But I’ll get down on my knees

  To worship you.

  Bobby drops to his knee with his last lyric, pushing Betty behind his back to free his hands. He takes mine, the rough calluses on his fingers tracing over my skin like he can’t believe I’m real and his. A shuddering sigh works its way through his body, his chest rising and falling raggedly.

  “I’m not good with words, Willow. But you know my heart because it’s yours. You know my soul. It’s where I keep you safe and loved. And I’m deep inside you too—body, mind, and soul. You’re mine. And I’m yours. You know what I want—forever.” It’s not a question, but I know exactly what he’s asking of me.

  Tears are pooling in my glasses, blurring my vision, but I can see Bobby. I can always see him, can feel him, deeply in love with me. Me, Willow Parker, behind-the-scenes, quiet and forgettable outsider. But he sees me, all of me, and loves me, has given me a home, and wants to spend forever with me.

  I can’t find words, which is usually the problem he thinks he has, but I nod.

  “Tell me, Willow.” The command goes through me in a jolt, making me hot and giving me strength.

  “Yes,” I shout, louder than I meant to, but the joy is so bright that it demands release.

  Distantly, I hear the crowd cheering, but I don’t care. All I feel are Bobby’s arms wrapping around me tightly, his lips pressed to mine as he claims me proudly. I kiss him back, marking him as mine too. He hugs me again, lifting my feet off the stage and growling in my ear, “I love you. And I need to be inside you, right the fuck now.”

  I blush, hoping he hears my agreement to both of those statements when I say, “I love you, too.”

  He doesn’t finish the set. I don’t finish my shift. Hoots and cheers sound up around us, but none of it matters but the man by my side. Well, figuratively by my side, because he’s got me scooped up in his arms, striding briskly for the door as the crowd parts for us.

  I hear him call out, “Brutal, take Betty home.” Then we’re outside, the mild spring coolness of the night instantly surrounding us. You’d think it’d quiet the fire in my core, but the flames still lick along my skin from Bobby’s hands where they grip me and through my body.

  I need him too.

  “Get in the truck. Now.” His voice has gone even deeper than usual, already entering the bossy, gritty way he commands me when he loses all sense of gentleness and takes me rough and hard.

  I would’ve thought I’d want sweet and tender after that proposal, but he knows me too well by this point. He knows I need him to mark me all over, order me to say filthy things that make me blush as I force them past my vocal cords, and take me like I’m his. Because I am.

  The bus is huge, so big it won’t even fit through the main gate at Tannen Farm. It’s blocking the street outside instead, with Chief Gibson standing out there to direct traffic. Except there’s no traffic. He’s just here to see Bobby off like a looky-loo.

  “All right, fuckers. I’m out of here.”

  Bobby’s using grunts and grumpiness to hide his nerves and fear. It’s understandable considering the other guys are doing the same thing. Luckily, the women have emotions enough for us all.

  We’re a blubbering, snotty, crying mess as we hug and make promises of daily phone calls and texts.

  “I’ll send you a soap basket every month and overnight cobbler every week,” Shayanne vows. Then I’m locked in her arms. “Oh, my cheesus and crackers, I’m going to miss you!”

  “Shay, let her go,” Luke says, gathering her in his arms comfortingly.

  Bobby holds a hand out to Brutal, whose arms are crossed, his face in a deep scowl. Brutal knocks Bobby’s hand away to wrap his arms around his shoulders. Bobby startles, likely thinking Brutal’s taking an easy shot—that’s their way, after all—but he recovers and slaps his back a bit too hard. They push off each other, both looking surprised at the emotion coursing through them. “Don’t fuck up the planting or you’ll kill the whole year’s profits.”

  Brutal snorts. “I do it all by myself every year. This year, I just won’t have to give you busy work to keep you out of my way.”

  Bobby punches Brutal’s shoulder, more of a love tap than anything. Brutal’s brows jump together, and he swats at the empty air around him. “Y’all gettin’ eat up by mosquitoes? I swear one just took a nibble out of my arm. Must be ’cuz I’m so sweet.”

