Song for a Cowboy Page 22

  Emmy Lou was staring at her brother, dumbfounded. Travis was quick. As wrong as it was, it was also sort of impressive. Were they really buying this?

  “You’re the only one laughing. Clean that up.” Daddy pointed at the ground, sighing. “What is wrong with you?”

  Daddy might not see the impact his words had on Travis, but she and Krystal did. Her big brother was covering for her and it had cost him their father’s approval. Travis must have seen the worry on her face because he gave her a wink and mouthed, You owe me.

  She smiled and nodded.

  “What’s all that?” Daddy asked, pointing at Momma’s hastily collected pages.

  “Oh, nothing.” Momma smiled. “Nothing at all.”

  Emmy stared at her breakfast, her stomach in knots. This was her family, the people she loved most…and they were all keeping secrets and telling lies. Now she’d added to that. Was it selfish to want to guard the beginning of whatever was happening between her and Brock? Maybe. But her secret could only hurt herself. That was a risk she was willing to take.

  * * *

  It had been a long time since Brock had enjoyed watching Monday night football. But tonight, he enjoyed it. The best part of it was hearing his father pick apart plays and argue with the sports commentators—like he used to. He missed his father, missed their shared passion for the game…missed looking in his eyes and knowing his father knew who he was. About midway through the third quarter, his father had dozed off. Brock kept the television on but packed up the snacks, cleaned up their trash, and washed his hands in the sink.

  When he came back out, a delivery person was waiting with a massive bouquet of flowers.

  “Are you sure you’ve got the right room?” He eyed the arrangement. “David Watson?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  He paused, staring down at the delivery person’s feet. Pink sparkly tennis shoes. Only one person he knew wore shoes with that much pink glitter. He was smiling like a fool as he pushed the door closed, set the arrangement on the floor, and pulled Emmy Lou against him.

  “I’m assuming you knew it was me?” She laughed, breathless. Damn but he’d missed that smile. “Or is this the way you tip all the delivery people?”

  “Only when I don’t have cash on me.” He pushed back the hoodie, her hair on end from static.

  “That makes sense.”

  “Hold on,” he murmured, bending forward. Her lips were soft beneath his. Soft and clinging, parting enough for their breath to mingle. “What’s with the getup?”

  “I thought I’d try to be more discreet this time.” She smiled up at him, blinking rapidly. “Your dad?”

  “He’s sleeping.” He smiled. “Not that he’d disapprove.”

  “How is he doing?” She leaned against him. “His color looks better. A lot better.”

  “He’s doing well.” And Brock was beyond grateful. “Dehydration was the cause of a lot of it—even some of his memory issues. They’ve adjusted his meds and he seems more like his old self than I’ve seen him in a long time.” He pressed his nose to the top of her head. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but what the hell are you doing here?”

  “Daddy flew back for a meeting at the record company, just for tonight, so I tagged along.” She frowned up at him. “I missed you and I thought I’d surprise you.”

  “You did?” He sat, pulling her into his lap.

  But she didn’t melt into him the way he wanted. “You missed me, too?”

  He rested his forehead against hers. “Did I?”

  “Don’t make me tickle you.” Her eyebrow shot up. “I was also curious about the Alpha shoot this morning. How did it go?”

  “Everyone was professional. Nice. I’m not used to taking pictures in underwear for four hours in front of a roomful of strangers, but the Alpha people seemed good with it.”

  “Why wouldn’t they? They’re getting to use your butt to sell their underwear. It’s a nice butt.”

  “Are you saying you’ve checked out my rear?” He smiled.

  “I have. Many times.” She looked up at him. “Underwear is good. Football pants are terrific. But my favorite is uncovered.” She lowered her voice. “In bed or in the shower or on that ottoman—”

  “Emmy Lou,” he groaned, shifting in the chair. “You’re not playing fair.”

  “I’ll behave.” She sighed but then she went rigid, her green eyes widening. “Oh.” She tried to push out of his lap. “Last night.”

