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He picks up his glass, signals the bartender for another.
He does not look at me again.
New man in town. Not from here. Watching…me?
CHAPTER 3
mason
“I’m glad you’re here to help us out,” Brian Feig says as he shakes my hand.
Mr. Brian Feig of Feig & Sons—even though he has no sons or children of any kind—is the legitimate reason I am in Wildflower Canyon. He has a permit to build a new rodeo right outside of town, the kind the ranching community has been lobbying for since they decided Wildflower Canyon deserved to compete, one day, with the Fort Worth Stock Show and the Cheyenne Frontier Days. It’s an ambitious dream for a small Colorado valley.
As a certified land surveyor, I’ve been hired by the engineering firm Feig to assess the site—drainage, soil load, access roads, and the unglamorous groundwork that happens before a single post goes into the ground. It’s work I’m genuinely qualified to do. That’s the thing about a good cover—it works best when it’s mostly true.
Feig is compact and energetic, talks with his whole body, and overfills every room he enters.
We meet at the Horseshoe Diner, as his office is a trailer on the future rodeo grounds, and the heating is broken. In early March, when Colorado is still weeks away from real spring, that’s a necessity.
He knows everyone.
Before our coffee arrives, I’ve met about six people, mostly ranchers, except for one.
Kazimir Chase.
I know him from the file. Kaz works with developers and ranchers—trying to strengthen the community—making him both popular and a villain, depending on where he stands.
The introduction is exuberant—but then Feig is a boisterous man, and he talks about everyone like they’re a god.
“Without Kaz here, I wouldn’t have gotten the rodeo contract.” Feig thumps Kaz’s shoulder with a large hand.
We shake hands like men do when they’re sizing each other up. His entire demeanor screams ex-military and current…not a rich land developer, not with the way he moves.
We size each other up.
I file him under revisit.
He files me under something, too.
Kaz props his hip against the bar counter where we’re seated and nods at Eunice Knowles, who owns the place. She smirks at him, pours black coffee into a to-go cup, and slides it to him. He doesn’t slide back any money—house account, probably, or just the privilege of being Kaz Chase in a town where everyone knows him.
She arches an eyebrow. “Your truck was parked outside the Keaton ranch.”
“And how is that any of your business, Eunice, my love?” Kaz picks up the coffee.
“Bree is my business,” she retorts defiantly and with some amusement.
Bree Keaton.
The file says that for an absolute mercenary, Kaz went out of his way to save her ranch, which she inherited from her uncle, a friend of his.
“Then you know I was there to help her with her pump.” Kaz straightens. He doesn’t like the invasion of his privacy, but this is a small town, and one has to expect the interference.
Janine, one of the servers who’s walking by, chortles. “Is that what we’re calling it these days?”
“He was fixin’ her pump all night long,” Eunice cackles.
“Feig, Brooks, I’ll see you, gentlemen, ’cause I have to leave before I am booked for murder.” Kaz walks out of the diner while the two women high-five each other, laughing.
