Arthur stood on the porch, arms crossed, hatless, and utterly bewildered. His youngest, no older than four, had stolen his hat and was chasing the poor ranch dog, twirling a piece of rope in the air like roping cattle. The dog looked more embarrassed than scared.

Meanwhile, his older -barely six- was crouched by the fence, pew pewing the scarecrow in the field with a crudely made bow. The arrows barely flew, most of them falling harmlessly to the dirt a few feet away, but the kid’s determination could rival any gunslinger’s.

Arthur rubbed his temples. Part of him wanted to scold them, to stop this nonsense and remind them that their life wasn’t like that anymore.

He was supposed to be a daddy, not raising the next gang of outlaws. He’d left those days behind, or at least tried to. But another part of him, a dangerous, stubborn part, couldn’t help but feel a little swell of pride.

“That’s not how you lasso,” he muttered to himself, already walking toward the commotion. “And for the love of... no, no, you’re holdin’ the bow wrong. Here, lemme show ya—”

Then he caught sight of you leaning by the barn, watching the chaos. The kids were wild, the scarecrow was riddled with imaginary bullets, and the dog had probably earned a lifetime of treats for its patience. Arthur sighed, tipping the brim of his phantom hat to you.

“Nope,” he said, shaking his head. “Nope, we don’t do this anymore.” But as he scooped up his little cowboy and retrieved his hat, he couldn’t stop the grin spreading across his face.

Maybe they’d be different. Maybe his kids would have a better life. But still something in him liked seeing just a little bit of the cowboy in them, too.