Page 63 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

She shrugs. “I’m a photographer. Observing people is literally my job.”

“I’ve been to rodeos before.”

“Then why do you look so delighted?”

I open my mouth, then shrug. “Because rodeos are ridiculous.”

Annie’s eyebrow lifts. “That’s your explanation?”

“Think about it. We gather thousands of people together to watch grown adults launch themselves onto animals that actively reject them.”

“Fair.”

“And somehow it becomes entertainment.”

“Now you’re sounding like somebody who belongs here.”

I laugh.

Annie’s quieter than Dakota and less warm than Abilene, but she’s funny in a sneaky way. The kind of person who waits until you’re relaxed before saying something so unexpected it catches you completely off guard.

Another rider starts getting ready behind the chutes.

I watch him adjust his grip before turning back to Annie. “Seriously, though. I think this might be my favorite environment on earth.”

“Because of the danger?”

“The adrenaline.”

“The cowboys?”

I cut her a look, and she doesn’t even pretend to be innocent.

A grin tugs at my mouth. “The cowboys certainly aren’t hurting the experience.”

“I knew it.”

She sounds entirely too pleased with herself.

Annie raises her camera and starts shooting photographs. The shutter clicks rapidly while she tracks a rider crossing the arena.

I end up watching Annie instead. Partly because the rodeo’s full of people trying very hard to be noticed, and partly because Annie has a talent for catching the ones who aren’t.

Through her lens, she tracks a ranch hand crouching beside a nervous kid, straightening a hat that’s two sizes too big. A young couple drifts past the concession stand with their fingers hooked together. One rider sits alone near the chutes, eyes shut, lips moving like he’s running through a prayer or a checklist before the gate swings open.

They’re the kinds of details most people never look twice at. Annie collects them anyway.

“What?” she asks, still peering through the viewfinder.

I shrug. “Just thinking.”

“That’s never a reassuring answer.”

A laugh slips out before I can stop it.

She lowers the camera enough to glance at me. “Well? Out with it.”

I hesitate, suddenly aware that what sounded reasonable in my head might come out strange. “You photograph people the way I write songs.”