Song for a Cowboy Page 6

  “Yes, I do,” Sawyer answered, holding open the stadium door.

  Poor Sawyer. Considering the stress her family had caused him the last year, he probably had a medicine cabinet full of antacid. “I’m pretty sure there’s no cause for alarm. And Daddy will be here in like…” She glanced at her watch. “Fifteen or twenty minutes.”

  “It’s my job,” Sawyer answered, following her inside.

  “Fine. It’s like talking to a brick wall anyway.” She glanced at up him, hoping to draw him into conversation. He’d been part of her daily life for more than a year, but she still didn’t know all that much about him. “Anyone who thinks our generation is entitled and lazy never met you.” She used air quotes around our generation. “It takes a lot to impress my daddy, Sawyer. But I can tell, you’ve definitely impressed him.” It might also have something to do with the fact that, when he was needed, Sawyer never failed to deliver. Over the course of the last year, Emmy Lou had come to think of her broody bodyguard more as family than an employee. “I do think you’ve earned a vacation by now. Don’t you?”

  Sawyer shrugged, barely acknowledging her question. He was assessing their new environment—jaw tight, posture braced, and gaze sweeping the mostly empty stadium hall. She peered around, trying to see things the way he saw them. But all she saw was a cleanup crew, a man in a hydraulic lift changing light bulbs, and a smiling teenager in a DFLM T-shirt. None of them screamed danger to her.

  “Miss King?” The teenage girl sort of bounced toward them, her hands clasped in front of her. “Hi. I’m Lupe. You’re here. In person. And I’m…I’m super nervous.” She laughed, her cheeks deep red, and rubbed her palms against her jean-clad thigh. “I’m supposed to take you to the field.”

  “Hi, Lupe. It’s so nice to meet you.” Emmy Lou shook the girl’s hand.

  “Same. I mean—it’s really really nice to meet you.” Her gaze darted to Sawyer, her smile wavering.

  “That’s just Sawyer,” Emmy said, pointing behind her, where Sawyer stood—stiff and silent. “He probably won’t smile or say much, but he’s totally a good guy even if he looks a little scary.”

  The corner of Sawyer’s mouth twitched.

  “Oh. Hey.” Lupe nodded. “Okay, well, we’re going this way.” She turned and headed quickly toward one of the ramps that led onto the floor.

  By the time they’d reached the ramp onto the field, Emmy had learned that Lupe wanted to be a high school guidance counselor. “Our counselor, Miss Lozano, is always there when we need her. At school, at home—she’s even picked up one of my friends when things got really bad at home. I want to do that, you know? Be there to help so that no one is ever alone.”

  It wasn’t the first time Emmy realized just how privileged she was. For all their flaws—and there were many—her family would always be there for her. “You are definitely amazing, Lupe.”

  Lupe’s cheeks were bright red now. “Thanks.”

  The thump of music—with a heavy bass—drifted up the ramp. Shalene Fowler was there, a clipboard in one hand, a walkie-talkie in the other.

  “Hey, Emmy Lou.” She waved her forward. “You ready for this? We have a full house. And they are super excited! We’ve got the stage set up, per your assistant’s direction, so we’re ready to go.”

  “She wanted to be here, but she’s got some nasty bug.” If Emmy Lou hadn’t put her foot down and demanded she stay home, Melanie would have been here anyway—green and nauseated. Not that being sick had stopped Melanie from running through the day’s agenda, again, via FaceTime.

  “Any questions?” Shalene smiled when Emmy shook her head. “Okay, we’ve got about five minutes.”

  Five minutes was all she needed. Emmy Lou glanced down at her custom-made, pink, sequin-covered Converse tennis shoes. Before the Three Kings had become a power player in country music, they’d been three awkward preteens singing their hearts out at every county fair and rodeo circuit. At one rodeo, a big one, Emmy had tripped on the laces of her cute ankle boots and fallen, face-first, in front of the entire crowd. It hadn’t stopped her from getting up, smile in place, and singing, but it had left her insides twisted up and her confidence shaken. Her performance had suffered, badly.

