Page 74 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

Still, every thought in my head stumbles over itself.

I look up.

Concern sits plain as day on her face. “I don’t like this.”

“Join the club.” I sigh. “Travis Mercer’s spent most of his adult life finding somebody else to blame for his mistakes. That man’s been mad at the world since before some of these rodeo kids were born.”

Willy snorts. “That’s putting it politely.”

“Trying a new thing.”

“Don’t. It doesn’t suit you.”

I glance toward the bar where Riley is attempting to convince a customer that ordering a salad inside The Silver Bit is an insult to ranching culture. The customer appears to be losing the argument.

Then I look at Emmett, who hasn’t said much since Travis’s name came up. Neither of them looks convinced.

Hell, Willy looks like he’s already preparing for trouble.

When my attention returns to Arizona, she’s still watching me.

“Doesn’t mean he’d come after me.”

The silence stretches long enough that I almost wish somebody would argue.

Instead, they all look at me the way people look at a man insisting he can fix a fence that’s actively falling over.

And that’s unfortunate, because judging by their faces, nobody at this table buys what I’m saying.

The worst part is that I’m not doing a great job convincing myself either.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Arizona

I slide into my usual booth in the Buckhorn Diner by the window with a notebook spread open in front of me, staring at the evidence of another wildly productive writing session.

Three pages. One verse that’s been crossed out so aggressively it practically counts as vandalism. A couple of doodles that have no business existing, and a grocery list I don’t remember writing.

If this is artistic progress, it’s hiding exceptionally well.

Main Street drifts past beyond the glass. A ranch truck rattles by, kicking dust across the road. Somebody ties a horse outside Larsen’s as casually as if it’s a bicycle.

Inside, Betty Lou moves from table to table with the efficiency of a military operation disguised as diner service while Carrie Jo pinballs between customers with enough enthusiasm to qualify as a natural disaster.

Halfway through the lunch rush, Carrie Jo decides she’s either the bravest waitress in town or the most optimistic.

She’s carrying a tray crowded with milkshakes when one of them starts to tip. Then another joins in, and suddenly every head in the diner swivels her way like they’re watching the final seconds of a championship game.

I stop with my coffee halfway to my mouth.

Carrie Jo’s eyes go wide, but somehow she wrestles the tray back under control. The milkshakes settle. Nothing spills. Not a drop.

Three tables break into applause.

Carrie Jo soaks it up, sweeping into an exaggerated bow that nearly earns her another disaster. Behind the counter, Betty Lou keeps working as if none of it happened.

I hide my grin behind my mug.