Song for a Cowboy Read online

  “I’ll tell her.” He chuckled, tugging on some jeans, socks, and boots, and pulling on one of the starched button-up shirts hanging in his closet. He ran a hand through his hair and pulled the door open. “Better?”

  “It is.” She hooked her arm through his. “Come on and eat. I’m guessing you didn’t have a proper breakfast?”

  He’d told her most of his meals were prepared for him by his trainer—something she’d clicked her tongue over. But it took a hell of a lot of effort, and about nine thousand calories a day, to stay in peak shape. Being six five and almost three hundred pounds of muscle wasn’t easy. “I ate.” At six a.m., he’d consumed five eggs, oatmeal, wheat toast with peanut butter and honey, an apple, and a banana. At eight a.m., he’d eaten near as much. Six meals a day, every day. All a necessary part of his fitness regimen.

  “Not enough, I’m sure.” Aunt Mo patted his forearm. “Sit yourself down and tell me what’s what.”

  This was his Wednesday routine. Most Wednesdays, he’d fly his Cessna 350 from wherever he was to Austin, then make the drive to the family ranch. At eleven thirty sharp, Aunt Mo had lunch waiting. Some days, he brought some teammates along—and Aunt Mo loved that. She’d cluck over them all, remind them of their manners, make them clean their plates, and send them all off with a hug and invitation to come back anytime they liked. And since the team was in Austin for the time being, he suspected his teammates would be looking for an invitation sooner than later. That was Aunt Mo. When his mother had left them, it was Aunt Mo who had stepped up to take care of him and his father. She saw a need and she filled it, no questions asked.

  “Anything new and exciting happening?” She started pulling serving dishes from the top oven and putting them on the hot pads placed all over her nice linen tablecloth. “I could use some excitement. Any word from the doctor?”

  He shook his head. “No, ma’am.” The likelihood of him starting the season on the bench was pretty high. And it frustrated the hell out of him. But a torn ACL could be a career-ending injury so, as hard as it was, he’d follow the doctor’s orders.

  “Well, now, that’s fine.” She was just as disappointed as he was—not that she’d let on.

  “Things running smoothly out here?” After he’d signed his first contract, he’d spent a substantial portion on buying up the land surrounding his family’s three-hundred-acre ranch—adding another nine hundred acres. Aunt Mo considered it wasteful. Brock considered it a smart investment.

  “Why wouldn’t they be?” she asked, frowning at him.

  He grinned, shaking his head. Fair question, considering the crew he’d hired to manage the livestock and property knew what they were doing. Not to mention the two full-time security guards at the gate who also monitored the house and grounds at all times. Something else Aunt Mo didn’t approve of. He shrugged. “Making small talk.”

  “When you should be eating.” She sighed.

  He peered into one cast-iron skillet. “Roasted sweet potatoes.”

  “Of course.” She nodded. “You said you liked them.”

  “I do.” He stood up and hugged her. “Thank you.” Her hug had the instant grounding effect he needed. This morning, Emmy… Well, he was a fan of routines. The more predictable the better. You could set a clock by Aunt Mo. Predictable. And reliable. “Thank you.” Not just for the food.

  She wasn’t the most affectionate person, but she gave him a quick, hard squeeze back before patting him and telling him, “Sit and eat now.”

  He took his time loading up his plate, waiting for her to make hers before picking up his fork. He scooped up some roasted sweet potatoes. “I almost ran over Emmy Lou King in the parking lot today.”

  Aunt Mo’s eyes went round and she set her fork down. “What now?”

  He swallowed and took a sip of tea. “She was there today. At the stadium. I was heading here.”

  “Brock.” She placed her hand on his. “Land sakes, boy. What happened?” Her well-lined face creased with concern.

  “Nothing.” He shook his head. “I slammed on the brakes and stopped close enough for her to put her hands on the hood of the truck. I…I didn’t see who it was.”

  Aunt Mo pressed both hands to her chest. “Oh my. Goodness.”

  “I got out and…it was Emmy.” He cleared his throat, cut a large piece off the grilled chicken breast on his plate, and started chewing. It gave him time to get the lump out of his throat and the image of Emmy, wide-eyed and startled, out of his head.

