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of Goldilocks again. Troy would be baby bear despite his age. He was almost thirty, but he barely came up to her shoulder. He was sweet as a bear cub and just as affectionate. His simple, unsophisticated sense of right and wrong had always warmed her heart, and his all-out, unabashed affection made her feel at home for the first time since she’d rolled into town. “I kep’ it nice for you,” he said. “I knew you’d come back. You said. You promised.”
    Well, at least someone counted on her to keep her promises.
    â€œBut how did you get in?” she asked.
    Sheepishly, Troy dug a key out of his hip pocket. “I saw you get the key out of the gutter once. I-I took it.” He stared down at the floor and squeezed his eyes shut, hunching his shoulders. “Sorry.” He looked up at her with a tentative smile. “You staying, Jodi?”
    â€œI hope so.” Jodi gave him a final squeeze before she stepped away. “I really hope so.” She sighed. “Come on. Let’s get you back home.”
    They went outside and loaded Troy’s 3-speed Schwinn into the back of Jodi’s truck.
    â€œThere you go, Bessie,” Troy said, giving the bike’s handlebars a pat. “You sit tight.”
    Jodi smiled. Bessie was a girl’s bike, a pawn shop cast-off Troy had been riding when she’d left for college. She wondered why Teague hadn’t replaced it if he was as prosperous as he said.
    They piled into the truck, then cruised down the driveway and turned right, passing Cissy’s trailer.
    â€œTurn left past the trailer,” Troy said.
    Jodi bounced the truck down a gravel-strewn road that hadn’t been there six years earlier. The sound of pebbles pinging off the Ranger’s undercarriage was the sound of home. Back in Pennsylvania where she’d gone to school, it seemed like the whole world had been paved.
    The road curved and they spooked a herd of pronghorns that dashed away with a springy, bouncing lilt. She’d forgotten how big Wyoming’s antelope were, how exotic. Natives laughed at how excited tourists got at the sight of a few ’lopes, but after six years away, Jodi could sense the thrill of it as strongly as any newcomer.
    The Treadwell’s land fanned out in front of her, stretching from the back of the trailer to a distant tree line. The ground was hard and dry, dotted with sagebrush and stones but rich enough to support a fair amount of grass. Her father had always said the Treadwells were wasting a fine piece of property. A seasonal stream wound through the acreage, disappearing in summer but rising in fall and spring when the mountain snowmelt fed the flats. A few trees grew on either side of the dry creek bed—cottonwoods, twisted and tortured by the land that nearly starved them, but still providing shade that would shelter a herd of cattle from the summer sun. Before, only Teague’s swaybacked paint and a few motley Hereford crosses had enjoyed the cool haven. Now, a sizable herd of cattle dozed in the shade. They were black, with wide horns and slender, muscular bodies.
    â€œWhat are those? Corrientes?”
    Troy nodded. “We run about a hundred of ’em.”
    Jodi watched as a calf wandered over to its mother and nudged her side, looking to nurse. Corrientes were small Mexican cattle, bred for rodeo. They were quick, nimble, and athletic—perfect for roping and wrestling.
    They passed the ramshackle old house generations of Treadwells had occupied before Teague’s dad gave up on it and hauled in the trailer. The old place had tilted in the direction of the prevailing winds, and looked like a strong blast would knock it to pieces.
    Next came the big Treadwell barn where Teague and Jodi had spent so many hours messing with horses, doing chores, and just talking. Back before she started on the queen circuit, Teague had always wanted to do something more than talk, but Jodi had been wary