  She’d never let herself forget that day. Not the fall, accidents happened. But how it felt to disappoint her fans, family, and band. And herself. After that show, humiliated and nursing bruised knees, she’d promised herself she’d give each and every performance her best—no matter what. Ever since, she’d pause and check her shoes before every performance—whether she was wearing lace-up shoes or not—to renew that promise. She drew in a deep breath and nodded.

  Minutes later, Shalene asked, “Ready?” At Emmy’s nod, she held up the walkie-talkie and said, “Miss King is ready.”

  Emmy bounced up on the tips of her toes and rubbed her hands together. She was excited—really excited. The shouts and clapping and voices from inside the stadium triggered a surge of endorphins. There was nothing as exhilarating as the enthusiasm of a live audience. Normally Melanie or Krystal, Travis, or her daddy was there to give her a thumbs-up, a let’s-do-this sort of thing. So she glanced at Lupe and gave her a thumbs-up. Lupe returned the gesture. She gave Sawyer a thumbs-up, too. For a split second, he smiled. Well, almost…sort of smiled. His eyebrow shot up, too. Then he was stony faced, his thick arms crossed.

  For the most part, Emmy laughed off her sister’s random Travis-Sawyer comparisons. They looked nothing alike. Sure, they were both tall, but Sawyer was big in a scary way. Travis, not so much. They had music in common, but that made sense. Why would Sawyer work for a musical family if he wasn’t into music? Sawyer was good, too—he and Travis had numerous spontaneous jam sessions during their last tour. If Sawyer was picking up on some of Travis’s poses and expressions, it was because the poor guy had spent so much time with them. So much so that, right now, Sawyer looked way too much like her big brother. Poor Sawyer really does need a vacation.

  “Okay,” Shalene said. “Let’s go. The players will come out on the opposite side of the stage.”

  “Great.” She stopped staring at her now-wary-looking bodyguard and followed Shalene down the ramp and up the metal stairs to the stage.

  “Who’s excited?” a voice overhead asked.

  A chorus of shrieks and whistles rose.

  Emmy Lou smiled.

  “Let’s give it up for Emmy Lou King.”

  Emmy took the microphone from one of the stagehands and jogged onto the stage, waving. An ocean of young faces, all wearing the neon-green DFLM shirt, stared her way. The music was already playing. It was prerecorded, but the kids didn’t seem to mind. The familiar strum of a guitar, the quick beat of the drum, and she was singing a classic Three Kings tune. Best of all, the kids sang the chorus, too.

  It’s my promise, always given—when this world gets out of whack.

  If there’s one thing you can count on, it’s that I’ve got your back.

  She held the mic out for the kids to sing the chorus.

  It’s my promise, always given—when this world gets out of whack.

  If there’s one thing you can count on, it’s that I’ve got your back.

  She sang through the second verse, getting the kids to clap along. Once she’d sung through a final verse, she let the audience finish it out.

  She clapped, her mic in one hand. “That was awesome, y’all.” She kept on clapping. “What do you think? I think these guys are planning to sing now,” she teased.

  “We’ve been talking about that.” Leon Greene walked across the stage. “We have a surprise for you.”

  “You do?” She waited, taking care not to look at Brock any more than the other players gathered on the stage.

  “We didn’t want you to miss out on all the fun.” Leon grinned. “So RJ, Bear, me, and Brock are going to play you a little song. Then you can show us your th
rowing arm.”

  Her throwing arm? Her aim was…bad. Brock knew it, too. One time—one time—she’d managed to hit Brock in the face with a soda can, and that was it. Yes, she’d been aiming at her brother—who was a good five feet away from Brock—so it had been an accident. From then on, he and Travis had made a huge production of ducking or covering their head if she ever tossed them keys or an apple…or anything. Hands on hips, pride smarting, she asked the audience, “I don’t know, guys. What do you think? I know I can throw, but can they make music?”

  There was an audible “no” from the kids.

  “Not me.” Clay held up his hands. “But I’m sure gonna watch.” He pulled his phone from his back pocket. “And take video.”

  “Don’t be like that.” Leon chuckled. “You just watch and see. You ready?”

