“Okay.” I don’t get the importance until the weight of her silence makes me pause. “You drinking water?”

  She still doesn’t answer, but her smile is answer enough.

  “Congratulations,” I whisper.

  “Shh,” she orders, and I lock my lips, promising her that I won’t say a word.

  She holds the handles of the beer mugs, dancing her way across the floor to take them back to their table. Curiously, I wonder which one of them will come up next to tell me something private. Perks of being a bartender . . . I know what’s on everyone’s mind and heart.

  Like now.

  Everyone is ready for Bobby, though it doesn’t take a brain trust to figure that out because the crowd has moved from doing walk-bys to chanting his name and telling him, “Come on, man. Get up there.”

  Before the crowd gets too carried away, Bobby takes the stage. The hoots and hollers get louder and louder, and his smile gets wider and brighter.

  Instead of his usual introduction, he goes off-script. “Thanks everyone. I know you thought I might have something to tell you tonight.” The crowd quiets, hungry for news. “Well, it looks like you’re stuck with me. Assholes out in Nashville⁠—”

  “Language!” Mama Louise shouts, and everyone laughs.

  Bobby looks to the ceiling as though praying for patience. “Sorry, Mama Louise. I meant, the people in Nashville weren’t what I thought they’d be, and most importantly, Willow’s here. And wherever she goes, I go.” His shrug is easy, as if that’s the most obvious thing in the whole wide world. His eyes lift from the crowd to meet mine across the room. “Love you, sweetheart!”

  “Love you, too!” I yell loudly.

  “Aww,” several female voices sound out.

  It’s a sweet moment until a deeper, masculine voice shouts, “Fuck those city boys! Stay here with us, Bobby!”

  Hats wave around, hands lift beers in the air, and a general sense of laughter washes over the crowd, though I see a few raised brows. I’m betting those are the tourists from the resort.

  Amazingly, not too long ago, I was a tourist, a short-timer planning to stay for a few months. Now, I’m one of the locals. This town is my home. That man on stage is my home. He said he’ll go wherever I go, but the opposite is true too. I’d follow him to the ends of the Earth and enjoy every step of the journey at his side.

  He sings all my favorites, both his own and covers. His gravelly voice hits me soul-deep, and I fall a little more in love each time I hear him. I dance my way around behind the bar, singing along quietly with him as I fill orders.

  “This is a new one I wrote recently. One of those Nashville people told me that a broken heart can be the best inspiration. I hate to admit this—you have no idea how much I hate to, though some of you might’ve seen the fallout of that—but he might’ve been right. Though it’s a theory I’m not willing to test again.” I can see the pain he went through written in the lines of his frown. “Anyway, may you never feel this way.”

  Gave you everything, I was yours.

  Took your heart because you were mine.

  Standing in the tatters that you left behind,

  I still love you.

  Each word is laced with tortured heartbreak, slicing through me and bringing tears to my eyes. “Oh, Bobby,” I say softly, clutching my bar towel to my chest.

  He finishes the song on a long, mournful note that holds the entire audience in rapture. And then there’s a quiet heartbeat before the crowd claps and cheers.

  Bobby flashes that cocky grin. “Don’t y’all go thinking I’ve gone soft. The next one I’m working on is called Willow, Get Your Ass Over Here and Love Me.” He laughs, and the audience laughs along with him. Mama Louise doesn’t even try to correct his language this time. And I shake my head, knowing that here, there, or anywhere . . . I love him.

  I have no problem holding my head high this time as I cross the room. Nope, I walk right up to that stage, catch his eye, and crook a finger at him. He winks at the audience, but when he turns to me, he’s my Bobby, sweet and emotional, bossy and possessive, sexy and dirty-mouthed. When he bends down, I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him like he’s my air, right there in front of the whole audience.

  “Woohoo, getcha sum!” a shout goes up from the crowd.

  “I love you,” he whispers against my mouth, just for me to hear.

  “Love you too.”

  I might do a little happy dance back across the floor to the bar, and I definitely sing along louder as Bobby goes into his next song.

  I’m in the kitchen, waiting for the coffee maker to do its job on Sunday afternoon, when a sight out the window catches my eye. A cloud of dust is visible coming down the driveway, billowing out behind a silver sedan.

