8. Red
CHAPTER EIGHT
Red
The Buckhorn Diner smells like coffee, bacon grease, and choices people probably regret by morning, which is likely why Clint keeps insisting we meet here.
I slide into the booth across from him and feel one of the seat springs jab me somewhere near a vital organ. The place hasn’t updated its furniture since Reagan was in office, but Betty Lou would probably fight anybody who suggested replacing it.
Clint looks up from his coffee. “You look rough.”
I grab the menu even though I already know what I’m ordering. “You say that every time you see me.”
“That’s because every time I see you, you look rough.”
“Maybe your eyesight’s getting worse.”
He snorts into his coffee. “My eyesight’s good enough to know that shoulder’s bothering you again.”
The waitress appears with a fresh pot before I can come up with a better insult. Clint reaches for it.
Fatherhood hasn’t mellowed him out the way people claim it does. If anything, the man runs on less sleep than he did when we were riding the circuit, and compensates with enough caffeine to stop a horse’s heart.
“How’re Dakota and the kids?” I ask.
That gets the reaction I’d expected.
I’ve known Clint most of my life. I’ve seen him break horses, break noses, and once break a fence because he was too stubborn to use the gate ten feet away.
Mention Dakota and the kids, though, and he turns into a completely different man.
“Good,” he says, a grin spreading across his face. “Charlie got an award at school last week.”
I shake my head. “He’s really growing up, huh?”
“Tell me about it.” Clint laughs. “Olivia’s walking now.”
“That sounds like a problem.”
“It is a problem.”
“At least Charlie can outrun her.”
“For another year, maybe.”
The food arrives shortly after, and we settle into the kind of conversation that’s easy when you’ve known somebody forever. Clint fills me in on Dakota’s latest illustration project.
Charlie apparently convinced Sawyer to help him build a birdhouse that collapsed before they even got it into the yard. Olivia has discovered stairs and apparently treats them as a personal challenge.
The whole thing sounds exhausting.
Clint looks happier than I’ve seen him in years.
Outside the front windows, Main Street rolls along with its usual midday traffic, ranch trucks and tourists. A pair of teenagers lean against the feed store, trying so hard to look cool it borders on painful.
“Rodeo’s gonna be a circus next month,” Clint says. “Sammy’s already complaining about registrations.”
“Sammy starts complaining six weeks before every rodeo.”
“True.”
“The mayor stressed yet?”
Clint grins. “She started stressing in February.”
“Then everything’s on schedule.”
That earns another laugh.
The diner door opens behind me, but I barely notice. People are constantly coming and going through this place.
Then Clint’s expression changes.
I don’t even need to turn around; my body beats my brain to it.
Arizona.
I catch her reflection in the front window before I look directly at her. Copper red hair, denim shorts, boots, and one of those fringed jackets she somehow manages to pull off without looking ridiculous.
No guitar today.
That feels strange. Like seeing Willy without a smartass comment loaded and ready.
Arizona pushes her sunglasses onto her head and smiles at Betty Lou behind the counter. Within thirty seconds she’s already chatting like she’s been here for years instead of days.
Some people spend decades trying to fit into a town. Arizona walks into a room and somehow convinces everybody she belongs there.
I focus on my burger.
Unfortunately, burgers don’t do much to stop a man from noticing a woman.
Arizona’s laughing at something Betty Lou says, and every few minutes my attention drifts in her direction before I drag it back where it belongs.
It’s ridiculous; we spent one night together. Days have passed since then, I should’ve moved on by now.
Instead, I can still picture her climbing out of my truck with that satisfied grin on her face. Still remember the way she looked at me afterward, like she knew exactly how badly she was going to stick in my head.
Across the table, Clint makes a noise that puts me on guard. It’s the same sound Charlie makes when he’s about to get into trouble.
I glance up.
Clint’s watching me over the rim of his coffee mug with the expression of a man who’s just discovered free entertainment.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That look says otherwise.”
His grin widens. “I was just counting.”
I already don’t like where this is going. “Counting what?”
“The number of times you’ve checked to make sure Arizona’s still standing over there.”
I shake my head. “You need a hobby.”
“I’ve got hobbies. Dakota says I have too many hobbies.”
