Page 65 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

The man in the stands never takes his eyes off him.

A knot tightens in my stomach.

Maybe they’re old friends. Maybe they worked together years ago. Maybe the guy recognizes him from somewhere and is trying to place the face.

The explanation should be enough.

Instead, I keep watching.

It’s hard to explain exactly what’s wrong. The man isn’t glaring or angry. If anything, his expression barely changes at all.

Yet the longer I study him, the more convinced I become that this isn’t the look of someone happy to see an old acquaintance.

It feels personal.

The kind of stare people wear when they’re sorting through memories they’d rather not revisit.

A rider gets launched from the chute, and the crowd erupts around me. My attention breaks long enough to follow the action across the dirt.

By the time the ride ends, my eyes drift back toward the stands almost automatically.

The man hasn’t moved.

He isn’t watching the broncs. He isn’t watching the riders.

His entire focus remains locked on Red.

A prickle works its way up the back of my neck, and I nudge Annie with my elbow.

She answers with a distracted “Hm?” while adjusting a setting on her camera. Her attention stays split between the arena and whatever she’s framing through the lens.

I tip my chin toward the opposite side of the stands. “See the guy in the baseball cap?”

That gets her to look up. The camera settles against her chest as she follows my gaze through the crowd. “The guy with the beard?”

“Yeah.”

She studies him for a few seconds. “What about him?”

I wish I had a better answer. “I don’t know. He’s been watching Red the whole time.”

Annie keeps looking. Longer than I expected, actually. Long enough that I start wondering if she’s noticed the same thing that’s been bothering me.

Then she leans back in her seat. “He looks exactly like a man who owns six pocketknives and has strong opinions about weather.”

I stare at her. “That’s your analysis?”

“You wanted analysis.”

“I wanted helpful analysis.”

She shrugs. “I’m a photographer, not a federal agency.”

A laugh escapes before I can stop it.

Annie glances back toward the man. “I will say this, though. He looks like he’d tell a story that starts with, ‘Now legally speaking, this was a mistake.’”

“You got all that from looking at him?”