And I’m the biggest subject of the local grapevine, either the one who ran Bobby off or who was left in his wake, depending on which version of gossip you choose to believe.

  I’ll miss Mom and Dad, and Oakley too. They’re all back in the city.

  It’s a big decision, one with both pain and joy no matter which way I land.

  City or country?

  The home I knew, or the home I’ve found?

  Mindlessly, I find myself flipping through my photo files. A picture of Main Street with the sun setting—beautiful. A shot with the city nightlife vibrant and energetic—stunning. Unc’s wrinkled face smiling back at me—my heart squeezes. An old shot of Mom and Dad, taken years before Oakley and I were born—love in their eyes and innocent dreams in their future.

  The next click of the mouse takes me to the pictures I took on that first day at the farm. Bobby holding Trollie, the picture I’d cropped in close for the blog so that I didn’t share Bobby with the world. He was mine, if only for a little while. Soon, he’ll belong to them all. Brody and Brutal messing around with Cooper in the light of the fire between cornhole games. Mark and Katelyn, heads bent close together, whispering something only they could hear. Mama Louise watching over the whole scene like the queen of her country castle.

  And on and on. I’d taken dozens of photos that day and night.

  Then, I find the photo shoot with the girls. Smiles, laughter, sisterhood in every shot.

  Instantly, I know one thing I have to do, even if I don’t have all the answers just yet.

  I spend the next couple of hours editing the photos of the Tannens and Bennetts. I print them on the huge printer I brought with me from the city, back when I’d figured some podunk town wouldn’t have decent professional photography printing options. This machine was something I couldn’t leave behind in my old life, and now I’m glad it’s here in my time of desperate need because I’d been right about the printing here. Only the drugstore has a machine that can do same-day printing. Otherwise, it’s all online and wait for shipping. And I can’t wait, not even a single day.

  I print each shot, perfect and pristine, real and raw. Laying them in gift boxes, I separate them with tissue paper so they’re protected on their journey. One bigger box for Mama Louise, and smaller boxes for each woman with her private pictures. I find a shirt I don’t wear anymore and cut it to shreds, using it as a makeshift bow around the stack of boxes.

  Thirty minutes later, before I can second guess myself again, I’m pulling up to the Bennett house. It’s late afternoon, well before dinner time, so I shouldn’t have to see the Tannens or Bennetts. Except for the one I’m here to see.

  I step on the porch and knock with the toe of my tennis shoe, my arms too full to ring the bell properly.

  Through the screen door, I see Mama Louise’s head pop around the corner from the kitchen. “Willow?” She hurries toward the door. “I wondered who in the world was knocking on my door and not waltzing on in like everyone always does. Come on in, dear.”

  Her smile is welcoming, as if she doesn’t know that everything has changed. But she must know. This family is too close to keep secrets. The whole town is too close for secrets.

  “Hi. Sorry to stop by unannounced, but I wanted to . . .” I clear my throat, not sure what I was going to say. Finally, I shove the boxes her way. “Here.”

  Her brow furrows, and she wipes her hands on her jeans. “What’s this?”

  “They’re for you, for all of you. Well, except the ones that are for each girl. Those are private.”

  “Oh,” Mama Louise says, smiling as if she knows exactly what’s in those pictures. Actually, she might. The girls might’ve told her about our boudoir shoot too. Or maybe she just knows, the way she knows everything—like she plucks it out of your brain without your saying a single word.

  “Can I open them now?” she asks, eyeing the ribbon like a kid on Christmas morning.

  I shake my head vehemently. “No, please. I can’t . . . I don’t want to . . . Just . . . wait, okay?” I stammer, unable to explain that while I was editing, I could look at them with an objective eye, not letting my heart get too involved. But seeing them here, in this house, through Mama Louise’s eyes, is something I don’t think I’m strong enough to handle right now.

  “Sure, dear. Of course. Sit down and let me get you some watermelon fresca. It’s Shay’s recipe, sells out every time she makes a batch.”