  Emmy perched on the stool a stagehand had placed on the stage and watched them take their spots. Leon had a brightly painted maraca in each hand, Demetrius carried a tambourine, the one name named RJ held a recorder, and Bear—all six feet six inches of him—raised a triangle. She would have laughed if Brock hadn’t carried the same, old, beat-up wood Yamaha that Travis had given him all those years ago. A guitar she’d helped teach him to play. She’d sat between his legs to place his fingers on the right strings while he’d dropped kisses on the side of her neck…

  Something thick and rough settled, hard, in her throat. She took a second to look down at her hands, pretending to be fascinated by her fingernails until she could ask, “Did y’all start your own band?”

  Leon shrugged. “Sort of. We have been working on a little something.”

  Bear tapped the triangle, and everyone laughed.

  “Bear’s the best one,” RJ said, looking serious.

  Bear tapped the triangle again and grinned.

  “We tried to work a solo in for him but…” RJ shrugged.

  Emmy had to laugh then. These giant, next-to-no-body-fat men ready to play their brightly colored children’s instruments were both hysterical and endearing.

  Bear winked her way. “They’re worried I’ll steal the show.”

  It was kind of hard to miss the smile on Brock’s face. That smile was one of the things she’d missed most about him—when she was still missing him. His smile all but disappeared when his gaze collided with hers. His lips pressed tight, the muscles of his jaw tight, as he turned his attention to his guitar.

  Was he angry? With her?

  The knot in her throat turned jagged. When he’d been drafted into the AFL, they knew things would change between them. But deep down, she’d believed him when he said he’d write to her. He’d promised nothing would change between them—that he’d love her forever.

  He’d lied. Not her.

  “One, two, three.” Leon tapped his foot.

  At first it was a bunch of notes and noise, but then it became more recognizable. “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” on the recorder, maracas, and triangle was something else. But the kids gathered at the front of the stage, singing and laughing. She joined in, too. Then the song was over and only Brock was playing.

  Emmy Lou sat up, surprised at the first notes. He was playing what she’d just performed, “I Got Your Back.” It was one of those songs that stuck at the top of the charts for almost a year. Afterward, the catchy anthem about teamwork and friendship had been used by numerous organizations—including the football league.

  Brock might have given her up, but he hadn’t given up the guitar. Wrong or not, it hurt. Which made things that much worse. For all her big talk, it—he, their past—still affected her. She didn’t want him to have the power to hurt her anymore. Why am I giving it to him? She didn’t want to be the nun of country music. She wanted to love someone; she wanted someone to love her. One thing was certain: that someone wasn’t, and never would be, Brock Watson.

  * * *

  His fingers slid along the strings, each note adding to his mounting regret. What the hell was he thinking? The answer was obvious. Right or wrong, pathetic or not, it was a test. Would she react? Would there be even the slightest reaction to his playing? Or the guitar? Did she ever think about those days, the two of them, so wrapped up in each other—so confident in the illusion of a future together? Maybe it had never been real to her. Maybe he’d been too blind to see that. There was a mile-long list of questions he’d never get answered. But one bothered him more than the rest. Why the hell does any of this still matter so damn much?

  When the song was over, the dull roar of the stadium rose. The audience, three-hundred-plus elementary- and middle-school-aged kids, were clapping and screaming like he was a rock star.

  “Freight train and music legend,” Clay Reese said, still holding up his phone. “Not too bad, but how about we leave the music to the professional? Emmy Lou?”

  He watched as she slid off the stool, her ponytail swinging and her shiny, pink lips smiling.

  “I might have one or two songs.” Emmy Lou nodded, the mic clasped in both hands. “But before that, how about another hand for them? That was some performance, wasn’t it?” She tilted her head in their direction, her green gaze bouncing from one to the next—stopping just shy of him. With a little skip in her step, she stared out over the kids and started clapping. “Let’s keep this party going.”

  When Emmy started singing and his friends and teammates started dancing, he carried his guitar off the stage. He crouched, opening the beaten-up case and placing the guitar inside with care.

