Page 186 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

The ranch looks the same when I turn beneath the wooden sign. Cattle move across the far pasture, Willy’s truck sits crooked beside the equipment shed, and Arizona’s truck remains parked beyond the cottonwoods.

She has spent nearly every night here since the rodeo.

Sadie races through the front door before I shut off the engine. “Daddy!” I catch her when she reaches me, and she wraps both arms around my waist. “You were gone forever.”

“I was gone four hours.”

“That’s almost forever.”

I brush loose hair away from her face. One braid has disappeared while the other hangs near her shoulder. “What happened to your hair?”

She touches the side of her head and looks surprised. “Arizona said it had opinions.”

“She said your hair was winning an argument,” Arizona calls from the porch.

She stands barefoot beside the steps in one of my work shirts and a pair of denim shorts, watching me over the glass of lemonade in her hand. The cut near her temple has nearly healed, though I still find it every time I look at her.

I lift Sadie onto my hip and carry her toward the house.

“How did it go?” Arizona asks as I reach the porch.

“She signed everything.”

Her expression shifts before she glances toward Sadie. “It’s finished?”

“The judge still has to approve it.”

Sadie leans away from me. “What did she sign?”

“Papers about grown-up problems.”

“Were they boring?”

“Very.”

That answer satisfies her, and she points toward the kitchen. “I made you something.”

“I heard you needed a purple crayon.”

“Uncle Willy stole it.”

Willy appears behind Arizona with a dish towel over one shoulder. “I borrowed it.”

“You hid it in your boot,” Sadie says.

“I needed a safe place.”

Red passes him with a plate of steaks. “Nobody was going near it after that.”

Sadie squirms until I put her down, then grabs my hand and pulls me into the kitchen before Willy can defend himself.

Crayons and paper cover one end of the table, and a red plastic cup holds down a sheet of white construction paper.

“Close your eyes,” Sadie orders. I obey while she moves the cup and adjusts the paper. “You can look.”

I open my eyes and find five figures beneath a rodeo sign that fills half the page.

Red stands at one end in a black hat with his arms folded. Willy wears purple pants and carries what might be a pie. Arizona’s red hair reaches her boots, and a blue guitar covers most of her body.