Page 48 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

The change in Grandma is immediate.

The teasing doesn’t disappear entirely, but it settles into the background as she studies me over the rim of her coffee mug. Her expression softens in a way that makes me wish she’d go back to accusing me of making lovesick faces.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

“Don’t start.”

A smile tugs at her mouth. “That’s not a very specific instruction.”

“You know exactly what I mean. Don’t get all tender and wise.”

“Tender and wise?” She presses a hand to her chest. “Well, that’s lovely. Usually people call me nosy and stubborn.”

“Those are still the top two contenders.”

Grandma laughs, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

I’ve never understood how she manages it. Most people make caring feel awkward. Like they’re trying to pry open a locked door with a crowbar.

Grandma does it with a grin and a cinnamon roll and somehow you’re halfway through confessing your problems before you realize you’ve been trapped.

I’ve spent thirty one years falling for that trick.

“Tell me about her,” she says.

I tip my head back and study the ceiling. That seems safer than looking directly at her. “There’s not much to tell.”

“That statement alone tells me there’s plenty to tell.”

“She’s just passing through.”

Grandma reaches across the table and rests her hand over mine. “People surprise you, Willy.”

“Occasionally.”

Grandma takes another sip of coffee, then sets the mug down and studies me with the kind of patience that only comes from raising children, grandchildren, and probably a few stubborn farm animals over the years. “You know what your problem is?”

“I can already tell I’m not going to enjoy this.”

“You treat disappointment like it’s a weather forecast.”

That earns a frown. “What does that even mean?”

“It means the clouds show up and you start carrying an umbrella.” She points at me. “Half the time it doesn’t even rain, but there you are, preparing for a flood.”

I’ve spent years convincing myself it’s smarter not to expect much from people. If you don’t hope for anything, you don’t have to watch it slip away. If you never build a future in your head, nobody gets the chance to knock it down.

It’s a tidy system.

Lonely, maybe. But tidy.

Grandma seems to read every bit of that off my face. She gives my hand another squeeze before letting go. “Just don’t hand your fears the steering wheel.”

I rub a hand across my jaw. “That’s annoyingly good advice.”

“I’ve had eighty years to practice.”

“The real tragedy is that you’re right.”