Song for a Cowboy Page 5

  “Really?” Krystal stared over her shoulder at him. “It’s that easy?”

  He shrugged. “Or something.”

  “Or something? It’s pretty damn perfect. And you know it.” Krystal shook her head. “Kiss me.”

  Jace looked all too willing to do that—and more.

  “Okay. Okay. Wait.” Emmy Lou laughed. “I’m disconnecting now so you can…whatever.” She covered her eyes, smiling at their laughter, and ended the Skype connection. She penciled in Jace’s contribution, singing through it softly, then laughed. Krystal was right. He’d made that look a little too easy. But there was no arguing the end results. It was a good song.

  “I have some new things,” Juliette said, holding the door open for her two assistants to push the large rolling clothes rack into Emmy’s room. “Try this one.” Juliette held out a long-sleeve minidress covered in reflective bangles. “It will make you sparkle.”

  “Like she needs help with that.” Travis leaned in the door, a spoon hanging out of his mouth and a jar of peanut butter in one hand. “I feel like I need to put on sunglasses.” He shielded his eyes from the assortment of shimmering garments on the rack.

  “Hello, Travis. What do you think?” Juliette smiled.

  “It looks like someone took apart a disco ball and glued it all over the dress.” Travis flopped onto the foot of Emmy Lou’s bed and scooped out another spoonful of peanut butter.

  “That is exactly what I did.” Juliette laughed and held the dress in front of Emmy Lou. “Try it?”

  Travis shrugged. “Yeah, go on and blind all our fans, why don’t you?” He turned to give her privacy.

  Emmy Lou slipped out of her shorts and T-shirt, eyeing the disco ball dress. Krystal wore black and red and deep blues while Emmy Lou stuck with white and silver, champagne, and a variety of pinks. Were there times she’d like to add a little color? Sure—but Momma had taught her the importance of sticking to your brand from an early age.

  While other kids were in scout troops or going to track meets, she and her siblings went to modeling academies, networked with the rich and famous, and learned how to succeed in the music industry. The two most important things: being recognizable and making an impact. Emmy Lou was the only one to perfect the art of making a positive impact. As a result, the record company and their publicist made sure to keep Emmy Lou front and center on all the Three Kings ads, CD covers, and videos.

  She slipped the dress on, turned so Juliette could pull up the zipper, and caught sight of her brother—tapping out the beat to Krystal’s new song on his knee, totally focused. “What do you think? She sent it this morning. But the chorus—that was all Jace.” She took Juliette’s hand and stepped onto the stool.

  Juliette knelt, a few pins in her mouth. “Shorter?” Tape measure in hand, she folded the hem up, sat back, and nodded.

  Emmy glanced at her reflection and shrugged. “Your call. You know I trust you.”

  “That’s Emmy Lou. Miss Agreeable.” Travis’s gaze darted her way before returning to the sheet music. He leaned back on the bed, propped himself on one elbow, and read each page again. “I’d take this down an octave? For harmony.” He stopped tapping, changed the rhythm, and tapped out the new beat. “And I’d make that beat longer at the end…”

  It wasn’t the first time she’d been struck by her brother’s talent. Travis had a natural musical ability, like Krystal and their father. When it came to backup vocals, bass guitar, banjo, and the pedal steel guitar, there was no one better. He’d even taught himself to play the dobro because he said it added a homegrown, classic authenticity to their songs. But whenever she or Krystal suggested he take a turn and pen them a new tune, he’d roll his eyes and brush them off. Typical Travis.

  “Then suggest the changes.” She kept her tone light, knowing full well he’d shut down or blow her off if she made this into a big deal.

  With a dismissive hiss, he turned the sheet music facedown on the pink-and-white comforter and ran a hand through his shaggy blond hair. “Nope. Krystal knows what she’s doing. My input isn’t needed.” He pushed off the bed, sorting through the clothes rack with quick, jerky movements. “Pretty sure I know how that would go over.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Eyes narrowed, jaw clenched, and posture rigid, he looked ready to give her an earful. Something big was eating at him. And since her brother tended to deflect with jokes or teasing or lots of alcohol and highly questionable choices, his serious expression had her complete and undivided attention. Just when she thought he’d say more, he went back to sorting through the shirts on the rack. “Nothing.”

