6. Emmett
CHAPTER SIX
Emmett
I’ve discovered there are two kinds of rodeo injuries.
The first happen because horses are unpredictable. You can do everything right and still end up eating dirt because a horse decides a fluttering feed sack is a personal attack.
The second happen because cowboys are idiots.
Most accidents fit neatly into one of those categories, which is why the gate nearly taking somebody’s head off sits wrong with me.
It doesn’t belong in either box.
The morning starts like every other morning at Dusty Spur. I’ve already finished feeding horses by the time I grab a coffee, and the ranch is fully awake.
Willy’s somewhere near the barns singing an old country song with enough confidence to make up for the fact that he’s nowhere close to the right key. Red’s been complaining about it since sunrise, which feels like the appropriate response.
Everything’s normal.
At least until a rider enters the practice arena.
He’s doing fine. Good seat. Good posture. The horse is relaxed, moving cleanly through the pattern.
Then the gate jerks halfway open.
The movement is sudden enough to send the horse sideways. It startles hard, throwing its head and crowding the fence. The rider barely has time to react before he’s pinned dangerously close to the rails.
The entire arena explodes into motion.
The horse lashes out with a kick. The rider lets out a string of curses creative enough to earn respect.
And Willy, apparently forgetting every lesson about self-preservation, launches himself over the fence like he’s auditioning for a rescue scene nobody asked for.
Somehow it all works out.
The rider hits the ground hard and collects what will probably become spectacular bruises by tomorrow morning, but he gets back to his feet under his own power. People rush over to check on him while the horse is brought under control, and within minutes the crisis seems to be over.
It should make me feel better.
Instead, I keep staring at the gate.
I rub the back of my neck as everyone gathers around the mechanism.
“Maybe the latch slipped,” Beau says.
A couple of others nod. “Probably.”
Willy crouches beside the gate and squints at it like he’s examining evidence in a murder investigation. “Or,” he says gravely, “ghosts.”
Red doesn’t even bother turning around. “It’s not ghosts.”
“You say that with an awful lot of confidence.”
“Because ghosts aren’t sabotaging rodeo equipment.”
Willy strokes his chin. “That’s exactly the sort of thing a ghost would want people to believe.”
A few of the guys laugh.
Red pinches the bridge of his nose. “I regret learning how to hear.”
“That’s hurtful,” Willy replies. “Especially from a man who’s clearly standing one spooky encounter away from becoming a believer.”
The laughter spreads a little wider.
Normally I’d join in. Today I can’t stop looking at the gate.
The latch didn’t feel like it slipped. At least, I don’t think it did.
The longer I study the mechanism, the less I like what I’m seeing. The rider walked away this time, but it wouldn’t have taken much for the outcome to be different.
A few feet closer to the fence. A split-second delay or one unlucky angle and we’d be having a very different conversation.
A couple of hours later, I’m repairing fence along the north pasture when I hear hoofbeats approaching from behind.
I don’t bother looking up right away. Around here, people tend to find you when you’re busy.
Sure enough, Silas rides up and reins in beside the fence.
Silas Harlan always looks like he’s evaluating whether burying a body would fit into his afternoon schedule. The expression never changes. I’ve known him long enough to understand it doesn’t actually mean he’s angry.
That’s just the face he was born with.
He studies me from horseback while I hammer a loose board back into place. “You’ve been staring at that fence post long enough to learn its childhood dreams.”
I glance up. “I’ve been working.”
“You missed the nail twice.”
I look down at the nail currently bent sideways.
Damn it.
Silas’s mouth twitches, which for him is practically a full comedy routine.
I yank the ruined nail free and reach for another.
“The gate?” he asks.
As I nod, he swings down from the saddle and hooks an arm over the top rail. Most people fidget when they’re worried. Silas gets even more still, which somehow feels worse.
“You think somebody tampered with it?”
Part of me hates even considering it. Ranches run on trust, and rodeos do too. You assume the equipment is safe. You assume the people around you want everyone walking away in one piece.
The alternative is ugly.
“I don’t know,” I say finally.
It’s the only answer I’ve got.
What I do know is that the broken cinch strap bothered me. Now the gate bothers me.
Separately, either one could be bad luck. Together, they start looking a lot less friendly.
Silas rubs a hand across his jaw. “Red’s got that look. I saw it on the way by. That’s what made me come in to check on you.”
I snort. “Red? That doesn’t narrow it down.”