  “Hey, Bobby, you expecting someone?” I holler up the stairs. “There’s a car outside.”

  I hear a scrambling thud and then several more as he crosses the room above me. He bounds down the stairs and peeks out the window in the front living room. “Who the fuck is that?” he mutters.

  The car pulls to a stop and a guy gets out. He’s young, early thirties, maybe, with brown hair peeking out under his straw cowboy hat. He’s got on Wrangler jeans and boots that look like they’ve seen a few miles.

  “Stay here,” Bobby tells me, opening the door to go outside and greet the stranger.

  “You here about a horse, looking for Luke?” Bobby questions. It’s not a typical greeting, but it’s a fair assumption. “He’s next door at the Bennetts’. Back out the gate and go left to the next one.”

  He’s clearly telling the guy to get the hell out of here.

  Never one to leave Bobby alone, I sneak my way out the door and to his side just in time to hear the visitor say, “Actually, I’m here to see you, Bobby.”

  Instantly on alert, Bobby pushes me behind him protectively and crosses his arms over his chest. Tension shoots through him as though he’s ready to throw down at any perceived provocation. Maybe I shouldn’t have come out here because he’s only this quick-tempered when he thinks I’m in danger.

  “Leave.”

  The guy doesn’t move toward the car but holds a hand out to shake. “I’m Stephen Wheatley from Outlaw Records. I saw you in Nashville at the Bar and liked what I heard. It sucks when someone as good as you are is already signed with another agency. But word travels fast, and I hear you’re not represented by NCR?”

  He’s talking fast, getting his spiel out as quickly as possible, likely having heard of Bobby and Jeremy’s last ‘conversation’ if he’s heard as much as he says he has.

  “Get off my property.” Bobby’s not leaving any room for misunderstanding.

  Just as I thought, Mr. Wheatley adds, “Also heard you put Jeremy Marshall in his place, made him piss his pants.” He seems amused by that, which takes him up a notch in my estimation, but not Bobby’s, apparently.

  “Three, two, one . . . Brutal!” Bobby yells and then gives a loud whistle. “Fair warning, that ain’t my dog, it’s my brother. You should go before he gets here.”

  Mr. Wheatley chuckles, an easy smile on his lips. “You’re going to sic your brother on me?”

  “No, he’s coming to help me load your body in the truck after I kill you for trespassing,” Bobby deadpans.

  “I’m here to offer you a deal. Not one like Marshall’s. A real deal . . . for the real you.” Mr. Wheatley has a fire lit under his ass now, stepping a little closer to his car and talking quickly.

  I swear a growl is rumbling in Bobby’s chest.

  “Wait,” I say to both men. To Bobby, I appeal, “Hear him out. It couldn’t hurt.”

  “Yeah, hear me out,” Mr. Wheatley agrees with me.

  “I could make it hurt,” Bobby threatens.

  I don’t want a record deal for Bobby if it means all that stuff Jeremy was trying to pull. The manipulations he was almost successful with nearly ruined everything. But that doesn’t mean that Bobby should give up on his dream entirely. We’re home, and we’re happy, but it truly doesn’t cost anything but a few minutes to hear this guy out. Best case scenario, it’s worth considering. Worst case, we’re five minutes later with getting our coffee.

  Holding his hands up in a placating gesture, Mr. Wheatley pleads his case. “I like who you are, where you come from, and what you represent. A real cowboy, a working man, a family man. I don’t want to change you into some poster boy for bad boy country. I want you to write what you want, sing what you want, be authentically you. That’s what I liked at the Bar and at Hank’s last night.”

  “Look, I’ll leave this here. I’m staying at the resort until Tuesday. Come see me if you’d like to talk. If I don’t hear from you, you’ll never see me again. Good luck to you, Bobby. You’ve got a real gift.”

  Mr. Wheatley bends down, setting some paperwork in the dirt driveway. He picks up a nearby rock, adding it to the top of the stack so it doesn’t blow away. He doesn’t seem to care that his pristine white papers are smeared with dust and grime now. Somehow, that already seems like a better sign than Jeremy Marshall’s slick approach.

