Country Music Cowboy Page 11

  Krystal and Loretta exchanged a look—then smiled at one another.

  “Tell me everything,” Emmy Lou added. “The meeting?”

  It was hard at first. Loretta had never been one to share. Sharing meant letting people in, and she was very selective about who those people were. But, with Krystal and Emmy Lou giving all the appropriate looks of sympathy and support, the words kept coming…until they ran out.

  “It’s good, isn’t it?” Emmy Lou asked. “Not the way Mr. Powell has handled things, of course, but the offer? I mean, I know you have issues with Travis, but I think, over time, you’ll see he’s a really good, really decent guy.”

  “He wasn’t.” Krystal shrugged. “He was a partying man-whore who drank like a fish, firmly on the path of self-destruction. I mean, let’s just put it out there because we’re all thinking it.”

  “Krystal.” Emmy Lou looked and sounded horrified.

  Loretta had to smile. Not at what Krystal was saying, but at Emmy Lou. She was truly scandalized by her sister’s outspoken assessment of their brother. While Loretta found it…refreshing.

  “Was.” Krystal didn’t have a problem saying what she thought. Or doing what she wanted. And right now, that was giving Loretta a head-to-toe inspection. “And while I can understand why you’d be hesitant to give him a chance, you’ll be making a mistake if you don’t.”

  Loretta swallowed.

  “You two do sound beautiful together,” Emmy Lou said. “And, we’re a lot, but, I think, we have fun while we’re touring.”

  “What’s the holdup?” Travis pushed through the kitchen door, followed by Brock. “People are getting restless out there.” He walked to the counter to stare down at the pies.

  From this angle, the way his jeans hugged his thighs and butt did things to her breathing. Loretta tried not to stare at the way he raked his fingers through his hair. Tried. And failed. He glanced at her, surprised to find her eyes on him.

  Why was she looking at him? Stop it. Not happening.

  “Oh, they are?” Krystal asked. “You can take the pies.” She nodded at the pies, plates, and utensils ready and waiting. “Loretta, can you help me with the coffee? It’s almost ready.”

  “Sure,” she agreed, turning away from the serious kiss Brock was laying on Emmy Lou. It didn’t help when, once more, her gaze collided with Travis.

  The corner of his mouth cocked up as he shook his head. “It’s gross, I know. But you get used to it. Sort of.” He grabbed the pies and backed out of the kitchen, calling out, “Come on, lovebirds.” Emmy Lou and Brock grabbed the plates and utensils and followed Travis.

  “That’s part of it, isn’t it?” Krystal asked.

  “What?” Loretta asked. “Sorry.”

  “My brother.” Krystal paused. “The chemistry, I mean.”

  Loretta blinked, doing her best to remember where they’d left off before they’d been interrupted. “Yes. That’s what Mr. Powell said. Our performance had solid chemistry.”

  “Oh, Loretta.” Krystal had been putting coffee cups on a tray but she stopped now, to look her in the eye. “I’m not talking about onstage.” She smiled, almost sad. “Denial won’t get you anywhere. Take it from me. Accept it; you have the hots for my brother. Now, what are you going to do about it?” She picked up the tray. “Can you grab the coffee pot?”

  Chapter 7

  Travis threw the wet towel on the bed and reached for his pencil, scribbling another note down on the sheet music. He hummed it through, nodded, and pulled on his boxers. Another few notes played through his head, so he added them before he finished sliding on his jeans and a worn, soft rodeo T-shirt.

  Sockless, he sat on the side of his bed and ran his fingers down the strings of the acoustic guitar—mentally working through the harmony and rhythm that wasn’t quite perfect. He strummed his fingers over the six strings and smiled. His sisters had bought the custom Gibson Hummingbird as a joke, thinking he’d never use it. But he didn’t mind the hand-engraved and inlaid artwork. He was man enough to play a guitar with flowers on it. Since it already had flowers, the hummingbird didn’t really matter.

