by Sandy James
Worried that she might have trouble with the large horse, Ethan cautioned, “Hold tight to that lead rope or you’ll lose him—or get your foot stomped.”
“I know. I’ve got him.” She tightened her grip as he opened the gate to Hamlet’s assigned area. Like a pro, Chelsea led the horse through the gate, snapped off the lead rope, and then let the animal go.
After kicking up his back heels, Hamlet loped the entire length of the field as Ethan and Chelsea laughed.
“I imagine being a racehorse that he spent far too much time in a stall,” he said.
“You’re probably right.” She turned to give him a beautiful smile. “He’s never going to have to worry about that again.”
“You’ll spoil him rotten.”
“Damn right.” A quick check of her watch made that smile vanish. Turning on her boot heel, she marched back to the barn, and he followed right behind. “I need to clean out his stall,” she said, “then I gotta run.”
“Rehearsal, right? For your duet album?”
All she did was nod and pick up her pace.
Back at the barn, she hung up the lead rope. When she reached for the manure shovel, Ethan put his hand over hers. “I’ll take care of the stall. You don’t want to smell like horse shit when you meet Chuck Austin.”
She released her hold on the handle. “You know him?”
He nodded as he carried the shovel to the stall and leaned it against the gate. Fetching the empty wheelbarrow, he rolled it up to the stall. “Our paths have crossed.”
“Sounds like there’s a story there.”
There was, but he wasn’t about to tell her how he and Chuck—together with Brad—had partied hard on more than one occasion. Although it would be easy for Chelsea to learn all about Ethan’s rather colorful past, he didn’t want to air his dirty laundry to a woman he was beginning to like.
As a friend, he reminded himself, knowing it for a lie the moment the thought crossed his mind. There was something about her that drew him, and he found himself unhappy that she was leaving, especially to hang out with Chuck Austin.
He had to keep reminding himself that she was a celebrity and that she came with baggage. The press had the power to destroy the lives of people in the public eye. He wasn’t about to set himself up for disaster the same way his parents had.
“Did I say something wrong?” she asked.
He glanced over to see her brows drawn together. “Nah. Just thinking about all I’ve got to do today.”
“Well, okay then…” Another look at her watch. “I really should go. I need a change of clothes.” She took several steps away before turning back. “Thanks for cleaning the stall. See you tomorrow morning?”
“I’ll be here.” Waiting for you.
Chapter Seven
Ethan tugged on the brim of his hat, trying to keep a low profile.
Russ, on the other hand, seemed to have something to say to just about every person they passed. The guy was too damn sociable for his own good.
Still having no idea why he’d invited Russ along for the ride, Ethan kept moving through the crowd to get to the empty table waiting for them. All it had taken was a call to the Black Stallion’s owner to finagle a reserved table so he could catch one of Chelsea’s shows. Lying to himself that he was only there on a scouting trip to determine whether she would make a good headliner at Words & Music, he took a seat and tried to blend into the wall.
But Russ was waving at someone across the way, making a racket as though he had something important to say to anyone he knew. By the time he finally took his seat, the opening act was wrapping up to lukewarm applause.
That didn’t bode well. Chelsea was facing a cold crowd, and Ethan felt a little sorry for her. Back when he’d sung—in another lifetime—he’d always had a troop of screaming girls there to watch him. He’d been nothing but a gangly teenager who found himself on the cover of Teen Heartthrob every other issue. It was embarrassing even to think about. The mullet. The tight pants. The ridiculous bubblegum tunes. No one cared what songs he wanted to sing or that he truly had talent. All that mattered was whether he looked the part.
The whole thing had been his parents’ idea, wanting him to be a teenage sensation. They’d figured it was simply the next step in their legacy, having their only child become a recording star in his own right. So instead of letting him sing the country music he loved, they’d hired some “handler” to look at the other ludicrous guys who seemed to draw adolescent females by the millions. That man had picked everything from Ethan’s clothing to his songs.
After two hits that reached Billboard’s top twenty, Ethan had threatened to call it quits, despite his mother’s protests and his father’s displeasure. They’d begged. They’d pleaded. They’d even tried to bribe. Ethan had wanted nothing to do with being a star and had absolutely no intention of living the way his parents lived. They had no privacy. None. Everything they did was covered by the press. “Crawfish” Walker couldn’t take a dump without it ending up in some rag of a publication.
Then his parents died. Out for a quiet evening on their anniversary, they’d been hounded by a rude photographer who kept insisting on butting into their time alone. Crawfish had finally gotten so fed up, he’d escorted Dottie to their car and left. The photographer gave chase as though any picture he could get would be worth a fortune.
Crawfish wasn’t one to give up easily. In an attempt to ditch the photographer, he’d kept increasing his speed until he lost control of the car and swerved into the oncoming lane. Ethan’s parents had been hit head-on by a delivery truck, and the photographer who’d caused the wreck hadn’t even been charged with a crime. The cost of fame for his parents had been their bleeding and broken bodies.
