Page 15 of August’s Cowboy Braxton

“I don’t know.”

“Call her.”

I picked up my phone.

Twenty minutes later, Morgan knocked on the front door. Braxton peered through the window before he answered. The man double and triple checked everything. I supposed I should be grateful, but I hated the fact he had to.

Morgan stepped inside carrying her laptop bag and a thick file folder.

“I went back through my notes after you called.” She set the folder on the kitchen table next to the tracker. “I need you to walk me through exactly where you found that photograph. If Braxton’s right about the timing, I want to know what else was in that box.”

“It’s in a storage closet," I said. "Out at the community center."

"Can you show me?”

Braxton spoke up from the doorway. “I’ll drive.”

Morgan didn't argue. Neither did I.

The walk-in closet at the back of the community center smelled like dust and rodeo history. Decades of programs, banners, photographs, and trophies crammed into storage boxes that nobody had looked at in years.

I'd volunteered to sort through the rodeo queen archives as part of my Royalty Weekend prep. I’d been looking for a few items to display. Something to connect the past queens to the current generation.

What I'd found instead was a photograph that connected two feuding families in a way nobody wanted to talk about.

"Back here," I said, leading them past shelves stacked with folded banners and championship buckles that probably belonged in a museum.

The heritage boxes sat in the corner, labeled by decade. I'd been working through the 1980s material when I found the regional rodeo and pageant box. I pulled it down and carried it out to one of the tables.

Braxton moved closer like he was ready to defend me against whatever we’d find inside. Morgan opened the box with a kind of focus that made it clear she was looking for something specific.

She pulled out county fair programs from thirty years ago, their covers faded but still bright with cartoon livestock and rodeo riders. The regional rodeo memorabilia came next: buckles, ribbons, and entry forms. I recognized faces from some of the images that hung on the walls of the Merc. Women in sequined western wear with hair teased high wore camera-ready smiles.

I reached for the same cracked brown album I’d found in July. Nothing was written on the spine except REGIONAL, 1900–1925 in faded black marker. When I opened it, my stomach dropped. "The donor card's gone."

Morgan leaned in. "What donor card?"

"There was a handwritten card tucked inside the front cover. It listed who donated the album and when." I flipped through the pages, my hands moving faster. "And there was a page here. Right next to the photograph. It had dates and names and… it's gone."

"What else?" Braxton asked, his voice low.

I lifted the album cover, checking behind it like I'd done the first time. "There was piece of paper tucked behind the cover. Old It was old and creased like it had been folded and unfolded a hundred times. I saw it when I pulled the album out."

"What was on it?”

"I don't know. I didn't unfold it. I was focused on the pictures."

Morgan's lips pursed together. "Someone searched this box."

“Carefully,” Braxton added. He was examining the other items, his movements methodical. "They didn't dump it or destroy anything. They just took what they needed."

"Whatever might tell us where the photo came from," Morgan said. "Or connect it to something else."

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I didn't want to look.

Braxton noticed. "Addison."

I pulled it out. Unknown number. Another message.