I nod. “Yeah, since I was fourteen. Seemed about time to lay old bones to rest.”

  Before she can ask me anything else, a whining noise fills the air and the goats get up to check it out.

  “Damn, that was faster than I thought. Bobby’s coming,” she tells me right as another Gator comes over the hill. It nearly catches air on the bumpy, grassy surface before sliding to a stop.

  Bobby gets out, striding straight toward me. Automatically, I rise, setting Trollie down, which he argues about loudly. Baaaaaa!

  Bobby doesn’t go for the gate. No, he hops right over the pen fencing, making the shortest distance between point A, that’d be him, and point B, that’d be me, his direct route.

  “I didn’t get a chance to do this,” he murmurs right before his hands cup my cheeks and tilt my face up. Then his mouth covers mine, kissing me passionately. He smells like sweat and fresh dirt, and . . . man. He tastes like . . . intensity and mint, like he knew exactly what he was going to do when he saw me and prepped for it. Unnecessary—I’d kiss him even if his breath were as bad as Trollie’s—but the intent is sweet.

  A throat clears behind him and one of his hands leaves my face. I crack one eye open to find him flipping Brutal a middle finger, all the while giving me one of the best kisses of my life.

  “Hi,” I say breathlessly when he lets me go.

  “Hi,” he answers, smiling. “Whatcha doing?”

  I blink, trying to clear my head so that I can form a complete sentence. Or even a two-syllable word would be good right now.

  “Uh, goats. Pet. Soft. Pictures. Cute.” It’s all I’ve got, but it gets my message across.

  His grin turns cocky, and he slings an arm around my shoulders, pulling me to his side. I fit there like the space was carved out just for me. “With your camera over there?” He points with his other hand to my camera bag outside the pen in the grass.

  I realize I truly haven’t taken any pictures. Shay took the ones of me, but those aren’t bloggable, and I would love some cute animal pictures. One, it’s a unique subject for me, which is always an exciting challenge, and two, I do think they’ll be a blog favorite. Who’s not going to ‘heart’ an adorable goat?

  And that’s when I have an even better idea.

  I grab my camera, checking the sky and adjusting my settings. “Let me get a few shots here.”

  I take some close-ups of horns, eyes, hooves. Click, click, click.

  I take some broader shots of the herd, the blending of their colors and the lines of their curved backs. Click, click, click.

  “Bobby, can you pick that one up?” I point to the goat currently weaving its way through his legs like a house cat that wants to be pet.

  “Why?” he asks cautiously.

  I shoot him a soft smile, and though he grumbles a bit, he bends down and picks up the goat, its legs dangling over his arms.

  “I’ll do a close-up so no one can tell it’s you. You don’t mind being on the blog, do you?”

  Let me take this picture, please.

  My ovaries are literally exploding like Fourth of July fireworks right now. He looks that good. Dirty jeans with a tear by his right hip that lets the pocket show, veins popping in his muscled forearms and biceps bulging, jaw tight, eyes dark and promising me anything my heart and body desire, all topped off with the utter cuteness of the baby goat. It’s easy to replace the cute animal with a baby in my mind, and the thought of Bobby’s baby, of him as a dad, is sexy as hell. And not in a Daddy fetish sort of way—yes, I saw that video too—but as an actual father. He’d be good at it, protective, loving, firm, sweet.

  Boom. Pop. Hiss. Yep, there go my ovaries.

  “Anything you want, Willow,” Bobby answers, turning a bit toward me so I can get a better angle.

  Click. Click. Click.

  Soon, I move to wide angle frames, getting all of Bobby and all of the goats. These are for me, I promise. Not the blog, I think possessively, taking a page from Bobby’s book.

  “Look at you, Nashville. Show us how you model. Give me a Zoolander Blue Steel look,” Brutal barks out, laughing before he can even get the insult out.

  I spin, capturing that too.

  “Hey, I didn’t agree to shit,” Brutal tells me, sobering in an instant.

  “Oh, sorry,” I say, dropping the camera down to make eye contact.

  “It’s fine,” Bobby interjects. “Tell her it’s fine. She can take pictures of anything or anyone she wants to.”

  “No, really, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to⁠—”

  Shayanne whistles loudly. “Hey, Brutal, know what would probably get Allyson all hot and bothered?”

