Song for a Cowboy Page 7

  “Yes, ma’am.” He hung up and handed the phone back to Shalene. “Family emergency.”

  “I hope everything is okay, Brock.” She patted his arm. “You take care now.”

  He jogged to the locker room, grabbed his bag, and ran to his truck. He put the key in the ignition, his phone beeping from the recesses of his gym bag. He pulled it out, fear ticking his pulse up. Missed calls from Aunt Mo. From ten and fifteen minutes ago. Nothing new.

  Calm the fuck down. He rolled his head and took a few deep breaths before turning the key in the ignition. Austin highways meant constant construction and traffic. As much as he wanted to avoid I-35, it was still the fastest route. But the fifteen-mile, forty-five-minute drive took every last bit of his patience—and then some.

  He parked and ran, cutting across the parking lot and ignoring the shocked stares of people who recognized him. It didn’t help that his neon-green DFLM shirt had his name in bold, reflective, black letters across his back.

  He headed straight to the ER. Aunt Mo stood, wringing her hands, staring at the television in the corner of the room.

  “Aunt Mo?” He gave her a quick hug. “Any word?”

  She shook her head. “They’re still checking him out. Knowing him, he’s being ornery.” But her smile wasn’t steady, and her eyes were full of tears.

  He nodded. “Probably fighting them and giving them an earful.” His father was a big man. When he got aggressive, and he had a time or two, it wasn’t easy to subdue or calm him.

  She laughed then, pulling a faded blue-plaid handkerchief from the pocket of her sweater. “We’ll just wait awhile.”

  “You want to sit?” he asked.

  “In those chairs?” Aunt Mo eyed the plastic chairs with concern. “Goodness knows when was the last time they had a good scrubbing. The last thing I need is to leave here with the flu or shingles or some nasty intestinal thing. I don’t have time for that sort of nonsense.”

  “I’m fine standing.” He didn’t argue. His father and Aunt Mo were both stubborn people. They liked to be in control. If standing made her feel better, he’d stand with her.

  “Mr. Watson? Miss Watson? My name is Jackie.” A nurse in pale green scrubs approached them. “It might be best if we put you in another room.” She glanced around the relatively full waiting room.

  That’s when Brock noticed a few cell phones out. A little boy with an ice pack to his cheek waved. Poor kid looked like he’d have a black eye. Brock waved back.

  “That would be nice,” Aunt Mo said.

  Brock took his aunt’s arm and followed Jackie from the ER waiting room, through some badge-activated doors, and down a short hallway to a small room with a few chairs and a water fountain.

  “Do we know what happened?” Aunt Mo asked. “David Watson is my brother.”

  “I see.” Jackie nodded. “Well, it looks like he got up at nap time and headed to the kitchen. The floors had just been mopped so he slipped on the floor and hit his head.”

  “After a snack most likely.” Aunt Mo’s hand tightened on his arm. “Is he awake? Can we see him?”

  “Not yet.” Jackie glanced back and forth between the two of them. “Once the doctor has finished his assessment, he will come see you.” She stood. “I’ll come back as soon as I have an update.” She pulled the door closed behind her.

  “You know how fragile his bones are, Brock.” Aunt Mo was shaking her head. “If he breaks something…”

  “Whoa. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Brock steered her to one of the chairs. “Dad’s tough. And stubborn.” He draped his arm along the back of Aunt Mo’s seat. “He’s strong, too. Stronger than an ox.” Since Brock could remember, he’d heard that about his father. Stronger than an ox. When his father had played college ball, he’d been known as “Ox” Watson or just “The Ox.” “He’s not giving up without a fight. He’s not done being a pain in the ass yet.”

  Aunt Mo stared up at him then, sniffing sharply, twisting her handkerchief between her hands. “He better be. Or I…I…” She broke off, pressing her lips together. “And watch your language, Brock Nathaniel Watson.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He hugged her close. She was only a few years younger than his father. She was just as tough, but beneath his arm, she felt small and fragile. When she was all bluster and snap, it was easy to forget that. Selfish or not, he needed them—they were what kept him focused. Eyes closed, he rubbed his hand up and down Aunt Mo’s arm to comfort them both. He was doing his best to swallow down the knot in his throat. He didn’t have any say-so and he knew it but, dammit, he wasn’t ready to say goodbye to his father. Please, Dad, fight.

