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audience, but she would make him sit in the same spot with her for more than two and a half minutes.
    From Walker’s expression as he entered the back room of the box office building for the meeting—the last to arrive, naturally—that would constitute punishment.
    Barely sparing Walker a glance, she couldn’t help identifying his scent, a mix of morning-cool sunshine, dewed sage, warmed animal and well-worn leather; he’d already put in time in the saddle.
    She was staying at the Jeffries ranch just west of town; he hadn’t been there this morning. So where did he ride? It didn’t matter. She didn’t care. He could ride where he wanted. He could sleep where he wanted. If he spent every night in his Spartan camper, it wasn’t any concern of hers; he’d probably done it often enough these past years.
    And if he’d found somewhere—or someone—more accommodating, that wasn’t any concern of hers, either. That, too, had surely happened often enough in ten years. Blond barrel racers were not an endangered species, last time she’d heard.
    Coat, following at Walker’s heels, split off to greet her with a wildly waving tail and an insistent nose requesting a good petting. She complied.
    “Walker, if you’ll take a seat.” She pointed to the only one unoccupied. She’d sat at the head of the table from habit. Then, as the others left the facing chair at the end of the table empty, as if in silent testimony to a connection between her and Walker, she’d contemplated the danger of habits.
    “We were about to hear from Tina with the season attendance figures.” Kalli leaned forward, balancing a pencil in a deceptively loose grip. “Go ahead, Tina.”
    As Walker dropped into his customary half sprawl in the chair, she gave the head of the ticket office an encouraging nod. In a soft voice Kalli had already learned belied absolute reliability, Tina recited the numbers.
    Declining numbers.
    “The pattern’s clear,” Kalli said into the silence that followed Tina’s summary.
    “It’s natural.” Walker didn’t actually contradict her, but that’s how it felt. “Folks aren’t sure how it’ll go without Jeff running the show. When they see we’re running it just like Jeff, business will pick up.”
    “That’ll be too late.” She thumped the pencil eraser on the table. “This rodeo has an eighty-two-performance season. Eighty-two. It’s held eleven. That leaves seventy-one. Even with a solid base, we can’t afford to ride out a lull. There’s not enough time to make up lost ground.”
    Walker didn’t answer, didn’t shift position, didn’t look up.
    Intent on Walker, she started at Tom Nathan’s voice. “Kalli’s right. If you lose the town’s confidence, you won’t have time this season to get it back. And next season, they’ll be looking for someone they do have confidence in.
    “But Baldwin Jeffries—”
    Tom cut across Gulch’s protest. “Jeff would be the first to understand. He knows what the rodeo means to this town, and he knows how much of the rodeo’s success relies on giving people what they expect year after year.”
    “Or better than they expect,” said Kalli. “That’s what we have to aim for. To make this season so good that the rodeo committee would be fools not to recontract with Jeff.”
    She thought—hoped—she saw an answering spark in the eyes of the others around the table. With one exception.
    “And the first step is to get ticket sales up,” she added.
    “Any ideas?”
    She listened to suggestions batted around the table, jotting down additional ticket outlets, ways to promote in surrounding towns and an open house for area residents.
    “These ideas are good. And I think you’re right, Roberta, about not waiting for the open house to make contact with the merchants and rodeo committee members. Take a look at the possibility of holding some lunches, then let me know.
    “I hope you’ll all keep thinking of ways to raise attendance, and pass them on.