“You coming to the dance, too?” Raylan asks Bo.

“I guess,” she says without much enthusiasm.

“Wish I could go,” Shelby says wistfully, resting her hand on her swollen belly.

“You could still come,” Bo says.

“Yeah, but I can’t dance, so what’s the point,” Shelby pouts.

“I’ll swing you around,” Grady says, grinning and slinging a heavy arm around her shoulders. “Who knows, might make the baby come faster.”

“That’s true,” Shelby says, perking up a little.

“Go on,” Celia urges. “I’ll put the boys to bed.”

We all coordinate in clearing the table, rinsing the dishes and loading them into the dishwasher. I participate in this as if I’ve done it a hundred times before. Nobody leaves the kitchen until the last crumb is wiped off the table. It’s clear that in the Boone family, everyone works together until the job is done. No matter how small that job might be.

Then Raylan, Grady, Shelby, Bo, and me all load into a beat-up Ford truck so we can drive to the dance.

It takes us longer than I expected to get there. I forget that everything is spread so far apart in the country. The Wagon Wheel is almost forty miles away, and that’s forty miles over winding bumpy roads where you can’t travel at nearly the same speed you would on a freeway.

I’m not sure what I thought The Wagon Wheel would look like—I guess I was picturing some pokey little rec center, with a handful of hicks in attendance.

Instead, I see a large historic building, strung with lights and already bumping from the music inside. The lot is packed with trucks of all types, from gleaming Platinum models, all the way down to rusted-up Chevys that look held together with twine.

“I didn’t think that many people lived around here,” I say in surprise.

“The dances are popular,” Raylan says. “People come from all over.”

He leads me inside the building.

The dance floor is packed with people, as is the entirety of the room. It’s a good twenty degrees hotter in here than it is outside. It smells like leather, sweat, liquor, and cigar smoke. Up on stage, a five-piece band plays at full volume. I have no idea what song they’re performing, but it’s loud, upbeat, and raucous. There’s a fiddle and a banjo mixed in with the usual bass, guitar, and drums.

I hadn’t planned to dance. For one thing, I don’t really know how. Not to country music, at least. And I’m not sure if I can look Raylan in the face after what we did this morning.

Still, I find my foot tapping to the swinging beat.

Dirt On My Boots – Jon Pardi (Spotify)

Dirt On My Boots – Jon Pardi (Apple)

“You want a drink?” Raylan asks me.

“Sure,” I say.

I watch Raylan head over to one of the beer stands. It’s hard for him to push his way through the crowd—partly because it’s so packed in here, and partly because he keeps bumping into people he recognizes, who want to slap him on the shoulder and ask what the hell he’s been doing the last few years. I see more than a few women greet him with particular friendliness. I feel a hot flush on my cheeks as a pretty brunette gives his arm a squeeze and tries to keep him talking as long as possible. Raylan is cordial, but he keeps moving.