Song for a Cowboy Page 10

  It wasn’t uncommon for there to be a few fans waiting outside—football fans. But there were more than a few fans today. Word must have leaked on the commercial shoot because most of the folk gathered outside held Three Kings posters and were calling for Emmy Lou. He couldn’t get away from her.

  “Brock.” Hank King. “You got a quick second?”

  He’d never been so ready to leave a place in all his life. Right now, the promise of sitting on the wide porch of his childhood home, to breathe the clean air and soak up the silence of the countryside, was the only thing keeping him steady. “Sure,” he managed. He was pretty sure his expression said the exact opposite.

  From Hank’s chuckle, he guessed right. “Won’t take long. Your guitar.” Hank waved him over. “Emmy reminded me. Figured you’d want it back, since you’ve held on to it this long.” Hank King didn’t bother looking his way; he’d made his point.

  He followed Hank back into the stadium without saying a word. From this angle, higher in the stands, the production value was more obvious. A small army of cameras, lights on top of lights, wheels of cords, and what felt like enough people to fill half the damn stadium covered the field. Hank led him into the seats along the low rail where Brock’s battered guitar case sat.

  The bodyguard was there, watching every damn move Brock made with narrowed eyes and a clenched jaw. Like Brock was a problem? He stooped, grabbing the handle before Hank could reach for it. “Thanks.”

  “Of course.” Hank nodded.

  “Hank—” CiCi King came around the corner and the world seemed to shift into slow motion. “Oh.” Her head-to-toe inspection was all contempt. “Emmy Lou says her ankle is hurting her.” She held up Emmy’s boot. “I don’t know how she managed it, but the zipper broke. Guess she was trying to get out of it in the dark.”

  Why the fuck she was in those boots in the first place, with a hurt ankle, didn’t seem to be a concern. Not that it was his business. He stared down at his guitar case and kept his mouth shut. If CiCi hadn’t been blocking his way out, he’d have left. As it was, he’d have to ask her to move. He didn’t want to say a thing to the woman.

  “Must be hurting her something fierce then, I’d think.” Hank frowned. “Where is she?”

  “Sitting over there.” CiCi used the boot to point. “Melanie has her ankle up, icing it. That girl has a dramatic streak a mile wide. Emmy’s still smiling—how bad can she be hurting?”

  Was she serious? Emmy would smile through anything for the sake of appearances or to make her fans or family proud. CiCi King had been the one to drive that point home for him.

  “I’ll go check,” Hank said, looking none too pleased with his wife. “We ready to go?”

  “Yes.” CiCi nodded. “If she can walk.” She watched her husband and the bodyguard as they left the stands and headed across the field.

  Emmy Lou sat, all sparkles and gold, with her leg up. She looked red cheeked and flustered. Or pained. She’s fine. Taken care of. Not my problem. He needed to get out of here. Now.

  “You know, I was pretty sure I’d seen the last of you. Other than game day, that is.” CiCi sighed. “I’d like to think you being here now isn’t some sort of pathetic attempt to, what, remind Emmy Lou that you still exist?” Brock was too stunned to react to the vitriol she continued to unload on him. “I know your manager, Connie Jacobs. Right? She’s…tenacious. And clearly, more connected than I gave her credit for.” She smiled at him, those eyes narrowing. “She had to have pulled some big strings to get you here. Was it her idea? Or yours?”

  Brock wasn’t capable of answering her—not without losing his shit.

  CiCi smoothed a hand over her hair. “I know Emmy Lou is this bright, shining star that everyone wants a piece of. Having her love and losing it? How do you move on from that? How can anyone else compare? For that, I am sorry.” She carefully navigated two steps in her ridiculously high heels, then turned back his way. “But this video? And the two of you working on the same charity? Finding ways to get close to her? That ends now. You being here now? Someone might think you’re trying to use her to get back on top, help with your career ‘makeover’.” She used air quotes. “But that’s not going to happen. Press, fans, they’re fickle. You want to be real careful about whose bad side you wind up on.”

  Brock stared after the woman. He’d never met anyone so capable of verbally eviscerating another human being. It was, in its own twisted way, a gift. She’d left him tongue-tied and reeling while throwing his motivation and decency into significant doubt. No, she’d let him know how easy it would be to do that to him publicly—and walked away smiling.

