Page 58 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

The fellowship hall hits me all at once.

Every table is full. Somebody’s laughing hard enough to slap a tabletop. A pack of kids tears between chairs while three exhausted parents pretend not to notice.

Near the dessert table, a group of ranchers has already started arguing about football, which is impressive considering the season doesn’t start for months.

“Emmett!” I look up and spot Betty Lou waving me over. “You brought the potatoes?”

I glance down at the casserole dishes in my hands. “No, these are decorative.”

She narrows her eyes. “Keep talking.”

“Sorry. Didn’t realize I was in the presence of church authority.”

“There you go. Respect your elders.”

“I’d need to find one first.”

That earns me a snort before she takes one of the dishes from my hands. Betty Lou’s favorite pastime is acting offended by my jokes while encouraging them at the same time.

By the time I get the food settled on the serving table, Sadie’s disappeared.

Again.

Nobody tells you that a large part of parenting involves constantly scanning crowds like you’re working security at a concert. Kids have an incredible ability to vanish whenever you look away and reappear fifteen minutes later covered in dirt, frosting, or both.

I spot her eventually near the cookie table, already negotiating with a retired schoolteacher for a second dessert before dinner.

That’s my girl.

A few minutes later, the front doors open and Arizona walks in.

Conversations soften around the edges as heads turn. A few people suddenly remember they have somewhere else to look.

Arizona has that effect on people.

She’s wearing faded denim shorts, worn boots, and a western shirt tied at the waist. Copper red hair spills from beneath her hat in loose waves, and sure, people notice she’s beautiful.

Anybody with functioning eyesight notices that.

What catches my attention, though, isn’t how she looks. It’s the way she’s looking at everything else.

She’s taking in the room piece by piece, studying the old couples gathered near the coffee urns, the kids racing circles around the tables, the ranchers swapping stories they’ve been telling for thirty years and still find funny.

She’s watching the town. Watching people who belong to each other.

Sadie spots her right away. “Arizona!”

The shout carries across the fellowship hall with all the subtlety of a tornado siren. Arizona barely has enough warning to brace herself before Sadie launches into her legs.

I wince automatically.

Instead of stumbling backward or looking caught off guard, she breaks into a laugh and crouches down, wrapping her arms around Sadie before gravity can make any decisions.

“Well, look at you,” she says. “I don’t see you for a few days and you’ve grown at least six inches.”

“Seven.”

“Seven? That’s serious.”