Song for a Cowboy Page 11

  “You want some water, Dad?” Brock asked, pouring water into a plastic cup. “Have a sip.” He held the cup out for his father.

  Mr. Watson took a long drink and leaned back into the pillows with a sigh. “My boy has all sorts of big dreams, Emmy Lou. One of them is you.”

  She’d believed that once, too. “Dreams are good.”

  “They are,” Mr. Watson agreed. “Glad you stopped by the house. Molly might have some cookies.”

  “We’re at the hospital, Dad.” Brock placed a hand on his father’s shoulder. “You, me, Aunt Mo, and Denise. Denise will be here soon. You like your nurse Denise.”

  “Denise?” Mr. Watson smiled. “I do like Denise. She’s sassy.”

  Brock chuckled then, drawing Emmy’s gaze. He looked worn out. Dark bags under his eyes and a heavy stubble along his jaw. A quick glance around the room suggested he, or Aunt Mo, was sleeping in the recliner. A blanket was folded over the back and a small suitcase was wedged between the chair and the wall.

  She noticed other things, too—little things that would make a difference for someone with memory issues. A sign that said “Bathroom” had been taped to a door—presumably the bathroom. The day of the week written in big, clear letters. The name of the nurse, also oversized and easy to read.

  “Emmy Lou.” David Watson leaned forward. “You remember that song you used to sing to me? The Patsy Cline song? It’s my favorite.”

  “I do. ‘Sweet Dreams.’ It’s one of my favorite songs, too.” She swallowed, awash in memories of a better time and place.

  “I miss you singing that.” His brow furrowed. “Been a while. Hasn’t it?”

  Her heart hurt. “You want me to sing it to you?”

  Mr. Watson nodded.

  “Dad, Emmy—”

  “Would be happy to sing to you.” She cut Brock off, focusing only to David Watson. If he wanted her to sing, she was going to sing. “But I’m warning you, I’m a little rusty.”

  “Little bird,” Mr. Watson said, closing his eyes. “Sing sweet.” Brock’s father had always called her “little bird.” He remembered that. And it almost broke her.

  “Yes, sir.” She leaned forward and rested her elbows on his mattress. “Sweet dreams of you…” She sang, as softly as possible, and watched as Mr. Watson’s features relaxed into sleep. “Why can’t I forget the past, start loving someone new…” Her voice faded.

  “You should finish,” Aunt Mo said, knitting needles clicking away. “If you don’t, I’ll try. And no one wants to hear that.”

  Emmy repeated the last line, then finished. “Instead of having sweet dreams about you.” She sat back, nodding at Aunt Mo’s smile. She didn’t look at Brock—she was too close to tears. But from the corner of her eye, she saw him. Arms crossed, jaw locked, as he walked to the large window and stared outside.

  “Thank you, Emmy Lou. He normally fights sleep.” Aunt Mo stopped knitting, regarding her brother with love. “Good to see him peaceful.”

  Emmy stood, swallowing against the lump in her throat, and stared down at David Watson. She couldn’t imagine. Being in and out of time and place? It had to take a toll on a person. It had to be terrifying. For him and those who loved him.

  “Glad I talked you into coming up.” Aunt Mo used her knitting needle to point at her. “But I’m not letting you out of here until you give me your word you’re coming to dinner sometime soon. You have my number, now, that hasn’t changed. Brock said you were rail thin.” She shook her head. “Now that I see you, though… A strong breeze could carry you away.”

  “It’s windy today and I’m still standing.” She went around the bed to hug Aunt Mo. “But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t love to come to dinner.” Another hug and she was on her way to the door, a throb in her ankle forcing her to place a hand on the wall for support. “You tell me when and I’ll be there.”

  While Aunt Mo rattled off dates, Brock remained statue stiff, staring out the window.

  “I’ll get back to you, okay? And I’ll go get food now, Aunt Mo, promise.” She paused in the door, but Brock didn’t move. Okay then. “Take care.”

  “You take care, Emmy.” Aunt Mo’s tone would brook no argument. “Have an extra piece of pie or cake, too.”

