Page 2 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys
The old man lets out a booming laugh. “Well, hell, she’s got teeth.”
“I keep them sharpened.”
Still chuckling, he waves me toward the door.
Inside, The Silver Bit feels exactly how a proper saloon should.
The floorboards creak beneath my boots. Music rolls from a battered jukebox near the back wall while locals crowd around scratched wooden tables drinking beer and debating rodeo rankings with the intensity of people discussing international diplomacy.
Every wall is covered with old photographs, championship buckles, mounted antlers, and enough framed rodeo posters for an exhibit. A cowboy in the corner is putting an impressive amount of confidence behind a karaoke performance that should’ve been stopped three verses ago.
Nobody seems concerned about the fact he’s murdering a classic country song. In fact, a couple people are singing along badly enough to make him sound talented.
I can’t help grinning as I make my way farther inside. A blonde waitress balancing a tray full of beers lets out an appreciative whistle.
“Well, there she is.”
A man at one of the tables nudges his friend. “The singer finally showed up.”
News travels fast around here.
I offer a smile even though my stomach twists a little. It’s funny how performing never rattles me, but walking into a room full of strangers always does.
A crowd only wants a good show. A small town wants to know who you are, where you’ve been, and whether you’re worth talking about over breakfast tomorrow.
Before I can decide whether that’s charming or terrifying, the bartender spots me.
He’s leaning against the polished bar with the relaxed confidence of a man who’s spent years talking people into ordering one more drink. Dark hair falls across his forehead, and the grin he sends my way could probably qualify as a public safety hazard.
His name tag reads RILEY.
“Well, it’s about time,” he says as I approach.
I set my guitar case beside the bar. “Excuse me?”
He laughs. “We’ve all been waiting for the mysterious singer to show up.”
I laugh. “That’s your opening line?”
“No, my opening line is usually better. I got nervous and panicked.”
“You seem devastated.”
“It’s been difficult.” He presses a hand to his chest. “Please respect my struggle.”
I shake my head, already entertained.
His grin widens. “You’re Arizona.”
“That obvious?”
“This town spent three days discussing a loose goat that broke into the pharmacy.” He gestures toward the room. “You arriving is the biggest thing that’s happened all month.”
“I feel like that says more about the town than it does about me.”
“It absolutely does.”
The waitress passes behind him and calls out, “Tell her about the goat stealing cough drops.”
