Page 52 of Rescued By the Mountain Man

Stepping into the Silver Spur Saloon always made me feel like I was stepping into a Wild Wild West movie. Through the creaking, wood-battered doors, the place had a rustic, cozy interior and a perfect balance of period details and modern comforts. The place had scrubbed wooden tables, leather seats, tin plates on the wall, and a long row of beer taps behind the bar.

The dim light from the electric sconces threw shadows on the walls, and despite the warmth of the day, the interior was refreshingly cool. Clinking glasses, murmured conversation, and occasional laughter filled the air, while the faint strains of a piano playing in the corner came to my ears, and the fifty-inch TV had muted news reruns.

It was not hard to find Drayton Jr. Most of the people in the place wore jeans and khakis, not an expensive suit, and he had a confident swagger, like he owned the place. Not even Jake ‘The Snake’ O’Hara did that, and he owned the place.

“Donovan,” Drayton nodded. “Over here. Please.”

I glanced at Zara and didn’t see much emotion on her face, but she didn’t look antagonistic. That was good. We went to his table. “Mister Drayton. Good evening. What can we help you with?”

Instead of addressing my question, he turned to Zara. “Miss Harrington, glad to see you again. I am glad you came as well. What is it like to live on a ranch? I know you’re a city girl.”

He said it friendlily, but for some reason, my gut wanted me to punch his back teeth out. I didn’t have any hold on Zara; I didn’t own her, nor was she my girlfriend, so the jealousy was unwarranted, but something in me didn’t want Drayton to look two feet near Zara.

“Ahem,” I coughed, dragging attention to me. “You wanted to see us?”

“Ah, yes,” Drayton nodded. “I’ve been reading about this processing plant you want to get constructed around here. I don’t think I can get the full scope of what you’re looking for from paper, so can you walk me through it?”

My brows lowered. “Couldn’t you have called this meeting tomorrow?”

“I have a flight out to Cincinnati tomorrow,” he replied, his tone apologetic. “My apologies.”

I looked at Zara, but her attention was stuck on the TV. The news report flashed something on the screen, and she literally went white. “E-excuse me, bartender. Can you turn that up a little, please?”

The man nodded and pressed the volume up, then went back to pouring drinks.

“—s for the latest report coming out of New York, editor-in-chief of the widely spread newspaper, The Rambler, Elise Munroe, was found dead in her house.

Police Chief Eddie Wright has said that it was a home invasion, and the lady was found dead in her bed, shot execution style. He also adds that the killing has all the indications tying it to one of the Five Families of the New York Italian mob._

“Investigations are stalled as there is no viable connection between the notable journalist and any of the mob families, but initial reports do lead to the conclusion that the newspaper was about to run a story tying a local clinic to a mob affiliation.

"The small health institution was reported to be siphoning money from the government, treating patients who, according to the FBI, are either dead or created for nefarious purposes.”

Zara darted from the seat and rushed to the blinking light where the bathrooms were, and I nearly ran after her—but stopped and sat back down.

“Is she all right?” Drayton asked, twisting in his seat.

“I—” I swallowed. “I hope so. Probably something she ate at the ranch. She wasn’t too fond of the kale salad.”

“I prefer to juice mine,” Drayton replied. “Now, how about this plant?”

“Not just the plant but everything else that comes with it. There are four major ranches here,” I said, feeling like I was reiterating the same spiel I had told Gregory, Drayton Senior, the town council, the board of trustees, and my goddamn dog.

“It takes a lot to send the meat down to Helena, and even though it’s not far, what is in the middle takes the rub. We have to get specialized trucks; those come from Helena, too, and they charge by the hour.”

“Sometimes bulls die, and we don’t have the time to call those trucks, so we have to bury them, which is a revenue loss for us. If, by chance, we do get the trucks up here, the meat is deemed unusable. The long and short of it is that it is a way to keep every part of our business on our own land.

“In other parts of the state, there are operations out there selling directly to customers. If we have the plant here, there is no more sending cattle a city away, processing, and shipping from there. Everything would be done in-house, on our own land. I’ve spent two and a half years drawing up the plans, mapping everything out to the last detail.”

I kept an eye out, trying to spot Zara and getting fearful that she had not come back yet. “I think—no, I know—we can grow business with this facility, and it is going to provide at least fifty jobs for the town, a godsend for anyone who didn’t want to work at the boom-and-bust tourism business or whatever fringe jobs there are around here.”

“I see,” Drayton called a waitress over. “Whisky Sour, please? Mr. Donovan?”

“Sam Adams for me and lemonade for my friend, please,” I said, getting very worried about Zara now.

I turned back to see Drayton with a folder on the table. “Your reasoning is good, but the cost of this is massive.”

“The cost to keep the business out of the township is going to add up to much more in the years coming,” I said. “Honestly, we should have done this years ago.”

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