Page 86 of Ironwood Ranch Cowboys

He grunts like facts are disrespectful. “Early’s on time. On time’s late.”

“Well,” I say, slinging my bag over my shoulder, “it’s good to know the military has expanded into event planning.”

His mouth twitches.

“Come on,” he says, turning on his heel. “I got people already making my eye twitch and I need somebody in this town who can tell me they know what they’re doing.”

“That does sound like me.”

“I know it does. That’s why I called.”

I fall into step beside him. Sammy talks fast and points faster.

Vendor booths here. Equipment rentals there. Livestock staging on the east side. Entry desk near the gate.

He’s got three color-coded maps, six pages of notes, and the energy of a man being kept alive purely by irritation and civic pride.

I like him immediately.

“The town council approved the expansion on the south side,” he says, flipping through pages on his clipboard. “More food vendors this year. More merch tables. More entries in the ranch events. More tourists who think boots make them cowboys.”

“Sounds fun.”

“It sounds expensive,” he chuckles, “but we’re gonna make it work.”

We cut across the edge of the arena, and I catch sight of three men near the chutes.

One’s leaning against the fence like he was carved there on purpose. Older than the others, broad shouldered, scar cut pale against weathered skin, his expression so unimpressed it circles back around to interested.

There’s a calmness about him. Like he’s made of old wood, old pain, and doesn’t particularly care if people are comfortable around him.

Next to him is a younger guy, all restless movement and bright energy, tipping the front legs of a chair off the ground while talking with his whole body. Blond hair, open face, sweet in a way that reads genuine instead of naive. Probably.

And then there’s the third.

The third looks like if trouble put on a grin and learned how to juggle.

He’s half-sprawled across the rail, laughing at something only he found funny, bright shirt unbuttoned at the throat, expression so animated I can practically feel him from here.

Sammy follows my line of sight and sighs like a man deeply burdened by other people.

“Hell.”

“That bad?” I ask.

“That depends on your tolerance for nonsense.”

“Mine’s medium.” I chuckle. “Although it might have expanded now I’m at Ironwood.”

“Then brace yourself.”

We reach them, and sure enough, all three turn. The older one gives me a brief nod, assessing. The younger one perks up immediately. The third beams at me like we’re already friends and possibly co-conspirators.

“Boys,” Sammy says, already annoyed, “this is Annie Wright. She’s helping with the event. She’ll be the photographer. Quite the talent, I’ve heard, but she’s also doing numbers for the Ironwood brothers, so…”

“We can throw everything complicated her way,” the loud one jokes. “Sounds like you’re in for a treat, Annie Wright.”

Sammy levels a look at him. “Willy.”