  Brody steps between them, sensing the tussle that’ll hide their emotions. “Stop the lovefest, you two. You’re giving me cavities with all the sugar.” In a fatherly move, he lays heavy hands on Bobby’s shoulders and meets his eyes. “You be careful out there. Don’t let them take advantage of you or change you. If I see one picture of you with sparkly shit on your ass, I will pull up to that concert venue and remind you of exactly who you are.”

  “Won’t be necessary. I’m a Tannen. I’d rather die than have a rhinestone ass.”

  They laugh, somehow bonding through the weirdness of the conversation and situation. Brody hugs Bobby too, and though it’s quiet, I hear Brody say, “Glad you’re getting outta here, man. You deserve it. You always did.”

  When they break apart, I step forward. “Tannens, get together.”

  They look at me, instantly standing side by side—three men, so alike but so different, all standing shoulder to shoulder, matching mean mugs on their faces, and Shayanne, looking like a dirty tomboy princess beside them with a big smile. Click.

  “And Bennetts.” They step up, filling in around Bobby. Arms go around each other, making the group look like a big dog pile of rough cowboys and a mix of women. Click.

  Mama Louise approaches me. “Get in there with them. Let me take one of the next generation.” Her blue eyes are bright with unshed tears, and I wonder what she thought her future would hold when she was younger and if it looked anything like this motley group.

  I lift the camera strap over my head, handing the delicate machine to her. “Press the button halfway and it’ll focus, then the rest of the way and it’ll take the picture. Hold it down and it’ll take several shots in a row so we get everyone’s eyes open.”

  She nods but whispers, “Take care of each other, okay? Let his strengths balance your weaknesses and yours his. Love him—not the noun, the verb—and he’ll love you too.”

  I hug her, knowing that she loves each of us—her whole family.

  I join Bobby, and he tucks me into his side, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Are we doing this?” he whispers.

  I look up at him, sure. “Dream come true.”

  Click.

  EPILOGUE

  BOBBY

  “Hey, Dallas. I’m Bobby Tannen,” I rumble into the microphone. The crowd instantly screams, chanting my name. It’s wildly, crazily insane, and I will never get used to it. I still think that I’m going to walk out every time and people are going to ask ‘who’s this guy?’ and boo me off the stage.

  Tonight is my last show of the tour. My first tour.

  It’s been all I dreamed of and then some. This is what I hoped it would be. Stephen Wheatley has done right by me at every turn—arranging sessions with Miller when I have songs ready, helping me pick a great group of musicians to back me up every night, and managing the tour so that I never have to worry about a thing.

  I couldn’t have done any of this without him, or the guys playing with me, or most of all, Willow. She’s been by my side the whole way.

  Even when the three months we planned turned into six.

  We’d talked it out, called her Mom and Hank, talked to Brody and Brutal, and decided to do it. Hank had sworn up and down that he was fine, and he even hired another bartender, which made Willow jealous but also less guilty about being gone. Brody and Brutal promised that the farm was doing well. They had to hire on a helper full-time, and I’d bristled at being replaced too, but I’d understood. Brutal had bitched about having to teach the guy how to plant and harvest and said he didn’t know shit from manure, but I think that was mostly to make me feel better.

  Still, even with everyone singing along with me, I’m ready to go home. Both Willow and I are.

  The last note of the last song fades into the night. “Thank you everyone!”

  It’s done. The tour is over, officially.

  The guys invite me to party with them—nothing too hardcore, we keep it pretty chill—but I turn them down. I’m exhausted and need to fall into my girl and nothing else.

  We did it. We actually fucking did it. Together.

  On the tour bus, I jump in the shower to wash the sweat of the stage off. Willow curls up on the couch, sipping tea and flipping through pictures on her computer, waiting for me. It’s our nightly routine these days, but tomorrow will be a totally different thing. I can’t wait and have already made my requests for fried chicken, fried okra, green beans, macaroni and cheese, and honey biscuits with Mama Louise.

