He chuckles, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. “You’re such a shit. Had to rub my nose in that, didn’t you?”

  To her credit, Mama Louise still doesn’t interrupt to correct his language, though I think she’s literally biting her tongue not to do so. I’m sure she can sense that we’re on the verge of something major.

  “I could probably get you tickets next to Shay’s if you want? Probably not free, but at a discount, at least.”

  Brody throws a solid punch at my shoulder, and I rub at the bright spot of pain. For a moment, I think he’s going to agree that easily. But he sobers and shakes his head. “Bobby⁠—”

  Willow interrupts his sad tone, musing aloud, “Sometimes, you love by doing things for people. I get that, believe me, I do.” Her eyes pin Brody. “You get that. Maybe we do things differently, but you take care of them.” She doesn’t have to explain who she means. We all know what Brody has done for us, how much he’s given up to handle everything when Dad went off the rails. And they all understand why Willow did what she did too. “But I’ve learned that doing things for others sometimes means letting them do stuff for you.”

  Brody looks at Shayanne, who’s smiling wide enough to see nearly every tooth in her head. Then Brutal, who grunts.

  Finally, we’re eye to eye.

  “It’ll be rough out here without you, but I reckon we can make it work while you’re on the road in that fancy tour bus with people chanting your name. Can’t say I understand it.” He scratches at his lip with his thumb. “But I can’t fault people for their poor taste if it’s buying the family farm, now can I?” The sarcasm runs deep through every syllable. If he’s back to giving me shit, that means we’re going to be okay.

  And it means that he’s agreeing.

  “To be clear, I don’t care whose name is on which acre or what tag is on each cow’s ear. I’ll expect you all to dinner at six thirty every night like usual, and polite manners require a phone call if you’re skipping out. Understood?” Mama Louise’s tone allows for zero disagreement, not that any of us would.

  “Yes, ma’am,” we all say. We might be big, strong, rough country guys, but we know where our bread is buttered and who does the buttering, so we won’t ever piss Mama Louise off by not showing up at her dinner table.

  With that decree, Mama Louise picks her fork back up and gets back to eating. Following her lead, we do the same.

  29

  WILLOW

  Iscrub at the bar so hard the wax sealant is in jeopardy. But I can’t stop. I have to get everything spotless, spic and span, and cleaned to within an inch of its life. It’s a coping mechanism, I know it is, but that doesn’t change the urge to do it.

  “Put that towel down, girl. The bar’s as clean as it's gonna get,” Unc snaps from his perch by Richard and Doc Jones. They’re drinking and talking as they watch the game on the television above the bar.

  Sighing, I follow orders and drop the towel into the bin of dirties. Not able to truly stop, I pick up the whole bin and scoot my way to the back to start a quick wash load.

  Behind the bar again, I fidget with my hands for all of two seconds before giving in and pulling out a bag of lemons to cut.

  I feel a dark presence next to me and then a wrinkled hand covers the knife, forcing me to freeze or chop my own finger. It’s a harder decision than you’d think. “Willow, sit down and be still. You’re making me dizzy with all your scurrying around like a squirrel. Here, there, everywhere at once.” Unc wiggles the fingers of his free hand around, mimicking the routes I’ve been taking all day.

  He’s being silly, but he’s right.

  “Tell me what’s got you all aflutter.” He leans his butt against the counter beside me, crossing his arms and his ankles as if he’s got all the time in the world. But we don’t.

  I sigh, studying the lemon in front of me as if I’ve never seen one before. Each string, seed, and drop of juice is suddenly immensely interesting. “You sure you can do this without me for a bit?” I hoarsely voice the concern that’s been keeping me up nights.

  His bushy white brow lifts as he side-eyes me, showing his displeasure at even being asked such an insulting question. “Girl, I’ve been doing this alone longer than you’ve been alive. I’ll be fine for a few weeks. Don’tcha worry about me a bit.”

