Page 106 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

I can’t stand it.

Dusty Spur’s supposed to be noisy. Red grumbles before breakfast, Emmett worries over everybody, Sadie fills every silence with another impossible question, and I spend most of my day giving people reasons to roll their eyes.

Watching everyone move around without any of that feels wrong.

I clap my hands together. “I’ll check the outer barns.”

Red glances my way and gives a distracted nod before going back to the saddles spread across the tack room floor.

That’ll have to do.

I shove my hands into my pockets and cut across the yard, whistling an old country song that deserves a better singer than me.

A couple of horses lift their heads as I pass before dropping back to their hay, and the farther I walk from the house, the quieter the ranch becomes until it’s just my boots crunching over the dirt.

The western barn sits beyond the practice pens where we keep older equipment and spare tack. I round the corner, already thinking about what needs checking first, then my boots grind to a stop.

Fresh black paint stretches across the weathered timber in letters so large I can read every one of them from where I’m standing.

RED BRONSON PAYS HIS DEBTS.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Arizona

Black paint curls away beneath my wire brush and falls around my boots while Willy works a few feet farther along the wall, scrubbing hard enough that I start wondering whether he’s trying to clean the barn or sand the whole thing flat.

He pauses long enough to flex his fingers before attacking the timber again. “Whoever invented black paint deserves a kick in the shins.”

Emmett rinses his brush in the bucket between us and flicks a glance along the wall. “At the rate you’re going, we’ll be replacing the barn before lunch.”

Willy jumps in. “I’ve always wanted to learn carpentry.”

“You couldn’t build a birdhouse.”

“I built half of one.”

“It collapsed.”

Willy points the brush at him. “That’s because birds are notoriously ungrateful.”

I smile despite myself, but the joke fades as quickly as it arrived. Willy goes back to scrubbing with the same determination he’d shown since sunrise, and the smile never finds him again.

Most of the paint has gone, yet dark stains still cling to the grain of the timber. Nobody needs to read the words anymore because every person on this ranch knows exactly what covered this wall yesterday.

RED BRONSON PAYS HIS DEBTS.

Red hasn’t come anywhere near the barn. As soon as Willy told him about it, he left with two ranch hands to check fences and water troughs, throwing himself into work while the rest of us grabbed wire brushes and paint thinner.

I work another stubborn streak until my arm starts aching, then look over at Willy. “Do you think whoever did this knew him?”

He keeps brushing for another couple of strokes before resting the handle against his shoulder. “I reckon they knew which scar to poke.”

Emmett tips fresh thinner onto his rag and works it into the timber. “They wanted him thinking about Travis.”

I look between them. “The guy that rode drunk, right? What was he like?”

“Argumentative.” Willy chuckles under his breath. “If Red said the sky was blue, Travis would’ve argued for green just to keep the debate going.”