Page 66 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

“No.” She taps the side of her camera. “This is years of training.”

I roll my eyes. “Remind me never to ask you to identify suspects.”

“Oh, I’d be fantastic at it.”

“You just profiled a stranger based on beard density.”

“And I stand by my findings.”

Before I can argue further, the announcer launches into the introduction for the next rider. The crowd responds, cheers rising through the grandstands as the chute gate swings open and a bronc explodes into the arena.

Like everyone else, I get pulled into the ride.

For the next several seconds, all eyes follow the battle unfolding in the dirt. The rider hangs on. The horse twists and kicks. The crowd roars louder with every buck.

When the whistle finally sounds and applause rolls across the arena, my attention drifts back toward the section where the man was sitting.

The seat is empty.

I blink, then scan the surrounding rows.

Nothing. It seems he got up and vanished while nobody was paying attention.

“Where’d he go?” I ask.

Annie follows my gaze. “Concession stand? Bathroom?”

“Could be.”

She considers that for a second. “Secret tunnel beneath the bleachers?”

I laugh. “Naturally.”

“Every rodeo has one. It’s where they keep the mysterious strangers and emergency plot twists.”

“That sounds made up.”

“Most important truths are.”

She says it with such confidence that I almost believe her.

Almost.

The conversation drifts elsewhere after that, but my attention keeps circling back to the empty seat.

I know it’s irrational. People get up all the time. They buy food, run into friends, wander off because they spotted somebody they know across the grounds.

There’s nothing unusual about a man leaving his seat.

Even so, every few minutes I find myself looking over there again.

The rodeo rolls on around us. Riders compete as music blasts through the speakers. The announcer keeps the crowd energized between events.

Everything feels normal.

Yet each time my eyes wander back to that section of bleachers, the same uneasy feeling returns.

Maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe I’ve spent too many years turning scraps of observation into stories.