  You can’t say no to Mama Louise. Or at least I can’t. So I find myself sinking into a chair at the small kitchen table as she grabs two glasses and fills them with pink liquid from a jug in the refrigerator.

  She sits down beside me and takes a healthy drink, sighing loudly, “Ahh, that’s good stuff. Been out in the barn this morning helping Luke muck out stalls, so this hits the spot.”

  Small talk. Bless this amazing woman, she’s letting me hide the way I want to.

  “I’m sure he appreciated the help.”

  “Stubborn men always do, even though they’re not good at telling you so.” For some reason, I get the feeling she’s talking about Unc more than about Luke. “Though Luke isn’t my most stubborn boy, by far.”

  I smile, trying to decide which Bennett man she’s talking about. Or Tannen, I guess. She doesn’t seem to differentiate. They’re all her kids to care for, even if they’re six-foot-plus tall, wide as a doorway men who can handle themselves just fine. They’re still her boys.

  “Love them all, each and every one, I do,” she murmurs around another sip. I get the feeling she’s dancing me the direction she wants to go, taking this conversation to a destination she wants regardless of whether I want to discuss it or not.

  I hum in agreement, not fighting her resolve. Get this over with, Mama Louise. Yell at me, tell me how disappointed you are, whatever it is . . . rip the Band-Aid off so I can leave and lick my fresh wounds again.

  “You know the funny thing about love?”

  I don’t respond, thinking there’s not a single thing funny about love right now. It’s the highest high and the lowest low, all wrapped up in one big shredded T-shirt bow.

  “People think it’s something you feel, an emotion. A noun. Like you love football or your husband or pepperoni pizza.”

  How does she know I love pepperoni pizza? Oh, she’s not talking about me, specifically. Or is she? She does know everything.

  When I don’t respond, she speaks again. “It’s not. Or at least, it’s not only that. Love is something you do. A verb. It’s in every action, reaction. My husband, John, worked this land every single day to make a life for us. That was love—every head of cattle he bought and sold, every fence he fixed, every bead of sweat he earned through his dedication was a love note to me, to our boys. In return, every meal I made, every load of his dirty clothes I washed, and every sunrise I saw after hours of being up to get the day started was my love note to him. There were other ways we loved each other too. But make no mistake, the day in, day out of love was in the action, the verb of doing something for each other, to take care of one another. We were in this thing called life together. I still write those notes to him, making meals for our family, taking care of his land and cattle, watering that damn tree out front because I can’t bear to ever see it wither and don’t trust the rain enough to take care of it the way I will.”

  Mama Louise’s blue eyes are bright with unshed tears as she glances toward the front of the house. There is a tree out front, but I didn’t realize it had any special meaning for her. I even took a picture of its branches filled with green leaves with pockets of blue sky peeking through. It’s in that box on the table. It’d seemed like a pretty shot, and if I’d posted it to my blog, I would’ve added something witty about a seed growing tall and mighty. Now, I’m glad I didn’t. I’m glad that shot is just for Mama Louise and that it’ll mean something to her.

  “It sounds like John was a great man, a great husband,” I say tentatively. I still feel like we’re dancing, but I can’t see the trail she’s leading me down.

  “He was. Full of love, full of kindness, full of heart. A lot like you, Willow. I don’t need to know the details of what happened. That’s between you and Bobby. But know that sometimes love, the verb, I mean, is hard to do, but you do it anyway.”

  Does she think Bobby broke up with me and I’m supposed to love him anyway?

  Does she know I sent him off to Nashville, and she’s telling me she understands why I did it?

  I don’t know.

  Hell, maybe this is her way of getting gossip straight from the source, though I don’t think she’s the type at all.

  The oven timer dings, breaking the moment. “Oh, that’s dinner. Can you stay?” she asks.

  “No. Actually, I’d better be going.” I don’t want to be here when everyone comes in to eat after a long day. “Tell everyone I hope they like them,” I say, lifting my head toward the boxes.