  What did matter was the deep tones of the guitar and the way it felt beneath his hands. He played through what he’d come up with, nodded, and glanced at the clock. It was just shy of nine o’clock in the morning.

  There was no set time for breakfast, but this morning was different. They had company. And even though he’d been up all night, he’d been looking forward to seeing Loretta—to see what she thought of the song he imagined them singing together.

  If she was open to it.

  He’d worked through the tempo when he’d gone running this morning. As his feet fell, pounding out a beat, his fingers moved along the guitar he could still feel in his hands.

  The tune was mostly done. But now, the words began to reveal themselves.

  The lyrics were risky. Sexy. Authentic. Raw. He’d tried to go a different way, but the song fell flat and the melody began to fade. He’d made the decision not to force it. Up until now, most of the songs he’d written were collaborations. But this…this one was too loud to ignore. It hadn’t been a conscious decision; it had just happened. And it was awesome as hell.

  Still barefoot, carrying his Gibson Hummingbird, he headed down the hall and toward the kitchen.

  His father and Margot sat at the large farm table, sipping coffee with the morning paper spread out between them.

  “Morning,” he said, heading straight for the coffee. “Anything new?”

  Margot shrugged, but then she saw his guitar. “Whatcha got there?”

  “It’s called a guitar.” He winked, poured himself a large mug of coffee, and leaned against the counter.

  “She’s on the back porch,” his father said, not bothering to look up from his paper as he shifted just enough to reveal a pastry box. “There might be one or two left.”

  Travis shrugged. “I’ll have to come back for one later.”

  That got his father’s attention. “Come again?”

  But Travis was already headed out of the kitchen, his pace quickening as he headed through the man cave and onto the porch.

  Even with both rocking chairs open, Loretta was perched on the top step. Beside her sat his Molly Harper’s #1 Fan mug, steam rising off its contents.

  “Good morning.” He headed straight for her, nervous and excited all at the same time. He’d shared his music before. But sharing it with his family was different. What if she hated it?

  She leaned against the wooden railing, her topaz eyes finding his as she cradled her cup between her hands. There were dark smudges beneath her eyes.

  “Or is it?” he asked, sitting on the top step beside her.

  She eyed the guitar. “Is that a Gibson Hummingbird?”

  He nodded, running his hands over the mother-of-pearl. “The hummingbird is my spirit animal.”

  She laughed so hard she spilled coffee onto the pair of pajamas she’d borrowed from Emmy Lou.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I thought you were immune to my humor.”

  “I am.” But she was still smiling. “You caught me un-caffeinated.”

  “Sure.” He shook his head. “No burns?”

  She shook her head. “Nope.”

  He nodded, the guitar resting across his thighs, torn between diving in or waiting for her to ask about—

  “I’m guessing there’s a reason you brought your guitar to breakfast?” Her gaze shifted from the guitar to his face.

  “I was up all night. Wrote something.” He swallowed.

  Loretta sat her mug down. “You did?” She leaned forward, suddenly alert. “I’m hoping this means you’ll play it?”

  “Nah.” He teased. “I just wanted to show off my Hummingbird.”

  She shook her head, but she was smiling. And damn, her smile was so damn b
right and beautiful he wasn’t sure he’d need his coffee after all. “Well, if you change your mind, I’d like to hear—”

  “If you insist.” He shifted the guitar, ran his fingers along the strings, and started playing.

  When her foot started tapping on the step, he began to relax. Her eyes drifted shut and she was swaying along, concentrating on the notes and melody.

  Now came the risky part. The lyrics. He cleared his throat and started to sing.

  You’ve got me where you want me.

  I can’t say that I mind.

  You tease me but you touch me.

  One kiss, we’re intertwined.

  It’s taken you forever to see me standing here.

  But now that you do, darlin’, let me make this clear.

  If tonight is all we have, then, girl, tonight you’re mine.

  I’ll love you so good, you’ll try to slow down time.

  But you’ll miss me, baby, and I’ll haunt you in your sleep.

