The brawl spreads outward like a virus. Within seconds, it seems like everyone is fighting, and I can’t tell if there’s teams or sides, or just a whole lot of people taking the opportunity to release their aggression on whoever’s standing next to them.

Somebody grabs my arm, but it’s only Shelby pulling me toward the door, her arm cradled protectively around her belly.

“Come on!” she shouts.

“What about Bo?“

“Raylan’ll bring her,” Shelby pants.

She pulls me outside to the porch, which is already crowded with the dancers who likewise wanted to flee the brawl. Some people are laughing and peeking in the windows, commenting on the riot within. Others are heading to their cars, obviously feeling like they had enough fun for one night.

I hear the wail of a single siren, distant but distinct. Somebody called the cops, though I don’t know how a single sheriff is going to break up this mess.

Raylan comes barreling through the doorway, half-carrying and half-dragging Bo along. Grady is right behind him. Together they frog-march their sister back to the truck. Raylan’s lip is swollen, and Grady has the beginning of an impressive black eye. But both are grinning.

“You said you weren’t going to fight tonight!” Shelby says, slapping her husband’s arm furiously. He seems to feel it about as much as a moose feels a mosquito. Still, he pretends to be cowed.

“I didn’t start that!” he says. “Duke did.”

Bo looks mildly guilty. She knows that if anybody started the fight, it was her. But she doesn’t pipe up, and I’m not going to rat her out.

Once Raylan has stuffed Bo in the backseat, he grabs my shoulders and looks me over.

“Are you okay?” he says.

“Yeah, of course. I’m fine,” I assure him.

“Alright. Just making sure you didn’t get hit by any stray shrapnel,” he says. “You know . . . solo cups. Tobacco juice. Cowboy sweat.”

I smile, despite myself.

“No,” I say. “Nothing like that.”

“Thank god,” Raylan says. “You get a drop of cowboy sweat on you, and you’re never getting that smell out.”

“You’re a cowboy,” I say, low enough that nobody else will hear. “And I’m pretty sure I’ve gotten your sweat on me . . . ”

Raylan grins. “That’s different . . . ”

“So how’d you like your first country dance?” Shelby calls up to me from the backseat.

“It was . . . pretty fun,” I admit.

“You got the full experience,” Grady says. “No good dance ends without a brawl.”

“There’s plenty of good dances without any fighting!” Shelby cries.

“Name one,” Grady says.

Shelby bites her lip, obviously at a loss for an immediate answer.

“Carrie’s wedding!” she blurts.

“Uh uh. Jonny White beat the shit out of Carl Oakton halfway through the reception. Right before they cut the cake.”

I can see Shelby scowling in the rear-view mirror, but she can’t seem to think of any other examples to prove her assertion.