Page 156 of Ironwood Ranch Cowboys

Duke leans over to look. “Oh, that’s good. You look deeply pained.”

“That’s my usual face around you.”

“And yet you love me.”

Annie laughs, and the day turns.

Not completely; the threat is still there. The photos are still sitting inside her camera. The investigation still waits beyond the edge of the rodeo grounds, patient and ugly.

But the rodeo refuses to make room for dread forever.

By late afternoon, the competition starts loosening into celebration. Someone sets up speakers near the beer tent. The line at the food trucks doubles. Kids run feral around adults who have collectively given up pretending to supervise.

Duke gets pulled into helping Willy with something near the arena and somehow turns it into a performance. Within ten minutes, he has half a dozen people laughing and one small child wearing his hat.

Silas ends up near the ranch owners, talking in that low, serious way that makes everyone lean in as if he’s delivering law from a mountain. But every few minutes, his gaze cuts back to Annie.

Mine does, too. I tell myself it’s strategic.

It’s not only strategic.

Annie moves through the crowd because the camera has given her permission to stay in motion. She photographs Sammy yelling at the speaker system, Dakota laughing with one hand against her stomach, Abilene feeding a bite of pie to Wyatt while Marshall pretends not to notice.

Red sitting on the tailgate of a truck with his hat low and his expression carved from exhaustion, Emmett reenacting his ride badly for a cluster of kids, Willy bowing idiotically while Riley applauds with a beer in hand.

At some point, Betty Lou from the diner grabs Annie by both shoulders, declares she’s too skinny to survive rodeo season, and forces a paper basket of brisket into her hands.

Annie looks trapped. I take the basket from her.

She looks at me. “Did you just rescue me from meat?”

“I’m managing a logistical overload.”

“That’s what we’re calling it?”

“Yes.”

“You know,” she says, stealing a fry from the basket, “for someone who claims to be allergic to fun, you’re not terrible at this.”

“I don’t claim to be allergic to fun.”

“You implied it with your whole personality.”

I look at her over the top of the basket. “Eat.”

She grins. “Bossy.”

“Yes.”

Her eyes dip briefly to my mouth. Every thought in my head stops behaving.

Then Duke appears beside us, as if summoned by inappropriate tension. “Are we flirting over brisket? Because I support it, but I’d like to be included.”

Annie turns the camera on him. “Smile.”

He does.

Of course he does.