Page 9 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

The sunlight pushing through the curtains is bad enough, but the strand of coppery hair tangled around the cuff of my shirt is what really does me in.

I stare at it for a couple of heartbeats before last night catches up with me.

The tavern and the whiskey Riley kept pouring… Arizona. The truck.

Even thinking her name feels like inviting trouble into my day before I’ve had coffee.

I rub a hand across my face and sit up, memories arriving in pieces. Her laugh. Her mouth on mine. The way she’d climbed out of my truck afterward looking entirely too pleased with herself.

She’d kissed me once more in the parking lot, slung her guitar over her shoulder, and disappeared toward the boarding house Riley arranges for visiting performers before I could convince myself to ask her to stay.

Probably for the best.

Women like Arizona don’t stay.

Hell, women like Arizona were never meant to. That was half the appeal.

I push myself upright, already annoyed by where my thoughts are headed. At forty-four years old, I should know better than to spend half the night tangled up with a woman young enough to make me aware of every mile I’ve put on this body.

The old shoulder injury complains when I move. The knee I destroyed in Wyoming a decade ago joins in, as if the two of them have formed some kind of union dedicated to reminding me I’m not twenty-five anymore.

“Much appreciated,” I mutter.

The knee doesn’t care.

Neither does the shoulder.

I swing my legs off the bed and reach for yesterday’s jeans. That’s when I spot the cocktail napkin sitting on the dresser.

I almost ignore it.

Instead, I pick it up and find three lines of lyrics scribbled across it in messy handwriting.

No phone number or any way I could contact her. Just words.

The corners of my mouth threaten to twitch.

Typical.

Most women leave lipstick stains or perfume behind. Arizona leaves unfinished song lyrics.

I read them twice before crushing the napkin in my fist.

Then, despite every sensible thought in my head, I shove it into my pocket before heading for the door.

Dusty Spur Ranch is already moving by the time I pull into the yard.

The mountains catch the early sunlight, throwing long shadows across the pastures while horses wander near the fencing waiting for breakfast.

A couple of ranch hands are already hauling feed. Somebody’s left a gate open again. The barn doors stand wide, and the familiar mix of hay, leather, horseflesh, and dust hits me the second I step out of the truck.

That smell has followed me through most of my life. Unlike people, it rarely disappoints me.

“Took you long enough, old man.”

I don’t bother looking up. “Morning to you too, Kane.”

Willy is perched on a fence rail like a crow that learned how to wear cowboy boots. He’s halfway through a breakfast burrito the size of a newborn calf and grinning like he’s just delivered the funniest joke in human history.