  I’ve learned a thing or two during my time at his side, and I mimic him, lifting one brow but adding a strong dose of glare to my look. “One, reminding me how old you are isn’t helping matters. Two, it’s going to be a lot longer than a few weeks. More like three months, at least.” The reality of that hits me squarely in my gut and I shrink. “Maybe I’ll just stay. That’ll be better, anyway. Yeah, I’ll stay here and help.”

  Those brows drop down low over his blue eyes now, turning his wrinkles into deep grooves. “You will do nothing of the sort. I’ll kick your hiney out before I let you do that. You’re getting on that bus and getting outta dodge, and that’s final.”

  If only it were that easy.

  I’m supposed to get on the tour bus with Bobby for his first tour in three days, but ever since we decided to do that, my belly will not stop churning. I’m not nervous about being with Bobby. I’m excited about that part, but leaving Unc terrifies me. What if something happens while I’m gone?

  I can’t help myself. I throw my arms around his neck, hugging him tightly and likely getting lemon juice all over his shirt.

  “Whoa—” He startles but then hugs me back just as tightly. Patting my back, he soothes my fears, whispering in my ear so that no one else hears, “I’m okay, Willow-girl. You heard the doc. I’m officially in remission, all better.”

  I lean back from him, whispering too. “But what if it comes back and I’m who-knows-where, doing who-knows-what? You’re no spring chicken, Unc, and anything could happen.”

  His reassuring smile turns upside down, the scowl an admonishment. “Don’t need you calling me old. These bones have a few more miles in them, so don’t you go cutting them short. I’m more worried about you out there.” He lifts his chin toward the door like there are monsters lurking right outside, lying in wait for me.

  “I’ll be fine. You know Bobby won’t let anything happen to me.” That’s an understatement. Bobby has gone above and beyond to make sure this tour will suit the both of us, hitting major markets to do concerts and radio interviews while giving me interesting and beautiful things to photograph for my Day in the Life of a Tree blog.

  The biggest factor we’ve discussed is that I need complete and total anonymity. An odd request, it seemed, but Mr. Wheatley had readily agreed. I think he would’ve agreed to get Bobby a rainbow unicorn if it got him on the road to support this album, but luckily, my request hadn’t been quite that difficult to grant. Staying anonymous is key for my blog’s success and something I’ve worked hard to maintain, and I don’t want my connection to Bobby to affect that. I won’t use him that way or risk my own career. Especially when it’s going so well, my number of followers continuing to climb steadily, my hearts and comments growing exponentially, and my kickback profits increasing. The money is nice, giving me a personal comfort level, but the comments from people who tell me they’ve started documenting their own lives and finding something special about the mundane day-to-day are what really satisfy me.

  Unc took it a step further, well aware that quite a few people in Great Falls know about my online career. He’d used the town grapevine to tell everybody in town that if they said a word about me or my blog, they’d no longer be welcome at Hank’s. I’d laughed when he told me that, thinking it didn’t seem like a very serious threat, but I’d been filled in right quick that if Unc made someone unwelcome, the rest of town would follow suit. So any blabber-mouth would no longer get Ilene’s chili, a beer anywhere in town, Darla’s doughnuts, a coffee, or gas from the single station in town. I’d been shocked that they’d go that far for . . . me. But Unc had simply shrugged and said ‘that’s what we do in Great Falls, look out for each other.’

  “Huh, well then it sounds like we’re both gonna be fine.” Unc’s decree is final, a sign to the universe that he won’t have it any other way. Surprisingly, it does settle the butterflies in my belly.

  I look past Unc, down the bar to see Doc Jones and Richard. They lift their beers my way, signaling that they’ve got Unc. I know for a fact that Doc Jones will call me if he feels it’s warranted. He’s done it before. And he’s got both Mom’s number and mine. Plus, Mom is coming back for another visit next month.

  Mom is making up for lost time with Unc, much the same way I have. Not by working the bar but by visiting and talking on the phone. I’m not sure about what—that’s between them—but whatever happened with Grandpa seems to be water under the bridge.

