Page 95 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

Willy wanders over with an apple in one hand and a pocketknife in the other. He circles the little fence like an art critic considering a masterpiece.

“Needs a sign.”

Before either of us can answer, he drops onto one knee and carves CINNAMON’S RANCH into a leftover plank with theatrical concentration. He nails it to the front of the fence, steps back to admire his work, and folds his arms.

“Beautiful. People will travel for miles.”

The sign leans so far sideways it looks one strong breeze away from giving up.

Emmett glances over from the fence and laughs. “Looks like it lost an argument with gravity.”

“That’s called rustic charm,” Willy replies. “Fancy people pay extra for it.”

“I like it,” Sadie says.

“I knew somebody around here had excellent taste.”

Red crosses the yard with a saddle resting against his hip. His eyes flick to the sign before he keeps walking. “Ugliest thing on the ranch.”

Sadie plants her hands on her hips. “Cinnamon likes it.”

“Then Cinnamon’s opinion outranks mine.”

She smiles so wide I think her cheeks might hurt.

Red tips two fingers against the brim of his hat toward the feed bucket before carrying on toward the barn.

I lean against the fence while Sadie tells Cinnamon all about her new home and watch the men move around the ranch. Willy somehow manages to keep a conversation going while he works, Emmett checks in whenever he passes by, and Red notices every gate left open and every tool lying where it shouldn’t.

I keep telling myself I’m borrowing this place for a little while.

The excuse doesn’t convince me nearly as much as it did yesterday.

By the time dinner’s over, Sadie is rubbing her eyes against Emmett’s shoulder while insisting Cinnamon isn’t tired yet. He scoops her into his arms anyway and promises they’ll visit the ranch again in the morning, earning a dramatic sigh before he carries her inside.

I smile as the screen door swings shut behind them, then tuck my hands into my jacket pockets and wander toward the practice arena.

A walk sounds like a better idea than climbing into my truck with my head full of Dusty Spur, and the fading light makes the pastures look peaceful enough that I almost believe today is finally over.

Movement near the tree line catches my eye, and I stop walking.

A man stands where the pasture gives way to the pines, facing Dusty Spur as though he’s taking in the view, except people admiring scenery don’t keep their attention fixed on the ranch house.

“Hey!”

His head whips toward me before he turns and disappears into the trees.

I break into a run without giving myself time to think.

My boots pound across the pasture as I cut through the grass and into the woods, branches dragging across my sleeves while flashes of dark clothing weave between the trunks ahead.

I chase him deeper until the sound of footsteps dies away, leaving me alone beneath the pines with my chest heaving from the sprint.

“Damn it.”

I sweep my gaze through the trees, searching for any sign of him, then pull out my phone and switch on the flashlight. The beam catches fresh boot prints pressed into the damp earth before they vanish across a stretch of rock, and a crushed cigarette butt lies beside the nearest print with the stale smell of tobacco still clinging to it.

I crouch beside it, brushing my fingertips across the edge of the footprint while my thoughts drift back to the burned trailer, Sheriff Miller’s questions, and the look that passed between Red and Willy this morning.