12. Emmett
CHAPTER TWELVE
Emmett
Sunday potlucks in Colter Creek run on one rule as far as I’m concerned.
Nobody leaves hungry.
Maybe the church has an official handbook tucked away in an office somewhere. Maybe there was a committee meeting about proper fellowship hall etiquette twenty years ago.
If so, nobody pays attention to it anymore.
Around here, the actual law is simple: if you walk through those doors and leave without eating enough to regret your life choices, somebody’s grandmother will track you down and correct that mistake herself.
That’s how I end up carrying three casserole dishes across the parking lot while Sadie bounces ahead of me in pink cowboy boots, moving with the kind of energy that makes me wonder if she secretly plugs herself into a wall outlet at night.
“Daddy, hurry.”
“I’m carrying enough potatoes to feed a cavalry unit.”
She glances back at me without breaking stride. “You still walk too old.”
“I’m thirty-four.”
“That’s old.”
“To who?”
“Me.”
I open my mouth, then close it again.
There’s no recovering from that. She’s five and already debates like a lawyer who bills by the hour.
She darts through the church doors before I can think of a response, leaving me to haul the potatoes inside by myself.
The fellowship hall hits me all at once.
Every table is full. Somebody’s laughing hard enough to slap a tabletop. A pack of kids tears between chairs while three exhausted parents pretend not to notice.
Near the dessert table, a group of ranchers has already started arguing about football, which is impressive considering the season doesn’t start for months.
“Emmett!” I look up and spot Betty Lou waving me over. “You brought the potatoes?”
I glance down at the casserole dishes in my hands. “No, these are decorative.”
She narrows her eyes. “Keep talking.”
“Sorry. Didn’t realize I was in the presence of church authority.”
“There you go. Respect your elders.”
“I’d need to find one first.”
That earns me a snort before she takes one of the dishes from my hands. Betty Lou’s favorite pastime is acting offended by my jokes while encouraging them at the same time.
By the time I get the food settled on the serving table, Sadie’s disappeared.
Again.
Nobody tells you that a large part of parenting involves constantly scanning crowds like you’re working security at a concert. Kids have an incredible ability to vanish whenever you look away and reappear fifteen minutes later covered in dirt, frosting, or both.
I spot her eventually near the cookie table, already negotiating with a retired schoolteacher for a second dessert before dinner.
That’s my girl.
A few minutes later, the front doors open and Arizona walks in.
Conversations soften around the edges as heads turn. A few people suddenly remember they have somewhere else to look.
Arizona has that effect on people.
She’s wearing faded denim shorts, worn boots, and a western shirt tied at the waist. Copper red hair spills from beneath her hat in loose waves, and sure, people notice she’s beautiful.
Anybody with functioning eyesight notices that.
What catches my attention, though, isn’t how she looks. It’s the way she’s looking at everything else.
She’s taking in the room piece by piece, studying the old couples gathered near the coffee urns, the kids racing circles around the tables, the ranchers swapping stories they’ve been telling for thirty years and still find funny.
She’s watching the town. Watching people who belong to each other.
Sadie spots her right away. “Arizona!”
The shout carries across the fellowship hall with all the subtlety of a tornado siren. Arizona barely has enough warning to brace herself before Sadie launches into her legs.
I wince automatically.
Instead of stumbling backward or looking caught off guard, she breaks into a laugh and crouches down, wrapping her arms around Sadie before gravity can make any decisions.
“Well, look at you,” she says. “I don’t see you for a few days and you’ve grown at least six inches.”
“Seven.”
“Seven? That’s serious.”
“I know.”
Arizona studies her with exaggerated concern. “We’re gonna have to start measuring you against fence posts.”
Sadie nods like this is a perfectly reasonable scientific method.
Watching them together does strange things to my chest.
The feeling starts out pleasant enough. Seeing Sadie connect with people has always mattered to me.
She’s got a huge heart, and every time she decides somebody belongs in her world, she throws the doors open without hesitation.
The problem is that she expects permanence.
Arizona doesn’t.
“You look like you’re trying to solve a tax problem.”
I glance sideways and find Willy standing beside me with a paper plate already piled high enough to qualify as structural engineering.
“How long have you been there?”
“Long enough to know you weren’t paying attention.”
“I was paying attention.”
“You were staring into space while holding an empty cup.”
I look down.
He’s annoyingly correct.
“I’m fine.”
“Sure you are.”
“I am.”
The crowd keeps growing as the afternoon rolls on. More friends filter through the doors until the hall feels packed wall to wall with familiar faces.
Dakota arrives carrying enough energy for three people. Clint follows with the expression of a man already regretting whatever Dakota is about to say.
Sawyer and Marshall wander in together. Wyatt shows up late and immediately starts stealing food from other people’s plates.
Nobody stops him because nobody’s succeeded in stopping him for years.
Arizona gets introduced to everyone at a pace that would challenge a game show contestant.
She keeps up with the introductions until people start explaining who’s related to who, who’s married, who used to date, and who somehow ended up family anyway. Around here, everybody already knows the story, so they skip half the details without realizing it.
I watch her eyes bounce from Annie to Silas, then over to Cody and Duke before circling back again, like she’s convinced the answer is written on one of their faces if she looks hard enough.