  Chapter 5

  “You’re all here?” Emmy Lou said, handing her earpiece to Melanie and walking across the grass football field. “Why are you all here?”

  “Besides I’ve been home for less than twenty-four hours and I want to spend more time with you?” Krystal leaned forward, crossed her arms on the rail, and smiled. “I don’t know. I guess I was curious about this whole football-cheerleader song thing.” She blinked her eyes innocently. Without her signature smoky eye and dark-red lips, she looked young and—almost—innocent. But Emmy knew her twin. “Isn’t that right, Clementine?” Krystal cooed to her fan-adored, three-legged Chinese crested dog. The dog’s tail went wild. “See? She’s so excited to be here.”

  “O-okay. Thank you for the support, Clementine.” She turned to Travis. “And you?”

  “I figure there will be another awkward exchange between you and Brock.” He shrugged. “I brought popcorn.” He pulled a bag of microwave popcorn from under his seat, propped his booted feet on the chair in front of him, and tipped his green-and-yellow tractor cap back on his head.

  “At least he’s being honest.” Emmy pointed at her twin sister.

  Krystal leaned back against her seat, Clementine in her lap. “Fine. I’m here because I, too, am curious to see what’s not going on between the two of you.” She was smiling ear to ear.

  “Unbelievable.” She turned to Jace. “Can you please, please get her to listen to me?”

  Jace held his hands up. “I’m no magician, Emmy. I tried. Believe me, I tried.” He reached back and grabbed the bag of popcorn from Travis.

  “He is the only one who has a reason to be here.” She pointed at Sawyer, standing silently at the end of the row. “He’s working.”

  “I thought today was your day off, man?” Travis asked, grabbing the bag back from Jace and holding it out for Sawyer. “Didn’t you say something about going to a tractor pull or something?”

  “Are you kidding?” Emmy asked, horrified, as she faced Sawyer.

  “He is kidding.” Sawyer sighed.

  “Oh.” Emmy had a hard time not laughing then. “Sorry, Sawyer.” She shook her head. “If today was his day off, I’m sure he’d be somewhere far away.” She shot her siblings a look. “Instead of here, making things awkward for no reason. Because he, unlike all of you, probably has a life outside of my excessively dysfunctional—”

  “Personal life?” Travis finished.

  Krystal sat back and stared at Sawyer. “Do you wish you were far away from us, Sawyer? Here I thought we’d become your family, sort of. I mean, we are totally dysfunctional—you know that, but we also have a certain charm…and snacks.” It was her turn to steal the popcorn bag. She and Clementine peered inside. “Okay, we had snacks.” She glared at Travis and Jace. “When you’re not being our big, brooding, strong-and-silent bodyguard, you know, deep down, you’d still hang out with us—even if you weren’t paid to do so.” Her gaze swiveled back to Sawyer, head cocked to one side, eyebrow raised. “You know, like friends. Or family. You might as well be, at this point.”

  Sawyer’s eyes narrowed the tiniest bit.

  Emmy wasn’t sure what to make of the odd look that passed between Sawyer and her twin. It didn’t last long.
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br />   “I’m going to…check the exits,” Sawyer murmured, already heading up the stairs, his black “King’s Guard” T-shirt stretched across his broad back.

  “See if there’s more popcorn,” Travis called after him. “Or a beer. Am I right? A beer would be good.” He nudged Jace.

  “Pass.” Jace rarely drank.

  “The concession booths aren’t open.” Emmy shook her head. “There is no one here.” She pointed around the stadium—right as players began running onto the field.

  “You were saying?” Krystal sat back, resting her feet on the bar. “Just pretend we’re not here. And afterward, we can go talk about everything that doesn’t happen…over barbecue. I really really want some barbecue.”

  Emmy did a quick once-over of the players. No Brock. Thank goodness. Not yet, anyway. Four days ago, he’d played her daddy’s song on his guitar and disappeared. There’d been no way to ask her father why he’d left or what had happened without her father getting suspicious. And since she wasn’t going to think about Brock anymore, she had no interest and didn’t need to know more information. Instead, she’d spent the rest of the morning enjoying the kids.