“Then pay attention to one of those.”
“I would, but watching you pretend not to stare is funnier.”
I shake my head and take a drink of coffee.
When I don’t respond, he nods toward the counter. “Pretty girl.”
I nearly inhale coffee. “Eat your lunch.”
“That’s not a disagreement.”
“Neither is punching you in the throat.”
“See, that’s exactly what a guilty man says.”
I glance toward Arizona despite myself. The second I do, Clint starts laughing.
“Damn it.”
“Seven times.”
I scoff at him. “You’re being stupid.”
“Bronson, I’ve got two kids. You think I don’t notice repetitive behavior anymore?”
I seriously consider throwing my fries at him.
The temptation grows when he settles deeper into the booth looking entirely too pleased with himself. “You’re in trouble.”
“I’m not.”
“Sure.”
Before I can come up with a response, Arizona turns from the counter and spots our booth.
The smile that spreads across her face is immediate. That smile is probably the most dangerous thing about her.
She lifts a hand in greeting. I nod back.
Arizona’s smile somehow grows wider before she turns back to Betty Lou.
Across the table, Clint lets out a long sigh.
I close my eyes. “Don’t.”
“You smiled.”
“I nodded.”
“You smiled before the nod.”
“You’re making things up.” He shakes his head. “I’ve known you for years. I know what your face looks like when you’re pretending not to like somebody.”
The annoying part is that he’s not entirely wrong.
Clint seems to know exactly where my thoughts have gone. “When was your last serious relationship?”
I stare at him. He stares back.
A few seconds pass.
Then Clint starts laughing. “See? You had to think about it.”
“Maybe I don’t keep records.”
“That sounds like avoidance.”
I bark out a laugh despite myself. “Good thing I’m not dating you.”
“No,” Clint says. “Just staring at Arizona like a teenager who’s discovered girls exist.”
I throw a french fry at his head.
The traitor catches it and eats it.
Across the diner, Arizona finally collects her coffee. Before she heads for the door, her eyes meet mine again.
Then she winks.
Actually winks.
My stomach decides to become a problem.
Clint laughs so hard he nearly chokes on the fry.
By midnight, most of Dusty Spur has turned in for the night.
The ranch settles differently after dark. During the day there’s always work getting done somewhere. Engines running, horses being worked, somebody yelling across a pasture.
At night, the place exhales. Horses bed down in their stalls. The barns fall still. Even the mountains surrounding the valley seem bigger when everything else goes silent.
Sleep and I aren’t getting along again tonight, so I end up doing what I usually do when my brain refuses to cooperate.
I walk.
The bronc barn sits dark except for the beam from my flashlight as I step inside. The familiar smells of leather, hay, dust, and horseflesh hit me. Usually that settles me down. Tonight it doesn’t.
I can’t explain why.
The flashlight moves across tack racks, storage shelves, and equipment hooks. Everything appears normal at first glance, but a few steps later I stop.
My stomach tightens.
A saddle sits on the workbench near the back wall.
That alone isn’t unusual. The problem is I recognize the saddle because I inspected it myself less than a week ago.
Frowning, I set the flashlight down and pick it up.
The second I turn it over, every trace of tiredness disappears. “What the hell?”
The flank strap has been sliced nearly all the way through, enough that it would’ve failed under pressure.
A rider hitting the dirt at the wrong angle could break a neck.
I stare at the damaged leather for several seconds before setting it back down and grabbing another saddle from the rack.
That one has damage too.
A cold feeling settles in my gut.
I move faster after that and one saddle becomes three, then six. The more equipment I inspect, the worse it gets.
By the time I’m finished checking the nearest storage area, I’ve stopped hoping there’s an innocent explanation.
This isn’t carelessness or even normal wear and tear. Whoever did this knew exactly where to look and exactly how much damage to cause without drawing attention.
One of the horses stomps inside a nearby stall, drawing my attention. The sound echoes through the barn before fading away again.
For years I’ve trusted my instincts around horses. They’ve kept me alive more times than I can count.
The feeling crawling through my chest now is the same one I get when a bronc comes out of the chute wrong or a rider loses control before anyone else notices.
Danger.
But why?