Cowboy in Colorado (Fifty States of Love)

by Jasinda Wilder

  It’s nothing but two strips of old wood and brick buildings lining the road, and I’m not sure at first why this particular spot was chosen for a settlement—and then as I draw closer I see the glint of sunlight off of water beyond the village, and a hint of movement from a watermill of some sort, and I see a narrow ribbon of silver-blue snaking down out of the hills, and realize the town was placed, as people have built settlements from time immemorial, near a water source—in this case, a river close to the road.

  As I approach and enter the town itself, I see a few signs of life: an older pickup parked on the street, a few bicycles on the boardwalk, a pair of older guys ambling across the street, decked out in blue jeans, short-sleeve plaid western shirts with pearl buttons tucked in behind oversize belt buckles, dusty boots, and cowboy hats. Real, actual cowboy hats. These guys weren’t dressed in costume either, weren’t going to a rodeo or line dancing or whatever, this was just how they dressed for everyday life.

  It’s not funny, I tell myself.

  But it kind of is.

  But it’s also not, because here they’re not at all out of place.

  They both eye the sight before them—my fancy red car, and the fancy gal behind the wheel. One spits in the road to one side, a thick dark stream of something foul, and mutters something to his friend; it’s a decidedly unfriendly action.

  The GPS unit is still telling me to go straight, and I realize I’m not sure exactly where the address Tina gave me is located. I decide to make a quick pit stop and check out this little town while I’m here, since it’s what we’re talking about purchasing. Also, I want to check in with Tina.

  One building on my right has a sign hanging over the steps up to the boardwalk that says “General Store.” Okay, I imagine if I’m going to find a bottle of Perrier anywhere it’ll be in there, and maybe there’s a restroom too. I slide my phone out of my purse and glance at it—no service; no Wi-Fi, either.

  My three-inch Louboutin heels sink into the dirt as I step out of my car. I should’ve worn the boots. But these shoes are just too damn sexy and sophisticated to not wear, so I wore them. Plus, the boots don’t go with my outfit.

  So, whatever. I can wear heels in any situation. I’ve sprinted after a subway train in three-inch heels, for crap’s sake, so I can manage some dirt.

  I make my way up onto the boardwalk and under the relative shade of the overhang, and for a second I almost expect to hear the theme song from that classic Clint Eastwood spaghetti western to echo through the town—you know the one, the whistle, doo-doo-doo…DOO DOO DOO.

  Okay, whatever.

  Never mind.

  I enter the general store where it’s significantly cooler, but still not air-conditioned. There are shelves filling the interior of the store, waist-high, stocked with dry goods and household items—everything from ketchup and pickles and soda to Windex and paper towel and can openers. There’s a bank of grocery store-style coolers along one entire wall, running the length of the building, containing perishable items like milk and juice and meat and cheese and frozen items, and then opposite that is a long counter, the front of which is lined with magazines and candy and cell phone charger cords; along the wall behind the counter is the liquor and cigarettes. There’s an ancient cash register from before I was born, a newer credit card machine, and under the scratched and foggy plastic covering the countertop are ads for hunting and fishing licenses, the numbers for tow truck drivers, plumbers, electricians, a massage therapist named Candy, nail technicians, and a section of newspaper from the Rocky Mountain News. I skim the article, and it is a write-up of local ranchers named the Audens who have been ranching the same land since the early eighteen hundreds. They still ranch the old way, with horses rather than vehicles.

  There’s no sign of anyone, and the only sound is an oscillating fan near the cash register stirring the hot, still air, and judging by the amount of dust on it, the fan was probably old when Ronald Reagan was president.

  “Hello?” I call out. “Is there anyone here?”

  No answer.

  I head for the coolers, and find the beverages; it’s all soda, beer, and bottles of malt liquor, sports drinks…no Perrier. No sparkling water of any kind—just the skinny, plastic bottles of Crystal Mountain.

  Ugh. I take a bottle of water back to the register. “Hello?” I call out, louder than last time. “Anyone?”

  There’s a door in the back corner, one of those industrial kitchen two-way hinge doors. I head for it, grumbling under my breath about the abysmal service in backwater villages like this. I nudge the door open inward, sticking my head through the opening.

  “Hello?” I call out again.

  I hear a noise—snurk-snort—sniff…sigh. I push all the way in and let the door close behind me. I see a dilapidated metal desk covered with papers and folders and piles of receipts and a clipboard with its jaw stuffed open with a pile of papers several inches thick, all of this populated with coffee mugs and empty soda bottles and cans, crumpled chip bags and jerky wrappers. A pair of enormous, mud-caked cowboy boots rest on top of a pile of newspapers, leaving dirt and dried mud smeared and mounded on the newspapers. The owner of the boots is, legitimately, the largest human being I’ve ever seen my life, and he is fast asleep. His legs seem to be as long as I am tall, thick as hundred-year-old oak trees, and the jeans—as dirty as the boots—are unbuttoned at the waist. His belly is gargantuan, jiggling with each snort and snuffle and snore, graying chest hairs poke up out of the unbuttoned opening of his red polo that bulges over his chest and is stretched around shoulders you could build strip malls on. His hair is graying brown and long and shaggy and greasy, and his beard is the same, draped over his chest to mingle with his chest hair.

