Page 43 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

But Emmett doesn’t feel fake. He feels comfortable, and that realization is a little unsettling.

Comfort is how people end up putting down roots, and how a temporary stop turns into a reason to stay. Something I’m never looking for.

The song I’m working on still isn’t cooperating, which feels like a much safer problem.

Usually lyrics arrive in pieces. A line here and a chorus there. Sometimes an entire verse crashes into my brain while I’m standing in line for coffee and I have to write it on the nearest available surface before it disappears.

Today, apparently, inspiration has decided to be difficult.

I stare down at my notebook. Half the page is covered in lyrics. The other half is buried beneath aggressive scribbles and arrows pointing in directions that no longer make sense.

The whole thing looks less like songwriting and more like evidence from a criminal investigation. “You always do that?”

I glance up to find Emmett leaning against the counter with a coffee mug in one hand. “Do what?”

He nods toward my notebook. “Look like you’re trying to win a fistfight with a piece of paper.”

I laugh and look back down at the mess. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“I thought songwriters were supposed to be artistic and mysterious.”

“That’s the public image. The reality is mostly caffeine and bad handwriting.”

His smile tugs a laugh out of me. “Seriously, though. How do you even read that?”

“Practice.”

I flip through a few pages and show him a song I finished last year.

The handwriting isn’t any better.

Emmett studies it for a second before shaking his head. “That looks like a doctor wrote it while riding a horse.”

“That’s one of my neater drafts.”

“Now I’m concerned.”

Sadie occasionally announces important updates about her dragon population, while Emmett starts working on lunch. I go back to wrestling with lyrics and mostly losing.

It’s nice.

Nobody expects anything from me here. Nobody’s requesting songs or trying to figure out where I’m headed next. I’m just sitting at a kitchen table while a little girl colors dragons and her dad makes sandwiches.

At some point, I catch myself watching Emmett. He’s standing at the counter slicing tomatoes, listening with surprising seriousness while Sadie explains an elaborate argument between Princess the horse and Rover the dragon.

Most adults would’ve tuned the story out three minutes ago, but Emmett asks follow-up questions.

The man is either an incredible father or completely insane.

Possibly both.

My chest tightens unexpectedly. I don’t want to be caught staring at him, so I dart my eyes around the room.

Everywhere I look, there are pieces of people’s lives tucked into corners. Framed family photos line the hallway. Sadie’s drawings cover half the refrigerator.

Out the kitchen window, I can see old tire swings hanging from a tree and a picnic table that’s probably hosted years of dinners, arguments, birthdays, and celebrations.

My entire life fits inside a truck parked outside.