  “What did you do? She must have been in shock. Of course she was. What did you say?” Aunt Mo was watching him. “After you were done apologizing, I mean.”

  Had he apologized? Had he said a thing? Once he’d known it was her, he’d sort of blanked out. A damn fool, standing in the rain, staring at her like he’d just suffered a blow to the head.

  “Brock?” Aunt Mo patted the back of his hand, the crease between her brows deepening.

  “I’m not sure,” he confessed. “We both stood there, getting soaked, and then she ran off.” He shrugged, wondering why he’d decided to share this with Mo. The whole damn thing had a dreamlike quality to it. But it was no dream. If it was, he wouldn’t have her bright-pink-and-white polka-dot umbrella on his passenger seat.

  “No wonder you’re so out of sorts.” Aunt Mo heaped more green bean casserole on his plate. “I can always tell when something’s gnawing on your insides.”

  “You can?”

  Her brows shot up. “Yes, I can.”

  “Better share, Aunt Mo. Don’t want to be giving anything away to an opposing team.”

  With a nod of her head, she said, “You don’t do it on the field. You couldn’t—not and still catch the ball.” She shook her head, cutting her chicken into tiny bites. “It’s getting cold.” She pointed at his plate with her fork.

  Now he was curious. And she knew it. “Aunt Mo?” There was no hiding the exasperation in his voice.

  She chuckled. “This.” She held her hand up, rubbing the pad of her thumb back and forth along the tip of each finger. “You do that, over and over, when something is weighing on you.”

  He stared at his hands. Did he? If so, he never realized it.

  “Only your left hand,” she added. “Now eat. I figured you’d be seeing her now that she’s signed on with the AFL. Time that little songbird had some good news. Especially with everything her family has been through the last year, poor little dear.”

  Aunt Mo had a huge soft spot for Emmy Lou. And since she was an avid reader of tabloid and entertainment magazines, she stayed on top of the King family drama. He’d tried to explain that most of what was said or written was probably twisted or straight-out fiction, but Mo tended to hold on to things that she determined were truthful.

  Unfortunately, a lot of what happened the last year had been real. And horrible. A few years ago, he would have been there to support the Kings. He’d been pissed as hell when the media tried to dismiss Krystal King’s sexual abuse allegations against a music industry legend as an attention-seeking ploy or out-and-out lie. The truth came out, of course. And other women came forward with similar claims, ensuring this asshole, Tig Whitman, would face real legal consequences for what he’d done. It was something—but not enough to heal the wounds he’d caused these women. Even Brock knew that.

  “Emmy always was a football fan.” Aunt Mo glanced his way. “Once you’d explained it to her.”

  He didn’t want to think about that. But if Aunt Mo was right… No. Probably just some gossip magazine headline. “I thought that was just a rumor.” He’d hoped like hell it was a rumor.

  “What now?” Aunt Mo asked, a fork full of salad paused halfway to her mouth.

  “Emmy Lou. Signing on to sing the AFL theme.”

  “It was.” She nodded. “Until yesterday. There was a nice blurb on the news, showed her shaking hands with the leag
ue commissioner. All that. It’s a done deal now.” She smiled. “Now I’ll get to see two of my favorite people doing what they love on the same night.”

  He gulped down his tea. Not a problem. Over the last few years, each AFL theme performer only attended a handful of games to sing live. What were the odds she’d be at one of his games? Slim, he hoped.

  “Maybe you’ll be in the opening song video? You know how they always film one of those fancy music bits to open the games? Make it all exciting, get folks pumped up.” Aunt Mo put another chicken breast on his plate.

  They normally only picked top players for the game lead-in video—the players who brought in the fans and the dollars. And while he was hell-bent and determined to get back on top, training harder than ever, he doubted he’d be on the short list this time.

  Never waver. Never give up. Fight. With everything you have. Fight. How many times had his father kept him focused in high school? In college? He’d been right; his dad usually was. Brock could do this, show them; he was still the best damn defensive end in the league. He might be twenty-seven, but he had a couple more seasons in him.

