2. Red
CHAPTER TWO
Red
I wake up irritated with myself.
The sunlight pushing through the curtains is bad enough, but the strand of coppery hair tangled around the cuff of my shirt is what really does me in.
I stare at it for a couple of heartbeats before last night catches up with me.
The tavern and the whiskey Riley kept pouring… Arizona. The truck.
Even thinking her name feels like inviting trouble into my day before I’ve had coffee.
I rub a hand across my face and sit up, memories arriving in pieces. Her laugh. Her mouth on mine. The way she’d climbed out of my truck afterward looking entirely too pleased with herself.
She’d kissed me once more in the parking lot, slung her guitar over her shoulder, and disappeared toward the boarding house Riley arranges for visiting performers before I could convince myself to ask her to stay.
Probably for the best.
Women like Arizona don’t stay.
Hell, women like Arizona were never meant to. That was half the appeal.
I push myself upright, already annoyed by where my thoughts are headed. At forty-four years old, I should know better than to spend half the night tangled up with a woman young enough to make me aware of every mile I’ve put on this body.
The old shoulder injury complains when I move. The knee I destroyed in Wyoming a decade ago joins in, as if the two of them have formed some kind of union dedicated to reminding me I’m not twenty-five anymore.
“Much appreciated,” I mutter.
The knee doesn’t care.
Neither does the shoulder.
I swing my legs off the bed and reach for yesterday’s jeans. That’s when I spot the cocktail napkin sitting on the dresser.
I almost ignore it.
Instead, I pick it up and find three lines of lyrics scribbled across it in messy handwriting.
No phone number or any way I could contact her. Just words.
The corners of my mouth threaten to twitch.
Typical.
Most women leave lipstick stains or perfume behind. Arizona leaves unfinished song lyrics.
I read them twice before crushing the napkin in my fist.
Then, despite every sensible thought in my head, I shove it into my pocket before heading for the door.
Dusty Spur Ranch is already moving by the time I pull into the yard.
The mountains catch the early sunlight, throwing long shadows across the pastures while horses wander near the fencing waiting for breakfast.
A couple of ranch hands are already hauling feed. Somebody’s left a gate open again. The barn doors stand wide, and the familiar mix of hay, leather, horseflesh, and dust hits me the second I step out of the truck.
That smell has followed me through most of my life. Unlike people, it rarely disappoints me.
“Took you long enough, old man.”
I don’t bother looking up. “Morning to you too, Kane.”
Willy is perched on a fence rail like a crow that learned how to wear cowboy boots. He’s halfway through a breakfast burrito the size of a newborn calf and grinning like he’s just delivered the funniest joke in human history.
“You know,” he says around a mouthful of eggs, “most men your age are awake at four-thirty complaining about property taxes.”
“Most men my age don’t have to spend every morning looking at your face.”
Willy points the burrito at me. “That sounded flirtier than you intended.”
“It didn’t.”
“It absolutely did.”
Behind him, Emmett appears carrying a stack of tack. “Don’t encourage him.”
“I’m not encouraging him.”
“You answered him. That’s encouragement,” Emmett says.
Willy nods solemnly. “We’re making progress. Next thing you know he’ll start telling us he cares.”
“I can still fire both of you.”
“You say that every week,” Willy replies. “Yet here I am. Still handsome. Still employed.”
I keep walking.
Unfortunately, he’s not wrong.
Emmett falls into step beside me, balancing the tack on one shoulder. The guy somehow manages to look decent before sunrise, which feels suspicious in its own right.
“Morning, Red.”
“Morning.”
Unlike Willy, Emmett doesn’t fill every silence he comes across. He’s the kind of guy who thanks waitresses, remembers birthdays, and apologizes when somebody else bumps into him.
I’ve watched him get launched off a bronc hard enough to leave a crater in the dirt and still ask the medic how their day was going.
I don’t know how a man survives rodeo with that much optimism.
Ranch hand Beau Delaney steps out of the barn as we approach. “Broncs are ready.”
