Page 156 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

The opening music swells with enough drama to suggest somebody’s about to lose a ranch, a woman, or both.

Before he speaks, I clear my throat. “Frank,” I rumble, providing his voice, “I’ve been riding since Tuesday and forgot where I live.”

Sadie looks at the television, then back at me. “They didn’t call him Frank.”

“They haven’t asked him.”

Arizona laughs into her hand.

The cowboy rides toward a ranch house. “Mildred,” I continue, speaking for him again, “the beans have declared war again.”

Sadie covers her mouth, but the giggle escapes anyway.

A few minutes later the sheriff appears, and I lean forward. “Terrible news,” I announce. “My mustache disappeared overnight, and I’m taking statements.”

Sadie laughs harder. “He doesn’t even have one.”

“Exactly,” I say. “That’s how serious this is.”

She shakes her head, reaches for more popcorn, and starts watching me as much as the movie.

Every serious scene collapses the second I get hold of it. Cowboys argue over casseroles instead of cattle, outlaws forget which bank they meant to rob, and somewhere along the way, Sadie stops waiting for me to make the joke.

She starts correcting the movie herself.

“He said cattle,” she says, laughing.

“I heard casseroles.”

Arizona looks at me over Sadie’s head, and the softness in her expression catches me completely unprepared.

I turn back to the television before she notices.

By the time the credits roll, Sadie has vanished beneath the blankets with her head against Arizona’s shoulder and one hand still buried in the empty popcorn bowl.

Arizona brushes the hair from her face and smiles when she realizes she’s asleep. “I think that’s our cue.”

Red sets his beer down, crosses the room, and lifts Sadie into his arms without waking her. She settles against his chest as he carries her toward the hallway.

Emmett gathers the bowls and bottles. “I’ll clean up.”

I leave the rinsed popcorn bowl beside the sink and step onto the porch, where Arizona rests against the railing with her gaze fixed on the pasture.

I stop beside her, close enough that our shoulders nearly touch. “You survived movie night.”

Her mouth curves as she keeps looking ahead. “Barely.”

“I thought the missing mustache investigation might push you over the edge.”

“The casserole argument saved the evening.” Her laugh fades as she turns toward me. “You knew what Sadie needed.”

“I made an educated guess.” I brace my forearms against the railing beside her. “When you’re a kid, laughing can make a bad night easier to survive.”

She watches me before asking, “Is that how you got through losing your parents?”

The question catches me where I’m least prepared, although there’s no gentle way to ask about the worst part of a person’s life.

“Everyone watched me after they died because they thought I might fall apart when they looked away,” I say. “I started making jokes before they could ask how I was doing, and eventually they laughed instead.”