  “Brock.” Hank King was there, standing in the shadows just out of sight of the stage. There was a warm smile on his face. “Good to see you, son.” He took Brock’s hand and shook it, his other hand clapping Brock on the shoulder.

  “Mr. King.” He was at a loss. He’d looked up to Hank King—thought he was a good man. To Brock, he’d seemed like this genuinely hardworking, talented family man with one hell of a knack for business. He’d welcomed Brock, taken an interest in his future, and supported his dream of playing pro ball. If the man had concerns about the relationship between him and Emmy Lou, he’d never said so. But when Brock had shown up on that long-ago, miserable, rainy morning, Hank King hadn’t stepped in or tried to stop his wife from severing the last threads of hope Brock had been clinging to.

  “You kept up with it.” Hank nodded at the guitar case. “You sounded real good out there.”

  Brock shook his head. “I’ll stick to football.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Hank laughed. “How’s the leg? We’ve been waiting, hoping you’d be back on the field this season.”

  Brock didn’t speculate about who the “we” was. “Doc thinks I should be good soon.” He shrugged. Just not soon enough. Every damn time he went in for a checkup, the doctor pushed his release back. Brock didn’t want to take chances—his body was his career and he needed to be in peak condition—but that was before Ricky Ames had shown up.

  “Glad to hear it.” Hank shook his head. “The rhythm is off on the field. Without you, there’s a hole in the defensive line.”

  He kept his opinions to himself. His loyalty was with his team, so he’d never agree with Hank—even if the man was right. After his injury, the Roughnecks had struggled through the remainder of the season. And even though he’d been recovering from an injury and nowhere near the field, he’d gotten all kinds of shit for the team’s less-than-impressive season.

  “Shows the kind of leader you are on the field,” Hank continued. He peered onto the stage before adding, “Glad things worked out for you, son. I always knew you’d get what you wanted.”

  Brock studied the older man’s profile. It had been years since he’d seen him, aside from his new music videos and album covers; there was always plenty of Hank King and his family in the media. At times, it seemed like every detail of the Kings’ lives was tracked and reported on. To Brock, Hank King had aged with every new picture. In person, Hank K
ing’s deeply lined forehead, graying temples, and overall weariness were telling. “I just wanted to say how sorry I am for what your family has been through the last few months.” He meant it.

  Hank faced him, a sad smile on his face. “That means a lot, son. It’s been hell.” Hank paused. “You haven’t had it all that easy yourself. You doing okay?”

  Brock’s nod was stiff. Day by day. That’s all he could do. The last four years of his life had been one trial after another. Every day, he reminded himself of the reasons he had to stay clean, stay strong, and keep going. Namely, his father—and Aunt Mo.

  “Glad to hear it.” Hank nodded. “This life will either make you or break you. It’s finding the good—good people, good causes—that make it worth it.”

  Brock didn’t disagree. But good people were harder to find than good causes. His glance swiveled to the stage. Emmy Lou, her hand up over her head and one foot tapping, belted out the chorus to “Try and Stop Me.” She knew how to put on a show. Her voice was only part of it. When she performed, she lost herself in the music—and carried the audience away with her. The kids in the audience were singing, so Emmy Lou held out the mic to them, her smile wide and sweet and beautiful. A different ache, cold and hard, took up residence in the pit of his stomach.

  “Brock?” Shalene was hurrying down the ramp to the side of the stage. “Brock, you have a phone call.”

  The look on Shalene’s face triggered instant panic. “From who?” He was down the stairs and jogging to meet her, ignoring the stares and whispers of the staff and volunteers nearby.

  “Your aunt?” She held the phone out.

  “Aunt Mo?” He took the phone, covering his other ear to hear.

  “Brock? Your daddy’s taken a spill. He’s hit his head, so they’re taking him to the hospital.”

  “Which hospital?” he asked, already heading toward the exit, Shalene Fowler trailing along.

  “St. Joseph’s Medical Center. I’ve got Cliff bringing me, so you just head straight there,” she said. “He’s breathing, headed where he needs to be, so don’t you drive like a maniac and wind up in ER yourself, you hear me?”