Page 51 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

The drive back to Dusty Spur doesn’t take long, but by the time we reach the ranch the storm has completely taken over the valley.

Rain crashes against the truck in relentless waves. Lightning flashes across the pastures, throwing fences, trees, and distant hills into brief view before darkness swallows them again.

Most of the ranch houses are dark by now. Red’s either asleep or pretending he is so nobody asks him to do anything.

Emmett is definitely in bed because Sadie manages his schedule with the efficiency of a small-scale dictator. The man might technically be her father, but she’s been running that relationship for years.

I pull to a stop outside the barn and kill the engine.

For a few seconds, neither of us moves. Rain drums against the roof overhead while water races down the windshield.

I glance across at Arizona. “Still convinced standing outside was a solid plan?”

She unbuckles her seatbelt and sweeps damp hair away from her face. “I’d like the record to show you’re enjoying this far too much.”

“I earned the right.”

“You absolutely did not.”

The moment we step out of the truck, the storm seems to double in intensity. Rain lashes sideways across the yard, soaking us.

Then a bolt of lightning tears across the sky. A blinding flash strikes somewhere beyond the main house, close enough to make the ground shudder beneath our feet.

Arizona yelps and grabs my arm.

“Nope,” I say, already changing direction. “Barn.”

“Agreed.”

We sprint through the rain, boots splashing through puddles as thunder rolls overhead. Arizona is laughing again, half exhilaration, half nerves, which is probably why she nearly misses the barn entrance when I yank the big door open.

“Your rescue operation needs work,” she says as she ducks inside.

I follow her into the shelter of the barn and pull the door closed behind us. “I got you here in one piece.”

“Barely.”

“Still counts.”

The barn wraps around us the way familiar places do.

The scent of hay and leather hangs beneath the rafters. Horses shift in their stalls, curious about the interruption.

Rain hammers the roof overhead, but inside it’s muted, pushed to the edges by walls that have weathered decades of storms.

The horses notice us the instant we step inside.

A few heads pop over stall doors, ears pricked forward with the hopeful expression of creatures who’ve convinced themselves every human arrival might involve food. One gelding gives me a look that practically screams betrayal when he realizes I’ve come empty-handed.

“Don’t start,” I tell him.

Arizona glances between me and the horse. “Was he judging you?”

“Absolutely.”

She laughs as I cross to a tack trunk and dig through it. Eventually I find a couple of old blankets and toss one her way.

She catches it neatly, then wraps herself in it so fast you’d think she’s been training for this exact moment.