“Good.”
He falls in beside us while we head toward the practice arena.
While Beau talks, my attention drifts, and I find myself thinking about Arizona.
I picture copper hair catching the light. Golden brown eyes that seemed entirely too interested in what I had to say. That crooked smile she wore right before she laughed at one of my bad jokes.
Which is ridiculous. I don’t make jokes, bur somehow she managed to convince me I did.
I tighten my jaw and focus on the arena instead.
One night. That’s all it was.
A wandering singer passing through town. The kind of woman who writes songs about places she’s already left behind. The smart thing would be to forget her. The problem is that the smart thing and the thing I actually want don’t seem interested in working together.
The morning settles into work, which is exactly what I need.
For a few hours, my attention stays where it belongs. Horses don’t care if you’ve made questionable decisions. Fences still need repairing. Tack still needs checking. The ranch keeps moving whether you’re distracted or not.
We’re running practice rides in the arena when one of the younger riders draws Whiskey Riot.
The horse lives up to his name.
Whiskey is a mean-tempered bay bronc with a habit of pinning his ears back like he’s personally offended by human existence. He’s a damn good bucker, though, which is why we keep him around.
The rider settles into the saddle while I watch from the fence.
“Try not to cry when he embarrasses you,” Willy calls.
The kid flips him off.
“That’s the spirit,” Willy replies. “Confidence is important right before disaster.”
Emmett shakes his head while adjusting his hat. “One day somebody’s gonna punch you.”
“People say that all the time.”
“Because it’s true.”
“Still hasn’t happened.”
Emmett shakes his head. “That’s because you’re fast.”
Willy grins like he’s proud of that fact.
The gate swings open before he can keep talking.
Whiskey launches into the arena with the enthusiasm of a horse possessed. Dirt flies beneath his hooves as he twists and bucks, trying to get rid of the rider.
The kid actually does pretty well. He stays centered through the first few jumps and looks like he might ride it out.
Then the cinch strap snaps.
The crack cuts across the arena loud enough that I hear it. The saddle jerks sideways, and the rider loses balance.
Every muscle in my body tightens.
The kid hits the dirt hard and barely rolls away before Whiskey tears across the arena, dragging half the rigging with him.
“Grab him!” I bark.
Willy’s already moving.
The idiot treats most of life like a joke, but when a horse or rider is in danger, he turns serious fast. He catches Whiskey near the far fence while Emmett heads straight for the rider sprawled in the dirt.
“You dead?” Willy yells toward the arena.
The kid groans. “No.”
“Good. I already spent my emergency paperwork budget this month.”
“That’s not a thing,” Emmett says.
“It should be.”
I ignore them and crouch beside the saddle. The broken cinch strap hangs loose from the rigging.
Beau walks over while brushing dirt from his jeans. “Hell of a break.”
“Too close,” Emmett mutters as he helps the rider sit up.
The kid’s shaken and sore, but nothing appears broken.
Lucky. A few inches in the wrong direction and we’d be loading him into an ambulance.
I pick up the damaged strap and turn it over in my hands.
My gut starts bothering me. The leather doesn’t look right. It’s worn, sure, but not enough for this.
Beau glances down at it. “Old gear gives out. Happens every season.”
Maybe. Except I know this gear.
Every saddle on this ranch gets checked before competition season starts. I go over them myself because I’ve seen what happens when people get lazy.
The break catches my attention. Leather that’s been weakening for years doesn’t usually fail like this.
“What do you think?” Emmett asks.
I hand him the strap.
He studies it for a few seconds before shrugging. “Could be wear and tear.”
“Could be.”
But I don’t sound convinced, because I’m not.
Emmett notices. “You think different?”
I look back toward the arena where Willy is arguing with Whiskey Riot like they’re in the middle of a divorce.
Most of the ranch carries on around us. Horses are getting worked. Riders are laughing. Nobody else seems concerned.
Maybe they’re right. Maybe it’s nothing.
