Page 30 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“You had fun, right?”

I think about dinner. About Willy’s ridiculous stories. About Emmett trying and failing not to smile at his daughter.

About Red watching over everyone while pretending he wasn’t.

“Yeah.”

“Then enjoy the hot cowboy.”

I groan. “Goodnight, Daisy.”

She laughs. “Night, Arizona. Try not to accidentally fall in love.”

CHAPTER SIX

Emmett

I’ve discovered there are two kinds of rodeo injuries.

The first happen because horses are unpredictable. You can do everything right and still end up eating dirt because a horse decides a fluttering feed sack is a personal attack.

The second happen because cowboys are idiots.

Most accidents fit neatly into one of those categories, which is why the gate nearly taking somebody’s head off sits wrong with me.

It doesn’t belong in either box.

The morning starts like every other morning at Dusty Spur. I’ve already finished feeding horses by the time I grab a coffee, and the ranch is fully awake.

Willy’s somewhere near the barns singing an old country song with enough confidence to make up for the fact that he’s nowhere close to the right key. Red’s been complaining about it since sunrise, which feels like the appropriate response.

Everything’s normal.

At least until a rider enters the practice arena.

He’s doing fine. Good seat. Good posture. The horse is relaxed, moving cleanly through the pattern.

Then the gate jerks halfway open.

The movement is sudden enough to send the horse sideways. It startles hard, throwing its head and crowding the fence. The rider barely has time to react before he’s pinned dangerously close to the rails.

The entire arena explodes into motion.

The horse lashes out with a kick. The rider lets out a string of curses creative enough to earn respect.

And Willy, apparently forgetting every lesson about self-preservation, launches himself over the fence like he’s auditioning for a rescue scene nobody asked for.

Somehow it all works out.

The rider hits the ground hard and collects what will probably become spectacular bruises by tomorrow morning, but he gets back to his feet under his own power. People rush over to check on him while the horse is brought under control, and within minutes the crisis seems to be over.

It should make me feel better.

Instead, I keep staring at the gate.