Page 173 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

I settle onto an overturned feed bucket outside the tent while they work, unable to sit still even though every muscle in my body argues otherwise.

Deputies weave between bent fencing and overturned chairs while volunteers carry broken rails away from the arena. Ranch hands move through the holding pens, calming restless horses that keep tossing their heads as if they’re wondering why the evening unraveled.

I stare at the section of collapsed fencing until my stomach twists.

If Emmett and Willy hadn’t cleared people out when they did, tonight would’ve ended with ambulances instead of applause.

Across the grounds, Travis sits against Sheriff Hank’s patrol truck with his hands cuffed behind his back. Blood drips from his nose onto his shirt, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

His eyes stay locked on Red, burning with the same bitterness I saw beneath the arena.

Some people spend so long blaming everyone else that they stop recognizing the person responsible when they catch their own reflection.

Sheriff Hank closes his notebook after speaking with one of the deputies and walks toward us. “Travis Mercer is headed to County,” he says. “He’ll be there a while.”

Red doesn’t react. “What about Beau?”

Hank glances toward the livestock trailers.

Beau sits on the tailgate with his elbows resting on his knees while another deputy stands nearby. He looks smaller than I remember, like the truth has finally caught up with him and squeezed every excuse out of his body.

“He talked.”

Red’s jaw tightens.

“Started as soon as Travis turned on him. Says Travis came to him months ago with money. Beau gave him access to the ranch, passed along schedules, left gates open, and helped him get where he wasn’t supposed to be.”

Every accident we’ve spent weeks trying to explain falls into place.

The snapped cinch strap, the gate that nearly crushed a rider, the trailer fire, the drugged bronc, and the missing equipment all trace back to the same source.

Every time we wondered how Travis stayed one step ahead of us, Beau had already told him where we’d be.

“He admitted all of it?” I ask.

“He admitted enough,” Hank says. “Claims he figured Travis wanted to scare Red, wreck a few rides, maybe damage the ranch’s reputation. Says he never expected anybody to die.”

A rough laugh escapes Red. “Easy thing to say now.”

“It won’t change what he did,” Hank replies. “He’s cooperating because he understands what’s waiting for him.”

I look back toward Beau. He ate dinner with these men, worked beside them every day, and stood beside them while he helped Travis tear this place apart.

Every memory I’ve replayed over the past few weeks looks different now.

The paramedic finishes wrapping Red’s hand, and I slip my fingers through his before he can pull away again.

“It’s over,” I say. “He won’t get close to you again.”

Red looks at me, and the worry in his eyes hits harder than anything Travis managed beneath that arena. “He got close to you.”

“I know.”

His hand closes around mine with surprising care, protecting the fresh bandage as much as my fingers.

A familiar voice cuts through the noise before I can get lost in my own thoughts. “Arizona!”

I barely have time to turn before Sadie races across the dirt, one braid hanging halfway out while her pink cowboy boots throw dust behind her.