3. Arizona
CHAPTER THREE
Arizona
By noon, I’m convinced Colter Creek has assigned somebody to follow me around with a clipboard.
It’s the only explanation that makes sense.
I’ve been here less than a day, yet somehow the entire town already knows who I am. Not in the vague, “I heard there’s a singer in town” kind of way, either. People know my actual name.
Walking down Main Street turns into a running commentary.
“Morning, Arizona.”
“You settling in okay, Arizona?”
“Heard you’re playing at The Silver Bit.”
“Heard you’re staying at Mrs. Porter’s place.”
“Heard you’re from Arizona.”
That last one nearly makes me laugh. Nothing gets past these people.
By the time I reach The Buckhorn Diner, I’m craving coffee and ten consecutive minutes where nobody knows anything about me.
The second I step inside, the bell above the door jingles and three people look up.
There goes that dream.
An older man sitting at the counter lifts two fingers from his coffee mug in greeting. A woman in a corner booth pauses mid-conversation to study me with open curiosity before whispering something to her husband.
Across the room, a little girl with crooked pigtails stares so hard she forgets to chew her pancake. The kid isn’t even trying to be subtle.
The Buckhorn itself is exactly the sort of place I’d write into a country song. Red booths line the walls beneath framed photographs and faded rodeo posters.
The scent of coffee, bacon, and fresh pie wraps around me the second I walk in. Somewhere overhead, an old country song plays through speakers that have probably survived three decades and at least two owners.
I barely make it into a booth before a woman with silver hair piled into a towering bun appears beside me carrying a coffee pot. “There she is.”
I blink up at her. “Uh…”
“You must be Arizona.”
I already know arguing is pointless. “That obvious?”
“Honey, at this point I’d recognize you from a police sketch.” Before I can respond, she fills my mug nearly to the brim. “I’m Betty Lou.”
“Nice to meet you.”
She gives me a look over the rim of the coffee pot. “Is it?”
I narrow my eyes. That only makes her grin.
Then, without even pretending to work up to it, she asks, “So have you been charmed by Red Bronson yet?”
Coffee goes down the wrong pipe, and I cough so hard my eyes water.
Betty Lou doesn’t move an inch.
A younger waitress carrying a stack of plates nearly drops them from laughing. “Betty Lou!”
“What?” Betty Lou asks.
“You can’t greet people like that.”
“’Course I can. I just did.”
The waitress shakes her head before turning toward me. “I’m Carrie Jo. Please don’t judge us too harshly.”
“Are you the normal one?”
Carrie Jo considers that for all of half a heartbeat. “Nope.”
Fantastic.
She deposits the plates at a nearby table, then slides into the empty side of my booth like she pays rent there.
“We’ve got twenty dollars riding on this.”
I stare at her. “You have a betting pool?”
Betty Lou tops off my coffee. “Small town.”
“I’ve been here basically one day.”
“Exactly,” Carrie Jo says. “That’s why the odds are still good.”
Neither of them appears remotely embarrassed.
I take a long drink of coffee because it’s safer than speaking.
Unfortunately, Carrie Jo is watching me far too closely. “Oh, she blushed.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
Betty Lou points her coffee pot at me. “Right there. See it? That’s guilt.”
“That’s caffeine poisoning.”
“Sweetheart, I raised four boys. I know what a guilty face looks like.”
I point between them. “Do either of you have jobs?”
“We’re working right now,” Carrie Jo says.
“You’re interrogating a customer.”
“Multitasking.”
Betty Lou nods approvingly. “She’s got management potential.”
I drop my head into my hands with a groan while both women look entirely too pleased with themselves.
Somewhere behind me, I hear a man at the counter call out, “Ask her if he’s finally smiling again.”
Betty Lou twists around. “Harold, mind your business.”
Harold snorts. “You’ve spent five minutes making her your business.”
“That’s different.”
By the time my breakfast arrives, I’ve learned that privacy is apparently not a recognized concept in Colter Creek.
