Song for a Cowboy Read online

  Thank you for downloading this Sourcebooks eBook!

  You are just one click away from…

  • Being the first to hear about author happenings

  • VIP deals and steals

  • Exclusive giveaways

  • Free bonus content

  • Early access to interactive activities

  • Sneak peeks at our newest titles

  Happy reading!

  CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2021 by Sasha Summers

  Cover and internal design © 2021 by Sourcebooks

  Cover design by Stephanie Gafron/Sourcebooks

  Cover photo by Stephen Carroll/Arcangel Images

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebooks.com

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Excerpt from Jace

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  Dedicated to my sister, Samantha!

  From her unwavering faith, generous heart, and absolute support

  to her ability to make me laugh—no matter what.

  You are a blessing! I love you, Sissy!

  Chapter 1

  “Open, dammit!” Emmy Lou pushed the button again, smacking the pink-and-white polka-dot umbrella against her thigh. It still wouldn’t open. The sky rumbled overhead.

  “Ooh, language, Emmy.” Her twin sister, Krystal, laughed. “Next you’ll be saying shit or ass or fu—”

  “No, I won’t.” Emmy spoke into the mic on the earbuds she had plugged into her left ear, her sister still laughing. “But this might be a little easier if I wasn’t FaceTiming you right now.” Umbrella in one hand, phone in the other, she started walking.

  Krystal held her phone closer, flipping her lower lip for a full-on pout. “But I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too,” Emmy said, blinking raindrops from her lashes. “Enough to walk through a parking lot, in the rain, with an umbrella that won’t open, and keep talking to you.” She kept pressing the button on the handle, but it didn’t help. Of course, the rain was falling faster now, big, pelting drops.

  “Where is Sawyer? Why isn’t our bulky, scowling bodyguard carrying a massive bulletproof umbrella over your head?” There was a hint of accusation in her sister’s voice.

  “Be nice to Sawyer.” Emmy wiped the rain from her eyes. “He is picking up Travis down the road—because our brother ran out of gas.” She sighed, clicking the button on her umbrella again. “And I’m getting soaked because this thing is broken. I should hang up.” Emmy laughed, peering at the stadium through the rain. Rain that was getting heavier and faster.

  “But you won’t.” Krystal leaned forward. “Then again…you are starting to look like a wet rat. Walk faster.”

  Emmy stuck her tongue out at her sister, her steps quickening. She was sort of jogging now, weaving around the parked cars.

  The squeal of brakes had her jumping a good ten feet in the air. A truck, going way too fast in a parking lot—in a torrential downpour—skidded to a stop mere inches from where she stood. It happened too fast for her to move. Too fast to do anything but curl in on herself, dropping her umbrella and holding her other hand, and phone, out to protect herself. Which, considering the vehicle was massive and she was not, didn’t make any sense but… it was instinctual. She braced herself on the truck hood, her knees knocking so hard there was a high likelihood she’d collapse onto the slick concrete at any moment.

  “Holy shit,” Krystal was saying, the phone now facedown on the hood. “Emmy! Emmy? Can you hear me? Are you okay? Answer me.”

  She could have been hit… Almost was. But wasn’t. Emmy flipped the phone over. “Here.” But she was gasping for breath. Her heart pumped madly, reaching what had to be the maximum beats per minute. “Fine.”

  She was vaguely aware of the truck’s driver’s-side door opening wide, followed by rapid footsteps splashing in newly formed puddles. But she was still grappling with the whole near-death experience and couldn’t process the arrival of her almost assailant.

  “Where is the driver? Are they getting out? Hold your phone up,” Krystal growled. “I want to see what this asshole has to say about nearly running you over.”

  “Are you okay?” said the mountain of a man heading her way.

  “I’m fine,” she answered, rubbing water from her eyes. Her hand shook. Her voice shook. But she was okay.

  “You didn’t see me coming?” he asked, stepping closer. “My truck?”

  “Seriously, Emmy Lou, hold up the phone,” Krystal snapped. “You couldn’t see her? In her bright-yellow-and-pink, daisy-covered raincoat. Because, honestly, she might as well be wrapped, head-to-toe, in reflective tape. Asshole.”

  “Krystal,” Emmy whispered into the mic hanging from her earpiece.

  “Hold up the phone. You might need a witness.” Krystal sighed. “Emmy Lou, I’m serious.”

  Emmy held up the phone, unable to stop trembling.

  The man came around the hood of the truck and stopped. His eyes widened and his mouth opened, but he didn’t say anything. Shock probably. Complete and total shock. Not just because he’d almost turned her into a smudge in the stadium parking lot, but because he was who he was and she was who she was and they were standing face-to-face…staring, at each other, in the rain…

  “Brock?” Krystal sounded just as stunned. “Is that Brock? Is that you?”