  She sets the casserole dish on the stovetop and comes over to hug me, oven mitts and all. “You take care of yourself, Willow. You’re so good at taking care of everyone else, don’t forget to take care of you too.” She eyes me, daring me to disobey. Somehow, I think she’ll know if I don’t follow her order.

  “I will. Bye, Mama Louise.”

  I’m out the door and halfway to town before the tears come again. I’ll miss her and that whole family.

  I stop by Unc’s house, noting that the flower beds look pretty good. I wonder if Unc was feeling well enough to get out here and weed them? Or maybe Bobby stopped by one day without mentioning it?

  I knock on the door and Unc answers quickly. He’s moving pretty well, not even limping today as he leads me into the living room.

  “I can only stay a second, but I wanted to let you know . . .”

  24

  BOBBY

  “I’m here to see Jeremy Marshall,” I tell the receptionist.

  “Do you have an appointment?” Her tone is snippy, like I’m beneath her.

  “No. Tell him Bobby Tannen is here, please.”

  My name doesn’t mean shit, especially here. And after last week’s phone call where I told a shocked Jeremy that I was turning down his offer, he might not want to see me at all. But I hope he does.

  I drove all night into this morning to get here. I slept for a few hours in a truck stop parking lot and dug a fresh shirt out of the backseat of my truck. By fresh, I mean clean, not unwrinkled. Despite the receptionist’s lingering glances, I know I look like hell. I feel even worse.

  Not exactly how I thought signing a contract was going to go, but here I am.

  The receptionist hangs up the phone. “He’ll be with you in a moment.” Almost as soon as the words leave her lips, the door opens.

  “Bobby! Good to see you, man! You reconsider our offer?”

  He’s excited, eager, even hungry. I can feel it in his handshake, see it in his eyes.

  “I am reconsidering,” I give him. I’m still not sure how I got here.

  “Excellent.” His smile beams, blindingly white and straight. “Let’s sit down and go over things. Right this way.” He throws a hand out, leading me through the doorway. I can feel the receptionist’s eyes on my ass as I walk through. I glance back and catch her red-handed, but instead of looking caught, she smiles coyly and lifts one brow.

  A growl tries to rattle in my chest. I don’t want her to look at me like that. I only want Willow’s eyes on me that way.

  She owns me—body, mind, heart, and soul. Whether she wants me or not.

  Jeremy invites me to sit in his office, not the conference room this time. He opens a small silver door on a credenza, a hidden mini-fridge, and hands me a cold water. “Looks like you’ve had a long day already,” he says, still smiling that too-bright smile.

  “Drove in last night. Slept in my truck,” I explain, wiping a palm over my shirt to smooth the creases. It doesn’t work, it just leaves a trail of condensation along my belly. I look at my hand, not realizing that it was even damp from the bottle of water, and wipe it on my jeans-covered thigh.

  “Oh, no. We’ll get you a hotel for tonight. No worries about that, man. What else do you need?”

  “Nothing,” I grunt. “I’m pretty low-maintenance. I’ll grab a few T-shirts from Walmart later. That’ll get me through.”

  His lips quiver, though he’s fighting it. He’s laughing at me.

  “What?” I growl.

  “Nothing,” he says, letting loose that chuckle that makes me feel like a damned fool. “You’re just not what I’m used to. Most guys come out here and expect to be wined and dined like they’re special when they’re not. You actually are special, and you don’t give a shit about the bells and whistles. It’s refreshing.”

  “Okay.” I don’t know what to say to that. I am who I am, what I am, a farmer who can sing a bit and write songs, which wasn’t good enough for him in the first place.

  “So, the contract?” Jeremy opens a drawer in his desk, flipping through folders just like I thought he’d have. Each one contains someone’s dream, and he keeps them filed away like paper airplanes that’ll never fly, never feel the rush of air, never come crashing back down to Earth painfully crunched and broken.

  Dramatic much, asshole?

  He finds the one with my name on it, pulling it out. “Here we go. Are you ready to sign? NCR Records is ready to be your new home, Bobby. I think we can make some beautiful music together.”

