Page 111 of Josephine and Clay

“Yes, but the cookies balance it out.”

I exhale.

Music. Bad dancing. Cookies.

One hour.

I can do one hour.

The rodeo grounds look different strung with lights.

I’ve only been here in passing, during daylight, when the arena is all dust and weathered boards and empty bleachers. Tonight, it shines.

Warm bulbs hang from rafters and fence posts, casting golden light over the open-sided barn where half of Buckhorn seems to have gathered. Hay bales line the edges with plaid blankets tossed over them. A fiddle band plays near one end, bright and quick, while couples move across the makeshift dance floor in boots and denim and summer dresses.

It smells like dust, grilled meat, lemonade, beer, and something sweet I suspect came from Buttercup Bakery. Penny links her arm through mine before I can retreat. “See? Festive.”

“Loud,” I mutter.

Penny grins wider. “Festive and loud.”

Mayor Ruth Caldwell sweeps past with a clipboard, directing two teenagers carrying a tub of ice. Earl Haskins’s booming laugh rolls over the music from somewhere near the announcer’s stand. I spot Clara Jenkins at a dessert table, arranging pies like she’s staging a culinary ambush.

Buckhorn does community with terrifying efficiency.

“Penny!” Clara calls, waving us over. “And Dr. Wright! Come here, both of you.”

“Oh good,” I murmur. “Immediate socializing.”

Penny pats my arm. “Bravery.”

Clara’s smile is warm and sharp-eyed. “Don’t you look pretty, honey.”

I resist the urge to tug at my dress. “Thank you.”

“You need pie.”

“I’m okay.”

“Nonsense. Everyone needs pie.” Her gaze flicks over me, assessing in that way older women in small towns have, as though they can identify emotional distress by posture alone. “You look a little pale.”

Penny steps smoothly in. “Long day at the clinic.”

“Animals never do schedule their emergencies politely,” Clara says, cutting a small slice of apple pie and placing it on a napkin. “Here. Just a bite.”

I take it because refusing feels like work. The first bite is warm, sweet, and cinnamon-heavy. My stomach considers rebelling, then decides to allow it.

“Good?” Penny asks.

“Annoyingly.”

Clara beams. “That’s what I like to hear.”

We drift away before Clara can decide I need feeding more aggressively. Penny finds us lemonade, and I take small, careful sips while scanning the crowd despite myself.

I don’t see Clay.

I shouldn’t be looking.