And Ethan’s father had died before Ethan could show him that his goal of owning a horse farm could be every bit as fulfilling as singing some syrupy songs for a bunch of teenaged girls.
Without his parents around to force the issue, Ethan had put an immediate halt to his singing career. He’d spent the rest of his life trying to distance himself from his musical persona—and his parents’ fame. He had no intention of spending his life evading the vultures of the press that had already cost him far too much. It wasn’t easy to maintain his privacy. Even though they were gone, their will arranged for their home to continue to provide the annoying guided tours for the Walkers’ fans. When he was growing up, he couldn’t so much as take a shower without worrying about some rabid devotee drifting away from a tour and trying to corner him when he was butt naked.
Now, every single time he picked up his guitar, he couldn’t help but be reminded of his shitty past recordings and what a fool he’d been to follow his parents’ orders and sing. If anyone even mentioned his former “career,” he bristled like a pissed-off porcupine. Perhaps one day he could look back on that time with nostalgic humor, but even thinking about it caused embarrassment that was close to unbearable.
Fifteen years later, that day still hadn’t arrived.
“Ladies and gentlemen…” The MC waited for the crowd to settle a bit. “It’s time for our headliner. Back home again, the winner of CMA’s Female Vocalist of the Year for two years running, Nashville’s own Chelsea Harris!”
The music swelled, the sound of a steel guitar leading the charge as Chelsea came out from stage left, waving to the crowd. Dressed in a red shirt covered in glittering beads, she looked every inch the star. Her hair was loosely pinned up with wisps of curls escaping to frame her face. She’d chosen a wireless mic, barely visible as it snaked from behind her ear to rest to the left of her pretty mouth.
“It’s so good to be home again! Let’s get this party started!”
Her shout was met by thunderous applause, whistles, and boot stomping. The crowd was no longer cold as she launched into a song, and all Ethan could do was watch.
* * *
Chelsea felt the crowd’s excitement thrumming through her, giving her strength and helping her brace herself to sing
. The intro to the old Barry Manilow hit “It’s a Miracle” filled her. She’d chosen it for two reasons. First, because she was well known for turning old songs upside down, giving them a new country beat and introducing them to a new generation. Second, because the words were perfect. As the lyrics said, she’d been just about everywhere, but coming home meant more to her than the people watching her could know. So she tried to tell them in song.
Heart pounding, she soaked in the smiles and the cheers, letting them fire her blood. There was no high like performing. Nothing else could make her feel so transcendent. Alcohol. Men. Buying the most expensive shoes she could find. None of them matched singing, especially to a crowd so happy to have her with them.
Venues like the Black Stallion were her favorite. Sure, having an arena full of people was thrilling. But to see every face, to hold that eye contact, to toss a wink or a smile at someone close was better. Whenever she saw someone singing along, her heart soared.
The song ended to raucous applause, and Chelsea smiled at the crowd before launching right into her latest hit, “Every Saturday Night,” a cheerful song with a strong beat to get the people even more rowdy.
And then disaster happened.
In all her years performing, she’d only stumbled over lyrics once—in her high school talent show when she’d seen her father. He’d told her he had to work overtime again that night, and she hadn’t expected him to come. Yet she’d seen him trying to sneak in the back of the auditorium as though not wanting to disturb her. Her next verse had become a muddled mess, but she’d recovered when he gave her one of his grins and a thumbs-up.
Despite her bobble, she’d won first prize.
Now, singing a song she’d warbled close to a hundred times, she lost track of the lyrics when her gaze found Ethan Walker sitting at one of the farthest tables with Russ at his side.
Frantic, she picked the words back up thanks to Jasmine, one of her backup singers. With an almost imperceptible nod of appreciation, Chelsea finished the song, doing her best to ignore the men.
No, not men. Man.
On stage, she had a job, and that job didn’t include fretting over Ethan and worrying about whether Russ would open his trap and tell him that he’d helped her concoct their stupid plan.
Fortified by the audience’s appreciation when she ended the song, she went back to doing what she did best.
She entertained the crowd by singing her heart out.
* * *
After Chelsea sang two encores, Ethan watched her bow one last time and exit the stage. He’d give her a little time to rehydrate and relax, then he’d make the perfunctory trip backstage to offer his compliments. She’d earned it.
“That was a great show,” Russ said.
“Yep,” was all Ethan would say. The show hadn’t been great; it had been the best he’d seen in years. Chelsea was a force of nature, and she blew away the crowd like a category five hurricane.
When Russ started to stand, Ethan grabbed his shirtsleeve and jerked him back into his seat.
“What gives?” Russ asked. “Thought we were going backstage after the show.”
“You’ve got to give her a little time. A performance like that is beyond draining. Let her get something to drink and decompress.” Ethan glanced at his watch. “Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. Then we’ll head back there.”
