– String lights in the south pasture
– Portable bar from The Hollow? (Arlo owes me)
– Food stations: sliders, chili, Delaney’s cornbread (ask nicely, do not flirt while asking, do not think about her hands kneading dough…)
– Fire pit + s’mores for the kids
– Live music? See if Wild Reverie wants to crash again. Or at least Sloane can bully Roman into a short acoustic set.
– Bracket board for the tournament, big and obnoxious. Winner gets bragging rights and a ridiculous trophy. (Note: buy ugliest trophy imaginable.)
I flip to a clean page and jot down names. Ivy and her tattooing crew. Olivia and the firefighters. Sloane and the band. Lani at Coyote Cup. Bill Granger, who will yell about “cornhole hooliganism” while signing up for three matches.
Half the town will come just because they’re nosy. The other half will come because of Dottie’s Facebook group.
A knock on the open door makes me glance up.
Boone leans against the frame, arms crossed, expression that familiar mix of exasperation and reluctant curiosity.
“Please tell me that’s not another festival idea,” he says.
“Ah, my favorite killjoy,” I say. “Come in. Sit. Let me change your life.”
“I have ten minutes before I need to be out with the fence crew,” he warns.
“Perfect.” I flip the notebook around and slide it toward him. “Behold. My genius.”
He scans the page, eyes moving steadily. His expression doesn’t change much, but I see the tiny giveaways. The slight narrowing of his eyes at the word “bar.” The twitch at the corner of his mouth at “ugliest trophy imaginable.”
“You want to host opening night here?”
“Damn straight,” I say. “Think about it. People are already geared up for Coyote Cup. We give them a place to scream and drink and pretend cornhole matters more than taxes. We sell our beef sliders, push our new merch, maybe even get some early sign-ups for the Harvest Festival. It’s free promotion, cash flow, and goodwill all in one.”
He grunts. “And liability.”
“Which we handle by keeping the booze controlled and the fire pits supervised,” I counter. “We’ve done this before, Boone. We can do it in our sleep now.”
His gaze flicks back to the list. “You put Delaney’s name down for catering without asking her.”
I spread my hands. “I was going to ask. Nicely. With my inside voice.”
His jaw ticks. “She’s been working hard. She doesn’t need you roping her into more.”
“Hey.” I sit forward. “You notice she lights up when she talks about menus? This is her thing. Her art. She can scale back the daily stuff if she wants and put her energy here. And you know as well as I do that when Delaney cooks for a crowd, every single one of those people will leave this ranch singing our praises.”
He knows I’m right. He hates that I’m right.
“You’re not wrong.”
I grin. “You saying yes?”
He hesitates, then nods once. “Fine. But we’re capping numbers and keeping kids out of the barn after dark. Last thing we need is Eli Spence climbing the hay bales like a jungle gym.”
“A valid concern,” I say. “We’ll rope off the restricted areas, put signage up. Maybe hire Dottie as security. No one crosses a line with that woman staring at them.”
He actually snorts at that, which tells me his guard’s down half an inch.
“I’ll talk to Delaney,” he adds. “About the food.”
