by Dylann Crush
Presley nodded.
“Let me go get Ernie. He’s the best one to take a look.”
Presley tried not to sweat while he waited for the man to return. Fiddles in every color hung from the walls. They had memorabilia, pictures, and autographs from some of the greatest string players he’d ever heard of, including a glossy black-and-white of his grandfather holding one of his own creations. Presley had half a mind to take the two cases and run before he embarrassed himself. Before he could, a man came out of the back room. He held a cane in a gnarled hand. A felt fedora sat at a tilt on his head and thick bottle lens glasses perched on his nose.
“I hear you have something for me to look at?” He peered up at Presley with curious dark eyes.
“Yeah, but I don’t want to waste your time.”
“Looking at an instrument is never a waste of my time, son. Any chance I have to encourage the love of fiddling in the younger generation is a chance I have to take. Besides”—he winked—“you never know when you’re going to come across a real gem.”
Presley shifted his weight from foot to foot.
“Mind if I take a look?”
“Go ahead.”
He leaned his cane against the counter and reached for the older case first with shaky hands. As he flipped the top back, he let out an audible gasp. “My word. Where did you get your hands on this?”
Presley swallowed. “It belonged to my grandfather, Duke Walker. He mainly ranched but made a couple dozen fiddles over the course of his lifetime. He left the plans and all of his equipment in one of our old barns.”
“I know the name well. Your grandfather and I used to get together from time to time to lay on the strings.”
“Really?” Presley leaned closer. “I was only about ten when he died. But I loved watching him coax a tune from the strings. Some of my favorite memories are sitting in the corner and watching him take a chunk of wood and turn it into a masterpiece.”
“Mind if I give it a whirl?”
“Please do.” Presley gestured toward the fiddle.
Ernie picked it up and nestled it under his chin. He drew the bow across the strings, eliciting a rich note. “They don’t make them like this anymore.”
Presley grinned.
Ernie closed his eyes and began a tune Presley knew he’d heard before. Had to be something his granddad had played a long time ago.
When Ernie finished, he reverently set the fiddle back in the case. “Thank you. I thought I’d have to go the rest of my days without getting the chance to draw my bow over a Duke Walker original. Now, what do you want to do with it? I’ve got collectors worldwide that would pay an arm and a leg for something of this quality.”
“Really?” Presley’s heart pounded in his chest.
“Honest to Betsy. Quality like this is hard to find. You can pretty much set your own price. There aren’t very many left out there in the world. The last time I saw one it was in the hands of your grandfather himself. Nobody could make the strings sing like him. Nobody.”
“I actually wasn’t planning on selling it. Can I show you something else?”
“Absolutely. I’ve got nowhere pressing to be. You get to be my age, and there’s only two things on your schedule each day that you can’t work around. Your bedtime and your bowel movements.” Ernie lifted his hat to wipe a handkerchief across his brow. “Mess with either one of those, and you’ll be paying the price for days.”
Too nervous to laugh, Presley unfastened the other case and braced himself for the moment of truth.
Ernie reached for the fiddle inside, a hand-carved beauty Presley had finished a few weeks ago.
“Did your grandfather make this one too?” Ernie balanced the fiddle on his shoulder. “No, it’s too recent to be Duke’s work.”
Presley gave a slight nod.
Ernie pointed at him with a crooked pointer finger. “You’ve definitely got the Walker genes. You made this, did you?”
“Yes, sir.” It was hard to get a read on the older man. Either he liked the fiddle and hadn’t quite said so yet or he was trying to figure out a way to let Presley down easy. As Presley waited for the final verdict, Ernie picked up the bow and tested it out against the strings.
“Beautiful. Like I said, they don’t make them like this anymore. Is it maple?”
“Yes, sir. Along with some spruce. And see the bridge there? Granddad’s plans called for it to be a tad bit shorter, but I felt like it would give a richer sound if I raised it just slightly.”
Ernie nodded. “Nicely done.”
