Page 4 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

“I own the bar.”

“That explains the lack of management.”

A nearby table erupts with laughter.

I find myself smiling, too, as I hold out my hand. “Arizona.”

His gaze drops to my hand before returning to my face. When his hand closes around mine, warmth shoots straight up my arm.

Ridiculous.

It’s a handshake. People survive those every day.

“Red,” he says.

“Red,” I repeat. “Like the color?”

One side of his mouth lifts. “Depends who’s asking.”

Riley points toward him. “See? This is why talking to him is exhausting.”

I laugh.

Red finally releases my hand, though not before I notice he’s looking at me with the same curiosity I’ve been getting from everyone else in town. The difference is that his attention feels focused instead of casual.

“Nice to meet you, Red,” I say. “Should I assume you’re the sheriff?”

His expression barely changes. “No.”

“Mayor?”

“Absolutely not.”

I pretend to consider him. “Wealthy cattle baron hiding from society?”

“I drive a truck with two hundred thousand miles on it.”

“Outlaw, then.”

That earns an actual laugh. “I’m a rancher.”

Riley chokes on his own drink.

I raise an eyebrow. “That bad, huh?”

“That’s like saying Yellowstone is a decent camping spot,” Riley says. “Technically true. Missing a lot of information.”

Red levels a look at him.

Riley raises both hands. “Fine. I’ll stop helping.”

“You’ve never helped a day in your life.”

Watching them together, I get the feeling this argument didn’t start today and probably won’t end anytime this decade.

Riley talks the way people breathe, constantly and without permission. Red barely says anything at all, which somehow makes Riley work twice as hard.

“You know,” Riley says, pointing a bottle opener at me, “I’ve spent years trying to improve this man’s personality. Not a single thank-you card.”