  “What are you doing?” He didn’t let her go.

  “Your ribs. That hit looked bad.” She lifted her hands. “And here I am lying all over you.”

  “I like it when you lie all over me.” He waited, loving the color in her cheeks. “You watched the game?”

  “You know I watched the game.” She rolled her eyes. “You were playing, weren’t you?”

  “I was. Played hard, too. Then spent most of the night tossing and turning.”

  She frowned. “Your ribs were hurting?” She tried to get up again.

  He grabbed hold of the front of her hoodie and tugged her against him. “That was only part of it. You weren’t there.”

  Her green eyes searched his face. “You did miss me.”

  “I missed you.” He smoothed her hair back, content to look at her.

  “Knock, knock?” The hospital room door opened. “Hello?”

  Emmy Lou jumped up before he could stop her. Even wide-eyed and flustered, she was beautiful.

  “Brock?”

  “Vanessa?” His ex-wife was the last person he’d expected to see here. She’d met his father a total of two times—one of which she was fall-down drunk and probably didn’t remember.

  “Hi.” Vanessa hugged him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I’m sorry I didn’t come visit before now.”

  “You didn’t have to come.” He hugged her back. “I never expected you to.”

  “No, I know…” She glanced toward the bed and saw Emmy Lou. “Oh. Hi.” She looked at him, then Emmy Lou. “I’m Vanessa Trentham—was Watson. Wow. If I’d known I’d be meeting a celebrity, I’d have put myself together.”

  Brock gave her a quick once-over. Vanessa was a model. It didn’t matter what she wore; she always looked like a model. A pair of oversized sunglasses held back her long, black hair. The blue dress she wore looked expensive. The spiky heels on her feet looked even more expensive.

  Emmy Lou stood, tugging at her oversized sweatshirt. “Nice to meet you. Emmy Lou King.” She smiled. “I was just heading out, actually.”

  “You don’t have to go, Em.” Brock shook his head.

  “No, not on my account,” Vanessa agreed, her dark eyes bouncing between them with unconcealed interest.

  “Someone’s waiting on me. But it was nice to meet you,” Emmy said. Vanessa shook her hand. “I’m glad to see your father’s doing better, Brock. Guess I’ll see you Thursday for the Drug Free Like Me spot. The Elaine Show?” The flash in her green eyes had the same impact as a jolt of electrical current.

  He nodded. Connie had called him about it as he was leaving the photo shoot. Another guest’s last-minute cancellation had given him exactly what he needed—time with Emmy.

  “Good. Great. Looking forward to it.” She nodded, pulled her hair back, and tugged up her hoodie. “Bye.” With a little wave, she headed to the door.

  It took everything he had not to go after her.

  But Vanessa was watching him closely. Too closely.

  “What?” He asked.

  She shook her head. “How’s your dad?”

  “Better.” He glanced at his father. “Being hardheaded is working in his favor.”

  “I’m so sorry, Brock.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “Sometimes life is unfair, isn’t it?” Her tone was the first hint that something was up. “I heard about Alpha. That�
�s huge. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you.” He paused, then said, “I appreciate you stopping by to see my father, V; I do. But I’d rather we skip to why you’re here.”

  “Of course.” She ran one hand up and down her arm, agitated. “I need help—”

  “V, I can’t help you.” He sat, resting his elbows on his knees. “It’s not that I don’t want to, but I can’t.”

  “It’s not that.” She paced the room, then back again. “It’s my mom. You know that little artists’ community she was all psyched about?”

  He nodded. Vanessa’s mom had worked three jobs to pay for all of Vanessa’s pageants, headshots, and travel. She’d been determined to give her daughter a better life. And she had, for a while.

  “She found the perfect place, and she’s so happy, and I really want to do this for her, Brock. I do. But I don’t have the money… Not right now.”

  He sat back. “You need money?”

  “I can’t ask Mark, my fiancé. He’s had people use him for money before and I don’t want him to think I’m doing the same, you know? He thinks I have money. And I do. But I’m a little short right now. And they need the deposit now.” She shrugged. “It’s my mom. Like your dad, she’s never bailed on me.”