Everybody knows everybody. Everybody talks. And if Betty Lou and Carrie Jo are representative samples of the local population, information travels through town faster than wildfire through dry grass.
Judging by the way they keep bringing up Red Bronson, word about our shameless flirting at The Silver Bit has already made the rounds.
Thankfully, nobody seems to know it didn’t end there, and I intend to keep it that way.
I spend the next ten minutes dodging questions with the skill of a seasoned criminal. Every answer I give somehow creates three new questions, and every attempt to redirect the conversation only seems to encourage them.
By the end, I’ve managed to convince them that my greatest love affair is with my guitar.
Carrie Jo looks openly skeptical.
Betty Lou looks amused.
Neither woman buys a word of it.
Eventually another customer needs coffee, somebody else’s order is ready, and the two of them finally move on to meddle in other people’s lives.
The second they’re out of range, I fish my phone from my pocket.
Arizona: You wouldn’t survive this town.
The reply arrives before I’ve even taken another bite of breakfast.
Daisy: Rude.
Arizona: They have betting pools.
Daisy: Please tell me it’s rodeo related.
Arizona: It’s about me.
A few seconds pass.
Daisy: Explain.
Arizona: They want updates on my sex life.
I can practically hear her laughing from three states away.
Daisy: Okay, that’s actually incredible.
Arizona: You’re a terrible sister.
Daisy: Did you sleep with somebody?
I stab a piece of bacon with unnecessary aggression.
Arizona: Maybe.
The response comes back quickly.
Daisy: ARIZONA MCCAY.
A woman at the next table glances over when I laugh.
Arizona: It happened once.
Daisy: Was he worth it?
I stare at the screen.
Then my traitorous brain supplies details I definitely didn’t ask for.
Green eyes. A crooked smile that showed up just often enough to keep me interested. Large hands. The rough scrape of his beard against my skin.
The way he looked at me outside The Silver Bit, like he was trying to figure out whether I was trouble or a mistake.
Possibly both.
Arizona: Unfortunately.
The rodeo grounds sit at the edge of town, tucked between rolling pastureland and a backdrop of mountains that seem to go on forever. I spend the afternoon wandering through them with my guitar slung across my back and no particular destination in mind.
Exploring a new place has always been my favorite way to get to know it. You can learn more from the things people build than the stories they tell.
The arena stretches out beneath the afternoon sun, all metal fencing, bucking chutes, and weathered grandstands. Even without a crowd, the place carries the fingerprints of the people who spend their lives here.
Dust clings to everything. So does the scent of horses and worn leather. Looking around, I can almost picture the stands packed with spectators and riders pacing behind the chutes waiting for their turn.
I stop near the fence and pull a notebook from my back pocket. A lyric has been nagging at me since breakfast. I’ve written half a dozen versions already, none of them quite right.
The song is trying to be about belonging, which is irritating because I don’t write songs about belonging. I write songs about leaving.
I scratch out another line, read it back, hate it, and draw a line through the whole thing.
That’s when somebody starts singing behind me.
Badly.
“Should’ve been a cowboy…”
I squeeze my eyes shut.
The performance somehow gets worse.
“Should’ve learned to rope and riiiiide…”
The note wobbles around like it’s searching for somewhere safe to land and never finds it.
When I turn around, I find the culprit crossing the arena with a feed bucket hanging from one hand. He’s got dark curls, bright green eyes, and the kind of grin that suggests he’s fully aware he’s terrible but plans to continue anyway.
The second he notices me watching, his grin widens.
“Good news,” he announces.
I already don’t trust this conversation. “What good news?”
“I hit three correct notes that time.”
“That fourth note really undid all your hard work.”
He presses a hand to his chest. “That was unnecessarily hurtful.”
“I think we both know it wasn’t.”
A laugh escapes him. “See? This is why musicians are intimidating.”
“No, musicians are intimidating because we know how songs are supposed to sound.”
“That’s a fair point.” He shifts the bucket to his other hand and studies me with open curiosity. “You’re Arizona.”