  My hands, my mouth, on you—you’ll want me close and deep.

  His fingers played the final notes and silence fell. A long, awkward silence. He didn’t want to look at her, too afraid of what he might see.

  “What about the woman’s part?” she asked, her voice rough as gravel.

  “I thought, maybe, you’d have some ideas?” He leaned back against the railing. “You being a woman and all.” He was looking at her now.

  She was staring at the guitar, her breathing unsteady and her cheeks flushed. “This would be a duet for us?” She swallowed, hard, before meeting his gaze.

  “That’s how I’d envisioned it.” That wasn’t all he’d envisioned. Maybe his subconscious was trying to tell him something. Rather, hit him over the head with something.

  She nodded at the guitar. “Can you play it again?”

  He’d barely played one note when she started singing. Head thrown back, eyes closed, she was all in. He kept on playing—watching her dark hair dance on the breeze and her pink painted toes tap out the beat on the top porch step. And words that made his head spin and his body stir.

  You’ve got my body aching now.

  I can’t say that I mind.

  You tease me but you touch me.

  One kiss, we’re intertwined.

  It’s taken me forever to let you get this close.

  I see you smile and my craving for you grows.

  If tonight is all we have, then, boy, tonight you’re mine.

  I’ll love you so good, you’ll try to slow down time.

  But you’ll miss me, baby, and I’ll haunt you in your sleep.

  My hands, my mouth, on you—you’ll want me close and deep.

  She opened her eyes. “So?”

  So? What the hell was he supposed to say. She got it. She had to sing this song. He was on fire for her.

  But the applause from the back door alerted them to their audience.

  “Holy shit, Trav.” Krystal looked as shocked as she sounded. “That was wow. I mean wow. Am I right?” She turned to Jace.

  Jace nodded. “Yep. And I wouldn’t mind so much if you handed the song over to me and Krystal.”

  If Loretta turned down the deal, that’s probably what would happen. They’d do it right, of course. His sister and Jace practically melted the stage when they performed together as it was. But, deep down, he’d always know the truth. He’d written the song for Loretta—to sing with Loretta.

  “Wow is right.” Emmy Lou was wide-eyed. “Forget coffee. I might need some ice water.”

  “And a fan.” Krystal nodded. “When did this gem come to you?”

  “Last night.” He chuckled. “Didn’t get a wink of sleep last night.”

  “Running on fumes?” Jace asked.

  “No. Still on a creative high, I guess.” Which wasn’t a common thing.

  Jace nodded in understanding.

  “Last night?” His father’s gaze bounced between the two of them. “I’m thinking I wasn’t paying enough attention at the IMAs. Because now I get why Wheelhouse is pushing this so hard.”

  Travis glanced at Loretta. She was reading over the sheet music, her toes silently beating out the rhythm on the steps. It was a good sign, wasn’t it? That even now, when they were surrounded by friends and family full of praise, she was more tuned in to the song than anything else. Absentmindedly, her fingers pulled a strand of hair over her shoulder, twining it back and forth as her toes kept on tapping.

  There was no denying she got to him. Not just as a woman, but as an artist.

  For the first time since Wheelhouse had started their pitch, he realized how much he wanted to do this. All of it. The touring and singing and creating, just like this. This morning had given him a taste of how easy it could be between them. How seamless. How damn good. They could be something.

  Sawyer arrived with breakfast tacos, and they all moved inside.

  Conversation slowly drifted from the song to music to how his sisters decompressed to a not-so-subtle segue into the real reason his sisters were here this morning.

  “We booked a spa day and were hoping you two would join us?” Emmy Lou asked. “We can bring back something for lunch. Brock will be done training by then, and I need a break from all the wedding stuff.”

  Travis understood. They wanted to be here when their father got home. If it was good news, they’d celebrate. If it wasn’t…well, they’d take it one step at a time.

  “And Emmy’s making me go with her.” Krystal’s resistance was all pretense. “We made the appointment early, in case you two had to head home today.”