  Wearing only boxer briefs, I flop to the couch next to Willow. Her soft smile fills that Willow-shaped spot inside me, making me complete.

  Golden shining gray eyes, I fall into your sway, knowing you will save me every time.

  I run my fingers through her hair, brushing it behind her ear so I can see her profile.

  She tilts the laptop my way, smiling. “What do you think of these?”

  She clicks through several pictures she took from the wings of the stage. She’s already started processing them, changing some of them to black and white and cropping others. I’m front and center of every shot. I shrug, knowing it’ll be what she wants in the end. “Anything you want. That’s your area of expertise, sweetheart.”

  It is. She’s been taking pictures of our entire tour, compiling them into a Tour One book with stories and excerpts from me and the band. I’d laughed when she told me the book’s name, so sure that there’d be a tour two. Funny thing is, she’s right. Stephen’s already making plans, but not for at least a year.

  I miss having my hands in the dirt, working by Brutal’s side, and having dinner around Mama Louise’s table every night. Plus, we’re not bringing a newborn on the road and Willow is due in a few short months.

  Yeah, she’s having my baby. Another Tannen generation of a badass boy or maybe a sweet girl. We won’t find out until the baby is here. Willow wants it that way as a bit of a surprise, and I couldn’t possibly deny her anything. What Willow wants, she gets. I’ll move hell and high water to make it so, no matter the request. But this had been an easy one.

  She clicks through the pictures again, humming to herself. Does she even know she’s humming one of my songs? I look back to the screen to see what’s got her so enthralled, a zing going through me when I see that it’s me. She keeps working hard, and I try to wait patiently, though it’s difficult when I want to be the focus of her attention. The real me, not the me on the laptop.

  But she’s dedicated, spending time every day prepping for the book and posting to her blog.

  The tour book will be published under a pseudonym because Willow has been exceedingly careful to keep her identity as my wife and her blog persona very separate. She’ll go out in whatever city we’re in—explore museums, visit street vendors, and see the sights. She always comes back excited, telling me about the architecture, the gardens, the colors, and the life as she shows me each shot. I’d love to go with her, but I’m a bit too recognizable now, so I live vicariously through her. I don’t have any interest in museums, anyway, but I am interested in her and making sure that she has every reason to smile that soft smile every single day.

  I think she’s right that people prefer the anonymity of the blog, though, finding themselves in some aspect of the pictures she takes. Whatever it is, it’s working well for her because her number of followers keeps rising higher and higher.

  “Ooh!” She startles and grabs her phone. Zooming in on my boots on the floor, she takes several shots. Click.

  Those boots have seen a lot of miles, Tannen Farm dirt, Bennett Ranch cow shit, and roads all over the nation. And now they’ll see home again.

  “I’ve already got a heart and a comment,” she murmurs a second later.

  “What’d you caption for my dirty old boots?” I ask, snuggling into her side. I’m done with pictures and singing, ready to fall into bed with her.

  “Love my rough country man. With a diamond ring and a heart emoji,” she says smugly, knowing I’ll like that.

  “I love you too. Let’s go to bed and then go home.”

  I place my large palm over her belly, but I need to feel the satin of her skin. I push her shirt up over the growing bump, and she wiggles, trying to silently argue against letting me see the few pink marks that recently appeared there. I still her with a gentle kiss to each one.

  “You’re beautiful, always. You do everything for everyone, and now, you’re doing the most amazing thing anyone’s ever done for me, carrying my baby.”

  As if the baby hears my voice, I feel a small bump against my hand. I gasp, grinning at the feeling. When I look up at Willow, she’s holding her phone low in front of her.

  Click.

  I growl, shoving the phone down and climbing up her body. I hold myself up on my arms, keeping my weight off her, but I need to kiss her to celebrate. I need to feel her . . . under me, around me, owning me, and letting me claim her.

  The kiss is sweet, our lips smacking as we smile against one another. But as always, it turns heated quickly.

  “Fuck, sweetheart, flip over. Let me inside.”

