Page 17 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

Daisy: Okay, that’s actually incredible.

Arizona: You’re a terrible sister.

Daisy: Did you sleep with somebody?

I stab a piece of bacon with unnecessary aggression.

Arizona: Maybe.

The response comes back quickly.

Daisy: ARIZONA MCCAY.

A woman at the next table glances over when I laugh.

Arizona: It happened once.

Daisy: Was he worth it?

I stare at the screen.

Then my traitorous brain supplies details I definitely didn’t ask for.

Green eyes. A crooked smile that showed up just often enough to keep me interested. Large hands. The rough scrape of his beard against my skin.

The way he looked at me outside The Silver Bit, like he was trying to figure out whether I was trouble or a mistake.

Possibly both.

Arizona: Unfortunately.

The rodeo grounds sit at the edge of town, tucked between rolling pastureland and a backdrop of mountains that seem to go on forever. I spend the afternoon wandering through them with my guitar slung across my back and no particular destination in mind.

Exploring a new place has always been my favorite way to get to know it. You can learn more from the things people build than the stories they tell.

The arena stretches out beneath the afternoon sun, all metal fencing, bucking chutes, and weathered grandstands. Even without a crowd, the place carries the fingerprints of the people who spend their lives here.

Dust clings to everything. So does the scent of horses and worn leather. Looking around, I can almost picture the stands packed with spectators and riders pacing behind the chutes waiting for their turn.

I stop near the fence and pull a notebook from my back pocket. A lyric has been nagging at me since breakfast. I’ve written half a dozen versions already, none of them quite right.

The song is trying to be about belonging, which is irritating because I don’t write songs about belonging. I write songs about leaving.

I scratch out another line, read it back, hate it, and draw a line through the whole thing.

That’s when somebody starts singing behind me.

Badly.

“Should’ve been a cowboy…”

I squeeze my eyes shut.

The performance somehow gets worse.

“Should’ve learned to rope and riiiiide…”

The note wobbles around like it’s searching for somewhere safe to land and never finds it.