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That got the room.

The laugh came easy. Familiar. It rolled over me with a slap to the back and a tug somewhere under the ribs. This was the part I knew how to do. Walk through a door. Find the temperature. Raise it five degrees.

Nobody in the Rusty Spur needed me to ask where to stand. I was already fitted into the room, an old notch in the wood.

Somebody lifted a glass toward me.

“Hell of a sale, Cash.”

“Damn right.”

“Fourteen was too cheap.”

“That’s what I told you before you quit bidding.”

More laughter.

I moved through it, catching shoulders, accepting congratulations on behalf of a bull who’d done nothing all day except object, walk in a circle, and sell for more money than most men saw in months. It was an admirable business model.

My shoulder pulled when a hand landed too hard against the left side of my back.

White heat shot into the joint.

I kept walking.

Pain had manners if you did. Acknowledge it in public and it settled in for conversation. Ignore it, and sometimes it took the hint.

Sometimes.

I reached the bar, laid down enough cash to make a poor financial decision official, and turned to face the room.

“Round’s on me.”

A cheer went up.

Earl tipped his seed cap back. “Must’ve been your bull.”

“Family bull.”

“So Wyatt’s buying.”

“Wyatt believes alcohol is a line-item expense only when he needs to speak to a banker.”

“Boone, then.”

“Boone believes beer should be eaten with a fork.”

Earl’s face worked around that. “That don’t make sense.”

“It would if you’d seen his coffee.”

Glasses moved. Bottles appeared. Money I’d earned by not dying on rodeo stock years ago began turning into goodwill one drink at a time.

That was an investment.

At least, that was what I planned to call it if Wyatt saw the charge.

I leaned back against the bar and felt the edge press into my belt. The buckle there had come from my last circuit win. I wore it every day because if you survived long enough to get the silver, you ought to make people look at it.