  “Our flight was scheduled for noon…” Margot’s yawn was a production, a sort of see-how-tired-I-am move. “But there’s no reason to hurry home, so we could push it back a bit? I think I’ve earned a little pampering. You too, Loretta. I’d like to stay, if you’re all right with that?” She turned, waiting for Loretta’s answer.

  Travis almost snorted out loud. How could she say no to that?

  “Sounds good to me.” If Loretta was irritated by this new change of plans, she didn’t let on. “Thank you for including us.”

  Travis inhaled two tacos and was on his third donut when Sawyer nodded at him, then the clock.

  Right, Dad’s appointment. The next hour was a blur. Austin traffic, finding the highly specialized otolaryngologist they’d had recommended to them, and waiting in the room with a collection of sinister-looking devices and equipment all led up to the arrival of Dr. Anne Hodges.

  Thirty minutes of scopes and cameras scanning the inside of his father’s throat later, Travis sat by his father, scribbling down notes as Dr. Hodges listed off things his father should or should not do until they had the test results back. The scope had confirmed that his father had trauma on his vocal cords, but until they got the biopsy back, there was no way of knowing if the polyps were cancerous or not.

  “If the biopsy comes back benign, I recommend a phonomicrosurgery. I’ll make a small incision away from the vibrating edge of the vocal cord and a tiny flap of tissue is lifted so we can remove the polyp or cyst.” She paused, in case they had questions. “This technique reduces the risk of scarring and provides the best voice outcome. Though, voice therapy will be required for optimal results.”

  “Voice therapy?” Travis asked, scribbling away.

  “We have three excellent speech pathologists who are familiar with the wear and tear of a singing career on the vocal cords. They have exercises that will help improve your breathing and endurance, Mr. King. And to prevent further complications.”

  They left the office with a prescription for steroids and strict voice rest. He’d hoped they’d leave with answers and a set plan. And, if the biopsy came back all clear, they did. Surgery. Rest. Avoiding stress. Voice therapy.

  The hardest part of that would be the avoiding stres
s part. Still, Travis did his best to diffuse things on the elevator ride down to Sawyer and their waiting car.

  “I can buy you a little chalkboard to wear around your neck?” Travis teased. “That way if you need anything, you can write it down?”

  His father shot him a look.

  “I’ll take that look as a maybe.” Travis chuckled, following his father out of the elevator and into the parking garage.

  It was the sudden flash that tipped them off. One, then another—the sudden rapid-fire click of a camera shutter—right before a reporter and cameraman appeared from behind one of the large concrete pillars. “Mr. King,” the woman called out, her heels echoing in the garage.

  “Shit,” Travis hissed, steering his father to the waiting black SUV as quickly as possible.

  “Mr. King. Mr. King,” the reporter kept calling, her words running together as she asked, “would you care to comment on the rumors about your health? Who were you here to visit today? Should your fans be concerned?”

  Travis ignored them until his father was safely inside the SUV.

  “I didn’t see them,” Sawyer said from the passenger’s front seat. “They didn’t follow us here or I’d have noticed.” He was pissed off.

  Even after two years of employment, Travis didn’t know much about Sawyer—personally. Sawyer was the eat-sleep-breathe-your-job type. He didn’t like missing things. For him, it was personal. So this, having press sneak up on them, would chew on Sawyer’s insides until he’d learned all the who, what, why, and when’s involved.

  “It’s not your fault,” his father managed.

  “Dad.” Travis sighed. “Keep that shit up and I’m buying the damn chalkboard.”

  “Chalkboard?” Sawyer asked.

  “He’s not allowed to talk.” Travis nodded at his father. “Not until the doctor gives him the okay. Since he doesn’t text—like most normal people these days—we’ll be going old school.”

  His father sighed, frowning.

  In the rearview mirror, a furrow cut deep across Sawyer’s brow. Was this about the press? Or his father? For a man who made his living off his poker face, it was a significant show of emotion. Very unlike-Sawyer behavior.