  True to his word, he gets in his car and pulls away without so much as a wave.

  Bobby turns for the front door, not even picking the papers up, but as he disappears into the house, I grab them. He should at least check them out. Just because his dream blew up last time, doesn’t mean it has to be that way this time. What if there’s still a chance for him to have his dream and for us to still be together?

  27

  WILLOW

  “You sure about this?” Bobby asks me. His hand is in mine, his eyes locked on me as if we’re the only two people at the table. Actually, with the intense way he’s scanning me, it’s more like we’re the only two people in the room.

  I nod, biting my lip to keep the smile from beaming too broadly. He’s going to get his dream, after all. And I don’t have to lose him for him to get it.

  “We can stay right here, work the farm and Hank’s, play music and take pictures, and live a good life. I can give you a good life, Willow. Full of love and happy days, with the occasional fist fight with my brothers or a Bennett.” His lips quirk. “Just keeping it real.”

  I cup his cheek, the stubble scratching my palm as he tilts into my touch. “We could do that. And it would be a wonderful life. But you have this gift and a fire in your belly. I know you need to see if this could go somewhere. I’m good with that. Let’s do it together, you and me. There will be time enough to come home and work the farm and Hank’s. And I can take pictures anywhere.”

  We’ve talked this through several times already. I had picked that contract up out of the dirt, set it right on the kitchen table, and started reading while Bobby had made our cups of coffee. The deal was good, better than good. It’s an amazing offer.

  Bobby had still said no, justifying it by claiming that Brutal needs him and Unc needs me. I didn’t tell Unc’s secret. It’d seemed needless considering he’s on the road back to health, but I had shared that Unc might not need me quite as desperately in the coming days other than prime fishing days with Doc. I’d smiled in relief that I meant actually fishing and not fishing.

  “Fuck, you’re amazing,” Bobby growls as if it’s still just the two of us. He kisses my palm, searches my eyes once more, and then holds my hand tightly as he tells Mr. Wheatley, “Okay, run it down again. Every detail.”

  Dinner that night is different. There’s no special meal with Bobby’s favorites, there’s no sign in the doorway, and we don’t turn off the lights and shout ‘congratulations’. It’s low-key, more like Bobby and his family. Down to Earth, hard-working cowboys and their women.

  Like me.

  Somehow, I do fit right in with this motley group of people. I’ve spent so much time alone, introverted and keeping to the perimeter, an observer to any action. I get lost in the shadows, both literally and figuratively, sticking to my photography as a way to keep the camera between me and others. But here? Around this dinner table with these people, I’m simply one of them.

  We can talk about cattle and crops, the resort, legal cases, school, rodeo, animals, town gossip, cars, drag racing, and so much more. And everyone listens and cares, regardless of interests.

  But tonight, the floor is all Bobby’s.

  “I did it. Signed right on that dotted line. Well, it was a solid line, but I signed it!” His smile is almost blinding, his dark eyes alight with joy, and his tone still one of disbelief. “I got a record deal.”

  “Oh, my cheesus and crackers!”

  “Woohoo!”

  “Bobby Tannen!”

  “What the fuck, man?”

  That one was Brody, and he gets an instant, sharp look and reminder from Mama Louise. “Language.”

  “Pretty sure it’s justified in this case, Mama Louise,” Brody argues back.

  She doesn’t agree, but she lets him off the hook with a lift of her brow.

  “Tell us all about it!” Shayanne screams, her hands beneath her chin like a kid on Christmas morning.

  Bobby goes through every detail of the deal with Outlaw Records. Mr. Wheatley was telling the truth. They really do want Bobby just as he is. The contract allows him to have full control over his music, his songwriting, his albums, his concerts, and his merchandise. They get a much larger percentage of the profits for the first two years, but then the contract allows for renegotiation. Even the percentages had seemed fair when Mr. Wheatley explained what they were going to invest in Bobby’s career—producers, advertising, musicians, and radio play. Those were all things Bobby has no idea how to do, so letting Outlaw do the hard work and sticking to the music he loves had seemed like an equitable split.

  “You sure it’s not another slicker-than-snot deal like Marshall’s?” Brutal asks quietly.