  But I haven’t answered fast enough for Unc, and he bends down, getting in my face. “You’re getting on that bus, capiche? But you’ve still got one more shift scheduled so you’d best get to it. No lollygagging about. Don’t make me fire you on your last day.”

  I roll my eyes at his exaggeration but can’t help pressing a quick kiss to his scruffy cheek. “On it, Unc.”

  This time, when I start cutting the lemon, it’s with a clearer mind and heart. I’m doing this . . . going on the road with Bobby because Unc is okay. Well, he’s still a grumpy, stubborn old man, but he’s as healthy as a horse and that’s what counts.

  Who would’ve thought this is how my life would turn out that day I drove into Great Falls, yelling at the mountain for judging me? Maybe I just hadn’t realized that it was welcoming me home.

  “Hey, everyone. I’m Bobby Tannen.”

  The no-big-deal greeting is almost comical at this point because everyone knows who Bobby is. Literally everyone.

  He’s had two more number-one songs since he got that first big check, and one of his hits plays on country radio every hour of the day. His three-month concert tour is completely sold out, and there’s a whole new group of people clamoring to get a piece of him.

  But he’s taking it all in stride as long as I’m by his side. That’s what’s important to us both.

  He strums the strings of Betty, looking thoughtful. “For a long time, I fought doing this. I would play in the fields, and Brutal was the only one subjected to my shitty songs.”

  The audience laughs, and Bobby smirks, holding them in the palm of his hand even as Brutal shouts from the reserved family table, “Off-key every time until I taught him how to carry a tune in a bucket.”

  Ignoring the dig, Bobby continues. “Eventually, I found my balls, and Hank over there gave me a chance.”

  “Cocky shithead wouldn’t take no for an answer,” Unc yells over the din, keeping Bobby grounded and not letting his head get too big.

  “Not like you paid me for those first gigs, anyway,” Bobby retorts.

  The crowd looks behind them, waiting for Unc’s comeback, but he throws a dismissive hand in the air, giving Bobby the win.

  “So I started singing up here,” Bobby continues, “and it healed something broken in me. You helped me do that.” It’s a heavy confession, meaningfully exposing Bobby’s soft underbelly, something he rarely does, even to me. “Now they want me to go around and sing for more folks. And I’m excited to do it, ain’t gonna lie about that. But it won’t ever be the same as singing right here at home. So, thank you . . . for listening, for singing with me, for making me well enough to do this for my family.” He throws a meaningful look to the Tannens and Bennetts in the corner. “For myself.”

  Unexpected silence settles over the crowd, and then applause bursts out.

  “Give ’em hell, Bobby!”

  “Sing your heart out!”

  “Bobby! Bobby! Bobby!”

  That one turns into a chant, booted feet stomping to the beat. I think Bobby is getting his first real taste of what this concert tour might be like because his dark eyes go wide in surprise, and under the bright light, I can see a blush to his cheeks.

  “Thank you.” One last sincere phrase, and then he shakes his head, back to his gruff attitude. “Let’s sing some shit.”

  And he does. He sings all his number-one songs, does a few favorite covers, and then sings a few songs off his just-released album. It’s the first time he’s played some of these in public, but the crowd sings along as though they’ve heard them dozens of times before.

  I think Bobby’s surprised at that, though he shouldn’t be. He wrote them on a trip to Nashville in January, and they haven’t even hit radio play yet. Miller had been happy to work with Bobby again, regardless of what record company he was signed with, and they’d made some beautiful music together.

  The crowd sings along, swaying and holding their hands in the air, completely under Bobby’s spell. I can understand that. I still pour Olivia’s drinks and wait on the customers around the bar, but I’m slower than Shay’s peach molasses because my attention is continually drawn to the stage. To Bobby. To my man.

  I hum along too, mouthing the words that hit my heart sharply. Knowing they came from his mind, his heart, his soul, and how hard he has to work to get them just right makes each phrase and chord that much more poignant.