  Cheese spillage, aisle three. How many people has he said that to? How many of them actually bought it?

  I stare at the contract, the black dots of the words marching around like ants on the white paper. Signing it feels so final, like the end of something instead of the beginning. Putting my John Hancock on that page is the nail in the coffin for me and Willow, an acknowledgement that it’s over, and the end of Bobby Tannen, farmer. Once I sign, I’ll be Bobby Tannen, country singer.

  It’s what I’ve always wanted, what I’ve dreamed of. So why does it feel so empty?

  Jeremy holds out a pen that I don’t take. “Can I read it over again? You told me to have a lawyer look at it, and I’m afraid to say I never did. Once you said that stuff about Willow, I never thought I’d be sitting here. So, I should probably do some due diligence so we both know what we’re getting into.”

  A look of disappointment flashes through Jeremy’s eyes, so quick it’s gone in an instant. He leans forward, elbows on his desk. “Sure, good thinking. I like that you’re not just another pretty face.”

  I have never been called pretty. Handsome, attractive, fuckable . . . sure. Pretty? No.

  “Let’s do this. We’ll get you a room so you can rest and get cleaned up. I’ll send a car by and we’ll hit the Bar again tonight. You can listen to other folks, or I can arrange for you to sing if you’d like? You have any new songs? I can set you up with Miller again. I know you liked working with him.”

  I agree woodenly, the contrast to his excitement obvious. It should be the other way around. He’s the pro who should be no-big-deal about another contract, and I’m the newbie who should be jumping for joy at his dream coming true. But I don’t have it in me.

  I watch a kid play guitar like a demon has possessed his fingers on the stage at the Bar. His voice is good, but his playing is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Kid can’t be more than nineteen, blond and sweet-looking, but you can tell the music infects him like it does me. He’s exciting to watch.

  “He’s good,” I murmur to myself. Jeremy hears me loud and clear.

  “You like him? We could see if he’s interested in a guitarist position for your band. I don’t usually pull guys who want to be solo acts, but his vocals would be a good contrast to yours. I’ll get his name and see if he has representation yet.”

  All that because I said the kid’s good.

  After that, I keep my mouth shut.

  I don’t get on stage at the Bar that night. The demon in my gut is screaming loudly, wanting the outlet desperately, but I’m afraid I’ll slit myself open too wide and let everything I’m feeling leak out. Vulnerable is one thing, completely and utterly defenseless quite another.

  Miller is already booked, so I have the whole day to myself. Jeremy tried to fill the time with sightseeing tours, as if a trip to the Country Music Hall of Fame is going to keep me in town. He even mentioned getting me a personal tour guide if I wanted. I felt like that was a roundabout way of asking if I needed any company.

  I angrily turned him down outright, telling him I’d take the day to write and have something new for Miller tomorrow.

  That had appeased him, both that I’m feeling creative and that I’m not leaving town.

  Hours later, I’m stuck. This song had poured forth initially, angry, fresh lines of pain, but it needs resolution and I don’t have one. Not for the song, not for myself.

  I look around the hotel room. That first trip out here, it’d seemed fancy—a sign that I was on my way, that I was going to make it big.

  Now, it seems so temporary. Like everything else.

  Nothing about this contract deal, this dream feels the way I thought it would. It’s not as awesome as I thought it’d be. It doesn’t feel exciting and happy. It feels . . .

  Meaningless without Willow.

  Fuck, I even miss my asshole brothers and the Bennetts. I miss nightly cornhole tournaments and Shayanne’s pot roast putting us on edge to figure out what she’s up to this time.

  I look at the room service menu, searching for pot roast for even a small taste of home. But there’s nothing that unsophisticated on the list of dinner options. It’s all filet mignon and haricots verts. A quick Google search tells me that’s steak and green beans, so why don’t they just say so? Even room service isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

  I let the boredom distract me, staring out the window at the lights for a while and watching some stupid television show where I don’t even know what’s happening.