  Bobby looks at Allyson, who’s sitting between Brutal and Cooper.

  “Yeah, I’m sure. I had someone with a fair amount of legal knowledge look over the contract first.” Bobby’s grin says loudly and clearly, ‘I hear your concerns, man, and I’m good’. They do have an odd shorthand, gruff and sometimes violent but filled with love all the same.

  Brutal looks at Allyson, his brows lifted high on his forehead. “You couldn’t have told me that?”

  She shakes her head, pleasantly smug to get one over on the big man. “Attorney-client privilege. Well, paralegal-client privilege, but Bobby came in to see Rick and me. You know those meetings are confidential.” Her shrug says it’s no big deal, but Bobby told me she was overjoyed for him and he wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep her mouth shut for long.

  Good thing she didn’t have to because Bobby signed today and he’s spilling the good news to everyone mere hours later.

  “Okay, then,” Brutal gives his blessing.

  “Congratulations. Always knew you had it in you.” Bobby has looked up to Brody for years as his big brother and as a man to strive to be, so the compliment from him is heavy with importance. “Glad you’re getting the chance to let it out,” Brody jokes, his permission given.

  “Like a fart,” Cooper whispers, but it’s not quiet enough and everyone cracks up.

  “Cooper!” Allyson scolds him, but she’s fighting a smile too.

  Shayanne recovers first. “I’d like it included in that contract that I get front-row seats to every show, a signed copy of every album, and the whole line of Bobby Tannen T-shirts. My boobs will be your billboard!” She blinks. “Wait, that’s not what I meant. Well, kinda, but you know what I’m saying.” She shakes her head like she’s trying to get that image out of her mind.

  We all laugh again, and somehow, despite this life-changing news, we end up talking about the goats again. Apparently, Trollie has learned a new trick and it’s the cutest thing.

  “If he sees you’ve got food, he’ll run laps around your legs, faster and faster like it’s the Daytona 500, until you fall on your butt. Then he gobbles up all the treats before you’ve even checked to see if your tailbone is in one piece. Awful monster!” Shay describes him like ‘monster’ means the cutest thing ever.

  We finish dinner, and Rix and Brody clear the table, taking dishes to the sink. Mama Louise leans my way. “Come here, dear. I want to show you something.”

  I get up, letting go of Bobby’s hand under the table, curious about what she could possibly want me to see.

  In the front room, I freeze when I see them.

  My pictures. All of the ones I printed are precisely and perfectly hung on the wall in a large arrangement. Mama Louise has added some older pictures of the boys when they were little, a black and white wedding picture of her and John, and there are even some old shots of the Bennetts and Tannens from decades ago. I think my favorite is one of both families, the kids all sprawled out in the grass and dirt with Mama Louise, John, Martha, and Paul looking over them with big smiles on their faces. I didn’t even know they were friendly back then, but the closeness is clear in the shot.

  “Oh my gosh, it’s beautiful!” I whisper, tears popping to my eyes.

  “They are,” Mama Louise agrees with me. “I love my life, but you captured my family in a way I don’t think anyone else could have. Because you’re part of it. Just one thing’s missing.”

  I look to her in confusion.

  Her smile is sweet, but her tone leaves no room for arguing. “I need that picture of you and me making fried chicken. Got a spot for it right here.” She pats an empty space on the wall. “Gotta have the whole family up here.”

  A crash sounds out from the kitchen and she clucks her tongue. “How they can manage a whole herd of cattle, gently break a horse, and plant and harvest acres of land . . . but not load the dishwasher without breaking something? I’ll simply never understand it.”

  Mama Louise darts around the corner, calling out, “You break it, you buy me a new one.”

  Allyson, Katelyn, Sophie, and I giggle quietly. They followed Mama Louise and me into the front room to see the pictures too.

  “These are so good,” Katelyn sighs. “If you ever want to do wedding photography, let me know. To be clear, I highly suggest you don’t because brides are . . .” She rolls her eyes, and I wonder if she’s working with a bridezilla these days. She plasters her professional work smile back on her face and continues. “Most are lovely and would be appreciative of work like this if you want it.”