  She moves, following my order. Kneeling with her arms on the back of the couch, I stand behind her, glad the bus won’t move for a few hours while the crew breaks down the stage equipment. I run my hands down her back, and she arches for me, her bucking hips telling me how much she wants my cock.

  “Tell me, Willow. You ready for me?”

  “Always,” she gasps.

  “What do you want?”

  “Fill me.” She knows that’s not enough, not by a mile. I squeeze her hips, denting the supple flesh there, and she groans. “Fuck me.”

  Shit. I lose control when she says anything slightly filthy, and she knows it, uses that knowledge to push me to the edge of sanity. I know what she wants too.

  “I’m gonna fuck you, Willow, fill this sweet pussy with my cock, rub that little clit, and make you come for me. Over and over. I’ll decide when you’re done coming because this pussy is mine. You are mine.”

  The words meant to drive her wild affect us both. When I push into her, she’s slick and her body gives for me easily. “Yes,” she groans.

  I grunt in bliss. “How do you feel like heaven every time?” I murmur, lost in the sensation of her pussy gripping me tightly.

  Though I mean to fuck her hard and fast, I can’t do it right now. I need her slow and tender. My Willow, my girl, the mother of our child.

  I don’t know how I got so lucky. I’m just a rough country asshole, but this sweet woman saw something in me worth taking a chance on, and I’m so thankful. Every day, I show her how much I love her. I might not have the words, but I show her every way I can.

  Chasing down my dream so I can give you yours.

  The proof of a man is in his woman’s eyes.

  Storm for me, shine for me, show your soul for me.

  And I’ll dig down deep to get mine so you can have yours.

  ROUGH COUNTRY EXTENDED EPILOGUE

  EXTENDED EPILOGUE

  LOUISE

  “Whew!” I let out a puff of air as I rise from the dirt, one hand going to my brow to swipe at the sweat threatening to run down my temple. I scan the horizon line to measure the sun’s height in the sky. “All right, let’s get this basket inside and get dinner started.”

  “Yes ma’am,” a chorus replies. It’s not a clean, crisp answer, but rather, a round of little voices talking over each other.

  “Where’re my ducks?” I question and the whole mini-crew comes running, some from the garden and some from the yard, to line up behind me like little ducklings.

  A tiny voice says, “Quack, quack.”

  “Ssh, you have to wait for Mama Louise to say it first,” Cindy Lou bosses her little sister, Maisie. Cindy Lou does that a lot, but Maisie would happily follow her big sister any way she wants to lead.

  I smile to myself, but then glance over my shoulder to start the countdown. “One.”

  Cindy Lou is quick to respond as the oldest at six years old, wanting to set a good example for the littler ones. “Two.”

  “Thwee,” Maisie says, standing tall. “Like me!” Her little girl giggle is adorably bright.

  “Uhh.”

  Cindy Lou’s voice drops down to a whisper, “Four. And you’re five.” I don’t need to look back to see who she’s bossing now.

  “Four!” Luke’s and Shayanne’s little boy, Leo, pipes up, loud and proud. Every word out of his mouth is that way. He takes after his momma, something we’re all really proud of since he didn’t speak a word of English when he came home after his adoption was finalized.

  Last but not least of my ducklings, Johnny adds, “Five. Right Cindy Lou?” He sounded certain there for a second, but wants to double check just to be sure.

  I can’t hold the smile back anymore. Reaching for his little blond head, I ruffle his hair. He looks so much like Mark at his age, already serious and always straight-faced, watching the world around him with curiosity like he can catalogue everything he sees, smells, tastes, and experiences. “Yes, sir. Five is correct.”

  Johnny smooths his hair down, wanting it back in place precisely. I don’t tell him that he just smeared some dirt along the blond strands. I quite like him a little messy and grimy, like a little boy on a ranch should be.

  “Let’s get to it then, ducks. Quack, quack.” The basket of vegetables on my hip, I march in place. The stomp of feet behind me adds to the noise.

  “Quack, quack!” they respond, and off we go. We march through the garden as I weave us this way and that, around the yard’s fence line, up the back stairs and finally, through the door into the kitchen.