as a teen, had taught her how to make herself small—to pass unnoticed—like a mouse in a corner.
She liked peacefulness. She liked orderliness.
She liked for people to hold hands and sing “Kumbaya.”
But if Benny referred to denizens of the Middle East as muslins one more time, she’d be forced to speak up.
Just thinking about it gave her hives.
Benny remained blithely unaware of the danger his delicate feelings were in.
He referred to the dossier he held in his hands.
“The client’s alias is Sheik Ali.” No one ever used the client’s real name.
“He’s forty-three years old and the eldest son and heir to the sheikdom of Djitania.
Three full brothers and nine half-sisters.
Nine. Can you imagine … He also has two wives.
” Benny squinted at the folder. He refused to wear glasses.
“He must be Mormon. Who else would want more than one?” He continued perusing the file.
“His house isn’t happy about him having to leave his security detail behind, but Ali has agreed.
He’s arrogant. Not a team player. He’s competitive and a showoff, but he’s not a quitter.
That’s the consensus of former classmates at Eton College, in London.
His interests include the American West—obviously—and he was in a boy band as a teenager.
He’s into horticulture, he’s an expert horseman, and he’s fluent in English.
” Benny brandished the folder. “There’s nothing unreasonable about his requests, considering the price he’s agreed to pay for the proposal we sent him. ”
Burning Scrub knew a few things about how obscenely rich people operated, and they priced their events for contingencies.
They’d valued Sheik Ali’s fantasy Western experience at a million dollars US, so there was a lot of wiggle room for any add-ons that might occur.
And when a client was willing to drop a million dollars on a week’s entertainment without batting an eye, add-ons would occur—most likely daily.
“There’s just one little hiccup,” Benny continued.
“We can give him the gunfight, even though Andy won’t be able to participate in it this year.
” Everyone looked at Belle as if it were somehow her fault that Andy Danvers had been charged by a bull and broken his arm.
She’d set the bone. She didn’t set the breeding season for cattle.
“A big thanks to Jayce, by the way, who’s come up with a solution. ”
Everyone beamed at Jayce Hanson, who could do no wrong as far as Burning Scrub was concerned.
Andy and Jayce alternately killed each other in staged shootouts outside the local saloon as part of the package.
They had an off-season competition going as to which of them was the better shot, and the winner got to wear the white hat for the upcoming year.
Belle and Tilly Wynn, the town’s communications officer and schoolteacher, were no slouches with a pistol, either, but customer demand for women gunslingers remained disappointingly low.
“Grady says he’ll wear the black hat this season.”
This time Grady Lovett, town historian and head chef, got their nod of approval, even though everyone knew Grady couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn on a good day.
“Thundering Buffalo agreed to provide the Indian attack on the town,” Benny continued, “but he isn’t happy about it. He said something about perpetrating stereotypes. We’re going to have to give him a big bonus for this one.”
The word Thundering Buffalo—whose real name was David McAllister—likely used was perpetuating, but either way, he wouldn’t be wrong. Dave was a member of the Flathead Reservation, and historically, the Kalispel, Salish, and Kootenai tribes had been peaceful.
But to people from other parts of the world, the American West was homogeneous, and one native North American was the same as another, much the way the more nimble-footed buffalo—which were technically bison—had apparently roamed throughout Montana’s mountain ranges alongside its bighorn sheep.
“And Adam and Pearl are working on obtaining the props for the hanging,” Benny said.
“Then what’s the hiccup?” Ruby Schenkels, the project manager, asked.
Ruby always expected things to go wrong. Preemptive thinking was what made her so good at her job.
“He wants a country singer for entertainment.” Benny paused for effect. “And not just any country singer. He wants one of the finalists from Diss Cord.”
Diss Cord was a reality show where contestants trash-talked each other’s musical talents to try to influence audience judging.
It could be both funny and mean. More than one contestant had quit music entirely thanks to the harsh feedback, and overall, Belle wasn’t a fan.
She’d watched this season’s final rounds with the rest of Burning Scrub only because by then the focus had shifted entirely to talent.
And maybe because Beau Jones, the winner, gave her a few things other than music to think about late at night.
“That doesn’t sound like such a big deal,” Grady said. “Most of them wind up desperate for work after the hoopla from the competition settles down, and this is easy cash money.”