  “Maybe a cupcake.” Emmy Lou walked into the brightly lit white hospital wing and took a deep breath. “Thanks.” She took the arm Sawyer offered.

  “Still think it was a bad idea to come?” He set a slow pace for her.

  “No. Not for Mr. Watson. Not for me. I’m glad I was able to spend time with him.”

  “You sang?” He pressed the elevator button.

  “He asked me to.” She frowned. “You heard? Why?”

  “I did. And some nurses. A few of them stopped to listen.” He sighed. “And recorded it.”

  “Oh no.” She pressed against her temples and closed her eyes. Well, that clinched it. She’d waltzed in with cookies and good intentions and wound up putting a media target on Brock and his family. If he’d been mad at her before, he’d be furious now. “Of course, they did. That’s the whole reason I came. To keep my family front and center in the papers. Always. Momma would be so proud of me.”

  * * *

  Brock stared out the window, the clicking of Aunt Mo’s knitting needles sounding just like the second hand of a stopwatch. Each click, each second, a countdown—until Emmy Lou was gone.

  Off this floor.

  Out of the hospital.

  Gone.

  Why she’d come didn’t matter. She had come. She brought gifts, held his father’s hand, and sang him to sleep. She remembered that his father’s favorite cookie was a snickerdoodle. She remembered how much he loved Patsy Cline’s “Sweet Dreams.” She’d made his father happy. She’d done all that.

  Why?

  Did it matter? Shit. He could be too late—she might already be gone. Shit.

  “Be back.” He pulled the door open and headed toward the bank of elevators at the end of the hall.

  Emmy Lou was waiting at the elevator, leaning heavily against her bodyguard. Another reminder. Even with a sprained ankle, she’d come to see his father. He hadn’t said one word to her. Not that he had any idea what he would say. He reached them just in time to hear her say, “That’s the whole reason I came. To keep my family front and center in the papers. Always. Momma would be so proud of me.”

  Brock came to a complete stop. Her words echoed in his head. The papers? To make her mother proud? Are you fucking kidding me?

  Ice seeped into his veins, easing the hollowness eating away at his insides. What was wrong with him? One out-of-the-blue visit and he was ready to give her the benefit of the doubt. Why was he so willing to believe she’d changed? That she would ever change? What was it about her that turned him into such a fucking idiot?

  He wasn’t hurt; he wasn’t giving her that sort of power. And he sure as hell wasn’t giving her one more minute of his time. Before he could turn around, Emmy turned and saw him, her green eyes wide. “Brock?”

  Walk away. Don’t talk to her.

  How could she look him in the eye? How could she visit her father, say and do all those sweet things, for publicity? What the hell is wrong with her? It felt good to get angry. Not just angry—furious. Keep your shit together. Now that they were surrounded by a group of curious bystanders, there would be no walking away. “Emmy.” His voice was thick and low.

  She noticed the interest they were causing. “Can we talk for a minute?” They had an audience, which was probably why she wanted to talk.

  No. It was one word. But he couldn’t say it. Pissed or not, he wasn’t going to come off as the asshole here. “There’s a family room down the hall.” Whatever happened next would be between the two of them—no one else.

  “Okay.” Her voice was soft and uncertain. She was so damn convincing.

 
“Alone,” he added, giving her bodyguard a meaningful look.

  “Okay.” A dip formed between her brows.

  “You sure?” The bodyguard didn’t acknowledge his existence. He was too busy giving Emmy Lou a very disapproving look.

  “I’m sure, Sawyer.” She didn’t look sure. Probably because the only reason she’d had anything to say was because of their audience. Reluctant or not, she took an unsteady step forward. “Lead the way.”

  He didn’t want to help her, he didn’t want to touch her, but—like it or not—manners had been too ingrained in his upbringing not to hook her arm through his. The stroke of her fingers along the inside of his forearm set his hair on edge. Which pissed him off even more. He relived every second of her visit, every smile, every touch… Hearing her intentions firsthand had cut him to the core. Her momma would be proud.

  By the time they’d reached the empty family room, he’d managed to rein in his temper—somewhat. He turned on the light and closed the door as she asked, “It’s Alzheimer’s, isn’t it?”

