Page 93 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

A second later the barn door swings open again, and Red steps into the yard carrying a toolbox in one hand and a coil of rope in the other.

“Mornin’,” he says.

“Morning.”

His eyes drift to the upside down feed bucket surrounded by Sadie’s drawings, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “Cinnamon behaving herself today?”

Sadie plants her hands on her hips and fixes him with the same look I’ve seen adults use in bars when they’re about to win an argument. “She heard that.”

Red changes direction without hesitation, walks over to the bucket, and tips his hat. “My apologies, ma’am. I’ll choose my words more carefully from now on.”

“I forgive you,” Sadie replies in her deepest cowboy voice. “Because I’m Cinnamon.”

“I appreciate your mercy.”

Laughter rolls around the yard while I cradle the mug between my hands and watch them fall into a routine they’ve probably repeated a hundred different ways over the years.

Willy keeps everybody laughing because he enjoys the reaction as much as the joke itself, Emmett’s dry remarks arrive just late enough to catch people off guard, and Red acts like he’d rather be working while quietly making sure everyone around him is looked after.

Dusty Spur is the strangest but warmest-feeling family I’ve ever been near.

The rumble of an engine carries across the yard just before lunch, and conversation fades as Sheriff Hank Miller’s pickup pulls alongside the burned trailer.

Red meets him halfway. “Morning, Hank.”

“Hate seeing you under these circumstances.”

“You and me both.”

Hank adjusts his hat, glances at the blackened trailer, and nods. “Show me.”

The ranch hands gather while he circles the trailer, crouching beside the axle before running his hand across the scorched frame. Everyone has an opinion.

“Looks like wiring.”

“Trailer’s older than dirt.”

“My cousin lost one the same way.”

Hank lets them talk while he checks the hitch, scribbles a note in his pad, then walks the length of the trailer again.

I stay beside Willy, watching faces instead of burned timber.

“You writing a song already?” he asks.

“Maybe.”

“About us?”

I smile. “You’d complain if I left you out.”

“I’d complain louder if you made me rhyme with ‘orange.’”

“I’d never do that.”

“You looked tempted.”

Across the yard, another ranch hand shrugs. “Bad luck, far as I can tell.”