  Which wasn’t true. “Trav—”

  “Forget it, Emmy.” Meaning he didn’t want to talk about it. He picked a shirt from the rack and held it in front of himself, his gaze meeting hers in the mirror. “Hey, disco-ball girl, stop looking at me like that.”

  But she wasn’t ready to let it go—not yet. “I love you, Trav. And if you’ll let me in, I’m here. Okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah, stop getting all worked up.” He nodded. “I love you, too. Even if you’re a pain in the ass.”

  Typical Travis dodge maneuver. “Me? I’m the pain in your…”

  “Come on, say it. You can do it. Ass. Ass.” He drew out the s’s for added emphasis, then chuckled and pulled another shirt from the rack. “Sometimes a good curse word is appropriate. I thought for sure you were going to tell the photographer to fuck off when he had Brock swing you over his shoulder. Or at least, a hell no.” Travis shook his head. “I’m thinking some people are going to be offended by that picture.” He shrugged. “Brock caveman, you cavewoman. What the hell was that about?”

  Emmy Lou shot him a look.

  “What?” His wide-eyed innocent expression didn’t fool her for a second.

  “Are you really offended on my behalf? Or waiting for a chance to slip him into conversation?” It was a rhetorical question, really. The smile on his face was answer enough. “Real subtle, Trav.”

  “Good. You can change.” Juliette pulled out a white, sequin-covered, long-sleeved jumpsuit.

  With the help of Juliette, she changed without jabbing herself with pins. But once the jumpsuit was on, Emmy Lou had doubts.

  “You look amazing.” Juliette stood back, arms crossed over her waist. “This is a yes. After we shorten it.” She gave Emmy a hand up onto the stool. “Travis?”

  “Wow.” Travis nodded. “That’s new.” He gave her reflection a thumbs-up, pulling on a faded, sleeveless chambray shirt. “This works. It makes my arms look good, don’t you think?”

  “Yes.” Being surrounded by professional athletes had totally shaken her big brother’s confidence.

  “You have to admit, he’s changed,” Travis said, meeting her gaze in the mirror. “Barely cracked a smile. Brock, I mean. You probably didn’t notice, though.”

  She had noticed. It’s for the best. If he kept being a tool, as Travis put it, it would be a lot easier to pretend he wasn’t the same person whose laugh and smile and kisses she’d loved most. Instead of taking the bait, she turned on the stool and avoided her brother’s gaze altogether.

  “Guess not, then.” There was laughter in her brother’s voice. “If it bothers you so much, I’ll try not to bring him up—”

  “It does not bother me—” But her quick denial was so loud and sharp that everyone in the room paused to look her way.

  “Sure. Right. No more Brock Watson talk.” He flexed for the mirror and sent her a cheeky wink. “Not from me anyway.”

  * * *

  Brock ran a towel over his sweat-covered face. He had a break from training today but that didn’t mean he was going to sit on his ass. The pressure was on. If he was going to get back in the game, be the peak contender he once was, he had to put in the work and time. Lucky for him, there was always something to do on the ranch.

 
; It had been a pretty dry spring, so there was no choice but to supplement feed for the cattle. Between loading and unloading square hay bales, hefting fifty-pound bags of range cubes, checking on the water tank levels, and making a mental inventory of what they’d need to keep the herd fed through winter, he managed to keep busy.

  Once he’d run through things with the foreman, he put in an old-school workout.

  His trainer, Stan Jelinik, had taught him how to use what he had available to him. It was amazing how much use a person could get out of an old tractor tire. Dead lifts were always an option. So was a farmer walk—standing in the middle of a tire and carrying it, straight-armed, around one of the pins had led to many a wager among the ranch hands. Their support and competitive spirit were the added incentive he needed to push himself to the limits. If there was no cedar to cut down or wood to chop, he’d take a sledgehammer to the damn tire. One side, then the other—occasionally he’d alternate and work his arms, shoulders, and back to the max.

