Hello, I'm Bruce Jahn, and I'd like to share a part of my life with you — the story of our band, Cowboy Cadence.

The name may sound simple, but it carries a lot of meaning. It comes from a time when we were living and working as cowboys and cowgirls on ranches out West. Music wasn't just something we did — it was part of how we lived. Over time, the band became more than a project. It became a family, built through long days, shared work, and a deep connection that grew with every rehearsal and performance.

From 1985 to 1995, those years shaped me in ways I never expected. It wasn't just about the songs. It was about the people and the feeling of creating something real together. I'm grateful for the time I spent with three incredible individuals: Bill Fortescue, his wife Sally, and my fiancée, Kelly Trevelyan.

We met out on open land where life moved at a steady pace. Ranch work filled our days — early mornings, long rides, the sound of hooves on dirt, and the wind stretching across wide fields. There was a natural rhythm to that life. It was quiet, steady, and grounding. Without trying, that rhythm found its way into our music.

We were all in our twenties then, ready to leave behind the noise of city life for something simpler. We settled in different parts of rural New Mexico, where the landscape became our inspiration. The silence made space for melodies to rise naturally. Everything we created came from that environment — honest and unfiltered.

We recorded wherever we could — small rooms, makeshift studios, sometimes even outside. We handled everything ourselves. No big production, no outside direction. Just us, our instruments, and the stories we wanted to tell.

Each of us brought something different to the band. Bill grew up in Elkins, West Virginia, surrounded by bluegrass and mountain music. His sense of melody and storytelling ran deep. Sally came from Asheville, North Carolina, where gospel, country, and folk shaped her voice and songwriting. Kelly was raised in Laredo, Texas, and carried a warmth in her voice that felt like home itself.

One memory that stays with me is performing at the Albuquerque Folk Festival after finishing our song Desert Heart. It was a warm night, and as we played, everything just clicked. I remember looking out and seeing people truly listening — some quietly emotional, others swaying with the rhythm. The applause wasn't loud, but it was genuine. That moment meant more than anything.

Another time, at the Santa Fe Plaza Bandstand, we played Skyline Serenade. When we reached the chorus, the crowd responded instantly — clapping, cheering, connecting with the music. Afterward, an older woman told us the song brought back memories of her childhood on a ranch. That's when I realized how deeply music can reach into someone's life.

At the Old Town Arts Festival, Kelly performed Long Road Home. She was nervous at first, but once she began, the crowd fell silent. Afterward, people came up to share their own stories. Those moments — that connection — were the reason we played.

Not every memory is easy to carry.

In 1995, Kelly and I were preparing to get married. We planned a small, personal ceremony surrounded by family and friends — nothing extravagant, just something that felt true to who we were. Every detail mattered to us, not because it had to be perfect, but because it was ours. We talked about the music we'd play, the people we'd invite, and the simple moments we wanted to share.

She dreamed about continuing our life together — making music, traveling from one small town to the next, playing wherever people would listen. She talked about long drives with the windows down, guitars in the back seat, and songs coming together somewhere between one horizon and the next. She believed in building something lasting — not just a life, but a story we could carry with us wherever we went.

There was a calm certainty in the way she saw the future. Not rushed, not complicated — just steady, like the rhythm we had found in our music and in each other. We didn't need much. Just time, a few good songs, and the freedom to follow where the road led. Looking back, those days felt full of possibility. Like everything we had worked for was finally beginning to take shape.

Then everything changed.

On a stormy night, Bill, Sally, and Kelly were driving back from a performance when their vehicle collided with a tractor-trailer. The rain had been coming down hard, the kind that blurs the road and swallows the distance ahead. Somewhere along that stretch of highway, everything changed in an instant.

They didn't survive.

There's no easy way to explain what that kind of loss feels like. One moment, they were out there doing what they loved — playing music, sharing something real with people — and the next, they were gone. No goodbyes. No last words. Just silence where there had always been sound.

I remember the stillness that followed more than anything. The kind that settles in and doesn't leave. It wasn't just the absence of their voices or their instruments — it was the absence of who they were. Bill's steady presence, Sally's warmth, Kelly's light… all of it, suddenly out of reach.

For a long time, it didn't feel real. It still doesn't, some days.

There were years when I couldn't bring myself to listen to the recordings we made. The tapes sat untouched, stored away like something fragile — like if I left them alone, I could somehow hold on to what we had a little longer. Every song carried their voices, their laughter, their presence. And hearing that… it was both a comfort and a kind of pain I didn't know how to face.

So I waited. Not because the music didn't matter, but because it mattered too much.

Time has a way of changing how you carry things. The weight never really leaves, but it shifts. What once felt unbearable slowly becomes something you learn to live beside. And somewhere along the way, I realized that keeping our music hidden wasn't honoring what we had — it was keeping it from doing what it was always meant to do.

We didn't make those songs to sit in silence.

We made them to be heard. To be shared. To reach people the way they once did on those small stages, under open skies, in rooms where strangers became connected for a few minutes at a time.

Releasing the music wasn't about moving on. It was about holding on — in the only way that still felt true.

It was about letting their voices carry beyond that night… beyond 1995… into something that could keep living.

So after all these years, I made the decision to finally share what we created. Not for recognition. Not for anything like that. But because those songs still have something to give. Because they still carry pieces of Bill, Sally, and Kelly — pieces of who we were together, a family.

And maybe, just maybe, they'll find their way into someone else's life the way they once did into ours.

That road, that night, became something I carry with me. Not just the loss, but the weight of everything we had built together — and everything that would never get the chance to be.

That night ended Cowboy Cadence.

The silence that followed is hard to put into words. But what remains is what we created together. Those songs hold our lives, our friendships, and the spirit of the people I lost. When I look back now, I understand it was never just about music or the land. It was about the stories — of love, loss, hope, and connection. The kind that stay with you long after the last note fades.

I still picture us sometimes — Bill tuning his guitar, Sally's fiddle drifting in, Kelly's voice steady and warm, and me keeping time in the background or singing. We didn't need much. Just each other and the music. Even now, I feel them in quiet moments — in the land, in the sky, in the songs that still linger. What we made didn't disappear. It simply moved on and found new places to live.

Maybe even with you.

If our music ever helped you feel something — even for a moment — then it meant something. That's all we ever wanted. And if you've ever felt the urge to create — to write, sing, or tell your story — I hope you do. Whether you follow our path or your own, just let it out. Every voice adds to something bigger.

Thank you for listening, and for sharing a part of this journey.

Keep the music going. Keep the stories alive.

That's all I could ever ask.