Page 35 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

“Alright,” I tell the crowd. “If this performance crashes and burns, remember I’ve still got a truck and a full tank of gas.”

Several people object.

“Not happening.”

“We’d hunt you down.”

“Encore!”

My stomach does an embarrassing little somersault.

Riley points toward the audience. “Hear that? You’ve been outvoted.”

The room erupts again.

I shake my head and start playing.

The first song comes easily. By the second, the conversations have disappeared entirely.

Every face in the room is turned toward the stage, people tapping boots beneath tables or nodding along to rhythms they’re hearing for the first time.

During the third song, a few couples drift onto the open floor anyway, swaying together without worrying whether they’ve ever heard the lyrics before.

By the fourth, the entire place feels connected, every smile, every laugh, every note feeding into the next. It’s impossible not to get swept up in it.

Then I reach a song I rarely perform.

My fingers pause against the strings. I wrote it outside a rundown motel in Nebraska after driving through the night. I glance down at my guitar before starting the opening chords.

I begin to sing.

It’s a song about highways stretching beyond the horizon. About packed bags and rearview mirrors. About convincing yourself that freedom and loneliness are the same thing.

It’s about watching other people plant roots while you keep driving.

As I always do.

When I reach the final chorus, I can feel dozens of eyes on me. The attention should make me nervous. Instead, it makes it harder to hide from what the song is really saying.

The last note drifts away.

Nobody reacts. The entire room seems to hold itself in suspension.

Then the applause hits.

Cheers burst from every corner of the tavern. People whistle and a few pound their palms against the tables hard enough to rattle glasses. Betty Lou stands up and starts clapping over her head like she’s leading a revival meeting.

Heat floods my face.

I laugh, ducking my head as the crowd keeps going.

“Alright, alright,” I call out. “You’re making this weird.”

That only earns another round of cheering.

“Thank you. Seriously. Y’all have no idea what that means to me.”

The rest of the evening slips by faster than I expect. Requests fly my way and people buy me drinks I never quite finish.