  No, there was no way that was possible. Emmy was not equipped for this. Not right now. Not in the least. She should be; it had been years. Years. This shouldn’t be a big deal. Seeing him, that is. Being almost run over by him—by anyone—was sort of a big deal.

  “Hey.” Brock nodded, barely glancing at Emmy’s phone and Krystal. His gaze was pinned on her.

  “I’m…” Her voice broke. She was what? “I…” No better. Just stop. Pull it together. This was silly. “Hi.” She forced a smile. “So…” She could do this. Talk. Breathe. In and out. Easier said than done. />
  His mouth opened, then closed and the muscle in his jaw clenched tight. The staring continued. He just stood there, rigid, wearing an odd expression on his face. A face that, all weirdness and near-death experiences aside, she knew well. All too well.

  Adrenaline was kicking in now. Enough to get her moving, anyway. And that’s exactly what she was going to do. Move. Away. The sooner the better. “Okay.” She hung up her phone, shoved it into her pocket, and started walking—do not run—toward the stadium door. No looking back. Just moving forward.

  Did she almost slip? Yes. Did she go down? No. Had she managed to save a shred of dignity? Probably not. She pulled the door wide, stopping just inside to scan the signs and arrows for the bathroom. Her phone started ringing. She didn’t have to look at it to know it was Krystal. She waited until she’d closed and locked the door on the family restroom before she answered.

  “Emmy?” Krystal asked. “Are you okay?”

  “I didn’t get hit—”

  “I know, I know but…it was Brock.”

  Yes. Brock. She shrugged out of her raincoat and sat in the chair placed next to the diaper-changing station. Her pulse was still way too fast, and her stomach was all twisted up. “I know.” Sitting wasn’t good. She stood, smoothing her pale blue blouse and staring down at her jeans. Her raincoat had left a perfect line midthigh. Above the line, slightly damp. Below the line, saturated. She wiggled her toes in her rainboots, water squishing.

  “This sucks.” Krystal cleared her throat. “I wish I were there.”

  “I do, too.” She stared at her reflection. “But I know what you’d do if you were here.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “You’d remind me that I already spent too many years and too many tears on him.” Which was true. Their breakup—rather, his sudden and complete disappearance from her life—had almost broken her. She’d cried until she was sick, and Krystal knew it, too. Krystal was the one who pushed her to get up, to keep going, every day. Krystal was the one who told her it was okay to be angry with him for deserting her without a word. And when Emmy Lou was more herself, Krystal had turned all the tears and sadness and anger into their double-platinum single “Your Loss.” “And you’d be right.”

  “True.” Krystal paused. “But after I was done telling you all that, I’d get up in his face and chew him out for almost running you over. And that’s just to start.”

  Emmy smiled, using toilet paper to dab away the smeared makeup from her eyes. “I’m sure you would.”

  “Then I’d tell him to stay the hell away from you,” she snapped. “Like away away from you. And I’d tell Sawyer to punch him in the face. Or the gut. Or wherever it would hurt the most. I’d leave it up to Sawyer to decide—he’d probably know.”

  Brock had made a habit of staying away from her, so that wouldn’t be a problem. Starting six years ago—when she’d still been sending letters to him, begging him to tell her why he was suddenly cutting her so completely out of his life. She covered her face with her hands, her stomach knotted and aching. Humiliating, pathetic letters. They should have been burned, not mailed.

  “Emmy Lou. Is there anything I can do?” Krystal sighed. “I mean, besides booking a flight home—which I will do as soon as we get off the phone—”

  “You will not.” She sighed. “You and Jace are coming home in a week, right? I’ll be more upset about you two cutting your vacation short than running into Brock.” Which was mostly true. “I’m not going to fall apart. I’m not. Okay, he’s here. Now I know. The chances of us running into each other again are slim. Promise me you won’t come home. Finish your vacation.”

  Krystal sighed. “Where is Daddy, anyway? Why isn’t he with you?”

  “He and Momma had a therapy session this morning—I didn’t want to get in the way of that. Besides, I had Sawyer. Well, until Travis called. I’m fine.” She tugged the band from her hair and twisted, wringing out the water. “You’re right. I do look like a drowned rat.”

  “Whatever. You’re you, Emmy. All you have to do is walk into a room and the clouds part and angels sing.”

  Emmy laughed. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

  “But you’re smiling now,” Krystal said. “And it’s true.” Krystal whispered something but the words were muffled. “Jace is here.” There was smile in her voice.

  “I’ll let you go, then.” Emmy put her bag on the counter. “Tell Jace I said hi, okay?”

  “He says hi. And he will so kick Brock’s ass if he needs to.” There was a pause. “No, you don’t know him… Yes, the football player… That Brock.” Another pause. “He said he would totally kick his ass.”