  Aunt Mo was at her quilting circle, so Brock took a steaming hot shower, made himself a second breakfast, and sat on the wide wraparound porch to enjoy the quiet. As much as he appreciated the housing the owners had provided, he’d rather stay here. This was home. Then again, it was a good thirty to forty-five minutes into town and another ten to twenty to the stadium. Not exactly convenient.

  He set his empty plate on the wooden-plank porch and flexed his left heel, slowly stretching his calf muscle. Occasionally, his leg ached. The physical therapist he’d worked with during his rehabilitation said there was a chance it always would. Still, he had no complaints. The surgery he’d had four and a half years ago to repair his tibial plateau fracture had been a success. If it weren’t for the occasional ache and the seven-inch scar on the outside of his knee, he could almost forget the injury had happened.

  But then he’d get a call from his Narcotics Anonymous sponsor, Randy, or Green Gardens Alzheimer’s clinic, and there was no denying how significantly his injury and the resulting fallout had changed his life.

  And his struggle with addiction had made this last injury a son of a bitch to manage. A tear to his right ACL with minimum pain meds wasn’t easy, but he’d done it. A week of meds, then on to acupuncture and electrotherapy. The last seven months he’d carefully followed every order from his doctors and physical therapists, his trainers and nutritionists. Once Dr. Provencher released him, he’d be ready to go. The sooner the better.

  Don’t let the fall break you were his father’s words.

  I’m doing my best. And he was. Nothing and no one would stop him from getting back on top. He didn’t know how much longer he had on the field; no one ever did. But he wasn’t giving up. No way he’d let his team, his father, or himself down again.

  He stared out over the rolling fields, the distant low of one of his black-and-white Herefords and the coo of the occasional dove giving him the peace he needed before he faced the rest of the day. He downed the rest of his protein-powder, electrolyte-infused smoothie and pushed himself out of the sturdy wooden rocking chair.

  * * *

  He was washing his dishes in Aunt Mo’s massive farm sink when his phone started ringing.

  “Brock.” Connie, his agent, was all business. “It’s a go.”

  “You’ve got so many irons in the fire, I’m not sure which one we’re talking about.” Brock stacked the dish in the drying rack, dried his hands on a hand-stitched towel, and made sure the kitchen was up to Aunt Mo’s standards.

  “You are welcome.” Connie laughed. “Alpha. Their offer came in and it’s big.”

  “How big?” It was one thing to pitch sports drinks or athletic gear. That was his bread and butter, the tools he used daily. So in a sense, he was qualified to be their spokesman. A men’s line? He wasn’t so sure he was the right man for the job. But as Connie liked to tell him, she knew best.

  “Big-big.” And she was happy; he could hear it in her voice. “I’m emailing you what they’ve sent. Take a look at it and I’ll call you this evening?”

  “Sounds good.” He nodded.

  “How’s your father?”

  “He’s hanging in there. You know he’s tough.” He smiled.

  “That’s why they called him Ox, isn’t it? Give him my best.” She paused. “But seriously, read the email.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, yeah.” And hung up.

  “Shit.” He’d have to visit his dad after he stopped by the stadium. They were having special teams’ meetings this afternoon and he wasn’t about to be late. His father wouldn’t want that, either—he was all about being the first one there, the go-to player, and the last one to leave. Brock was, too.

  The drive into Austin took close to an hour, bumper-to-bumper and horns blaring. By the time he parked and headed inside, he was tense enough to run a few laps. Since his tension level was only likely to rise with his meetings, he might as well wait until the meetings were over to run.

  “Brock.” Russell Ewen, the defensive coordinator, headed his way. His once red hair had turned steely over the course of the last couple of years. “Before we get started, head down to Dale’s office. It will only take a minute. Ames is here.”

  Ricky Ames. The new second-string defensive end and his new backup. The kid, barely twenty years old, had pro instincts, lightning-fast feet, and packed one hell of a punch. But all the talent came with a reputation. A big mouth and an even bigger ego. Brock wasn’t exactly looking forward to meeting the kid. “Sure.”