  He stormed out of the stadium, his grip on the guitar case white-knuckled and shaking. What would happen if he went back in there and set CiCi straight? Hell, he’d set them all straight. None of this had to do with Emmy Lou.

  Which was a lie.

  Maybe not Drug Free Like Me. That was special to him—way before Emmy. But today, this shoot… Connie hadn’t pushed him to do this. It had been his choice, she’d said. He’d known exactly what today would be like and saying no had never once crossed his mind. Because you’re a damn fool.

  He slid his guitar into the back seat of his truck, slammed the door shut, and pulled himself up into the driver’s seat. Fuck it. He’d made a mistake. All of this—today—one big mistake. But it was over and done and he’d make damn sure not to put himself in this situation again.

  Chapter 7

  Emmy stood outside the hospital doors, seriously regretting her spur-of-the-moment outing. It had been over six years since she’d seen David Watson, but that didn’t mean she’d stopped thinking about the man. Or caring. Still, why had she thought bringing him a cookie bouquet and gift bag full of sports magazines and puzzle books was a good idea?

  In the days since all the video shoot and weirdness with Brock, she’d stayed as busy as her ankle allowed. With the tour coming up, she needed to be in tip-top shape. She’d filmed the rest of the AFL opening—propped up to hide her brace—then kept her ankle elevated and read every piece of news she could get her hands on. From politics to fashion, best book lists and must-see movies, to horoscopes and sports. The tabloids never failed to disappoint. She had to laugh over Jace and Krystal’s secret wedding, Jace and Krystal’s secret breakup, and Jace and Krystal’s secret baby. The King family had a hell of a lot of secrets—but these weren’t them.

  That’s how she’d found out about Mr. Watson. A video of Brock waving to a kid in the ER waiting room made Tabloid News Media. The video had TNM reporters digging around to discover that his father had been admitted. For what and why had not been released.

  “Maybe this was a bad idea,” she said, tugging Sawyer’s arm. Her ankle brace helped, a lot, but Sawyer had been pretty insistent about her using a cane or crutches…or him. He’d been pissed as hell to learn of her fall, since she was on his watch, and had been even more overprotective than usual. “Coming here?”

  His noncommittal eyebrow bob did nothing to calm her anxiety.

  “Gosh, thanks.” But she didn’t move.

  After several minutes, Sawyer said, “You can leave your gifts at the nurses’ station.”

  Which was probably for the best. If she’d thought this through, she could have ordered flowers or cookies or something and had it delivered by someone other than herself. Someone Brock wouldn’t object to. After their last run-in, there was no denying Brock had serious objections about her.

  “That’s probably best.” What was I thinking? “This was really selfish of me.” She shook her head, letting Sawyer lead her across the parking lot. “I mean, Mr. Watson is in the hospital. Why would he want his son’s long-forgotten ex-girlfriend to suddenly show up with…random, silly things?”

  “Are you asking me?” Sawyer’s brow rose.

  “I’m not sure.” She smiled.

  And so did he—for a handf
ul of seconds. Once he realized he was smiling, realized she saw him smiling, it disappeared. Was smiling against some bodyguard protocol? Or was it just a Sawyer thing?

  “Yes, Sawyer, I guess I am asking you.” She braced herself.

  “This isn’t selfish. You’re the most selfless person I’ve ever met.” No inflection. Almost like he was reading the ingredients off a cereal box or a street sign. He took the gift bag and cookie bouquet from her.

  “Oh, well.” It was the last thing she’d expected him to say. “Nurses’ station?”

  He led her inside, his don’t-mess-with-me expression the only deterrent needed to keep people at arm’s length. People recognized her, it was inevitable, and she smiled and waved but kept moving along—as fast as her ankle would allow.

  They’d almost reached the nurses’ station when a familiar voice called out, “Emmy Lou King? Is that really you?”

