Page 10 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

“You know,” he says around a mouthful of eggs, “most men your age are awake at four-thirty complaining about property taxes.”

“Most men my age don’t have to spend every morning looking at your face.”

Willy points the burrito at me. “That sounded flirtier than you intended.”

“It didn’t.”

“It absolutely did.”

Behind him, Emmett appears carrying a stack of tack. “Don’t encourage him.”

“I’m not encouraging him.”

“You answered him. That’s encouragement,” Emmett says.

Willy nods solemnly. “We’re making progress. Next thing you know he’ll start telling us he cares.”

“I can still fire both of you.”

“You say that every week,” Willy replies. “Yet here I am. Still handsome. Still employed.”

I keep walking.

Unfortunately, he’s not wrong.

Emmett falls into step beside me, balancing the tack on one shoulder. The guy somehow manages to look decent before sunrise, which feels suspicious in its own right.

“Morning, Red.”

“Morning.”

Unlike Willy, Emmett doesn’t fill every silence he comes across. He’s the kind of guy who thanks waitresses, remembers birthdays, and apologizes when somebody else bumps into him.

I’ve watched him get launched off a bronc hard enough to leave a crater in the dirt and still ask the medic how their day was going.

I don’t know how a man survives rodeo with that much optimism.

Ranch hand Beau Delaney steps out of the barn as we approach. “Broncs are ready.”

“Good.”

He falls in beside us while we head toward the practice arena.

While Beau talks, my attention drifts, and I find myself thinking about Arizona.

I picture copper hair catching the light. Golden brown eyes that seemed entirely too interested in what I had to say. That crooked smile she wore right before she laughed at one of my bad jokes.

Which is ridiculous. I don’t make jokes, bur somehow she managed to convince me I did.

I tighten my jaw and focus on the arena instead.

One night. That’s all it was.

A wandering singer passing through town. The kind of woman who writes songs about places she’s already left behind. The smart thing would be to forget her. The problem is that the smart thing and the thing I actually want don’t seem interested in working together.

The morning settles into work, which is exactly what I need.

For a few hours, my attention stays where it belongs. Horses don’t care if you’ve made questionable decisions. Fences still need repairing. Tack still needs checking. The ranch keeps moving whether you’re distracted or not.