  Brock rolled his neck. “How much are we talking, V?”

  “Fifteen thousand dollars.”

  “Where would I send this money?” He ran a hand over the back of his neck.

  “Me.” She looked desperate.

  He shook his head. “I can’t give you fifteen thousand dollars.” He pushed out of his chair. “I can pay the property management company, but I can’t give it to you.”

  “Mark would flip if he found out you paid the deposit.” She shook her head. “Or that I’m here asking you for money.”

  “That’s all I can do.” She could be clean. The money could be for her mother. But if it wasn’t… Giving money to a recovering addict was enabling their addiction. He wouldn’t do that. “I hope you understand.”

  “Yep. I do.” She nodded. “I really do. You’re not the only one who’s listened to the whole ‘giving money to an addict is like handing someone suicidal a loaded gun’ thing. I understand.” Her gaze darted to his father. “Take care of him. And yourself.”

  He felt like an ass. He did. “You, too.”

  “I am. I will.” She gave him a quick hug. “See you around.”

  He stared at the door a good five minutes after she’d left, second-guessing himself. In the end, there was no way of knowing if she was telling the truth or not. He couldn’t own her recovery or take responsibility for her choices. His choices were his own—and he needed to be able to live with them.

  “You all right, Son?” his father asked. “You’re pacing like a caged bear.”

  “Hey, Dad.” He smiled. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “You didn’t.” He sat up. “I could go for something to eat.”

  “Grapes?” Brock asked, carrying the bag to the bed.

  “That’ll do.” He stared up at the television. “Game over?”

  “You didn’t miss much. At this rate, we’ll be going up against the Miami Raiders or the Green Bay Bears in the Championship Bowl.” He chuckled. “If we get there.”

  “You will. You’ve got a fire in you this season.” His father popped a grape into his mouth and leaned his head back against the pillow. “You ever wake up knowing you’re forgetting something?” He stared around the room. “People or places or bits of memory on the edge you can’t quite see…”

  Brock looked at his father. “Sometimes.”

  “I wonder if I’ll ever see the inside of my home again. And if I do, will I know it’s my home?” He turned to Brock. “Will I remember raising you there? Watching you grow up? Listening to Molly banging around in the kitchen at all hours of the day and night?”

  Brock took the hand he offered, incapable of saying a word.

  “While I’m here, I figure I should tell you how proud I am of you.” He cradled Brock’s hands in his. “You’ve always gone after what you wanted. Worked hard, fought hard. Never gave up.”

  “You taught me that. I’m the man I am because of you.”

  “You’re a good man, Brock.” He squeezed his hand. “I love you. Even when my head’s scrambled up, I know I love you. Inside, I know you’re my son and I’m proud to be your father.”

  Brock nodded, too damn close to tears to say a word.

  “Enough of that.” His father let go of his hands. “How about a donut?”

  Chapter 16

  Emmy Lou stroked Watson’s back, his little purr soothing. And since Momma had insisted on riding with her, talking the whole time, Emmy needed soothing.

  “If I didn’t have my appointment, I would come with you.” Momma had been ecstatic over having her hair done at some exclusive salon. That was the whole reason her mother had accompanied them to San Francisco. “Unless you need me to come with you—because of Brock. Will it be too hard knowing everything?”

  Momma was referring to the spin she’d put on things. But Emmy’s mind took a detour into the everything she’d learned in his hotel room. She glanced out the window of the rented car—to make sure Momma wouldn’t see her smile.

  “After what he’s put you through, it’s understandable.” There was a razor-sharp edge to Momma’s words. “Maybe I should stay. Give that boy a piece of my mind.”

  No. Oh no. Emmy held her breath.

  Sawyer glanced in the rearview mirror.

  Melanie, sitting across from them on the rear-facing seat, looked up from her tablet long enough to slide her glasses in place.

