Page 13 of Ironwood Ranch Cowboys

It’s impossible to miss. Red vinyl booths, big front windows, and a hand-painted sign promising pie and coffee like it’s both invitation and threat.

The second I walk in, warmth wraps around me along with the smell of bacon, syrup, and the kind of diner coffee that has probably dissolved at least one spoon.

A waitress with a dark braid and bright eyes looks up from balancing three plates on one arm and gives me a quick, efficient smile.

“Seat yourself, honey! Anywhere you like. We’ve got fresh coffee and I just pulled biscuits out of the oven!”

I slide into a booth by the window, setting my feed store bag beside me and my camera on the table out of habit before moving it again because not every object needs to announce my personality on sight.

An older woman with silver-streaked hair in a perfect teased set appears at my table like she’s materialized from hospitality itself.

“Well hi there, sweetheart…. new face, I would’ve remembered you. I remember everybody,” she says, setting down a menu. “I’m Betty Lou Winslow, and let me tell you right now, unless you’ve got something tragic going on medically, you’re having breakfast.”

I blink up at her. “Was that a threat?”

“Oh no, honey,” she says, beaming. “That’s hospitality.”

I like her instantly.

“Annie Wright,” I say. “And I’m not allergic to anything except unsolicited life advice.”

“Well, Annie Wright, welcome to the Buckhorn, where the coffee is strong, the portions are generous, and if you leave hungry, that’s a personal failure on my part and I will not allow it.”

“I feel very taken care of already.”

“Good!” she says brightly. “That’s the goal.”

The younger waitress swings by with coffee. “Carrie Jo Porter,” she says. “Don’t let her scare you. She only gets like this when she likes you.”

Betty Lou puts a hand to her chest. “I like everyone.”

“Not true,” Carrie Jo mutters. “You banned Carl for three days.”

“He deserved it.”

I hide a smile behind the mug.

Within three minutes, I have coffee, a plate of eggs and toast I didn’t technically order but don’t remotely regret, and the growing sense that this diner functions less like a restaurant and more like a civic nervous system.

People come in and out, calling greetings to each other across the room. A man in a denim jacket argues cheerfully with a woman over whether the mayor’s fundraiser will beat last year’s pie auction.

Someone near the counter mentions the rodeo grounds. Somewhere behind me, a baby starts crying and is immediately soothed by what sounds like a biscuit being offered as diplomacy.

It’s loud.

Warm.

Curious.

And beneath all of it, I can feel it… that shift in attention every time someone new walks into a small town and pretends not to notice being noticed.

“Ooh, you’re Annie.”

A male voice comes from my left, and I look up to find a man about my age leaning one shoulder against the neighboring booth, coffee mug in hand, a little rumpled in the way genuinely nice men always seem to be.

Dark hair. Open face. The kind of smile that probably talks people down off emotional ledges for fun.

“Sorry,” I say. “Should I know you?”