  It had been years since she’d last seen Molly Watson, but she’d recognize Aunt Mo’s voice anywhere. She stopped and peered around Sawyer. “Sawyer, stop. It’s a friend.” In a lot of ways, Aunt Mo had been her second mother. Molly Watson was the exact opposite of her momma. Where Momma favored pretty things and flash, Aunt Mo was all about practicality and functionality. Being in the Watson home had allowed Emmy a normalcy that didn’t exist in her real world.

  Aunt Mo had taught her how to iron, sew on a button, treat a strain, and how to do a load of laundry. While her mother liked to remind her that they had people for that, Emmy Lou was proud of her, albeit limited, useful skill set.

  “What are you doing here?” Aunt Mo wrapped her in a warm hug. “It’s been forever since I saw your sweet face. Emmy Lou, if I hug you too hard, you’ll snap. You need more meat on you, girl. And who is this handsome fella you’re hanging on to?”

  Emmy held on, tight, laughing at Aunt Mo’s rapid-fire questions. That was Aunt Mo, concern and reprimand, strong opinions and solid hugs all rolled into one. And right now, being wrapped up in Molly Watson’s arms was just what Emmy needed.

  “Aw, sweet girl.” Aunt Mo’s arms were firm. “You’re too little; it hurts to squeeze on you. I’m making you muffins. You hear me?” She pressed a kiss to her temple. “Better yet, you and your fella come and we’ll make them together. And stay for dinner? I’ll make enough for you to take home.”

  “I do miss your cooking.” She finally let go. “But I’ve missed you even more.”

  Aunt Mo cradled her cheeks, taking a thorough inventory of Emmy Lou’s face. “You’ve always been welcome, Emmy. You hear me? Always. I’m not too far down the road.” There was a flash of concern on her face before she straightened and faced Sawyer. “Now, introduce me.”

  “Sawyer, this is Molly Watson. Molly, this is my bodyguard, Sawyer.” As she expected, Sawyer only nodded.

  “Bodyguard?” Aunt Mo nodded. “Well, that explains it. Guess a bodyguard can’t go around smiling and making friends now, can he?”

  “No, ma’am,” Sawyer said.

  “Well, good. That’s good. You best make sure you take care of this one, too. You hear me? She’s a special little bird.” She took Emmy’s hand, smiling.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Sawyer nodded.

  “I wanted to bring this to Mr. Watson.” She pointed at the gifts Sawyer was holding. “We were dropping them here, at the nurses’ station.”

  “You should come up.” Aunt Mo patted her hand. “I don’t know his mind today but, if he’s in a good place, I know he’d like to see you. Brock would, too, I’m sure.”

  Brock would not like to see her. “No.” The word sort of erupted. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Aunt Mo. I just…I wanted Mr. Watson to know I was thinking of him.”

  “He’d rather hear it from you.” Aunt Mo was frowning now. “It won’t take five minutes. David tuckers out real fast. Don’t mind him if he rambles; he gets confused easily but he does try. I have no doubt seeing you will lift his spirits.”

  And just like that, Emmy Lou was leaning on Sawyer, heading into the elevator with Aunt Mo. Her lungs were rapidly deflating but her smile firmly in place.

  “Brock said you took a fall?” Aunt Mo eyed her ankle brace.

  He had? Did he tell you he scowled at me and stormed out? Did he tell you how pathetic I was before he scowled at me and stormed out? “Just a sprain.” She shrugged. “You’d think I’d be better at dodging cords by now.” Ricky Ames had made her angry—really angry. It wasn’t an emotion she regularly dealt with.

  Neither was arousal. But Brock, angry and defensive and gorgeous, had detonated the box containing all her wants and needs and desires. While he’d carried her across the field, she’d been grappling with the overwhelming need to touch him. Better yet, for him to touch her. And the video shoot… He’d stooped to help her, cared for her. She didn’t care that her boot was broken—he’d broken it to help her. In the dark, close enough to breathe him in and rest her hands against his chest. His heart had been thumping hard under her palm.

  But then he’d grabbed her hands and held her away from him.

  First the locker room, then the football field… She had to accept that whatever she was feeling wasn’t reciprocated. More than that, he didn’t like her.

  “Here we are.” Aunt Mo waited for the elevator doors to open, then stood aside for her and Sawyer. “We’re straight down the hall, then right.”

