Page 49 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

“Of course I’m right.”

I shake my head. “The second tragedy is that I’m probably going to ignore you.”

“That’s fine.” She reaches for another cinnamon roll. “You usually need three or four demonstrations before a lesson sticks.”

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it.

After another cup of coffee and one final argument about whether I eat enough vegetables, I pull Grandma into a hug and head for the door. She sends me off with a container of leftovers I never ask for and always leave with anyway.

Outside, the weather has spent the afternoon making good on its threats.

The sky hangs over the valley in thick bands of charcoal gray, and every few minutes lightning flashes behind the mountains, turning the distant ridgelines into brief silhouettes before swallowing them again.

Thunder follows close behind, rolling across Colter Creek with enough force to rattle windows.

A storm is coming. The kind that usually encourages people to wrap up whatever they’re doing and head home.

Of course, common sense has never been one of this town’s defining qualities.

By the time I’m twenty minutes down the road, the storm finally catches up. Rain taps against the windshield at first, scattered droplets racing each other across the glass. Then the clouds seem to decide subtlety is overrated.

Water crashes down hard enough that visibility shrinks by the minute, and my windshield wipers throw themselves into the fight with the enthusiasm of underpaid employees who’ve already submitted resignation letters.

Thunder echoes across the valley as I make my way down Main Street.

Most of the businesses have closed for the evening. The bakery’s lights are off. The hardware store sits dark.

A handful of storefronts still cast warm rectangles across the pavement, their reflections stretching through puddles that are growing deeper by the minute, but the town itself has largely retreated indoors.

Which makes the figure standing outside Larsen’s General Store feel less surprising than it probably should.

Arizona McCay has never struck me as a woman who lets practicality interfere with curiosity.

Even through the curtain of rain, I recognize her right away.

Her hair gives her away before anything else. The copper color has deepened beneath the downpour, strands slipping loose beneath her hat and clinging to the collar of her jacket.

She’s hugging a weather-beaten notebook against her chest like it contains classified government documents instead of half-finished lyrics, and despite the protection of the awning, she’s soaked enough that it hardly matters.

I pull alongside the curb and lower the passenger window.

That decision lasts roughly one second before rain blasts directly into the truck and cold water smacks me across the face.

Arizona turns toward the sound. The grin that spreads across her face tells me she’s enjoying this far too much.

“Good evening,” she says. “You look refreshed.”

I wipe rainwater from my eyes. “I’ve been assaulted by the atmosphere.”

Her smile widens. “And yet you’re persevering.”

“It’s important to remain brave during difficult times.”

“You’re an inspiration to us all.”

The laughter in her eyes hits me before the actual laugh does, and against my better judgment I feel ridiculously pleased with myself for earning it.

Another flash of lightning cuts through the clouds behind the buildings.