Page 125 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

Tommy points at her. “See? Margaret understands romance.”

The argument spirals from there, with half the bar weighing in on which piece of equipment deserves a love song, and I decide that’s my cue to leave before somebody volunteers a live demonstration.

The evening has cooled by the time I step onto Main Street. Most of the shops have gone dark, leaving the old streetlamps to spill light across the empty sidewalks while I make my way to the truck.

Nobody stops me or asks where I’m headed next, and instead of enjoying the freedom, I catch myself wishing someone cared enough to ask.

I rest against the tailgate and call Daisy.

She answers before the second ring. “Well?”

I smile. “You skipped hello.”

“I know your show ended twenty minutes ago, so stop dodging.”

“You’re creeping me out.”

She snorts with laughter. “I’m your sister. It’s practically my job.”

“I’ll allow it.”

She continues to chuckle. “So, how’d it go?”

“It went well. They made me play an extra song.”

“Ooh, look at you.”

“And a bunch of people tried convincing me to write a love ballad about farm equipment.”

Her laugh bursts through the speaker. “I need details.”

“I chose self-preservation instead.”

“Probably your smartest decision all week.”

I tip my head back and look up at the stars. “So…”

“So?” she prompts.

“I’ve been looking at other gigs.”

“And?”

I rub the back of my neck. “I haven’t picked one.”

“You couldn’t find anything?”

“I found plenty.”

She pauses for just a moment. “So what’s the problem?”

“I don’t know.”

She goes silent, and I know exactly what she’s doing. Daisy never rushes into a conversation when she thinks I’m dancing around the truth. She waits until I trip over it myself.

“When were you planning to leave?” she asks.

“I figured I’d head out after tonight.”