The problem is I’ve spent too many years around rodeos to ignore the feeling crawling up the back of my neck.
I’ve learned that when a horse feels wrong, you pay attention.
When a rider feels wrong, you pay attention. And when a piece of equipment doesn’t fail the way it’s supposed to, you pay attention to that, too.
I take the strap back from Emmett. “Maybe I’m getting old.”
Emmett snorts. “Maybe?”
“Watch it.”
He grins.
I don’t return it.
Because while everybody else moves on, I keep looking at the broken leather in my hands, and the more I study it, the less I like what I’m seeing.
The rest of the day disappears into the less glamorous side of ranch ownership.
Nobody puts paperwork on rodeo posters. They don’t photograph you arguing with feed suppliers, reviewing invoices, or trying to figure out why a tractor repair somehow costs more than the tractor itself.
They definitely don’t mention the meetings. If they did, every kid dreaming about becoming a cowboy would pick a different career.
By the time the sun starts dropping behind the mountains, I’m tired enough that I should be thinking about nothing except food and sleep.
Instead, I find myself sitting on the porch with a plate balanced on one knee, wondering what Arizona McCay is doing.
The realization irritates me.
I don’t know why I’m surprised. The woman has spent most of the day barging into my thoughts whether I invited her there or not.
Maybe she’s singing at The Silver Bit tonight. Or she’s planning her next stop. She’s probably forgotten I exist.
I stab a fork into my steak and stare out across the ranch.
The horses are settling in for the evening. A couple of ranch hands are finishing chores near the barn.
The place looks exactly the way it always does.
My brain, unfortunately, refuses to follow suit.
Before I realize what I’m doing, my hand slips into my pocket and comes back out with Granddad’s old Morgan dollar.
The edges have been worn smooth by decades of use. First his fingers. Then mine.
I roll it across my knuckles while I eat.
My sister used to laugh every time she caught me doing it. According to Laura, there were only two reasons the coin came out. Either I was worried about a problem, or I was pretending I wasn’t worried about a problem.
She claimed there wasn’t much difference.
At the time, I told her she was full of shit. Looking back, she may have had a point.
The coin flips once before I catch it and turn it over in my palm.
Arizona’s face appears in my head again. The way she looked at me across the bar like I wasn’t old enough to be making bad decisions.
I let out a long breath and shake my head. “You’re a damn fool, Bronson.”
The mountains offer no opinion on the matter. Probably because they already know I’m right.
I slip the coin back into my pocket and finish eating, determined to spend the rest of the evening thinking about literally anything else.
The problem is that every road my thoughts take somehow circles right back to her.
Sleep and I haven’t gotten along in a long time.
It didn’t matter much when I was younger. Back then, if I couldn’t sleep, I’d find another bar, another rodeo, another bad idea.
These days, my options are a little more limited, though according to Willy that’s mostly because the human body eventually files a formal complaint.
So around midnight, after spending an hour staring at my bedroom ceiling and accomplishing absolutely nothing, I give up and pull on my boots.
The town knows this routine almost as well as I do.
Most nights I end up walking through Colter Creek while everybody else is asleep. Maybe it’s habit. Maybe it’s stubbornness. Maybe I just hate feeling trapped inside four walls when my brain decides it’s done cooperating.
Whatever the reason, it works well enough.
The streets are mostly empty when I head down Main Street. Storefront windows reflect the streetlamps.
The bakery is dark until morning. The diner closed hours ago. Somewhere off in the distance a dog starts barking at absolutely nothing, which feels relatable.
I pass Larsen’s General Store and glance at the display window. Still selling the same ugly rooster statue that’s been sitting there for six months.
Nobody wants it.
Tommy keeps insisting it’s handmade art. The entire town keeps insisting it’s hideous.
At this point, the argument has become a community tradition.
A grin threatens at the corner of my mouth before fading.
This is what I like about Colter Creek. No matter what’s happening, the town keeps being itself.
It’s always the same until someone like Arizona blasts through like a hurricane, leaving a path of destruction behind her.