Page 39 of July’s Cowboy Dallas

I reached for his hand, lacing my fingers through his, and turned back toward the arena.

The rodeo was still going. The town was still watching. And Dallas Miller stood beside me, no longer waiting for a place I had already given him.

The rodeo wrapped just after sunset, the sky streaked with pink and gold, the crowd dispersing slowly toward trucks and tailgates and the promise of fireworks later.

I was standing near the stock barn, double-checking the quarantine pen one more time, when Addison found me.

She looked perfect, as always, with her crown still in place and that practiced, polished smile. Her eyes sure did look tired, though.

“Before you tell me you're too tired for one more problem,” she said, “I think this one matters.”

I straightened. “What is it?”

She held up an old photo album, the kind with plastic sleeves and a faded cardboard cover. “I went through that regional rodeo and pageant box like I said I would. Found this tucked in the back.”

Dallas moved closer, his presence warm and solid at my shoulder.

Addison opened the album carefully, flipping past pages of old rodeo programs and faded ribbons, until she stopped on a photograph.

It was old and yellowed, the edges soft from age. Two men stood shoulder to shoulder beside a line of cattle. One wore a Kincaid hat. The other wore a Hollister vest. Two brands were burned into the hide of the nearest steer. Kincaid and Hollister. Side by side.

I stared at the image, my mind racing, my breath caught somewhere in my throat. “That's impossible.”

“Is it?” Addison's voice was quiet.

Dallas leaned closer, his gaze locked on the photograph. “When was this taken?”

“There’s not a date,” Addison said. “But the clothes look early nineteen hundreds. Maybe older.”

Tanner appeared at my other shoulder, his face unreadable. Slade and Morgan followed a moment later, drawn by the cluster of people.

“What are we looking at?” Slade asked.

“Proof the feud story is incomplete,” I said.

“This is what Waverly and I kept tripping over in the old records,” Morgan said.

For a town built on the idea that Kincaids and Hollisters had always stood on opposite sides, the photograph looked impossible. But there it was. Two men. Two families. One herd.

Before I could process it further, Addison's phone buzzed. She pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and went still.

“Addison?” I said.

Her smile stayed in place for half a second too long before it broke. She turned the phone toward me.

The message was short.

Smile pretty, Addison. I'll be watching in August.

A cold chill raced down my spine. I kept my voice careful. “That is not fan mail.”

“I know.”

Dallas's hand tightened around mine.

Morgan stepped forward. “How long have you been getting these?”

“A few weeks.”