Page 3 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

Riley points at her. “See? Historic event.”

A few people laugh nearby. Riley studies me for a beat. “You’re not what I expected.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Should I be offended?”

“Nah. I figured you’d look tougher.”

“Tougher?”

“Most traveling musicians I’ve met either look like they’ve survived three divorces or they’re one parking ticket away from writing an angry folk album.”

I laugh harder than I mean to. “That’s rude.”

“There we go.” He points at me like I’ve proven his argument. “That’s the face of a woman who’s definitely written songs about terrible decisions.”

“Some of them weren’t terrible at the time.”

“That’s usually how terrible decisions work.”

More laughter erupts from the nearest table. By now, people aren’t even pretending not to listen. The whole room seems curious about me. Interested in seeing whether I’m worth the stories that’ll get passed around town later.

Riley notices me glancing around. “Nervous?”

The question catches me off guard because it’s genuine. “Always.”

Before I can answer, he points toward the small stage near the fireplace.

A microphone waits beneath the lights.

The sight of it catches me right in the chest.

No matter how many towns I pass through, stages never feel ordinary. They’re the one place where I stop editing myself.

Every song I’ve ever written carries the name of a place I’ve left behind. Amarillo, Tulsa, Santa Fe. Little pieces of my life scattered across highways, motel rooms, and people I cared about more than I admitted.

Places are easier to write about than people. Places don’t ask you to stay, and they never look disappointed when you leave.

Before I can say anything else, a shadow stretches across the bar beside me.

“Careful,” a man says. “Spend another five minutes talking to Riley and he’ll have you believing he’s the most eligible bachelor in three counties.”

The comment earns a groan from behind the bar.

“Oh, look,” Riley says. “My biggest critic arrived.”

I turn toward the newcomer and start to understand why half the room seems aware of him.

He’s older than most of the cowboys scattered around the tavern, probably in his early forties, and he carries himself with the easy confidence of somebody who doesn’t need attention to get it.

A faded red button down stretches across broad shoulders, the sleeves rolled to his forearms. Time and hard work have left their mark on him in a way that’s difficult to ignore.

Then I make the mistake of looking into his eyes. The kind of green that belongs in old forests and mountain country.

For reasons I’d rather not examine, I forget what Riley and I were talking about.

“Great,” Riley mutters. “Now she’s staring at you too.”

The man doesn’t even look at him. “That’s because she’s trying to figure out why you haven’t been fired yet.”