  “Barbecue? Sounds like a plan. Ribs.” Jace nodded. “And brisket.”

  “And beer. A cold Lone Star Beer sounds good.” Travis nodded.

  “Nope. Iced tea. Sweet.” Krystal scratched Clementine behind the ear. “With lemon.”

  “A beer, over ice, always beats iced tea.” Travis kept on nodding.

  “And pecan pie.” Jace nodded. “With some vanilla ice cream.”

  Travis leaned forward to grab the back of Jace’s chair. “Don’t forget the beer. Maybe a Budweiser instead?”

  Jace laughed.

  “If you’re that hungry, why not go eat?” Emmy asked, ignoring her brother’s beer fixation. “Sawyer is here somewhere—since you chased him off. He’ll take me home after.”

  “Emmy Lou?” Melanie called out to her. “I think they’re ready to do a quick rehearsal and sound check.”

  “Go, Emmy!” Krystal called out.

  “Check that sound!” Travis added, laughing.

  Emmy shot her siblings a look and walked back to the spot marked on the field. “I’m ready.”

  “Nice to see they came out to support you.” Melanie nodded toward the stands.

  “Is it? Is it, really?” Emmy asked, shaking her head. “As long as Brock doesn’t show, it shouldn’t be a big deal.”

  “Oh, well…” Melanie smiled, her gaze shifting to something beyond Emmy. “About that.”

  “About what?” Emmy turned to see Brock crossing the field—in a sleeveless, skin-tight, white compression shirt and a close-fitting pair of black joggers. He wasn’t just physically fit; he was… What? What words could adequately describe just how massive he was. One thing was for certain: his attire only confirmed her his-muscles-have-muscles theory. The whole hanging-upside-down-over-his-shoulder episode had been enough for her to realize just how physically impressive he was. And seeing him now—head down, earbuds in, all muscles and totally unaware of the audience he had—reminded her of the very mixed swell of emotion his touch and presence and scent had stirred. Also, she was staring.

  “Oh no.” She spun away. Chill. Calm down. It was no big deal. Unless, “They didn’t see, did they?” She risked a look over her shoulder at her siblings.

  Emmy didn’t cuss. It had never come naturally to her. But right now, with her sister and brother and newly returned bodyguard and her sister’s boyfriend all staring at her, she almost did.

  “He didn’t see y—nooo…never mind, he sees.” Melanie tried to move her lips as little as possible. “And he’s stopping.”

  Which has nothing to do with me. “Let’s do this,” she pleaded. “Can we, I don’t know, move this along?”

  “On it.” Melanie pivoted on her heel and marched toward the director. When Melanie made up her mind, there was no stopping her. She might be tiny and soft-spoken, but she had an iron will and a commanding presence that people tended to listen to. And right now, the director was listening.

  The walk-through didn’t take long. He pointed at the colored spots on the field, showed her the storyboard, and asked her if she had any suggestions or changes.

  “No.” She shook her head. “Seems pretty straightforward. We’ll film it tomorrow?”

  He nodded. “We’ll do a few shots here, then finish up in a warehouse, get a gritty vibe, and use a green screen—some effects.”

  She nodded. Did a football intro need effects?

  “Watch it.” It happened so fast she didn’t have time to process. Hands grabbed her shoulders and spun her away, narrowly dodging a football that slammed into the ground where she’d been standing. “You good?”

  She nodded. “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” Her savior couldn’t have been more than eighteen. Good-looking, clean-cut, well-built—but young.

  “Yes.” She shook her head. “Guess y’all don’t yell ‘fore’ when you throw?”

  “Holy shit, I know you. You are Emmy Lou King.” He stepped back and gave her a head-to-toe inspection. “Damn. You are something to look at.”

  “Um…thank you?” She exchanged a look with Melanie. “Are you one of the team trainers? On a college internship?” Was he even old enough for college?

  “Are you serious right now?” he asked, hands on hips. “You don’t know who I am?” From the smile on his face, he wasn’t offended.

  Another look at Melanie, who shrugged, before she admitted, “No. Should I?”