  I pull my phone out, taking a few shots of him onstage. This last moment before things change, before he belongs to the world and not only Great Falls and me. Click.

  My eyes are drawn to the screen, and I touch Bobby’s face there, ready to get out of here so that it’s the two of us. I need it to be just us one last time, his body pressed to mine, pinning us together as he fills me, making us one.

  The music changes into a chord progression I haven’t heard, and a throat clears heavily. I look up to find Bobby plucking at the strings. His jaw is tight, his shoulders broad, tension woven through his entire body.

  What’s wrong?

  I scan the front row, looking for someone out of line, but I see nothing amiss. Next, I look along the bar, knowing that if he saw a tourist doing something inappropriate too close to me, he’d go into protective mode.

  But all seems well.

  I’m still searching when he starts to speak, “A few months ago . . .” He shakes his head, quietly asking himself, “How has it only been a few months? Seems like a lifetime. My life.” Swallowing, he looks back to the audience. “Anyway, a few months ago, I stood right here, singing Friends in Low Places, and my whole life changed. Not by Garth Brooks, not even by you fuckers drunk-singing along with me. But by the woman I saw across the room.”

  I freeze, towel stuck in a glass and mouth hanging wide open.

  What is he doing? What is he saying?

  “I saw her, literally across a crowded room, and knew she was everything. She was . . . is mine.” Bobby’s eyes lift from the crowd, finding mine easily though I’m in the shadows of the bar and he’s in the stage lights. He’s always aware of me. I have no doubt that he could find me anywhere, even blindfolded. It’s like his soul recognizes mine. “Willow, sweetheart . . . can you come here?”

  I stutter—my feet, not my mouth, though I think I’m making a nonsensical noise too. “Uhm . . .”

  Unc grabs my arm, shoving me out from behind the bar. When did he get so strong?

  Olivia takes over, escorting me toward the stage, toward Bobby. Her words are jumbled and fast. “Remember what I said the first night you and Bobby met?” I have no idea what she’s talking about and can’t search my memory banks when Bobby’s looking at me like I can’t get to him fast enough.

  As I pass the Tannen-Bennett table, they’re all grinning. Even the guys, which is scary as hell because they only do that when someone’s about to get beaten up.

  Olivia gives me a push I don’t need, and I find myself at Bobby’s feet, looking up at him larger than life on the stage. Casually resting a hand on Betty, he looks down at me as though we’re the only two people in the room. Heat and desire light his eyes, filthy promises are in his smirk, and hunger pings between us in a chemical reaction I can feel throughout my entire body.

  Is he thinking this is very similar to when I suck him? Because that’s what’s running through my dirty mind when I look up at him like this.

  “Mmm, close. But not close enough.” I think he’s reading my mind for a moment, but then Bobby leans Betty against a stool to free his hands. He squats down, and there’s a moment where I feel like a fan whose wildest dreams are coming true. But truthfully, they already have. His hands grab under my arms, and he pulls me onstage with him, situating me on the stool as he picks Betty back up.

  “I wrote a song, which might not seem all that special. But this is the most important one I’ve ever written, sweetheart. I only plan on singing it once.”

  Bobby gives me a pointed look, and his meaning hits me with a thud, a sharp arrow right into the depths of my heart. My mouth drops open and my hands slap over my lips. Behind my glasses, I can feel that my eyes are as wide as saucers.

  “You ready?”

  Yes.

  No.

  Oh, my God, maybe.

  My head nods like a bobblehead.

  And then Bobby sings. The crowd is gone and the room might as well be empty because he only has eyes for me and I am pinned in his gaze, lost in his words. His honeyed whiskey voice flows over me, the grit and gravel pricking my skin, letting the sweetness burrow into my soul.

  Was an empty shell of a man,

  Waiting on you to find me.

  But when I found you,

  I found everything.

  All my days and nights belong to you,

  There will never be enough.

  Your heart belongs to me,

  It will always be mine.

  Sweet kindness from your soul,

  I don’t deserve.