Page 18 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

When I turn around, I find the culprit crossing the arena with a feed bucket hanging from one hand. He’s got dark curls, bright green eyes, and the kind of grin that suggests he’s fully aware he’s terrible but plans to continue anyway.

The second he notices me watching, his grin widens.

“Good news,” he announces.

I already don’t trust this conversation. “What good news?”

“I hit three correct notes that time.”

“That fourth note really undid all your hard work.”

He presses a hand to his chest. “That was unnecessarily hurtful.”

“I think we both know it wasn’t.”

A laugh escapes him. “See? This is why musicians are intimidating.”

“No, musicians are intimidating because we know how songs are supposed to sound.”

“That’s a fair point.” He shifts the bucket to his other hand and studies me with open curiosity. “You’re Arizona.”

I groan. “Does this town come with a welcome packet that includes my biography?”

“No, but Betty Lou’s basically the same thing.”

“Do I get at least forty-eight hours before everybody knows my business?”

“Absolutely not.”

The answer comes far too quickly, and I laugh despite myself.

He sticks out a hand. “Willy Kane.”

I shake it.

His handshake is easy, friendly, and entirely lacking the intensity of Red’s. The comparison arrives before I can stop it.

Apparently, my brain has decided Red Bronson is now the standard by which all cowboy interactions will be measured.

“You’re the singer,” Willy says.

“So people keep telling me.”

“I’m the funny one.”

I glance at him. “Was that title awarded by an official committee?”

“It was.”

“Who was on the committee?”

He tips his hat. “Me.”

“That seems biased.”

Before Willy can defend himself, another voice drifts over from behind us. “It’s extremely biased.”

I look toward the barn and spot a blond man heading our way with an armful of tack. He’s broad shouldered, sunburned, and unfairly handsome in the way ranch guys always seem to be.