  Quick as a blink, he deadpans, “Me.” For a scary motherfucker, the guy’s got jokes. I think he’s joking, at least. Sort of.

  “Exactly. Hey, Willow, think you could send Allyson that picture? Brutal needs all the help he can get to get laid.” The insult is harsh, as intended, and given Brutal’s growl and Bobby’s howl of laughter, it’s completely untrue.

  “Sure. I can do that.” I laugh along with them, and any tension is broken.

  Before long, I’m taking pictures of all three of them—holding goats, standing alone, standing together, sitting in the Gator, and more, and they’re really getting into it, posing and pulling faces.

  Mostly, I let them interact with each other, not directing them at all so I get real, candid shots. Those are the moments of true beauty. Unfiltered, unaltered moments of heartfelt connection, even if it’s couched in giving each other a hard time.

  When Shay decides that climbing on the roof of the Gator is a good idea, despite the loud protests of both of her brothers, I take a shot while lying on the ground so it will have the added effect of a cool perspective. Even through the lens, I can tell that Shayanne looks powerful, invincible, ready to take the world by storm, which fits what Bobby has told me about her. The second shot I take of that moment includes both guys standing at the ready to catch her and watching her closely. The affection is obvious and shines brightly.

  “Oh, my phone,” Shay says, jumping from the roof of the Gator as if the five feet are no big deal. Pulling it out of her pocket, she grins that evil smile again before looking at Bobby. “Mama Louise says it’s time for us all to wash up for dinner.”

  “Oh, I’ll go then,” I offer, not wanting to intrude any more than I already have. I’m sure Bobby and Brutal had chores to do today, but they’ve spent the last hour goofing off with me. It’s been fun and I’ve gotten some amazing pictures, but I know their family dinners are pretty sacrosanct.

  Bobby stops me with a growl and his arms around my waist. “The fuck? She said ‘us all’. That means Mama Louise is expecting you at dinner too. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. Now that I have you here, I might never let you go.” He sounds serious, and rather than being scared at becoming his pseudo-hostage, my whole body lights up like fireworks again. He wants me here as much as I want to be here. While I’m playing through mental images of never leaving his side, he keeps talking, trying to sell me on the idea of staying. “The last person you want to disappoint is Mama Louise. You also don’t refuse her food. She’s the best.”

  “I thought Ilene was the best,” I tease.

  “So does she,” Bobby says sadly, shaking his head like Ilene is delusional and everyone just goes along with it. I’ve had Ilene’s food, though, and it’s delicious. But if Mama Louise can top it, I’m in. Hell, I’m in if only to meet the woman he says rescued his family.

  12

  BOBBY

  Ishove Shayanne toward Brutal’s Gator, grabbing at the keys as she tries to hold them behind her back.

  “I can drive Willow up to the house!” she argues. She knows it’s a losing battle, but that doesn’t stop her. It never does.

  “Shayanne. Give me the keys,” I sternly order. Once upon a time, that’d be enough to get her to do it, but now, she’s all independent and wild, thinking she can do any old thing she wants, like invite Willow out for the day without telling me.

  Shit, that could’ve gone so badly if Willow had freaked the fuck out. But looking at her now, wind blowing her short hair around, eyes bright behind her glasses, and a sunny smile on her face, she seems perfectly at ease. Thank fuck.

  Knowing what I have to do to get the keys, I grab Shayanne around her middle, picking her up so her booted feet kick the air. Spinning her around, I tell her loudly enough for Brutal and Willow to hear, because public humiliation is key to this apology. “Thank you for inviting Willow out to the farm. I appreciate it. Now, can I have the keys . . . please?”

  Sitting her back down, she laughs, her mouth open wide and grinning. “See, that wasn’t so hard, now was it?” I hold my hand out, and she drops the key into my hand. “We’d best get to the house, no dilly-dallying. Mama and me made pot roast.”

  I groan. Pot roast is delicious, Shay and Mama Louise’s even more so, but when they cook roast, it means they planned the day with ideas in mind, like ambushing me with Willow and spending the day fucking off with the goats. Shayanne is such a schemer. God, I love that girl.