  Emmy shook her head, but she was smiling. “I’m pretty sure that won’t be necessary. But I appreciate the offer. Love you.”

  “You, too, sissy.” Krystal made a kiss sound. “Talk later.”

  “Okay.” She dug through her bag, pulling out her brush and makeup bag. Her momma would have a fit if she saw the state of her daughter. CiCi King was all about a woman looking her best—at all times. “Best might be pushing it.” But that didn’t stop her from attempting damage control.

  Besides, she needed to remember why she was here. Her sweet daddy had found a way to work on a cause she believed in without interfering with the Three Kings’ upcoming tour. She was the new face and voice of the American Football League. She’d sing their intro anthem, do some PR for the organization, and participate in a couple of the larger American Football League’s Drug Free Like Me events. The charity program raised funds for drug addiction prevention, treatment, and recovery programs as well as outreach education in schools and sports camps. Between her millions of fans and followers and the several millions more football devotees, this was her chance to do something that mattered.

  Little things like squishy socks, limp hair, or running into the boy—man—who’d crushed her hopes and dreams and heart didn’t really matter.

  * * *

  “Don’t you dare get water on my wood floors, Brock Nathaniel Watson.” Aunt Mo’s voice carried all the way down the hall from the kitchen.

  Brock stepped back outside the front door, tugged off his worn-to-perfection leather boots, and left them on the ranch house’s massive wraparound porch. His socks were just as saturated. With a sigh, he tugged them off and rolled up the cuffs of his jeans. The damn rain continued to pour down, thick sheets hammering the roof and ground with surprising force. A crack of thunder split the air and rolled across the grey-black sky.

  A flash of Emmy Lou, wide-eyed and shaking, with rain dripping off her nose and chin, rushed in on him. Again. He couldn’t shake it—shake her.

  She’d been scared stiff. For good damn reason. If his brakes had locked up? His truck had skidded? The crushing pressure against his chest had him sucking in a deep breath, his eyes narrowing as he peered out into the storm. She was okay. Shaken, sure.

  Hell, he was damn near in shock. She was the last person he’d expected to see. And this? Well, running her over wasn’t exactly the sort of reunion he’d imagined.

  Not that he’d spent much time thinking about her. That—she—was ancient history. Once the shock of losing her had worn off, anger had kicked in. He’d welcomed it—until it had all but consumed him. Then…that’s when he’d hit rock bottom. Pulling himself together had meant shutting out destructive tendencies. Emmy, and the slew of emotions and thoughts she stirred up in him, had fallen into that category. After he’d learned his triggers and boxed them up tight, he’d closed that damn lid and never opened it again.

  Until now… Well, this morning had been a surprise. More like a shock. A one-time fluke. Nothing more.

  Her band, Three Kings, was probably doing some concert or something. Football wasn’t the only thing that happened at the stadium, he knew that. But in the six years he’d been playing for the Houston Roughnecks, he’d never ru
n into a single performer.

  Of course, it would have to be Emmy.

  Then again, he was normally in Houston. But their stadium was in the middle of some multimillion-dollar renovation, so the team would be spending most of the season here in Austin. His hometown. Emmy Lou King’s hometown.

  “You coming in?” Aunt Mo’s voice jolted him back to the present.

  He stepped inside, pulling the door shut behind him.

  “Your shoes out front?” Aunt Mo called out, the steady beat of her footsteps coming down the hall. The moment she saw him, she shook her head. “Look at you, Brock. Did you swim here? Go on, find something dry to wear before you catch pneumonia.”

  “Not just worried about your floors after all?” He grinned.

  She rolled her eyes and offered up her cheek. “Don’t you give me any sass, young man. You give me a kiss and get yourself changed for lunch.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He kissed her cheek, headed down the hall to his old room, and closed the door behind him.

  “I made you some brisket to take home. And some meatloaf.” She was on the other side of his door. “I remember you said the boys liked my oatmeal cookies, so I made five dozen for you to share.”

  He tugged off his wet clothes, shaking his head. “I’ll take them to training, Aunt Mo.” She was always baking things for the team; it was her way of “making sure those boys had some old-fashioned cooking to remind them of home.” That was Aunt Mo. As soon as training, preseason, and games dates were posted, she knew. Her large print calendar was marked up with a rainbow of permanent marker ink. Aunt Mo never missed one of his games. She was a die-hard football fan. No, she was his fan, and it meant the world to him.

  “Good.” She paused. “And if there’s any left over, you can share with them Connie.”

  He didn’t have the heart to tell Aunt Mo his agent was a vegan. And a health fanatic. He’d only ever seen Connie eat salad. Without dressing.

  “Connie could use a cookie or two. She’s all skin and bones. You tell her to send Trish over here so I can teach her partner how to cook.”