  Maybe part of her did care. How else could she sound so concerned and look so damn heartsick? But he’d heard her; he knew her affection for his father wasn’t why she was here.

  To look at her, he’d never believe her callous and unfeeling. Standing there in her cream lacy skirt and silky pink top, with her hair tied back and sparkly studs in her ears and those ever-steady green eyes, it was no wonder she had everyone fooled. Everyone but him.

  “You can sit.” He nodded at one of the standard waiting room chairs lining the far wall.

  “I wasn’t going to come up.” She ignored the chairs, her eyes fixed on his face. “I didn’t want to intrude, but Aunt Mo saw me in the lobby and hugged me and then I was…here.” Her expression was downright sorrowful.

  It sounded plausible. Especially the way she delivered it. Too bad he knew she was lying. He stared up at the overhead lights. This was a bad idea. “I need you to stop.”

  “Stop?” She repeated. “Stop talking?”

  He took a deep breath and met her stare. “Stop this. Whatever you’re doing. Stop.” He was moving toward her.

  Her brow creased. “I don’t understand.” The front of her silky shirt trembled from her unsteady breathing.

  How did she do that? Why? There was no one else here. “My family deserves privacy and respect.” He sounded detached. He wasn’t. If he were, he wouldn’t be this close. But somehow, he’d backed her against the wall. “We are not the Kings. None of us want the spotlight.” She winced, and he hated himself a little.

  “I…I shouldn’t have come.” Her voice wavered.

  That waver was a gut punch. Had she ever been the person he remembered? Or had she always been this manipulative? He braced himself, one hand against the wall by her head. “Why did you?” The words were hard and biting; he couldn’t help it. He wanted her to admit it—all of it. “Why are you here, Em?”

  She swallowed, her gaze searching his face. “I read that your dad was in the hospital and I wanted to check on him.”

  Once she admitted this whole thing was an act, he could smother out the last bit of hope he had that Emmy wasn’t a bad person—that CiCi was wrong. “And?” His pulse hammered away, his lungs deflating as he asked, “Tell me.” Another step, both hands pressed flat against the wall, framing her. “What else, Emmy Lou?”

  “You.” Her brow creased as she reached out, carefully laying her hand against his arm. “I was worried about you. Are you okay?” She was shaking.

  He stared at her hand, battling to keep his mind clear. He should hate her. He had every right. He shook his head, angry with himself. With her. Her family. Life. “No. I’m not.” If he were, he wouldn’t ache for her this way.

  “Oh, Brock.” One minute she was against the wall, the next her arms were wrapped around his neck. “I’m so sorry.”

  He pressed his eyes shut, willing himself to push her away. Instead he stood, rigid, in her arms. Her breath was warm against his neck. Her sweet citrus scent teased, making it a struggle not to turn his face into her soft hair. She was soft, so soft, pressing herself closer. The swell of her breasts against his chest emptied his lungs. All of him yearned for comfort—for touch. It had been a long time.

  That was why the urge to hold on to her was so strong.

  Bullshit.

  He wanted Emmy Lou more than he’d ever wanted any woman. He could still feel her lips, the taste of her skin, the curve of her breast filling his hand… But right now, he wanted more than memories. He wanted the real thing. This. Emmy, pressed up against him, all sweet softness and lies, felt real enough.

  He knew better. As long as he didn’t touch her, he stood a chance.

  “Brock, I…” The moment their gazes locked, her words trailed off and her mouth formed a startled O.

  He should look away—step back, say something, do something. But he couldn’t move. The shift on her face was electric. A spark in her emerald eyes flamed to life. Her breathing picked up. Hitched. Color bloomed in her cheeks and she sank her teeth into her lower lip while her fingers dug into the back of his neck. When her gaze fell to his mouth, he almost groaned out loud.

  The longer she stared at his mouth, the harder it was not to touch her.

  Fuck it. At least this wasn’t a lie.