“So do you think it’s worth trying?”
“Worth trying what?” Ernie reached for his cane.
“Worth trying my hand at a career making fiddles, I suppose. Do you think the one I made comes close in quality to the ones my granddad crafted?” Presley closed the case on his fiddle, eager for Ernie’s verdict.
Ernie hesitated, like he wanted to choose his words carefully. “I think your granddad would be proud.”
“So I should try?” Presley asked.
“Don’t try, son. Do.”
“Do what?” Presley got the sense his time with Ernie was running out, and he still had questions for the man.
“The greats don’t try to be great. They just are. Share your talent with the world. Don’t deprive musicians of the gift you’ve been given. And if you ever want to stop by, we’ve got a session every Sunday night that likes to get together over at the roadhouse just on the other side of Mustang Ridge for a few hours. I’d be mighty honored if you’d come sometime so the guys can check these out.”
“I’d love to.”
“Great. Here’s my card.” He slid his hand into his pocket and pulled out a dog-eared business card. “Come anytime.”
“Thank you.” Presley stuck his hand out. Ernie gripped it with a strength he didn’t appear to possess.
“Now go practice. If you’re going to jam with us, you’re going to have to be able to keep up.” Ernie winked at him again.
Presley took the cases from the counter, more fired up than ever to put plans in place to make his dreams come true. As he marched back to the Jeep, his two treasures in hand, he barely let himself think about what it might feel like if he lost his granddad’s fiddle in the process.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The hours dragged. Dixie pasted on her most cheery smile and did her best to convince herself and everyone else that it was just another day of work at the Rose. By the time seven o’clock rolled around, she was ready to slip on her pajamas and curl up with a good book or, better yet, some of Mrs. Knotts’s huckleberry cobbler she’d seen Gram tuck into the fridge before she left the house this morning. Too bad she was working solo and had at least another seven hours on the clock before she’d be able to get anywhere near her favorite nightshirt.
“How you holdin’ up?” Shep called out across the bar.
“Meh.” She filled her water bottle from the cooler they kept for the staff. It would be another couple of hours before the sun dipped down below the horizon, taking the worst heat of the day with it.
“Chin up, Dixie.” Shep gave her a solid thumbs-up. She reciprocated with a thumbs-up of her own, although she was tempted to turn her thumb upside down.
She hadn’t shared everything with the staff yet, although most of them could tell something was up. Hoping they assumed it was just a funk from Presley bailing on her, she let them think what they would. It wasn’t her job to tell Charlie’s employees they’d most likely be out of a job in the near future.
At least the crowd had come back for the second weekend of the festival. They must have brought their friends with them. It took Dixie much longer than expected to reach the back of the stage. A quick glance at her watch told her she was going to be a few minutes late announcing their first act of the night. That didn’t set well with her.
<
br /> As she prepared an apology in her head on how she’d address the tardy start time with the crowd, a voice boomed out over the loudspeaker.
Presley.
She didn’t pay any attention to what he was saying—she was so mad he was speaking at all, she’d be liable to chew up nails and spit out a barbed-wire fence.
Coming from the back of the stage, she couldn’t see him, but she sure could hear him. All of a sudden the crowd began to boo. Dixie slid between the gate and a set of bleachers. She knew she’d be mad when she saw him, mad as a snake who’d found its tail tied in a knot. But she didn’t figure the sight of him would pull at something so deep inside that her knees would buckle and she’d lose her ability to remain upright.
Lowering herself to the edge of the bleachers, she took in the scene on the stage. Presley stood at the mic stand with the opening band behind him. A group from Little Rock was playing the first set. They appeared to be as confused as Dixie. Presley seemed to be the only one with any inkling of what was going on.
As she waited, along with several hundred other people, to see what would happen, a hand grabbed her shoulder. She whirled around, straight into Charlie’s arms.