  He is perched precariously, tipped back in a wheeled office chair, which is easily as old as the fan out front, and nearly as old as the hills around us. One wrong move, and he’s going over backward—and judging by the state of the wooden plank flooring back here, he may very well crash straight through.

  How to wake him up without startling him?

  I try being timid and quiet at first: “Hello? Sir?”

  Nothing.

  “Hello?” I try again, louder.

  Nada.

  I knock on the door, and try using my authoritative snap. “Sir. Wake up!”

  Nothing.

  It’s then that I notice the earthenware jug—the thing is straight out of an old western movie, a stereotypical moonshine jug. There’s a cork stopper on the floor, and his right hand is resting on the jug, a finger still stuck in the handle.

  So…I’m getting nowhere with this one.

  I groan, and exit the back room—only to see an older woman standing at the counter, wearing mom jeans stuffed into knee-high black rubber boots and a ratty gray T-shirt—she has a pile of items on the counter. Using a notepad and pen, and one of those calculators with the paper tape roll, she’s writing on the pad, entering numbers in the calculator. She is clearly itemizing and tabulating her items. Once she’s finished, she digs a wad of cash out of her jeans pocket, counts out a few bills, reaches over the counter and rings up the total—upside down and with practiced ease—then stuffs her bills into the drawer, withdraws her change, closes the drawer, and then shoves her items into a large canvas bag she’d brought with her.

  It’s only when she’s getting ready to leave that she notices me; her eyes rake over me once, and I feel thoroughly vetted and judged in that glance.

  “You the Beemer out front?” she says in a husky smoker’s voice.

  I nod. “Yes. I was hoping to purchase a bottle of water, but I couldn’t find the proprietor.”

  She laughs. “Proprietor. Funny.” She gestures at the door I just came out of. “Ol’ Clancy won’t be upright any time soon. You gotta catch him in the morning if you want ’im to be any damned good.”

  I lift the bottle of water I still have in my hand. “So…should I just leave some money?”

  She nods. “We’re a
ll used to it, ’round here. It’s an honor system, I guess. You ring yourself up, write down what you got…you just go about your business and be honest.” She sets her canvas bag down, tugs the notepad, paper, and calculator back over to her. “I’ll get ya, sweetie. Just that?”

  “Yes, just this.” I dig into my Chanel clutch, pull out a fifty, and bring it over to her.

  She eyes the bill. “The water’s a buck fifty.”

  I roll a shoulder. “I didn’t bring anything smaller.”

  She sighs. “Just keep the water. Not like he’d notice, anyways.”

  “Is it that much trouble to break the bill?” I ask, puzzled.

  She snorts again. “It’s barely noon. Guarantee I’m the first customer he’s had. And he don’t keep that much change in the store, Beemer.”

  “Oh. I see.” I hand her the fifty. “Keep it, then. Put in the drawer.”

  She blinks. “It’s a fifty-dollar bill.”

  “It’s OK.” I smile. “Perhaps you can help me in another way, then.”

  She shakes her head in disbelief, but opens the register and puts the fifty in. “Do my best. What’cha need?”

  “I was wondering who is in charge of this place.”

  She cocks her head, puzzled. “Of the store? Clancy. Told you that already.”

  I shake my head. “No, I meant the town.”

  She blinks again, as if I’d asked who owned the moon. “Who’s in charge? Of the town? Nobody. Not that kinda place, Beemer. No mayor, no police. Why? You got a complaint?”

  I blink. “No police?”

  She laughs. “There’s a county deputy who swings through once in a while, but we tend to take care of things ourselves around here. What’s your issue?”

  I shake my head again. “No, it’s nothing like that. Is there someone who owns the town?”

  She frowns even harder. “Well, the place is called Auden Town, and all the land hereabouts is owned by the Audens. I ain’t ever stopped to consider it, but I guess if anyone owned the town itself, it’d be the Audens. Why? You lookin’ to buy the town?” She says this last part with a snort of laughter, as if it was obviously a comically stupid idea.

  “Well…yes, as a matter of fact.”

  She just stares at me. “You on some kind of city-person drugs?”

  “City-person drugs? As opposed to country-person drugs?” I shake my head to dispel my confusion. “No, I’m not. I’m very serious.”

  “Why in hell would anyone want to buy a little ol’ speck of nothin’ in the middle of nowhere like this? We get our share of lost tourists, but not many come here on purpose.”

  “I think it’s best I speak to the Audens.”

  She nods. “Yeah, that’s the truth. Well, keep on going down the road. Only two places to go from here, Beemer—straight on through to the Big House, or back to the county highway.”

  “The Big House?”

  She rolls her eyes. “The main house of the ranch. I ain’t sure who you gotta talk to, but get yourself to the Big House and they’ll be able to tell you. Guessin’ you’ll want Will Auden, but I could wrong.”

  I smile at her as I head for the exit. “Well, thank you, Mrs. …”

  “Callie. Callie Henderson. My husband Rick is a shift foreman over at Echo Camp.”

  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 the clink-clink-clink of 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 ho
use 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.