"Exactly. Instead of responding to bureaucratic pressure,we create political pressure of our own." I pull up Senator Martinez's file on my phone. "At that sponsor event in Jackson Hole, I watched something fascinating happen. Local politicians, sponsors, businessmen—they all lit up like Christmas trees when they got to meet the cowboys."
Sarah leans forward. "Personal connection beats policy papers."
"Every time. Senator Martinez chairs the committee that oversees the Forest Service. I've mentioned him before—he's reasonable, fair, and completely obsessed with rodeo." A grin tugs at my lips as I remember how he welcomed me into his office with a question about barrel racing. "His office walls are covered with commemorative buckles, signed hats, photos of him with cowboys."
Sarah leans back in her chair, the leather creaking softly. "You're thinking we should use that."
"I know we can. When celebrities he admires look him in the eye and tell him this designation is wrong, he'll move mountains to fix it." The idea gains momentum as I speak and I’m getting excited. This is what I live for—the moment when all the pieces align and the way to win is clear. "We bring together every rodeo celebrity we can gather and let them tell Senator Martinez exactly what this designation means to people like us."
"A party? It’s so innocent it's perfect." Sarah's smile turns calculating. "How do we get celebrities to show up?"
I think of all the friends who stopped by our table at the Cowboy Bar. "Lucky for you, your son has made a lot of friends."
Sarah tips her head to the side and considers this. "Wyatt would work his connections for us?"
"He will." He already asked me what he could do to help. I’m sure he’ll be happy to ask his buddies to come to a party. "I could even invite my mother. Callie Rose's name carries serious weight in rodeo circles and barrel racers would come just for the chance to meet her."
It’s strange to think of asking her for a favor though. Mom raised me to be independent, to never need anyone—what will she do when I need her? My stomach twists at the thought. Sharing Stonegate Ranch’s purpose feels like belonging in a way I've never experienced and I'm willing to risk my mother's rejection for it. That’s unsettling. This place is changing me in ways I didn’t see coming.
I gulp back my issues and plow ahead. "Let’s talk logistics," I continue, my voice steadier than I feel. I pull out the checklist I made at breakfast. "We'd need a venue. Something like what they had in Jackson Hole," I say, thinking out loud, remembering how right it felt to be on Wyatt's arm in that world. "Not too polished, but definitely sophisticated."
"Nothing like that exists here, unless we want to use the ski resort and hand Eleanor Whitmore a check." Sarah makes a face. "I'm not giving that woman a dime. Can we host it in Jackson Hole?"
I shake my head. "It’s got to be here.” Of that, I’m certain. “What about other venues in the area?" I ask, though I already suspect the answer won't be good.
"The community center has folding tables and fluorescent lighting. The church fellowship hall seats maybe fifty people. The city conference room looks like a tax seminar." Sarah ticks off the options on her fingers, each one landing like a nail in the coffin ofmy perfect plan.
"So, we can either surrender our dignity to the Whitmores—"
"Which will never happen," she cuts in.
I nod to acknowledge the line she's drawn in the sand. "Or hold a world-class political event in a room that smells like potluck casseroles." I find myself making a face too.
"Wait," Sarah says suddenly, and something in her voice makes me look up. "Let me call Brook."
"Brook?" I ask, curious. When I got home from my weekend with Wyatt there was a pan of chicken enchiladas waiting in my fridge. The woman has won my heart.
Sarah's pulling out her phone. "Brook has several projects in the works. One of them might be just what we need."
I watch Sarah dial, and I can't help but wonder what it's like to have that kind of faith in family. To know exactly who to call when the impossible needs to happen.
Must be nice to have people you can count on.
"Brook? I'm here with Kinsley." Sarah hits the speaker button and sets the phone between us.
“Hey girl! I saw your photos online and that dress was gorgeous.” I can hear the sounds of the feed store in the background—the distant hum of machinery, someone calling out about grain prices.
“Thanks.” I grin thinking about that night. It was pretty amazing.
Sarah leans closer to the phone. "We've got a problem that requires either a miracle."
"What kind of miracle are we talking about?"
"We need a venue," Sarah says without preamble, her fingers drumming against thetable. "Western elegance. Think Jackson Hole level, but here in Gritstone. For about two hundred people. And we need it in four weeks."
“Well,” Brook draws the word.
Sarah stops drumming her fingers and my heart lifts with hope.