Crystal Green - The Hard-to-Get Cowboy

Ethan seemed to realize that Jackson meant it—at least for the moment—so he let it go.

That didn’t sit right with Jackson, though. He wanted his brother—all his siblings—to know that he was going to come through for them, that he wouldn’t screw up again.

He wanted them to have some faith in him.

More of his relatives arrived—Dillon, Corey, their cousins DJ and Dax. A waitress took their orders, then left to place them while everyone made small talk, chatting about their work and lives as well as the latest gossip about ex-town councilman Arthur Swinton and his heart attack and death in jail. He’d been incarcerated for embezzling funds from Thunder Canyon, and his mere name left a sour note in the room.

Drinks were served. Jackson had ordered a soda, showing his brothers that he wasn’t such a wild man that he needed a drink in hand at all times. The champagne at Corey’s wedding had done enough damage.

Whether or not his siblings noticed the gesture, they ate in peace when the food came.

That was, until DJ brought up some unsettling news.

“Get your fill while you can,” he said. He was a quiet man most of the time. Didn’t dress flashy, preferring flannel shirts and jeans to a cowboy hat, boasting the same dark eyes and brown hair that seemed to be the hallmark of the Traub family.

Ethan said, “What do you mean?”

DJ put down his fork, then wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I mean that LipSmackin’ Ribs is making a play for all the business in town.”

And that was obviously the reason he’d brought them together tonight.

A chorus of support for DJ filled the room. Everyone knew that his ribs had a stronghold in Thunder Canyon, as well as other joints sprinkled throughout the country. An upstart rib outfit in the new part of town didn’t have anything on DJ’s.

Jackson was still taking in the announcement. Strange, but when he’d met Woody Paulson, the manager of LipSmackin’ Ribs, a time or two at the Hitching Post bar, the man had never let on that there was an underhanded takeover afoot. He knew that Jackson was a Traub, too.

Had Woody been laughing to himself the whole time, thinking about how he was working over the family right under Jackson’s nose?

DJ tried to seem as if he wasn’t too worried, but something about his gaze belied that. “LipSmackin’ somehow got in tight with the Hitching Post, and they’re providing the ribs for them now.”

Jackson just shook his head. DJ was decent. Real decent. Never one to screw over a competitor. And Jackson felt protective of that sort of nobility in his cousin.

In his family.

“Let me get this straight,” Dax, DJ’s brother, said. He was the true rebel of the group and had always reminded Jackson of James Dean in a brooding way. “A tavern that’s been in Thunder Canyon for generations has turned its back on one of its own in favor of a bunch of strangers?”

Jackson knew that by strangers , Dax wasn’t including the Texas Traubs, who had strong family ties to Thunder Canyon. And he could tell that Dax’s blood was boiling for the sake of his brother, too.

“This is what they’re telling me,” DJ said. “I had an exclusive contract with the Hitching Post, but had is the operative word.” He carefully set down his napkin now. “I’m not going to lie to you all. This is hitting the Thunder Canyon branch of the Rib Shack hard, and it hurts the bottom line of my entire business.”

Jackson could see how this affected DJ personally as well. His cousin’s skin was a shade of red, as if he was angry, maybe even embarrassed at being treated so shabbily by a neighbor.

And if their neighbors were treating DJ like this, then that left the Traubs to back each other up.

Jackson’s jaw had gone just as tight as Dax’s appeared to be.

“I can’t believe the Hitching Post did this,” Dax said.

Dillon, the levelheaded doctor, stepped in. “Maybe there’s a good explanation.”

“Sure,” DJ said. “LipSmackin’ Ribs undercut me on cost in a way that the Hitching Post couldn’t say no to—not in these economic times. I can’t really blame them for accepting the offer, either. It’s just good business.”

Corey interrupted. “And bad loyalty.”

DJ shrugged. “Either way, LipSmackin’ Ribs can’t possibly be making a profit, from what I can gather. There’s just no way.”

“Then why the hell are they doing this?” Dax asked.

No one at the table knew.

But all Jackson could gather was that his cousin was hurting, and that was an affront to him .

It was something worth fixing.

When he left that night, he didn’t go straight home. He drove through Old Town, intending to drop by the Hitching Post since Woody Paulson often stopped there around this time for a drink.

The way Jackson had it figured, brokering a better understanding of the situation would be simple: He was acquainted with the manager of LipSmackin’ Ribs in a friendly manner. Why not ask him what was going on?

And who better to do this than the community relations guy for Traub Oil Montana?

Jackson felt good about this constructive method of going about it. He was turning over a new leaf—a diplomatic one.

A helpful one.

He tried to mellow the memory of DJ’s wounded expression that kept niggling at him as he walked into the Hitching Post, spying Woody at the bar nursing a brew as the silent jukebox sat sentry in the corner.

Jackson approached the man, a fortyish refugee from Vegas. He still carried some of that old-school air about him in his creased brown trousers and a tan long-sleeved silk shirt that had seen better days.

When he saw Jackson, he raised his mug.

“Evening, Traub,” he said.

Jackson kept on his coat and declined to order a drink when the bartender approached. Then he greeted Woody right back.

The other man went back to his beer, and that struck Jackson as just being wrong. Here the manager was, part of a scheme to undermine DJ, and he didn’t seem to mind at all. It even occurred to Jackson that perhaps Woody had only made a habit of grabbing a drink at the Hitching Post because he’d been making LipSmackin’ deliveries all this time.

“I heard about your new contract with the Hitching Post,” Jackson said in a civil enough manner. “I suppose congratulations are in order.”

Woody froze for the briefest second, then muttered a thanks, but didn’t meet Jackson’s gaze.

That didn’t sit well, either. Jackson didn’t like weasels. Didn’t like dishonesty on any level.

“It’s only unfortunate,” he said, doing a fine job of keeping himself in check in spite of his rising dander, “that your business has to be at the expense of my family’s.”

“It’s a cutthroat world out there, Traub. You’re a professional man. You know how things are.”

“Sure, but as far as memory serves, I never did draw blood from anyone. No one in my family has.”

Woody surveyed Jackson, his gaze bleary. “Aren’t you the honorable bunch.”

Drunk. And just this side of ornery.

Had someone had a bad day?

If Woody hadn’t sounded so mocking—as if he’d pulled one over on DJ—and if Jackson hadn’t been so swayed by his cousin’s genuine sense of concern about his business, he might’ve let Woody’s attitude slide.

Woody stood away from the bar and walked off, and Jackson was about to let him go for the time being.

That is, until Woody looked over his shoulder and bellowed, “Tell DJ that he shouldn’t be afraid of a little healthy competition. Tell him to just man up, for God’s sake.”

Everyone in the bar had gone still, turning to Jackson to see if he was going to stand up for DJ.

Still thinking he could settle this constructively, Jackson followed Woody outside to the boardwalk, near the hitching post that had given the tavern its name.