“He’s pretending not to worry while clearly worrying.”
“Ah. That look.”
Silas nods. “Exactly. So come on, take a break with me. Let’s ride and you can let me know exactly what’s going on.”
I resist at first, but actually I decide to go along with him. Maybe a break from all of this is exactly what I need, so I don’t keep replaying the accident.
The horse jumping sideways, the rider hitting the fence, the drama that tightens my stomach.
“Yeah, okay, let’s do it.” I smile. “You can tell me everything that’s going on at Ironwood.”
When I get home, Sadie’s waiting on the porch. The second my truck rolls to a stop, she flies toward me. “Daddy!”
I barely get one boot on the porch before she’s attached herself to my leg. “Hey, doll.”
She squeezes tighter. “You know what happened at school today?”
“Something tells me I’m about to find out.”
“We got to paint.”
“Sounds fun.”
“It was.”
I laugh as she drags me inside.
Apparently, paint ended up in Molly Jenkins’s hair and Logan Peterson tried to paint a horse and accidentally painted his own shirt.
Apparently, Mrs. Carter said words teachers only use when they’re trying very hard not to use different words.
By the time we reach the kitchen, I’ve received a full report on school, recess, lunch, and a heated playground disagreement involving a jump rope.
Then Sadie suddenly says, “Oh. And Arizona writes songs on her arms.”
I blink. “Oh yeah?”
Sadie nods seriously. “She uses pens.”
“That sounds like a terrible filing system.”
“Maybe she forgets paper.”
“What if it rains?”
Sadie gasps. “I didn’t think of that.”
I set my hat on the counter. “Seems like a major flaw in the operation.”
She considers this carefully. “Maybe she writes waterproof songs.”
“That’s probably a tax write-off for musicians.”
She doesn’t know what that means, but she nods anyway.
Then she tells me Arizona likes horses. She likes guitars. She likes old boots. She drinks coffee, which Sadie finds endlessly fascinating despite being five years old and firmly banned from caffeine. She likes dogs.
She writes songs about towns. Possibly multiple towns. According to Sadie, Arizona also possesses extensive knowledge about absolutely everything worth knowing.
The kid has known her less than a day and somehow assembled a complete biography.
I spend most of the walk to the kitchen pretending I’m not amused but it’s not a particularly successful performance.
By the time I’m making dinner, Sadie’s seated at the counter with crayons spread around her like she’s preparing architectural blueprints. The horse she’s drawing appears to have six legs and the proportions of a sofa.
I decide not to interfere with the artistic process.
Arizona keeps finding her way back into the conversation.
“Daddy, do you think Arizona likes spaghetti?”
I glance over my shoulder while chopping vegetables. “Most people like spaghetti.”
Sadie nods gravely and returns to her drawing.
A few minutes later she looks up again. “Do you think Arizona knows cowboy songs?”
I stare at her. “You mean country songs?”
She shrugs. “Yeah.”
“I’m gonna go out on a limb and say yes.”
The questions keep coming. They’re not really questions anymore. They’re excuses to talk about Arizona.
Eventually Sadie asks, “Do you think she could teach me guitar?”
My hand pauses against the spoon.
The reaction catches me off guard.
Sadie likes her. A lot.
Kids don’t spend time calculating emotional risks. They don’t stand back and evaluate people from a safe distance. If they like somebody, they hand over their trust without hesitation and assume you’ll take care of it.
That’s the part that scares me.
Because Arizona seems to like her right back.
I find myself thinking about the bonfire the night before. The way Sadie climbed into Arizona’s lap as if they’d known each other for months. The way Arizona shifted over without hesitation and made room for her.
Every question Sadie asked earned a real answer instead of polite tolerance. Every interruption got a smile.
Everyone seems to notice Arizona’s looks first. The copper hair and golden-brown eyes. The fact that half the male population of Dusty Spur suddenly forgets where they’re walking when she passes by.
What gets me is different.
It’s the kindness.
But I’ve already learned what happens when you start building a future around somebody who doesn’t plan on staying.
Tori taught me that lesson thoroughly.
Arizona isn’t making promises she can’t keep. If anything, she’s been honest from the start. Her life revolves around moving forward.
New towns and stages, new roads to travel.
Leaving isn’t a possibility for her. It’s practically part of the job description.
Which means I should stop replaying memories of her smile every time Sadie brings her up.
I just don’t know how.