My mother has a picture of me as a little girl, smiling into the camera on the back of a pony. With my hair cascading in ringlets beneath a cowgirl hat, freckles sprinkled across my nose, a missing front tooth, and my six-shooter by my side, I was ready at seven to take on the Wild West. In reality, an out-of-work photographer had taken a pony, cowboy hat, bandana, and toy guns around our neighborhood, looking to make a buck. Fast forward a couple of years, and you’d find me on a typical Sunday afternoon parked with my father in front of the television. I treasured our shared passion for vintage westerns, never noticing such flaws as poor acting, overblown plots, or camera angles that gave away feinted punches. Born in California’s Big Valley, land of the Barclays, I am a daughter of the American West. I have a vivid memory of walking home from high school in a dust storm with tumbleweeds blowing across the road. I’d grown up steeped in western mythos, but the grit I washed from my hair that day wasn’t so romantic. A fascination with the Oregon Trail took hold of me as an adult,…