  Besides, he owed it to his team to give it his all. Even when he’d let them down, they’d stuck by him. First with his careless injury, then his damn pain med addiction and accident, and his mess of a divorce from Vanessa. Still, they’d been there for him. Believed in him. Now it was his turn to show them they’d made the right decision.

  “You’re doing it again,” Aunt Mo said, nodding at his left hand.

  He flexed his left hand. “I think you’re seeing things.”

  “I see you, not eating what’s on your plate.” She was all feisty now. “You know the rules at my table—”

  “You eat what’s on your plate.” He nodded. “Might be easier if you didn’t keep sneaking things onto my plate.” Once his plate was empty, he sat back and smiled. “Better?”

  “I’ll make up a quick plate, and we’ll go.” She nodded. “Anything left will be going home with you.”

  He started pulling out plastic containers and storing the leftovers away while Aunt Mo dished up small servings into a partitioned plate. She snapped a lid on and surveyed the less-than-clean kitchen. “Well, this will give me something to do when we get back.”

  “I’ll help.” He always did.

  She nodded, collecting her house key and locking up behind him. “Spoke to the nurse earlier and she said he’s having a good day today. Working on a puzzle and talking.”

  Brock didn’t say anything. He never knew who he’d meet when they reached Green Gardens Alzheimer’s clinic. Sometimes it was his father, David Watson. Other times, it wasn’t. Some days were better than others. Some, he’d like to forget ever happened. But every Wednesday, he and Aunt Mo went and stayed until visiting hours were over. Or his father wasn’t fit for a visit. Mo always called ahead, to “test the waters.” That way, they could prepare a bit. If that was possible.

  “Still raining? I’ll be.” Aunt Mo clicked her tongue as she peered out the front door again. “Umbrella’s in the closet there.”

  Once it was retrieved and the house was locked up, Brock carried the umbrella high. He helped his aunt into his truck before hurrying around to the driver’s door and climbing in.

  “Is this yours?” Aunt Mo asked, holding up the pink-and-white umbrella.

  He shook his head. “Emmy.”

  “I see.” She smiled. “It looks like something she’d own. All bright and sunny. That girl is a walking ray of sunshine.”

  There was no denying that. Emmy Lou King had been the brightest part of his life. She’d believed in his dreams and loved him completely. Until she hadn’t. And when she hadn’t, when she was gone, he’d learned how dark life could get. His hands tightened on the steering wheel.

  “I know things went upside down for you two, but if you do see her again, will you give her my best?” Aunt Mo turned the umbrella in her hand.

  “I doubt I will, Aunt Mo.” He cleared his throat. If anything, he’d go out of his way to make certain there wasn’t the slightest chance of that happening. “But if I do, I will.”

  Chapter 2

  “You’re stressing me out.” Emmy’s big brother, Travis, peered over his sunglasses at her. “I don’t get it.”

  “I’m not doing anything.” She pressed her hands against her pink rhinestone daisy-detailed and custom-frayed designer jeans trying to still the tapping of her foot.

  “Exactly. You’re sitting there, not posting on Instagram or Twitter or wherever else you have nine hundred million people following your every move.” He frowned. “You’re all…out of it.”

  “Maybe you’re stressing me out? Being all judgy and staring at me. I don’t get why you’re coming with me,” she said. “I have Sawyer. He’ll protect me.” She waved at her bodyguard in the rearview mirror. His slight nod was his only acknowledgment.

  Sawyer was pretty stoic. A nice guy when he let his guard down. But he rarely let his guard down—he was the job.

  “You could use a massage, Emmy Lou.” Melanie, her personal assistant, sounded off from the front passenger seat. “You haven’t had one in a while.”

  “Sign me up, too. See? I’m here for moral support. Also, you know, to get away from Momma.” Travis’s over-the-top pained expression almost made her laugh. Almost. When she didn’t react, he leaned back against the seat and smothered a yawn with the back of his hand. “And, you know, to heckle you.”

  “Travis.” She frowned at her brother.