  The Roughnecks’ head coach, Dale McCoy, was a big believer in the older players mentoring the new additions. It was also highly motivational for the seasoned players. Nothing like seeing a younger, fresher player ready and willing to take their place on the field to remind them that trades and contract renegotiations were always options—no matter who you were.

  Brock didn’t take that for granted.

  Ten minutes later, he’d showered, dressed, and was putting on his game face. He nodded his greeting at Dale’s secretary, Michelle.

  “You can go on in, Brock.” She leaned forward, sliding her glasses down enough to peek over the rim. “Just between you and me, Ricky Ames is a little shit.”

  Brock chuckled. “Oh?” He’d always appreciated Michelle’s candor—and her opinions. Over the years, he’d come to realize that she was pretty good at reading people. She’d been with the team longer than the head coach, so if she started a sentence with, “Just between you and me,” Brock tended to listen. Her straightforward, no-nonsense conversation and unwavering devotion to the Roughnecks reminded him a lot of Aunt Mo. High praise indeed.

  “He seems to think the team is lucky to have him. We know it’s the other way around.” She winked. “I figured I’d warn you.”

  Great. “I appreciate the heads-up.” He took a deep breath and opened Coach McCoy’s office door.

  “Brock.” Dale waved him in. “Wanted you to meet Ricky here. Ricky, I’m guessing you know who Brock Watson is.”

  “Who doesn’t? I grew up watching you, man.” Ricky nodded, crossing the room to take his hand. “You were, like, my hero. I’ve got a YouTube greatest clips of you forklifting half the damn league. Legendary.”

  “Reggie White did it best.” Brock shook his hand. “Good to meet you.”

  “How’s the leg? That hit.” Ricky winced. “Man, it hurt like a son of a bitch watching. That’s the sort of thing that can end a career.”

  “The leg is good.” He shrugged.

  “Glad to hear it.” Ricky’s cocky-ass smile grew. “I hear it’s hard to give one hundred percent when you’ve been knocked down like that.”

  Brock chuckled. Ricky Ames was going to have to work a hell of a lot harder to get under his skin.

  After a quick rundown of the daily schedule and another handful of awkward exchanges, Dale said, “Thanks for stopping in, Brock.” Coach shot him an apolo
getic smile. “I’m sure Ricky will need some guidance once training starts.”

  Oh, he’d need it all right. But would the kid listen? Probably not. “Sure.” Brock nodded, keeping it as noncommittal as possible. With a final round of handshakes, he left the office, closing the door behind him.

  “See what I mean?” Michelle asked. “Little shit.”

  Brock shrugged. “Bet you felt the same way about me when I started.”

  “You? No, sir.” She waved his comment aside with her bright-pink-tipped fingers. “You know my sister’s husband’s cousin works over at the DFLM Foundation?” She waited for him to nod. “Well, she might have sent me a proof sheet from that photo shoot—the one with Emmy Lou King. I just about died. I am a huge fan of Three Kings. That girl is about the prettiest thing I have ever seen. You never told me you two dated.”

  “Never came up, I guess.” Because he went out of his way not to bring it up.

  “You two look good together, Brock.” She paused, but he didn’t say anything, so she went on. “Is she as sweet as she seems? I mean, she comes across as the heart-of-gold type. Such a positive role model for young girls—a rare thing in this day and age.”

  At one time, he’d have said yes. But now? She was a King. CiCi King’s devoted daughter. Which meant nothing was as it seemed. “I don’t really know much about her anymore.” Only that, for reasons beyond understanding, he still ached to touch her. “She’s a celebrity, Michelle.”

  Chapter 4

  Emmy crossed the parking lot of the Capital City Events Center doing her best not to think about the last time she’d been here. It wasn’t raining, she wasn’t FaceTiming with Krystal, there was no truck barreling down on her, and no Brock. So far, so good.

  She ran her hand over her ponytail and smoothed the neon-green Drug Free Like Me T-shirt she wore. Today was her inaugural DFLM event. Today would be all about singing to a couple hundred kids, throwing footballs, running relay races, and—maybe—climbing a rock wall. Today would not be about Brock, period. “You don’t have to come in, Sawyer.” Sawyer walked right behind her, silent and intimidating and way too intense.