Page 71 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

“Yeah.”

It was. Still is.

No matter what happened afterward, I wouldn’t wish that ride on anybody.

Arizona doesn’t look away. She waits with the stubborn patience of someone who knows she’s missing a piece of the puzzle, and I’m trying to decide how much of that puzzle I can safely hand her.

Eventually she asks the question everybody asks. “What does that have to do with you?”

I give a short laugh that doesn’t contain much amusement. “Depends who you ask.”

Her brow furrows. “Red.”

“Travis blamed me.”

The confusion arrives. “Why?”

“Because I was the last person who told him not to get on the horse.”

She blinks, and I can practically watch her trying to force that logic into place.

It doesn’t fit.

It never did.

“He figured I’d talked him into doubting himself because I wanted the championship.”

Willy snorts. “Which is ridiculous. Red would’ve beaten him anyway.”

I shoot him a look.

Willy lifts both hands. “What? You would’ve.”

Arizona ignores him. “That’s insane.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“But people believed that?”

I take a drink before answering.

Small-town gossip has a life expectancy longer than most marriages. People hear half a story, add details nobody asked for, then pass it along until it barely resembles the truth anymore.

Some people blamed Travis for climbing on the horse after drinking.

Some blamed bad luck.

Some decided I must’ve had a hand in it because blaming a person is easier than admitting terrible things can happen all by themselves.

I don’t need to answer.

Arizona reads it on my face. “Oh.”

I hate that particular oh. It’s the one that means she’s figured out more than I wanted her to.

She watches me for a few beats before asking, “Did you blame yourself?”

I take another drink. The beer isn’t helping nearly enough. “Didn’t matter.”