A gift because this week—this city, this reunion, this fragile rethreading of our lives—had made something in me hungry to give him something that was true.
Wyatt carried Valentine, Texas in his bones.
He didn’t talk about it much anymore—not the way he did when we were kids, when he was all sunburn and dust and pride, when he’d swear he’d never leave and then life happened and he did.
But I could still see it in him. In the way he watched things like he didn’t fully trust them. In the way he held himself like he was always prepared to move. In the way he protected first and asked questions later.
Valentine wasn’t just a hometown.
It was the root system.
And I kept thinking about something Beth had said at Dusty’s—how Wyatt looked like a man who needed reminders that he belonged somewhere.
Not war. Not whatever shadow-life he’d built.
Somewhere simpler.
Somewhere real.
So, I found myself wandering down a quieter street in the historic district until I saw a little workshop with a hand-painted sign and the kind of window display that made you slow down.
Metalwork. Leather. Small custom pieces laid out like offerings.
Inside, the air smelled like warm metal and sawdust and skill. A man behind the counter looked up from his work. He was older, with silver in his beard and hands that looked like they’d made a thousand things that mattered.
“Afternoon,” he said.
“Hi,” I replied, suddenly nervous in a way I hadn’t expected. “I need something made. Fast.”
He studied me, then nodded once, like he could tell this wasn’t about convenience. “What kind of thing?”
“A belt buckle,” I said.
His eyebrows lifted slightly—interest, not judgment. “Texas style?”
I smiled because the answer was obvious. “Texas style.”
He gestured toward a counter and pulled out a tray of examples—simple ovals, ornate engraved pieces, buckles with filigree, buckles with clean lines and weight.
“This for a rodeo man,” he asked, “or someone who pretends he isn’t?”
I let out a small laugh. “The second.”
He nodded like that explained everything.
I picked one that was sturdy and understated—brushed metal with a darker border, the kind of buckle that didn’t need scrollwork to feel masculine. The kind that could be worn with jeans and boots and a button-down at a place like Dusty’s, or tucked under a belt on a night when you wanted to remember where you came from.
“I want it etched,” I said. “Two words. Valentine, TX.”
His gaze sharpened. “That means something.”
“It does,” I said quietly.
He didn’t ask more. Just offered a small form, a pen, and a patient silence.
While he worked, I wandered outside and sat on a nearby bench in the shade, watching tourists drift past with shopping bags and sun hats, listening to carriage horses clip-clop down the street, feeling the day move forward.
I checked my phone once.
