Emily squints at the screen as he stabs at the play button. Her eyes snap to mine with barely disguised horror when I appear in the video.
“We could make it a whole campaign,” Seth says. “The LaSalle brothers on our promo materials.Visit the sexiest mine in the Southwest!”
Emily no longer bothers to hide her look of horror. It’s too hilarious. I can’t help but chime in and needle her a bit.
“Can’t you see it now? We could really class up our brochures, posing shirtless like they do on that old Magic Mike poster. It’d be cute. What do you think?”
“Come see our shafts!” continues Seth, lost in his marketing promo dreams.
“Eww,” Emily says. She hands the phone back and carefully wipes her hands on her slacks. “Forget what we talked about, Cole. I don’t want more responsibility. I want to quit.”
“No, you don’t,” Cole says. “Guys, knock it off. Seth, remember what we talked about with your voice. It carries.”
Ethan, our eldest brother and operations and office manager, appears at the doorway. “It’s fucking loud. Customers come into the gift shop. We’re trying to run a professional business, remember?”
“Exactly!” Emily says pointedly. “No apology for being late, Ethan?”
“No.” Ethan sits down in his chair and props his leg on the table. “Let’s get this circus over with.”
“Is this some sort of power trip?” Emily asks tartly. “The meeting doesn’t start until the almighty manager gets here?”
Ethan snorts. “Almighty manager, my ass. It’s more akin to herding cats than a power trip. It was easier dealing with the smooth-brained masses than you all.”
Until two years ago, Ethan worked as a deputy sheriff. He grumbles about his role of operations and office manager constantly, but we all know he loves being in charge and bossing his brothers and sister around.
“All right, Emily, simmer down,” Cole says.
Emily gives him the finger, but then she does simmer down.As a former high school math teacher and basketball coach, Cole has a way of commanding obedience. Even we can’t defy it. He refuses to teach us his tricks, saying it’s one of the few superpowers that should remain solely in the hands of teachers.
“Anyway, why is Seth yelling about shafts?” Ethan frowns. “Does ours need to be inspected again? They passed with flying colors last time.”
“We have a genius new marketing idea,” Seth says.
“Sorry, I wasn’t serious,” I jump in. “You, Seth, and youalonehave a marketing idea.”
“It could be a whole thing!” Seth says, his face falling. “Cole, you’re always talking about increasing profits for the copper mine side. We could use this for new customers. Younger people. We hardly get any younger customers in the mine. You’ll see—it’s a great opportunity. I’ll send you a link to the video now.”
“All right,” Ethan says. “Put together your plan. Written down this time, okay, Seth? Just because we’re family-owned and run doesn’t mean we’re not a professional business. Let’s start acting like it, which includes being on time to meetings. Emily, I’ll try to do better too.”
Both Seth and Emily look mollified by this. Seth pumps the air with his fist. “Yes! I’ll write it up right now.”
“Emily,” says Ethan, “since you’re the most excited about this meeting, you go first.”
Emily fills us in on her lengthy list of customer service and marketing issues. Finally, she pauses, her finger hovering over the last line on her notes. “Next item—we received another email from the town marshal’s office.”
While most Arizona towns have modernized their lawenforcement branding to city police departments, Sagebrush is one of the few that still clings to the town marshal title. Other Wild West–proud towns, like Tombstone and Cave Creek, also keep the term, though Sagebrush’s refusal to rebrand had more to do with lack of funds than any clever marketing spin, like “The Town Too Tough to Die.”
Now it’s too late to change. Our current town marshal seems to get off on comparing himself to other famous, supposedly tough, gunslinging marshals like Virgil and Wyatt Earp—which is ridiculous, since they both died in the O.K. Corral shootout. It’s freaking weird to aspire to someone who died doing their job. Couldn’t have been that competent.
“What does our beloved marshal want now?” I ask, my voice cool.
Emily sighs. “He wants to meet with us. I suspect it’s the same thing as usual—he wants us to revise the trust designations, so his department gets a portion of the pie.”
“Not going to happen,” Ethan growls. “He can sell the damn Humvee if he needs funds.”
Years ago, the town council gave the newly appointed Rick Dawson and his department a huge budget increase. Instead of using it for public safety improvements or even deputy salary increases, Marshal Dawson bought a military-grade vehicle and riot gear. It still pisses Ethan off whenever he’s reminded of it.
The mere existence of Marshal Rick Dawson still pissesmeoff. Just hearing his name tightens something in my chest. “Dawson can fuck right off.”
