Page 64 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

The camera drops completely, hanging forgotten against her chest as she studies me. Then her mouth curves into a smile that’s different from the usual smart-ass grin she wears like armor.

“Wow,” she says. “That’s going on my tombstone.”

I groan. “You couldn’t just say thank you?”

“Oh, I could. But if somebody compares me to art, I’m legally required to become unbearable about it.”

Heat creeps into my face. “You’re making this weird.”

“I didn’t make it weird. You handed me a compliment with enough emotional significance to sustain me through at least three personal crises.”

“That’s not how compliments work.”

“Says who?” She lifts the camera again. “I’m stretching this thing for years.”

I shake my head, but she’s already aiming toward the stands.

The crowd erupts as the next riders prepare, and I let myself get swept up in the excitement again. Dust hangs over the arena while music blasts through the speakers and people cheer themselves hoarse from the stands.

This world has always pulled at me. Rodeos, county fairs, backroad bars packed with strangers who become friends before the night’s over. I’ve spent years drifting through places like this, finding pieces of myself in every town.

Maybe that’s why Colter Creek feels familiar.

The afternoon slips by faster than I expect. Annie drags me toward a food stand after declaring I look “one skipped meal away from becoming a cautionary tale.”

Later, I help carry camera equipment while she complains that every photographer eventually turns into their own pack mule. We end up sharing a basket of nachos that have clearly violated several food safety regulations.

They’re excellent.

Annie tells me stories about ranch photoshoots gone wrong, including one particularly angry goose that apparently declared war on her.

“You lost a fight to a bird?”

“It was organized, Arizona. I think there were accomplices.”

I laugh so hard I nearly choke on a tortilla chip.

By the time bronc riding starts, the stands are packed.

That’s when I notice him.

The strange thing is that he doesn’t catch my attention right away. If Annie were the one looking, she’d probably spot him and start talking about composition and body language and whatever other photographer magic she sees in people.

To me, he looks forgettable at first glance. A guy sitting several sections away in a worn baseball cap, the brim pulled down over his eyes.

Mid-forties, maybe older. Broad shoulders. Thick beard. The kind of face that disappears into a crowd the minute you stop looking at it.

I would’ve forgotten him too if he were watching the rodeo like everyone else. But he isn’t.

Another rider bursts from the chute, drawing cheers from half the arena. People around him lean forward, clap, wince when the bronc throws its weight into another buck.

The man barely reacts. His attention stays fixed somewhere beyond the action, unwavering enough that it eventually pulls my gaze in the same direction.

That’s when I realize he’s watching Red.

Red stands near the holding pens with a couple of riders, looking completely at ease.

Even from this distance, he has the irritating ability to draw attention without appearing to ask for it. One arm rests across his chest while he listens to whatever story the others are telling, a grin appearing every so often.