Page 61 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

Betty Lou smiles. “We’re community oriented. Completely different.”

Arizona laughs the way people do when they’ve realized resistance is useless, and the entire room takes that as victory.

A few cheers break out. Dakota pumps a fist like his team just won a championship. Betty Lou accepts congratulations from nearby tables despite contributing nothing except relentless peer pressure.

Arizona adjusts the guitar in her lap and tests a few strings.

Then she starts playing.

I’ve spent enough years around rodeos, county fairs, and roadside bars to know talented singers when I hear them. Every town has a few. Every venue has somebody who can carry a tune.

Arizona’s different.

It isn’t technical skill, though she’s got plenty of that. It’s the way she sings.

Most performers sound like they’re trying to convince you of something. Arizona sounds like she’s simply telling the truth and letting the rest of us decide what to do with it.

The room falls into complete attention.

Nobody checks their phones or starts side conversations. Even the younger kids sit still longer than any reasonable parent would expect.

By the time Arizona finishes, applause crashes through the fellowship hall hard enough that several people stand.

Arizona glances around the room, taking in the smiles, the clapping, the enthusiasm, and for an instant she looks touched by it in a way she doesn’t quite know how to hide.

Then my phone rings.

The sound cuts through everything, and I pull it from my pocket automatically. Once I see the screen, every good feeling inside me drops straight through the floor.

Tori.

I stare at her name.

Long enough that Willy notices. His grin fades. “You okay?”

I let out a breath through my nose. “No.”

Finally, I answer.

“Hey.”

Tori’s reply comes bright and cheerful. “Hi, Emmett.”

I close my eyes briefly, a familiar knot tightening beneath my ribs. Years later, I still haven’t figured out how she manages it.

Unexpected calls from Tori rarely lead anywhere good.

“I was thinking,” she says, “maybe I’d like to come visit Sadie.”

Across the room, my daughter throws her head back laughing at whatever Arizona just said.

The sight makes this conversation infinitely harder.

Sadie adores her mother. That has never changed. What changes is whether her mother remembers to show up.

“When?” I ask.

“Maybe next weekend.”