  “What happened, Aunt Mo?” she asked, walking just behind the older woman. “All I read was he’d fallen?”

  She nodded. “David’s not as steady on his feet as you probably remember. He’s been ill now for, oh let me see, four years or so? Like I said, he gets confused so we try to keep things plain and simple.”

  Four years? “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “Brock keeps it hush-hush. You know how he is.” Aunt Mo laughed. “He doesn’t like people in his business. I keep telling him he went into the wrong line of work for that, but the game is in his blood. Like singing is for you, I imagine.” She paused in front of door five hundred and four. “Give me a quick second?”

  Emmy nodded. “Of course.”

  Aunt Mo gave her cheek a pat and slipped inside the hospital room. “Well, how is my favorite brother?” Mo’s volume was higher, her words more carefully enunciated—easier to understand.

  Emmy heard an answering mumble.

  “You have a visitor, David. Emmy Lou is here to see you. She brought a little something for you, too,” Aunt Mo said, then paused. “Yes, yes, Brock’s Emmy Lou.”

  “Dad.” Brock’s voice. “Aunt Mo, is this a good idea?” Of course, he didn’t want her here. Not a surprise.

  More mumbles. Aunt Mo laughed. Brock did not. But she wasn’t here for Brock; she was here for Mr. Watson. Was it a bad idea? Yes. But she was here now and she wouldn’t stay long.

  “Emmy, honey, you can come on in.” Aunt Mo opened the door.

  “Give me five minutes, Sawyer.” Emmy let go of his arm. “Five minutes.” Without waiting for an argument, she took the cookie bouquet and gift bag and braced her hand on the wall for support as she moved into David Watson’s hospital room. “Hi, Mr. Watson.” She paused, doing her best to keep smiling. Seeing David Watson propped up, barely recognizable as the robust, athletic man she’d known, was going to take extra work. “I figured you could use some cookies.” She set the cookie bouquet and the gift bag on the bedside table. “And I brought some puzzle books and magazines, too, in case you get bored.”

  He reached out a hand. “You know I like cookies.”

  She took his hand in both of hers. “Yes, sir. Snickerdoodles.”

  “You’re a good girl.” He nodded. “Always been a good girl. Molly and I were watching you on television.” His words sort of faded off, but he kept smiling up at her.

  “I try.” She patted his hand. “It’s not always easy.”

  “Now I don’
t believe that for a minute. If there’s one thing I know to be true, Emmy Lou King, it’s that you are good, through and through.” Aunt Mo shook her head. “You need to sit? For your ankle?”

  “No, I’m fine—”

  But Brock pushed a chair behind her—without saying a word.

  “Okay. Thank you.” She let go of David Watson’s hand and sat. “My daddy sent a book all about the history of football, the important players, and how the rules have changed. He thought you’d like it.” She pulled the book from the gift sack and held it out. “If it’s boring, it’s Daddy’s fault. Not mine.”

  David Watson glanced at Aunt Mo, then back at her. “You stopped by the house? It’s been a long time since you’ve stopped by the house.”

  “Dad, we’re still in the hospital.” Brock stood at the end of the hospital bed, one hand resting on his father’s foot. “You fell and hit your head and you’re at the hospital.”

  Emmy hurt to see the older man’s struggle with this information.

  “Hospital.” Mr. Watson nodded. “That’s right. Hit my head.” He chuckled.

  “Good thing you’re hardheaded.” Aunt Mo sat on one of the plastic hospital chairs in the opposite corner. She pulled a mountain of yarn into her lap and collected her knitting needles from an upholstered bag on the ground next to the chair. “You’re doing really well now, David. Doctor said you’re healing up fine.”

  Mr. Watson patted the book cover, frowned, staring off for a long moment before he looked at her. “Brock said you two are getting married after he gets drafted into the AFL? I told him not to wait.”

  It took her seconds to recover, but she did. “Oh, he did, did he? That’s the first I’ve heard of it.” Her smile didn’t waver. “He’s a little full of himself.”

  David Watson laughed, hard. It might have been her imagination, but it sounded like Brock chuckled, too. But then Mr. Watson started coughing and the laughter stopped.