  “Kidding. Kidding.” He pulled off his sunglasses and looked at her. “I know I’m not the most sensitive guy in the world.”

  Melanie turned around in her seat to stare at Travis.

  Sawyer cleared his throat. Was he laughing? Sawyer? That never happened. Okay, it happened. But not often enough. Emmy couldn’t hold back her smile.

  “Hey, man, I can hear you.” Travis glared at the back of Sawyer’s head, then scowled at Melanie. “Not cool. Either one of you.”

  Melanie—she and Sawyer seemed to have some sort of ongoing poker-face championship—turned around, resuming the constant clicking on her tablet.

  “Talk about tense. Maybe you do need a massage.” Emmy teased. “You were saying?”

  “I’m saying you are my little sister. You haven’t dated since you and Brock broke up. Meaning you haven’t dated anyone else. Ever.” He looked confused, running his fingers through his tousled, dirty-blond hair and blinking several times before he moved on. “Putting aside how bizarre that statement was, I don’t want you to face this alone.”

  Emmy Lou took her brother’s hand. “Thanks, Travis.” She smiled. “Plus, I know Krystal probably threatened you. Big time.”

  “Oh yeah.” He nodded. “Totally said she’ll kick my ass if I don’t go.” His hand squeezed hers. “But she’s in Australia, probably exploring Jace’s land down under so—”

  “Travis. Oh. Please.” She pulled her hand away. “What is wrong with you?”

  “Me?” He turned to stare at her. “Okay, Miss Self-Inflicted Abstinence for No Reason. You realize half the world wants to meet you? The other half wants to…sleep with you. By that I don’t mean actual sleep. And you’re asking me what’s wrong with me? You live like…like a nun. My sister, the nun of country music. What’s wrong with me?”

  “Why does it always boil down to sex?” She crossed her arms and stared out the window.

  “Because. Sex.” Travis sighed. “Maybe if you’d had more of it, you’d get it.”

  She didn’t say a word. There was no way, no way, she was going to discuss her sex life with her brother. Travis lived to tease and if he found out she hadn’t ever actually had sex, she would never ever hear the end of it.

  “Is there some sort of privacy window or partition we can roll up?” Melanie asked Sawyer, clearly frazzled by Travis’s oversharing.
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  “Nope.” Sawyer shook his head, his sigh saying oh so much.

  “Whatever.” Travis waved off their comments. “Here’s a thought, Em: maybe it’s been so long you’ve forgotten?” He added. “I mean you guys broke up, what, six years ago?” He shuddered. “Six years?”

  “I should have brought my earbuds,” Melanie muttered.

  In the rearview mirror, Sawyer glanced into the back seat, expressionless.

  “We’re having a private conversation here. Between siblings. Siblings who share everything.” Travis winked at her. “And I thought you were a prude,” he added, his whisper loud enough for all to hear.

  Prude was one way of putting it. Sad was more like it. Maybe there was something wrong with her. But no one else had ever held her interest like Brock. No one else had made her ache for him, feel so out of control and safe at the same time. The idea of casual sex made her nauseous. Something else her brother would probably give her grief over. Since it was clear the entire vehicle wanted this line of conversation to come to an end, she attempted a not-so-subtle diversion. “Travis…Dad said something about you singing with Becca Sinclair? At the International Music Billboard Awards?”

  “Yeah, yeah…” He slid his sunglasses back on, his jaw tightening.

  “I’m sensing you’re less than excited?” Which was a surprise. Becca Sinclair was an up-and-coming performer who could only help Travis’s career outside of the Three Kings. She and Krystal had both had the opportunity to sing outside their band—she assumed Travis would want that opportunity. But apparently, she’d assumed wrong. Or had she? “What’s up?”

  “There’s no way I’m the first choice for that.” He shrugged. “I feel…weird about it.”

  “Why would you say that?” She took his hand again, tugging until he was looking at her. “What, you’re not talented enough? You have too many platinum albums to say differently. You’re definitely not lacking in charisma. And—”

  “I’m hot.” He grinned.

  “You are very modest.” She smacked his arm. “Stop being negative. If they didn’t want you, they wouldn’t have asked.”