Page 78 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

The word lands quietly between us.

Emmett notices too. I can see it in the way his expression shifts before he reaches for his coffee mug.

“She called with plans,” he says. “Says she’ll be here Saturday.”

Sadie nods without looking up. “Okay.”

That’s it.

No excitement or questions. No five-year-old rambling. Only one tiny word before she plucks absentmindedly at a string.

The note twangs unpleasantly, but nobody comments on it.

I don’t know Tori, but I’ve heard enough to piece together the broad strokes. She’s Sadie’s mother. She’s not around much.

And every time her name comes up, Emmett starts choosing his words the way people handle dynamite.

Sadie brushes her fingers over the braid I just finished. “Maybe she’ll like my hair.”

The hopeful note in her voice catches me off guard.

Emmett smiles. “She’ll love it, sweetheart.”

Sadie nods again, but she still doesn’t look up from the guitar. A strange ache settles in my chest.

Maybe it’s because I’ve spent most of my life watching people. Songwriters don’t get much choice. We sit in corners and eavesdrop, collecting little pieces of conversations and expressions to build stories out of them later.

You start noticing the things people don’t say.

The pauses. The subjects that make entire rooms shift.

The way a little girl suddenly gets quieter when her mother’s name enters the conversation.

Sadie adjusts her grip on the guitar and studies her fingers with fierce concentration. Her tongue pokes out as she tries to remember where I showed her to place them.

She’s only five.

Five-year-olds are supposed to be worrying about cartoons and playground drama, not preparing themselves for disappointment.

Before I can sink too far into that thought, Sadie strums again. The sound that comes out is so spectacularly awful that I nearly choke on a laugh.

“There you go.”

Her head snaps up. “What?”

“That’s definitely a sound.”

A grin breaks across her face. “That one was nicer?”

Emmett lets out a bark of laughter. “Sweetheart, if that was better, I’d hate to hear worse.”

She gasps in outrage. “Daddy!”

“What? I’m supporting your artistic journey.”

“That’s mean.”

“I’m building character.”