  He leaned closer. Close enough for their breath to mingle, close enough to see her pulse—racing—along the curve her neck. When their eyes met, there was heat and want and raw hunger. She was staring at him with wild eyes, a frantic sound slipping between her lips as she tugged him against her.

  There was nothing hesitant about her kiss. Her lips touched his and she came to life. Arms tightening around his neck. Fingernails biting his scalp. She arched into him. When her lips parted beneath his and her tongue touched his, her moan obliterated all thoughts of self-control.

  He cradled her face, running his thumbs along the line of her jaw, before sliding his fingers into her thick hair. He wanted to touch her, all of her, to make her remember this—make sure she’d never forget how she responded to him. He cupped the back of her head, sealing their mouths as his tongue slid between her lips. Her full-body shudder had him deepening his kiss, tightening his hold, and longing for more.

  She was tugging at the back of his shirt, arching into him, clinging to him with the sort of desperate need he understood.

  He’d give her what she wanted. He’d show her what she’d lost—what he still ached for.

  His hands skimmed down her arms, along her sides, and gripped her hips. She was tiny, petite, easy to lift… With another throb-inducing moan, she hooked her leg around his waist and knocked the air from his lungs. Her skirt slid up, and his hand slid beneath, giving him the satisfaction of skin-to-skin contact. And damn but it was satisfying. The feel of her thigh, her hip… While she tugged his shirt free from his jeans and her fingers raked along his back, he braced them against the wall.

  He couldn’t stop kissing her, the corner of her mouth and the soft fullness of her lower lip. He could spend hours relearning the shape and taste of her.

  She wrapped both legs around him and ground against the rock-hard evidence of just how badly he wanted her. His fingers ran along the hem of her silk panties as he held her hips tighter, holding her against him—molding her to him. Her head fell back against the wall, eyes closed, breathing shaky, ragged breaths.

  Her response was the final snare. He was stuck, trapped, and he didn’t care. He’d stay lost in her. Her shudders and gasps, the thrusts of her hips, and the taste of her were all that mattered.

  Knocking. On the door. As effective as an ice-cold shower.

  Her eyes popped open.

  “Fuck,” he growled, blindsided by the raw hunger clouding her green gaze.

  She was still holding on to him, breathing hard and dazed, when the door opened.

  “Emmy
Lou.” Sawyer. The bodyguard. Of course.

  She went rigid, her panicked attempt to untangle herself almost sending her to the floor—but he steadied her. When she was on her feet, with her skirt in place, he stepped away, putting several feet between them. He ran a hand along the back of his neck. Shake it off.

  But she was still shell-shocked, staring at him with wide eyes. Rapid-fire emotions crossed her face. Disappointment, frustration—then embarrassment. She covered her face with her hands, shaking her head.

  “There are some people who need to use the room.” Sawyer cleared his throat.

  “Of course,” Emmy Lou mumbled from behind her hands. A deep breath and she repeated, “Of course.” Her hair was messy, and she still looked pretty wild-eyed. Then again, she’d had her head thrown back, grinding against him, breathing heavy, and clinging to him less than a minute ago.

  He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

  The bodyguard was staring at him. Hard. The man didn’t say much, but his body language said it all. If this Sawyer had a problem with him, fine. But finding Emmy Lou with her legs around Brock’s waist didn’t exactly make Brock the aggressor here. So, what the hell was the stare-down all about? How far did the man’s protective instincts go?

  “Here.” The man took Emmy’s arm.

  “Thank you, Sawyer.” She squeezed past Brock, avoiding his gaze and stepping carefully around him. Was she embarrassed about what had happened? Or because they’d been caught? If she hadn’t touched him, kissed him, wrapped her leg around his waist, nothing would have happened. When her green eyes darted his way, he realized what was troubling her.

  He’d kept control.

  She hadn’t.

  For all her practiced charm and calculated maneuvers, Emmy Lou King wasn’t as in control as she wanted to be. She wanted him. Bad. It was empowering as hell.

  Chapter 8

  Emmy Lou stood in the spotlight, a mic in her hands. She patted her left hand against her thigh, the champagne sequins of her minidress bouncing to the beat. When the guitar kicked in, she took a deep breath and started singing.