Page 1 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

CHAPTER ONE

Arizona

The second I pass the faded wooden sign welcoming me to Colter Creek, I get a bad feeling.

Not the kind that makes me check the rearview mirror or lock my doors. The kind that sneaks up on people like me and convinces them to unpack their bags.

Towns like this are dangerous because they make staying look easy.

I’ve spent years making sure easy never becomes an option.

My truck rattles down Main Street, tires kicking dust across sun-bleached storefronts. Mountains stretch across the horizon, dark against the bright afternoon sky, while pine trees crowd the edges of town as if they’re trying to keep the whole place tucked away from the rest of the world.

The scent of warm dirt, wood smoke, leather, and summer hangs in the open window. Somewhere nearby, country music spills from a speaker that’s seen better days.

A pair of cowboys stand outside a feed store arguing over something important enough to make them wave their arms about but not important enough to make them stop laughing.

A woman carrying a pie pauses on the sidewalk and stares directly at me through the windshield without the slightest bit of embarrassment. Two kids tear past on bicycles, nearly colliding with a dog hanging out in the bed of a pickup parked beside the diner.

Everyone looks connected, like they’ve spent years collecting inside jokes and shared history.

Then there’s me.

Arizona McCay.

Professional runaway with a guitar and commitment issues.

I glance at the passenger seat where everything I own is wedged beside my guitar case. A duffel bag containing some clothes and enough cash to keep moving. The usual.

That’s how I like it.

New towns means new songs and stories. Then I leave before anybody starts expecting me to stay.

The Silver Bit Tavern sits near the end of the street beneath a flickering horseshoe-shaped neon sign. Rodeo posters cover the windows so completely that only scraps of glass peek through.

Every available surface advertises live music, whiskey specials, ranch rodeos, and upcoming events involving livestock that probably weigh more than my truck.

I can’t help smiling.

This place looks exactly like the kind of trouble I enjoy.

I pull into a parking spot near the entrance and cut the engine. The truck groans in relief.

A burst of laughter explodes through the tavern doors as a man stumbles outside carrying a metal beer bucket, saving me from sitting there too long, overthinking my life choices.

The smell of beer, cigarette smoke, and grilled meat drifts across the lot.

Yeah, I can work with this.

I grab my guitar, sling the strap over my shoulder, and climb out.

Heads turn almost immediately. I’m used to it.

Maybe it’s the hair or the fringed jacket. Perhaps it’s because I look less like a country singer and more like somebody who got lost on her way to a photoshoot in the 1970s.

An older cowboy sitting in a rocking chair outside the entrance tips his hat when I walk past. “Afternoon, sweetheart.”

I flash him a grin. “Careful. You don’t know me well enough to be using cutesy nicknames.”