Page 69 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

My fingers stay wrapped around my beer while my mind tears through old memories, fitting her description over faces I haven’t thought about in years.

Across the table, Arizona watches me with growing confusion, waiting for someone to explain why the conversation died the second she spoke.

Riley keeps talking to a customer somewhere behind me, and somebody curses over a missed pool shot, but the noise barely reaches me anymore.

“Red?” Arizona asks, and she looks like she’s said my name a couple times already. “I said no, I don’t think he spotted me.”

I rub a hand over my beard. “Good.”

Her eyes narrow. “‘Good’ isn’t an answer.”

Across from me, Willy lets out a breath and tips his beer back. “Unfortunately,” he says, “I think it kinda is.”

I shoot him a look.

He lifts one shoulder. “You’re gonna tell her eventually.”

He’s right. Doesn’t mean I have to enjoy it.

I set my bottle down on the table and look back at Arizona. “His name’s Travis Mercer.”

The name means absolutely nothing to her. I can see that.

Emmett, on the other hand, grimaces. “Mercer’s back?”

“Looks that way.”

The words leave a bad taste in my mouth.

Even Sadie seems to catch on that the adults have wandered into territory she isn’t supposed to hear. She pauses halfway through stealing fries from Emmett’s plate and looks between all of us.

“Who’s Travis?”

Emmett answers before I can. “Nobody you need to worry about, peanut.”

“Why not? You look worried.”

“See?” Willy says. “This is what happens when you raise smart children.”

At that moment, Riley appears carrying another basket of fries. “Emergency potato delivery.”

Sadie abandons us for the far more important issue of ketchup acquisition.

Good. Some conversations don’t belong around five-year-olds.

Arizona waits until Sadie’s distracted before turning back to me. “Okay, who is he?”

I stare at the condensation running down my beer bottle.

I’ve always known this story would come back eventually. Small towns never truly let things die. They just pack them away until somebody opens the wrong drawer.

“Years ago, Travis and I rode the same circuit.”

Arizona nods, encouraging me to continue.

“He was good.” The admission comes easier than expected because it happens to be true. “One of the best bronc riders I’d ever seen.”

Willy nods. “He was a pain in the ass about it, too.”