Page 5 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

Red doesn’t even glance at him. “You’d need a personality of your own first.”

“See?” Riley says. “That’s the nicest thing he’s said to me all month.”

A couple people nearby laugh.

The easy familiarity between them catches my attention more than it should. These people know each other’s stories, their habits, their worst jokes. They’ve built entire lives together without even realizing it.

I’ve spent years making sure nobody knows me that well.

“You’re doing it again.”

I blink and realize Red is looking directly at me. “Doing what?”

“Thinking too hard.”

A grin tugs at Riley’s mouth. “Don’t worry. He thinks anybody who pauses longer than five seconds is having an existential crisis.”

“I wasn’t staring.”

Red’s expression shifts just enough to tell me he doesn’t believe me. “Sure.”

Heat creeps into my cheeks, and I’m not ready to unpack why that thought makes my stomach flip.

A few hours later, the tavern is louder than ever.

The karaoke guy is still butchering country classics with impressive dedication. Empty beer bottles crowd the tables, and half the ranchers in town appear to be debating rodeo standings as if national security depends on it.

Needing to catch my breath, I slip outside and let the door swing shut behind me.

The evening has cooled enough to take the edge off the heat. Music spills through the walls of the tavern while the mountains rise dark against a sky crowded with stars.

It’s nice out here. No questions or curious stares. A chance to breathe.

“You not singing?”

I turn toward the familiar voice.

Red stands near the railing, one shoulder resting against a post.

My pulse decides to embarrass me. “Not tonight. I’ll wait until I’m scheduled.”

“You write your own songs?”

I nod. “Every one.”

I catch him watching me.

Most men look at me because of the wily copper hair, the guitar, or the novelty of a woman rolling into town alone. Red looks at me like he’s trying to figure me out, and I can’t decide whether that annoys me or makes me want him to keep doing it.

“You staying in town long?” he asks.

I lean back against the railing and shake my head. “Probably not. I show up somewhere, play a few gigs, write a couple songs, then head off to the next place before people get sick of me.”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “That’s one way to tell yourself the story.”

I laugh. “You always this cheerful?”

“No.”