The milk and cereal fall back into the bowl. "Can they hurt your ranch?" he asks. "Hurt your dreams, I mean?"
"They could take a vote. Declare it unsafe. Figure out a way to stop it. Tell me my buildings aren't safe. The inspector comes this week to sign off on the property. And even if they can't make it legal, do I really want to bring a business into Sierra Grande when everyone hates it?"
"Hell yes," Wyatt says, at the same time Travis says, "Yes, you do."
"It's not about what everyone else thinks, Jo. It's about what you want." Wyatt steps closer, brushing hair from my face. "This time,youget whatyouwant. Not what you think is best for someone else." He dips his head, eying me meaningfully.
"Right," I whisper, knowing Travis is at the table listening.
"I'm coming with you,” Travis declares. He gets up and puts his bowl in the sink.
"Travis, I don't know. You might not—"
Travis shakes his head. "You wouldn't be in this mess if it weren't for me. I knew those firecrackers weren't a good idea, but I didn't care. And I'm really sorry, Jo." He stumbles over my name.
"I know. It's okay, Trav. Everyone makes poor choices." Don't I know it.
"We'd better get going." Wyatt glances at his phone. "I'm all for ignoring the rules of polite society, but this might not be a meeting you should be fashionably late for."
Wyatt drives us in his truck. I focus on taking deep, even breaths, and try not to cry as I watch Wildflower growing smaller in my side mirror.
The meeting is being heldin the room on the right. It's a basic room, nondescript. White folding chairs have been set up in neat rows. People stand talking, and when we walk in the conversation dulls to a murmur. At the front of the room stands Mayor Cruz, his salt and pepper hair smoothed back. He talks with his administrative assistant, Adam, motioning rapidly with his hands, while Adam's fingers fly across his phone screen like he's taking notes in time with the mayor's words.
Wyatt places a steadying hand on the small of my back. I'm uncomfortable in my slacks and blouse. I haven't worn these clothes since my last shift at The Orchard.
Wyatt leads me and Travis to the chairs at the back of the room. "This way you can keep an eye on the room," he says under his breath. "You get to know who's doing what."
I look up at him and feel an overwhelming urge to throw my arms around him. It's not the time or place for that, so I settle for a grateful smile and a squeeze of his hand. Wyatt must understand, because he sends me a look swollen with affection.
Mayor Cruz steps to the center at the front of the room, where a podium has been placed. He turns off the microphone, and I'm happy about that. His voice booming through this small space would have made all this just a little more difficult.
"Good morning, folks. Thank you for coming out." He claps his hands together, then spreads them apart in a welcoming gesture. "There's been some concern around the town recently, and we're here to talk it out."
My stomach rolls. A few glances dart my way.
The mayor continues. "The intention of a town hall meeting is to provide an open space for discourse. Our opinions may differ, but please remember that, above all, we are neighbors. Friends. Disrespect of any kind will not be tolerated." He pauses to give a parental look around the room. "Who would like to start us off?"
In the front row, Waylon Guthrie stands, his eighty-odd years of life making it a slow process. "I'll go first."
Mayor Cruz extends a hand. "The floor is yours, Waylon."
Waylon turns to look at the crowd. "There aren't a lot of you who are as old as me in here, so you might not remember the Circle B the way I do. But let me assure you, it was never meant to house delinquents. That used to be a respectable ranch, and it's a shame to see it being turned into an asylum."
"Give me a break, Waylon," Wyatt shouts. "You can't—"
The mayor cuts him off. "The floor isn't yours, Wyatt."
"The floor doesn't belong to that lunatic," Wyatt counters, not as loudly as before but with enough volume for the people around us to hear. He earns a few scowls and scattered laughter.
Waylon sends a dirty look our way, but chances are fair that he can't see us very well, and he most definitely didn't hear Wyatt.
"Are we going to talk about the field that burned yesterday?" A fifty-something woman in the third row stands. Waylon takes his seat. The woman is a newcomer to town, one of the many people who've come this way escaping sprawling Phoenix for the slow pace of small-town life. And I'm not saying she can't have an opinion, but… it doesn't hold water for me.
"I think that's where the discussion should be focused." Her forehead wrinkles and her lips purse. "We don't need to imagine future problems when we had one presented to us yesterday." She's wearing a white visor, the kind someone would wear when they're playing tennis. It annoys me more than it should.
"Down at my country club in Phoenix, we had a group of boys sneaking onto the golf course at night with golf clubs and making divots in the course. Those boys were caught and punished, and I think the same should be done with that troublemaker who started a fire yesterday. I heard he's in town to attend that ranch, and who knows what he'll do next."
I don't think I've ever felt fury like this. It flows out to the tips of my fingers, curling them into fists. My body feels like it's on wheels, like I could roll over anyone and anything right now.