“It’s so good to see you, Dixie. The Rose looks great, the crowd is huge, and Presley seems to have it all together onstage. I don’t know how you did it. I suppose I can tell you now, but I never expected you and Presley to get along. I mean, he’s my brother, so I’m familiar with his faults, and my God, I wouldn’t wish him on my worst enemy, much less a good friend. But you did it.”
Dixie stood, gnawing on her lip, wanting so desperately to spill her guts, to lay it all out there for Charlie.
“Dixie? Are you okay? Is everything all right?”
Dixie turned her attention toward the stage. “I’m not sure. But I think based on whatever Presley’s got up his sleeve, we’re about to find out.”
* * *
Presley wavered when Charlie gripped Dixie in a hug. There had to be over a thousand people in the crowd, and of course his gaze managed to land on the one woman he wasn’t ready to face. Well, two women if he counted his sister. But the show must go on. He wasn’t going to give up without a fight, so he was fighting the only way he knew how.
He turned to the poker table he’d set up at the front of the stage. “Ladies and gentlemen, I want to tell you a story. A story that started right here, at the Rambling Rose, many, many years ago.”
The guitarist from the band waved to get his attention. He gestured to the acoustic guitar strapped across his chest. “Want us to play some background?”
Presley nodded. That would be nice. A little music to set the scene. He pulled the mic from the stand. He could think better if he was moving. Since he hadn’t practiced any type of script, it would be better if he didn’t stand still.
“It’s a story about two men, two fiddle players, in fact. Both of them well-known, at least around these parts. Maybe you’ve heard of them? Duke Walker and Leroy Bristol?” A smattering of applause came from the crowd.
“Well, Duke was my granddad. He grew up around here with ranching in his blood and fiddling in his heart. He loved two things almost as much as playing his fiddle.” Presley held up a finger. “Taking a chance at the poker table.” He held up another finger. “And, two, my grandma, Ravina.”
Charlie waved her arms, trying to get his attention. He looked her way but kept talking. He couldn’t lose his nerve now, not when so much depended on what would happen next.
“It so happened that one night Duke sat down to play some poker with his good buddy and fellow fiddler, Leroy. Duke got into a jam like we’ve all been known to do and suddenly found himself out of cash. Leroy suggested he put up his fiddle. Being the gambling man that he was, Duke agreed.”
The music slowed. Presley kept talking. “There are quite a few accounts of what happened next. Some say my granddad lost that hand fair and square. Everyone knows four of a kind beats a full house.”
Heads bobbed up and down, nodding. They were following him.
“But some say four of a kind doesn’t count when a player has four threes and there are two more in the discard pile.”
The drummer decided to join in.
“Needless to say, a fight broke out. Leroy and Duke spilled out onto the porch. A lantern broke; a fire started. The Rose took the side of my granddad, the right side I might add, and banned Mr. Bristol from ever darkening its doorstep again.”
The steel guitar picked up on the rhythm, and Presley found himself accompanied by a full band.
“So tonight I’ve invited Mr. Bristol back. He’s got something I want, and I’ve got something he’s waited most of his lifetime to claim.” Presley walked to the side of the stage and came back holding the fiddle over his head. People whistled and yelled. “The game’s called Texas hold ’em. If you’ll indulge us, we’ll play it out right here, right before the eyes of all of you good people. No cheating, no fights. What do you say, Mr. Bristol, do you accept?”
Hell, he didn’t even know if Leroy Bristol had made it to town. The whole thing could blow up in his face. While he waited for a response, he glanced toward Dixie and Charlie. Dixie stood, furiously whispering in his sister’s ear. Charlie shook her head then covered her eyes with her hands.
Presley had a momentary flash of regret. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe he was making things worse, not better. Maybe he should call the whole thing off, just offer the man the fiddle in exchange for the deed to Kermit’s land. But he feared it wouldn’t be enough. Playing to Bristol’s ego, dangling something in front of him that he’d wanted for so long and then setting the stage so he could win it in front of a crowd, proving once and for all that he’d been entitled to it all along, that was the only way he’d entice the man to play.