I groan. “Does this town come with a welcome packet that includes my biography?”
“No, but Betty Lou’s basically the same thing.”
“Do I get at least forty-eight hours before everybody knows my business?”
“Absolutely not.”
The answer comes far too quickly, and I laugh despite myself.
He sticks out a hand. “Willy Kane.”
I shake it.
His handshake is easy, friendly, and entirely lacking the intensity of Red’s. The comparison arrives before I can stop it.
Apparently, my brain has decided Red Bronson is now the standard by which all cowboy interactions will be measured.
“You’re the singer,” Willy says.
“So people keep telling me.”
“I’m the funny one.”
I glance at him. “Was that title awarded by an official committee?”
“It was.”
“Who was on the committee?”
He tips his hat. “Me.”
“That seems biased.”
Before Willy can defend himself, another voice drifts over from behind us. “It’s extremely biased.”
I look toward the barn and spot a blond man heading our way with an armful of tack. He’s broad shouldered, sunburned, and unfairly handsome in the way ranch guys always seem to be.
The second our eyes meet, he nearly loses his grip on everything he’s carrying.
Well, that’s adorable.
His ears turn red first. Then his cheeks.
Willy notices. The man doesn’t even have time to recover before Willy points at him. “Looking good, Emmett.”
Emmett rolls his eyes as his cheeks continue to flame. “Willy.”
“I’m just saying, Arizona should appreciate how rare this is. Usually he makes it at least thirty seconds before forgetting how to function.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
The poor guy looks like he’d rather wrestle a bull than continue this conversation. “Hi.”
I nod. “Hi.”
His smile gets a little bigger. Then he looks away. I have never seen anyone lose a staring contest they weren’t actively participating in.
Willy slings an arm around Emmett’s shoulders, nearly causing him to drop the tack.
“See this?” Willy asks me. “This is what happens every time a pretty woman talks to him. It’s like watching a horse discover stairs.”
Emmett shrugs him off. “Don’t listen to him.”
“Oh, I’m not making fun of you,” Willy says. “I’m bragging. We almost made it through an entire conversation before you forgot how words work.”
“I haven’t forgotten how words work.”
“Then prove it.”
Emmett opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Willy points at him triumphantly. “Case closed.”
I laugh, and Emmett drags a hand down his face. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“I enjoy all the little things in life,” Willy says. “Sunsets. Good food. Public humiliation.”
“You forgot annoying the hell out of everybody.”
“That’s covered under public service.”
Despite the complaint, there’s no real irritation behind it. If anything, Emmett looks resigned, like he’s had this exact argument a hundred times and lost every single one.
Willy turns back to me. “You know what his worst one was?”
“No.”
Emmett shakes his head. “You don’t need to hear this.”
“She absolutely does.”
Emmett mutters a curse under his breath.
Willy grins. “There was a waitress over at a diner near Spokane. Smiled at him once. One smile. Next thing I know, he’s walking straight into a fence.”
“It wasn’t a fence.”
“It was fence adjacent.”
“It was a gate.”
“A gate is fence family.”
I laugh hard enough that I have to lower my notebook.
Emmett shakes his head. “I hate both of you.”
“No, you don’t,” Willy says. “You’d miss me if I wasn’t here.”
“Maybe for a day.”
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Willy catches me watching and points dramatically. “See? Arizona thinks I’m funny.”
“Arizona thinks you’re loud,” Emmett says.
“Those are practically the same thing.”
“They really aren’t.”
I tilt my head. “For what it’s worth, I think Emmett’s the funny one.”
Willy places a hand over his heart. “You wound me.”
“She’s got a point,” Emmett says.
The fact that he says it without hesitation makes me laugh all over again.
Willy stares at him in disbelief. “Wow. Betrayed by my own people.”
“Your own people?” Emmett repeats.
“That’s what hurts the most.” Before either of us can respond, Willy launches back into song. “I should’ve been a cowboyyyyy…”