13. Arizona
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Arizona
I’d forgotten how much I love rodeos.
Not the versions people see on television or hear about afterward over beers. The real thing. Being packed into metal bleachers with hundreds of other people while dust coats your boots and every ride feels like it could go spectacularly right or spectacularly wrong.
The entire place buzzes with energy.
Country music blasts from the speakers between events while vendors shout over one another, trying to sell brisket sandwiches, funnel cakes, and enough deep fried food to keep a cardiologist employed for life.
Horses snort and stamp behind the chutes. Gates slam. Crowds cheer. Kids run around with sticky fingers and cowboy hats three sizes too big.
I lean against the fence surrounding the warm-up arena, my guitar strapped across my back, and soak it all in.
A bronc rider bursts from the chute.
The horse launches into a series of violent bucks that should probably violate several laws of physics. Somehow, the rider stays seated through all eight seconds.
When the whistle blows, the crowd erupts. I grin so hard my face hurts.
“You’re looking at that horse like it just solved world hunger.”
I glance over my shoulder.
Annie Wright stands behind me balancing two cameras around her neck and wearing enough black clothing to absorb every ray of sunlight in the state. Her electric blue hair is braided over one shoulder today, making her look like a goth fairy who decided rodeos were her thing.
I like her.
Probably because she looks almost as out of place here as I do.
“That’s insulting,” I tell her.
She shrugs. “I’m a photographer. Observing people is literally my job.”
“I’ve been to rodeos before.”
“Then why do you look so delighted?”
I open my mouth, then shrug. “Because rodeos are ridiculous.”
Annie’s eyebrow lifts. “That’s your explanation?”
“Think about it. We gather thousands of people together to watch grown adults launch themselves onto animals that actively reject them.”
“Fair.”
“And somehow it becomes entertainment.”
“Now you’re sounding like somebody who belongs here.”
I laugh.
Annie’s quieter than Dakota and less warm than Abilene, but she’s funny in a sneaky way. The kind of person who waits until you’re relaxed before saying something so unexpected it catches you completely off guard.
Another rider starts getting ready behind the chutes.
I watch him adjust his grip before turning back to Annie. “Seriously, though. I think this might be my favorite environment on earth.”
“Because of the danger?”
“The adrenaline.”
“The cowboys?”
I cut her a look, and she doesn’t even pretend to be innocent.
A grin tugs at my mouth. “The cowboys certainly aren’t hurting the experience.”
“I knew it.”
She sounds entirely too pleased with herself.
Annie raises her camera and starts shooting photographs. The shutter clicks rapidly while she tracks a rider crossing the arena.
I end up watching Annie instead. Partly because the rodeo’s full of people trying very hard to be noticed, and partly because Annie has a talent for catching the ones who aren’t.
Through her lens, she tracks a ranch hand crouching beside a nervous kid, straightening a hat that’s two sizes too big.
A young couple drifts past the concession stand with their fingers hooked together.
One rider sits alone near the chutes, eyes shut, lips moving like he’s running through a prayer or a checklist before the gate swings open.
They’re the kinds of details most people never look twice at. Annie collects them anyway.
“What?” she asks, still peering through the viewfinder.
I shrug. “Just thinking.”
“That’s never a reassuring answer.”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it.
She lowers the camera enough to glance at me. “Well? Out with it.”
I hesitate, suddenly aware that what sounded reasonable in my head might come out strange. “You photograph people the way I write songs.”
The camera drops completely, hanging forgotten against her chest as she studies me. Then her mouth curves into a smile that’s different from the usual smart-ass grin she wears like armor.
“Wow,” she says. “That’s going on my tombstone.”
I groan. “You couldn’t just say thank you?”
“Oh, I could. But if somebody compares me to art, I’m legally required to become unbearable about it.”
Heat creeps into my face. “You’re making this weird.”
“I didn’t make it weird. You handed me a compliment with enough emotional significance to sustain me through at least three personal crises.”
“That’s not how compliments work.”
“Says who?” She lifts the camera again. “I’m stretching this thing for years.”
I shake my head, but she’s already aiming toward the stands.
The crowd erupts as the next riders prepare, and I let myself get swept up in the excitement again. Dust hangs over the arena while music blasts through the speakers and people cheer themselves hoarse from the stands.