He held the mic away from his lips, afraid his nerves would be broadcast for the whole crowd to hear.
Then, from the corner of the stage, a wiry man wearing a long, grizzly braid and a straw cowboy hat on his head walked toward Presley. With a glint in his eye that could strike fear into a man twice his size, he grabbed the mic from Presley.
And in that deep voice Presley had never been able to get out of his head, he said the only two words Presley wanted to hear in that moment. “I accept.”
Chapter Thirty
“What the hell is going on?” Charlie looked like she hadn’t slept in days, and Dixie could have sworn she had a milk stain or maybe spit-up from baby Sully across half of her T-shirt. But since she hadn’t stopped cursing and waving her arms around since they’d entered the office, Dixie hadn’t had a chance to point it out.
“Relax. I’ve got it all under control.” Presley put a hand on Charlie’s shoulder. If it was meant to calm her, it had an adverse effect.
She shrugged him off and went toe to toe with him, something Dixie had never seen anyone else attempt. “I left you in charge of a perfectly good bar. I’ve barely been gone a week. How is it that you’ve managed to practically run me out of business?”
“I think you’re overreacting.”
Dixie almost felt sorry for Presley. Almost. But she also wished she could give him a piece of her own mind. Maybe not in quite the same manner as Charlie, but something close.
“You think?” Charlie shrieked. “You thinking is what got us into trouble here in the first place.”
“Dixie and I did our best while you were gone. In fact, I’m not sure you could have done much better if you’d been here.” He offered a tentative smile in Dixie’s direction. It almost sucked her in.
But then Charlie’s arm went around her shoulder. “Don’t you dare pull her into this. Dixie, I owe you an apology. I should have known better than to try to get you to work with Presley. He would have steamrolled anyone.”
Dixie waited for Presley to defend himself, but he didn’t. They’d both made some bad calls over the past w
eek. True, he’d jumped the gun and should have let her try to get the info out of Chandler at dinner before breaking into his room. But he did have everyone’s best interests at heart.
“Actually”—Dixie ducked out from under Charlie’s arm—“Presley’s right. Things happened so fast. We did our best.”
“Did you sleep with her?” Charlie put her hands on her hips. The moment strung out between them.
Presley didn’t move. His eyes sought Dixie’s, and he waited for her lead. A lead she was too chicken to take. Finally, he spoke. “That’s not fair, Charlie.”
“Gosh, you’re right. I know Dixie has better sense than that. I’m sorry.” Charlie put a hand on Dixie’s shoulder. “Can you give us a few minutes? I’d like to skin my brother in private.”
Dixie was almost to the door when she froze. Her feet refused to carry her through the threshold to safety. She slowly turned around. Presley’s gaze had dropped to his feet, ready to take the tongue-lashing his sister surely had in store for him. She wouldn’t let him suffer alone.
“Basically”—Dixie took a step toward Presley—“he didn’t sleep with me. I slept with him.”
Presley grinned. The spark in his eye was worth the brief moment of embarrassment. He held out his arms, and she buried her face against his chest. “Welcome back, Fireball.”
“What has been going on around here while I’ve been gone? Has the whole world lost its mind?”
A chorus of voices filtered in through the open window. “Get out of my way, Angelo. This has nothing to do with you.”
Metal screeched against metal.
“I think you’d better check with Charlie on this, Waylon. She’s not going to like it.”
Charlie pulled the curtain to the side and shouted out the window. “Waylon, what are you doing? Why do you have a trailer backed up to Pork Chop’s pen?”
“Oh shit.” Presley clapped a hand to his head. “I’ll be right back.”
“Presley!” Charlie raced after him.
Dixie decided she’d better go along. He might need her help in standing up to Charlie. By the time she reached the pigpen, she could tell exactly what was going on. Waylon had delivered both pigs back to the Rose. Pork Chop and Ham Bone stood in the corner of the pigpen, snuffling through a bucket of slop like they’d been roommates all of their lives.