  At the house, we wash up on the back porch and I can feel the tension in Willow now. I throw my chin at Brutal and Shayanne, telling them to go in without us. With my hands on Willow’s shoulders, I turn her to face me, quietly asking, “Hey, you okay?”

  She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah, just a little nervous to meet the infamous Mama Louise. Unc talks about her too, you know? Basically makes her sound like a fictional warrior woman, battling for her family and the power of love. He talks about her pies too, says they’re better than Ilene’s but that I’d best take that to the grave if I know what’s good for my stomach.”

  I laugh a little. Hank’s not that far off. “Actually, that’s pretty true. She’s a force, but in a good way. I think you’ll have that in common.”

  It’s on the tip of her tongue to refute my assessment, but her mouth closes slowly and I can see the compliment sink into her in stages—ears, mind, heart, body. “Flattery will get you everything, Bobby. But I’m guessing you already know that,” she replies, lighter than she was a moment ago.

  “Not flattery if it’s true,” I reply. Brushing her sweep of bangs to the side, I meet her eyes. “You ready for this? You already met most of the gang, and they like you more than they like me at this point. Just the kids and Mama Louise left, and I have no doubt they’ll feel the same way.”

  She pushes at my chest, smirking. “Pretty sure the whole town is in love with you, so quit fishing for adoration.”

  She thinks she’s telling the truth, that the whole town loves me, but she couldn’t be more wrong. They love the image they’ve created of me, some sappy singing cowboy who loves the limelight, when the truth is much darker and my singing onstage is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

  “Don’t need the town’s love, just yours,” I tell her, touching toward what I really want.

  Her smile is the real deal this time, and feeling like she’s as ready as she’s gonna be, I take her hand and lead her inside.

  “’Bout time,” Mark grumbles, spooning more than his fair share of potatoes onto his plate.

  All conversation stops and all movement freezes as eyes cut to me and Willow, who’s got a death grip on my hand.

  Breaking the solid block of ice in the room, I say, “Everybody remember Willow?”

  There’s a round of ‘hey, Willow’ and ‘welcome’ as the girls all high-five. I hear Sophie tell Shayanne, “Hell yeah, girl. Good job.” Guess that’s about Shay getting Willow here when I hadn’t so much as asked her to come out, too fearful that she’d balk.

  I lead Willow to the end of the table across from Mark. “Mama Louise, this is Willow Parker. Willow, this is Mama Louise.”

  Willow shakes Mama Louise’s hand, “Nice to meet you, Louise.”

  Mama Louise shakes her head, gray-streaked blonde hair and blue eyes dancing. “None of that. I go by Mama or Mama Louise. Even your Uncle Hank calls me that, and he’s a good ten years older than me, not that we’re discussing age, mind you.”

  Willow catches the important thing. “Nice to meet you then, Mama Louise.”

  Mama Louise beams and nods. “Best have a seat then, or these boys won’t leave you any food.” She scans the table, her eyebrow rising. “Mark, I know you’re not planning on eating all those potatoes yourself, are you?”

  In reply, he lifts one blonde brow and forks a whole baby red into his mouth in one go, chewing open-mouthed from the oversized bite.

  Mama Louise sighs like the long-suffering mother she is to us all.

  We get settled, me in my usual place and Willow between me and Cooper. Technically, he’s Allyson’s son and Brutal’s stepson, but he’s been adopted by us all.

  Cooper stage-whispers to Willow, “Make sure you get enough roast and veggies so that you get dessert. Plum cobbler tonight.” His face screws up. “On second thought, don’t. Because then I’ll get your serving of cobbler too.”

  “Cooper!” Allyson barks, horrified.

  But he and Willow are giggling like they shared a secret. Willow reaches for the carrots and spoons a few onto her plate, then with a smirk at Cooper, she adds a couple more in a clear ‘challenge accepted’ sort of way. He sighs, rolling his eyes in a pretty decent imitation of Shay. Right off the bat, she’s charmed Cooper too.

  We get down to eating without much talking. We work hard all day, mostly outside, and need the calories, plus it’s delicious. But once the voids in our bellies are satisfied, conversation starts to flow.

  “How’re you liking working at Hank’s, dear?” Mama Louise asks Willow.

