Page 103 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

“You shouldn’t.”

He’s right. I manage to splash half a bucket before I reach the bronc pens, and one of the horses leans over for a drink like I planned the whole thing.

“You’re welcome.”

Red’s saddling one of our best broncs when the gelding stumbles just enough to catch his attention. He rests a hand on the horse’s neck. “Easy.”

The gelding blinks and sways before bracing himself again.

Every conversation around us dies.

Emmett steps closer. “You okay, buddy?”

Red checks the horse’s eyes, then runs his hand along its neck. His jaw tightens. “Get Wyatt. We need a vet to check him over.”

Arizona hurries over from the porch. “What happened?”

“We don’t know yet,” Emmett says.

The gelding lowers his head again, and Red studies him with a frown that tells me he already knows this isn’t good. “Damn.”

“What is it?” I ask.

Red looks toward the ranch hands. “Has he eaten anything different?”

One of them shakes his head. “Not that I’ve seen.”

Red drops to a crouch beside the feed bucket and scoops a handful into his palm. He brings it to his nose, and the change in his expression drains every bit of color from the morning. “This wasn’t an accident.”

Nobody moves. Every eye fixes on him as he sifts through the grain again before letting it spill back into the bucket.

“Someone drugged him.”

The words punch straight through my chest.

Arizona freezes beside the fence, her hand still resting against the rail, while Emmett shifts back a pace and stares at the horse like he’s hoping Red’s wrong.

I look from the gelding to the bucket. “You’re certain?”

Red gives a single nod. “I’ve seen this before.”

Nobody asks where because nobody needs to. His face answers the question well enough.

A stranger walked onto our ranch, tampered with the feed, and walked away believing nobody would notice until one of us climbed into the saddle.

I look around at everyone standing in complete silence, and my skin starts crawling because fear always fills empty space faster than words ever can.

“So…” I clear my throat and force a crooked grin that feels much weaker than usual. “If we’re handing out performance enhancers, I’d like to file a complaint about the side effects.”

Every head turns toward me.

Nobody smiles. Nobody rolls their eyes.

Red watches me with an expression that tells me I’ve missed the mark by a country mile, Arizona’s shoulders sink, and Emmett pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck. “That one deserved better.”

“I don’t think jokes are helping today,” Red says.