This world has always pulled at me. Rodeos, county fairs, backroad bars packed with strangers who become friends before the night’s over. I’ve spent years drifting through places like this, finding pieces of myself in every town.
Maybe that’s why Colter Creek feels familiar.
The afternoon slips by faster than I expect. Annie drags me toward a food stand after declaring I look “one skipped meal away from becoming a cautionary tale.”
Later, I help carry camera equipment while she complains that every photographer eventually turns into their own pack mule. We end up sharing a basket of nachos that have clearly violated several food safety regulations.
They’re excellent.
Annie tells me stories about ranch photoshoots gone wrong, including one particularly angry goose that apparently declared war on her.
“You lost a fight to a bird?”
“It was organized, Arizona. I think there were accomplices.”
I laugh so hard I nearly choke on a tortilla chip.
By the time bronc riding starts, the stands are packed.
That’s when I notice him.
The strange thing is that he doesn’t catch my attention right away. If Annie were the one looking, she’d probably spot him and start talking about composition and body language and whatever other photographer magic she sees in people.
To me, he looks forgettable at first glance. A guy sitting several sections away in a worn baseball cap, the brim pulled down over his eyes.
Mid-forties, maybe older. Broad shoulders. Thick beard. The kind of face that disappears into a crowd the minute you stop looking at it.
I would’ve forgotten him too if he were watching the rodeo like everyone else. But he isn’t.
Another rider bursts from the chute, drawing cheers from half the arena. People around him lean forward, clap, wince when the bronc throws its weight into another buck.
The man barely reacts. His attention stays fixed somewhere beyond the action, unwavering enough that it eventually pulls my gaze in the same direction.
That’s when I realize he’s watching Red.
Red stands near the holding pens with a couple of riders, looking completely at ease.
Even from this distance, he has the irritating ability to draw attention without appearing to ask for it. One arm rests across his chest while he listens to whatever story the others are telling, a grin appearing every so often.
The man in the stands never takes his eyes off him.
A knot tightens in my stomach.
Maybe they’re old friends. Maybe they worked together years ago. Maybe the guy recognizes him from somewhere and is trying to place the face.
The explanation should be enough.
Instead, I keep watching.
It’s hard to explain exactly what’s wrong. The man isn’t glaring or angry. If anything, his expression barely changes at all.
Yet the longer I study him, the more convinced I become that this isn’t the look of someone happy to see an old acquaintance.
It feels personal.
The kind of stare people wear when they’re sorting through memories they’d rather not revisit.
A rider gets launched from the chute, and the crowd erupts around me. My attention breaks long enough to follow the action across the dirt.
By the time the ride ends, my eyes drift back toward the stands almost automatically.
The man hasn’t moved.
He isn’t watching the broncs. He isn’t watching the riders.
His entire focus remains locked on Red.
A prickle works its way up the back of my neck, and I nudge Annie with my elbow.
She answers with a distracted “Hm?” while adjusting a setting on her camera. Her attention stays split between the arena and whatever she’s framing through the lens.
I tip my chin toward the opposite side of the stands. “See the guy in the baseball cap?”
That gets her to look up. The camera settles against her chest as she follows my gaze through the crowd. “The guy with the beard?”
“Yeah.”
She studies him for a few seconds. “What about him?”
I wish I had a better answer. “I don’t know. He’s been watching Red the whole time.”
Annie keeps looking. Longer than I expected, actually. Long enough that I start wondering if she’s noticed the same thing that’s been bothering me.
Then she leans back in her seat. “He looks exactly like a man who owns six pocketknives and has strong opinions about weather.”
I stare at her. “That’s your analysis?”
“You wanted analysis.”
“I wanted helpful analysis.”
She shrugs. “I’m a photographer, not a federal agency.”
A laugh escapes before I can stop it.
Annie glances back toward the man. “I will say this, though. He looks like he’d tell a story that starts with, ‘Now legally speaking, this was a mistake.’”
“You got all that from looking at him?”
“No.” She taps the side of her camera. “This is years of training.”
I roll my eyes. “Remind me never to ask you to identify suspects.”
“Oh, I’d be fantastic at it.”
“You just profiled a stranger based on beard density.”
“And I stand by my findings.”
Before I can argue further, the announcer launches into the introduction for the next rider. The crowd responds, cheers rising through the grandstands as the chute gate swings open and a bronc explodes into the arena.
Like everyone else, I get pulled into the ride.