  She swallows a bite of thick toast slathered in butter and dabs at her mouth before answering. It looks like manners, but I can see that she’s putting off answering. She doesn’t like the spotlight on her, and every pair of eyes has turned her way, interested in the newcomer to the dinner table, especially since she’s by my side.

  “It’s good,” she says safely. “I’ve been a bartender off and on since I was eighteen, but even I was surprised by how busy a Thursday two-dollar draft night could be. And that had nothing on live music Saturday night.” She looks at me, and I can’t help but place my hand on her thigh under the table. She about jumps a foot and squirms beneath my palm.

  My sweet Willow is shy, I think. And maybe nervous in front of my whole crew. She has nothing to be concerned about, though. We’re about as rough as they come, and Katelyn’s basically doing us all a solid by sitting in her own chair and not Mark’s lap. Mama Louise doesn’t allow that at her dinner table, but beyond that, it’s all good and no one would bat an eye at my hand being on her leg.

  I shrug modestly. “We’ll see how busy it is next weekend when I play again. I always figure it’s going to be a show for one, just me and Hank in the place, and I’m shocked anybody else shows up to listen.”

  Brody coughs, muttering under his breath, “Bullshit.”

  Mama Louise isn’t fooled by that fake cough, though. “Language.”

  Willow laughs, and I feel her relax now that no one’s paying her direct attention. Well, no one besides me. I can’t help but be focused on her every move, every nuanced flash of emotion across her face as I measure every inch of space between us.

  “It’s such a beautiful night. Let’s take our plum cobbler out back,” Mama Louise suggests.

  Allyson and Cooper hop up to clear the table, and we all hand them our plates. The rest of us help put up the few bits of leftovers, wipe down the wood table until it shines, and dish up the cobbler into bowls.

  Out back, the sun has fully set and the moon is rising high, bright and white against the indigo sky pricked with sprinkles of stars. We make our way to the circle of congregated wood chairs and stools that Brutal and Cooper have built over the past few months and settle in to eat.

  “Mmm,” Willow moans when she eats her first bite of cobbler with melted homemade vanilla ice cream. My own spoon freezes halfway to my mouth, wanting to hear that sound again . . . without everyone else around. Willow must feel my gaze on her because she blinks and looks my way sheepishly. “What? It’s good,” she whispers.

  “It is.” My agreement isn’t about the plum cobbler at all.

  Shayanne jumps in, “This? This ain’t nothing, just a quickie cobbler. Jam plus fruit plus biscuits plus sugar butter. It cooked up while we were chopping up the veggies for the roast and was done before we were. Ain’t that right, Mama?”

  Mama Louise nods, spooning another bite into her mouth and watching me and Willow much more closely than Shayanne is. I see the little smile on Mama Louise’s face, though, and that makes me feel like she’s onboard with my thoughts about Willow. I don’t need her to be, considering I’ll do what I want either way, but her approval will make things a whole lot easier when Willow is here. And I’m hoping she’ll be here a lot.

  The evening cornhole tournament begins, and I’m immediately challenged by Cooper because we haven’t played in a bit. “You’re going down, Uncle Bobby! Six feet under,” he taunts.

  A laugh tries to burst out, but I fight it down, glaring at Cooper instead. We have a stare-off, something the pipsqueak is getting better at, much to Allyson’s dismay, until Brutal says, “Let’s go, boys. The rest of us want to play tonight too. Ain’t got time for your trash talking, dick measuring pre-game ritual.”

  I snicker, fighting valiantly not to laugh, but I lose the battle when Mama Louise says with a long-suffering sigh, “Could we not talk about penises tonight, please?”

  At least I’m not the only one because everyone else has a moment of shock at Mama Louise, the one who always corrects our language, popping out with ‘penis talk’ like it’s no big deal. Technically, it’s the anatomically correct term, but I can definitely say that she’s not the type to use the term unless it’s talking about one of the farm animals.

  The laughter is enough to get the game rolling, with Mama Louise already in the lead without picking up a single beanbag. Cooper kicks my ass, as we all expected he would, me included. “Good game, kid,” I tell him, ruffling his hair. He might win at cornhole, but I can still irritate him a bit in return. It’s good for him, keeps him from getting too big for his britches. For now.