Annie catches her studying the group and smiles. “Honey, just ask.”
Arizona lets out a laugh. “Was I that obvious?”
“You’ve been trying to solve us for the last five minutes,” Annie says, waving a hand toward the table. “Go on.”
Arizona glances around the group. “Okay… who’s actually related to who?”
The explanation begins with Annie, gets hijacked by Dakota, corrected by Betty Lou, interrupted twice by Cody, and ends with Arizona laughing harder than anybody else.
“I’m gonna need a family tree,” she says.
Silas takes a sip of his coffee. “Good luck.”
That earns another round of laughter, because if the quietest man in the room thinks it’s hopeless, the rest of us don’t stand a chance.
What surprises me isn’t how quickly Arizona adapts. It’s how naturally she slips into the group afterward.
Within half an hour she’s talking songwriting with Dakota, who gestures so enthusiastically she nearly knocks over two glasses of tea.
She’s swapping travel stories with Abilene, comparing rodeo disasters with Annie, and somehow convincing Clint to tell a story he’d clearly intended to keep to himself.
Even Silas joins the conversation, offering a comment so dry it catches Arizona off guard.
She laughs, and I catch the smallest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before he goes back to eating.
“Well,” Dakota says, “look at that.”
Silas glances her way. “What?”
“You made a joke.”
“I answered a question.”
Dakota grins. “Whatever helps you sleep.”
Silas shakes his head and reaches for another roll, leaving the rest of us to enjoy ourselves at his expense.
As food starts making its rounds, somebody mentions music. The instant the word leaves their mouth, I know Arizona’s in trouble.
She knows it too. I watch realization cross her face while half the room turns toward her.
“No.”
That’s her opening statement.
Dakota leans forward. “Counterpoint.”
“No.”
“I think the lady should play,” Reid joins in.
Arizona points at him. “You are the problem.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
Betty Lou joins in. “Several times, actually.”
The room erupts.
Arizona tries resisting for another few minutes, but she’s hopelessly outnumbered. Every person who walks by seems to add their vote to the campaign.
Eventually she drops her head into her hands. “You people are relentless.”
Betty Lou straightens with all the dignity of a woman preparing to deliver an official proclamation. “We’re not relentless.”
Arizona raises an eyebrow.
Betty Lou smiles. “We’re community oriented. Completely different.”
Arizona laughs the way people do when they’ve realized resistance is useless, and the entire room takes that as victory.
A few cheers break out. Dakota pumps a fist like his team just won a championship. Betty Lou accepts congratulations from nearby tables despite contributing nothing except relentless peer pressure.
Arizona adjusts the guitar in her lap and tests a few strings.
Then she starts playing.
I’ve spent enough years around rodeos, county fairs, and roadside bars to know talented singers when I hear them. Every town has a few. Every venue has somebody who can carry a tune.
Arizona’s different.
It isn’t technical skill, though she’s got plenty of that. It’s the way she sings.
Most performers sound like they’re trying to convince you of something. Arizona sounds like she’s simply telling the truth and letting the rest of us decide what to do with it.
The room falls into complete attention.
Nobody checks their phones or starts side conversations. Even the younger kids sit still longer than any reasonable parent would expect.
By the time Arizona finishes, applause crashes through the fellowship hall hard enough that several people stand.
Arizona glances around the room, taking in the smiles, the clapping, the enthusiasm, and for an instant she looks touched by it in a way she doesn’t quite know how to hide.
Then my phone rings.
The sound cuts through everything, and I pull it from my pocket automatically. Once I see the screen, every good feeling inside me drops straight through the floor.
Tori.
I stare at her name.
Long enough that Willy notices. His grin fades. “You okay?”
I let out a breath through my nose. “No.”
Finally, I answer.
“Hey.”
Tori’s reply comes bright and cheerful. “Hi, Emmett.”
I close my eyes briefly, a familiar knot tightening beneath my ribs. Years later, I still haven’t figured out how she manages it.
Unexpected calls from Tori rarely lead anywhere good.
“I was thinking,” she says, “maybe I’d like to come visit Sadie.”
Across the room, my daughter throws her head back laughing at whatever Arizona just said.
The sight makes this conversation infinitely harder.
Sadie adores her mother. That has never changed. What changes is whether her mother remembers to show up.
“When?” I ask.
“Maybe next weekend.”
Of course. No discussion beforehand. No actual plan beyond a vague idea delivered after the fact.
I rub the back of my neck. “Okay.”
She talks some more, but I can hardly hear it. Anxiety zigzags through me. I can’t let Sadie down.
This is something I have to facilitate, but it’s so hard. Tori is way too unreliable, and we’ve been let down so many times.
But what can I do?
I lower the phone and stare at the dark screen.
The fellowship hall comes rushing back into focus around me.
People are already returning to conversations. Somebody starts another argument near the dessert table. Laughter rolls across the room.
Arizona gets cornered by three elderly women demanding to know where they can buy her music.
Life keeps moving.
Yet when I look back toward Sadie and think about the conversation waiting for us later, the room doesn’t feel quite as welcoming as it did a few minutes ago.
The warmth is still there.
I just can’t reach it right now.