  “But I feel like that would just give him satisfaction—and more press. He’s getting enough as it is.” Her gaze narrowed. “Sawyer, you make sure to keep Emmy away from him. You know how sweet she is, and that boy…well, he’s up to something.” Her blue-green eyes glanced at the back of Sawyer’s head. “You hear me, Sawyer? If they’re not on camera, he has nothing to say to her.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Sawyer’s voice was flat.

  It wasn’t the first time Momma had implied Emmy was too helpless or weak to take care of herself, but it still stung.

  Momma kept on. “There are a dozen other charities that would have been happy to have you. I don’t know what your daddy was thinking, putting you in harm’s way like this.”

  The car seemed to be moving at a snail’s pace—probably because of Momma’s constant chatter. Emmy turned all of her attention to the traffic-congested street, the crowd of fans lining the sidewalk into the Elaine studio already starting to scream.

  “Goodness, what a crowd.” Momma glanced at her. “I can’t believe you brought that cat with you. Really, Emmy Lou. He’s not a lapdog.”

  Emmy smiled at the kitten sitting on her lap. She admired Watson’s total lack of fear. Not of riding in cars or Clementine following him everywhere, not of Momma’s high heels—he liked swatting at them—or the horrible screams Momma made when she realized her silk hose had been shredded. “He’s my lap cat.” Emmy picked him up and deposited him in the cat carrier disguised as a purse. “You ready, Watson?”

  “Have fun,” Momma said. “Try to get them on your left side and sit up straight. Oh, Emmy, Elaine’s Book Club picks. Find out how that works for me.”

  Emmy had never been so desperate for air. She took Sawyer’s hand and stepped out onto the sidewalk, breathing deep. Everything her mother said seemed to suck the air out of the car. Brock. Her memoir. The pointed way she’d watched Emmy eat her breakfast this morning. What was wrong with a whole wheat muffin? Everything she ate was approved by the dietitian. It felt like Momma was scrutinizing everything she did or said.

  “You good?” Sawyer asked.

  “Let’s do this.” Emmy nodded. She signed posters of herself, posters of the Three Kings, concert
shirts, CDs, and one little boy’s arm cast. Travis could tease her all he wanted—her fans were the only reason for their success.

  “Emmy Lou.” Melanie tapped her watch.

  “Picture?” she asked the crowd. From the enthusiastic commotion, she assumed they were good with it.

  Melanie pulled out her phone. “Here.” Emmy handed over Watson and began snapping pictures. “Okay.”

  With a few more blown kisses and a lot of hand-waving, she made her way inside the studio. “You did great,” she said to Watson. “You’re going to give Clementine a run for her money.”

  Sawyer herded them along, following the production assistant who greeted them. He seemed more uptight than ever. Which, for Sawyer, said a lot. While she was getting her makeup and hair touched up, Sawyer seemed to be giving everyone a thorough once-over. He seemed…braced.

  “You’re making me nervous,” she said, staring at his reflection in the mirror.

  Melanie nodded. “Me, too.”

  “Is there something you’re not telling me? Some sort of threat alert or something?” She was teasing. Sort of. He was definitely on edge.

  “Doing my job,” he basically growled.

  Melanie glanced his way, then hers.

  “You always do, Sawyer.” Emmy sipped her water and then asked, “Is this because of my mother?” Emmy Lou frowned and pushed herself out of the makeup chair to face him. “The whole ridiculous overprotective thing—and Brock?”

  “I’m not sure it’s ridiculous.” His gaze stayed fixed on her. “Part of my job is research.”

  “Research?” Emmy Lou shook her head, stunned. “On Brock? Sawyer…” She wasn’t sure whether to be touched or angry. At the moment, she was leaning toward anger. Definitely anger. “This isn’t the time for this. I have to go out there, smile, and act like everyone I know sees me as an intelligent, capable woman versus some…some toddler who needs constant supervision and direction about what to eat and wear and think and who to love.” She paused, looking at him. “You’re with me or you’re with her. If you’re with me, I expect you to respect my choices—not try to force yours on me.”