Page 31 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

I rub the back of my neck as everyone gathers around the mechanism.

“Maybe the latch slipped,” Beau says.

A couple of others nod. “Probably.”

Willy crouches beside the gate and squints at it like he’s examining evidence in a murder investigation. “Or,” he says gravely, “ghosts.”

Red doesn’t even bother turning around. “It’s not ghosts.”

“You say that with an awful lot of confidence.”

“Because ghosts aren’t sabotaging rodeo equipment.”

Willy strokes his chin. “That’s exactly the sort of thing a ghost would want people to believe.”

A few of the guys laugh.

Red pinches the bridge of his nose. “I regret learning how to hear.”

“That’s hurtful,” Willy replies. “Especially from a man who’s clearly standing one spooky encounter away from becoming a believer.”

The laughter spreads a little wider.

Normally I’d join in. Today I can’t stop looking at the gate.

The latch didn’t feel like it slipped. At least, I don’t think it did.

The longer I study the mechanism, the less I like what I’m seeing. The rider walked away this time, but it wouldn’t have taken much for the outcome to be different.

A few feet closer to the fence. A split-second delay or one unlucky angle and we’d be having a very different conversation.

A couple of hours later, I’m repairing fence along the north pasture when I hear hoofbeats approaching from behind.

I don’t bother looking up right away. Around here, people tend to find you when you’re busy.

Sure enough, Silas rides up and reins in beside the fence.

Silas Harlan always looks like he’s evaluating whether burying a body would fit into his afternoon schedule. The expression never changes. I’ve known him long enough to understand it doesn’t actually mean he’s angry.

That’s just the face he was born with.

He studies me from horseback while I hammer a loose board back into place. “You’ve been staring at that fence post long enough to learn its childhood dreams.”

I glance up. “I’ve been working.”

“You missed the nail twice.”

I look down at the nail currently bent sideways.

Damn it.

Silas’s mouth twitches, which for him is practically a full comedy routine.

I yank the ruined nail free and reach for another.

“The gate?” he asks.

As I nod, he swings down from the saddle and hooks an arm over the top rail. Most people fidget when they’re worried. Silas gets even more still, which somehow feels worse.