  He grinned—he had an adorable grin. “You should. I’m Ricky Ames. Soon-to-be defensive end for your favorite team.”

  Which had to be a mistake. Brock was the defensive end for the Houston Roughnecks. He had been for the last six years. “Oh, right.” He must be the backup. “Second-string? Until Brock gets clearance to play?”

  “Excuse me,” Melanie said, staring at her phone. “I’ve got to take this.” She walked away, the phone to her ear.

  Ricky kept right on grinning as he leaned forward to whisper, “Pretty sure I’ll be staying around. Consider me the new-and- improved version.”

  Emmy Lou did her best not to react. New and improved? If he hadn’t looked so serious, so confident, she would have laughed. Brock was their defensive line. A key player. The team’s defense had suffered without him, so getting rid of him wasn’t a good idea. And petty or not, this Ricky Ames needed to show some respect to someone like Brock.

  But it was more than that. The Houston Roughnecks were Brock’s dream team. Even in high school, they were his pick. He’d wanted to play for them more than anything. The idea of him playing somewhere else felt…wrong.

  This wasn’t true. It couldn’t be.

  Ricky Ames wasn’t just highly ambitious; he was delusional. Still, his words were cause for concern. Ricky was Brock’s replacement? Permanently? Daddy would know. If he didn’t, he could find out—his friendship with the team owner went back years.

  “Nice shirt.” His attention lingered a little too long in the boob area.

  She glanced down at her blinged-out, pink “Houston Roughnecks Fangirl” T-shirt. “Thanks.”

  “You okay taking a selfie?” he asked, pulling out his phone from a pocket in his athletic pants.

  At least he was asking. “Sure.” They leaned together and smiled.

  Holding up his phone, he did the whole pout thing, eyebrow raised, and head cocked. Clearly, he’d taken a selfie or two. “Cool. We look good.”

  “Ricky,” someone called.

  Ricky didn’t look; he just held up a wait-a-minute finger. “So, why is Emmy Lou King on my football field?”

  She laughed, from surprise more than anything. “Working.” His football field? “Has anyone ever told you that you’re pretty sure of yourself?”

  �
��No reason not to be.” He shrugged, then snapped his fingers and pointed at her. “Oh, right. You’re singing the Sunday night football anthem? Making game night even better.”

  “That’s me. We’re taping it tomorrow.”

  “Ricky.” Same voice, impatient this time.

  “Sounds like you’re needed.” Emmy was not impressed.

  “I am.” He grinned but kept his focus on her. “Guess that means you’ll be here again tomorrow?”

  “Ricky.” This time it was louder.

  “In a minute,” he called out, staring at her. “We should have dinner. Have some fun.”

  He was interested, she got that. A little too interested. With her hands on her hips, she said, “You know—”

  “Ames.” Different voice—razor-sharp and biting.

  She and Ricky both startled as they turned to see Brock headed their way. He wasn’t happy. Not in the least. Jaw rigid, eyes narrowed, and his game day don’t-mess-with-me scowl in place. She almost felt sorry for Ricky Ames. Almost.

  Brock came to a stop an inch, maybe less, from Ricky and stared him down. “Did you hear Russell?” He gritted his teeth. “He shouldn’t have to call you more than once.”

  Ricky’s reaction had Emmy Lou holding her breath. Instead of backing down, he bowed up at Brock and smiled. “I heard him. He’s not going anywhere.” He tilted his head her way. “I’m in the middle of something here.”

  She frowned, beyond uncomfortable by Ricky’s proprietary stare—and Brock’s complete lack of acknowledgment of her existence. She mumbled, “I’m going—”

  Brock cut her off, his every syllable edged with hostility. “When it’s time to train, you train. Russell expects one hundred percent of your attention and energy.”

  “As long as she’s here, that’s not going to happen.” Ricky winked at her.

  She stared, shocked by his cavalier attitude.

  That’s when Brock looked at her. Emmy had never seen him angry like this. His hands fisted at his sides, his posture so rigid he was close to snapping. He was barely holding on to control. The problem was, she understood. He wasn’t mad at her. He was mad at Ricky. And from their short exchange, she could see why.