The owner of Black Stallion, Robert Campbell, came weaving his way through the crowd, which was rapidly dwindling now that the show was over. When he reached Ethan, Ethan stood to shake Robert’s offered hand. Russ followed suit.
Robert leaned a hip against their table. “So what d’ya think? Great show, wasn’t it?”
“Hell, yeah,” Russ replied. “Chelsea Harris is something else.”
“And she’s here for one more show next weekend,” Robert said, his chest puffing with pride. “Might just give you boys a run for your money.”
Ethan had to resist the urge to join the pissing match Robert was trying to start. “Chelsea is quite a ticket,” was all he’d concede. The Black Stallion could hold almost as large a crowd as Words & Music, and having Chelsea Harris as a headliner was a coup. But in the long run, Words & Music brought in more people and had a better reputation. No need to rub Robert’s nose in it.
Russ wasn’t quite so contained. But then again, he never was. “You’ve got Chelsea two nights. We’ve got Savannah Wolf the rest of the year. I’d say we have a leg up on you, Robbie.”
“Yeah…well…That’s what happens when one of the owners is going to marry his star performer.” Looking near a pout, Robbie suddenly perked up. “We’ll take you down when we hit the softball field again. We’re bar champion three years running.” Then he laughed. “Maybe I can get Chelsea Harris to play shortstop for us. What d’ya think?”
It was Russ who replied before Ethan could. “Not happening. She’ll be far too busy.”
“How do you know that?” Robert asked.
“She told me she’s got a lot of work to do on a charity album,” Russ said.
Robert cocked his head. “Since when did you get to be her best friend?”
The cocky smile on Russ’s face put Ethan on guard. “Since she came to ask my help.”
“Help?” Robert asked. “With what?”
Russ cuffed Ethan on the shoulder. “Just needed a way to open the door to my boy here.”
A waitress was trying to get Robert’s attention. He nodded in her direction. “Gotta go. Need to keep my place running smooth.” A motion to the waiter who’d been serving Ethan and Russ. “Give these guys another drink,” Robert told him. Then he turned back to Russ and Ethan. “I’ve got the tab for tonight. Catch you two later.” He trotted toward whatever glitch needed his attention.
“What can I get you gentlemen?” the waiter asked.
“Nothing,” Ethan replied before Russ could. “We’re getting ready to leave.”
Plucking a twenty from his wallet, Russ handed it to the waiter. “Tip’s on me.”
Only when they were alone again did Ethan try to pin Russ down on the things he’d said to Robert. “What exactly did you mean?”
“About what?” Russ looked confused.
“About giving Chelsea Harris a way to me?”
“Oh, that. It was nothing. I was just braggin’ to piss off Robbie.”
“I’ve got no problem with that,” Ethan said. “But you didn’t answer my question. Why exactly did she need to…as you put it…‘open the door’ to me?”
As if he suddenly was uncomfortable answering the question, Russ pushed his chair back and popped to his feet. “She’s got to be ready to see us by now.”
Ethan was quickly losing his temper as an icy fear began to inch up his spine. He’d allowed himself to become friends with Chelsea because he’d trusted her when she said she had no ulterior motive in being at his farm. All she wanted was a horse.
Seemed as though he might have been wrong. Dead wrong.
If the train of thought racing through his head now was correct, she’d lied right to his face. “She wanted your help to get me to sing with her, didn’t she?” Ethan asked.
“Ah, c’mon, Ethan.” Russ took a step toward the stage. “Let’s go tell her what a great show it was.”
“Answer the question.” Ethan regretted his demanding tone when several people turned to stare at him.
Russ frowned. “She’s doing the album for charity. For her dad.”
Anger churned Ethan’s stomach and it dawned on him he wouldn’t be so pissed off if she hadn’t gotten under his skin. Normally, he’d brush an episode like this aside and chalk it up to something a typical Nashville phony would do—try to pretend to care for him just to get his voice on some album.
Problem was that he’d thought Chelsea Harris was different, that she honestly wanted to get to know him better. For the first time in just about forever, he’d given someone his hesitant trust only to have it stomped into the mud.
While his first impulse was to get th
e hell out of Black Stallion and go home to down a few beers, Ethan decided it would be more fulfilling to confront her now, after such a great show. With any luck, he’d be able to get to her enough to ruin her night. Then he’d tell her to take her horse and get the hell out of his barn—and his life.
“You coming?” Russ asked.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
* * *
A knock on her stage door didn’t surprise Chelsea. Ethan had to know etiquette dictated that he stop by and commend her on her performance. With the exception of her bobble of the second song, she was pretty sure she’d left her fans satisfied. Yet she found she was more concerned about whether he’d enjoyed her show than she was about anyone else in that audience.
“Come in,” she said, finding herself a bit breathless at the thought of Ethan coming to her. This little infatuation could easily get out of hand if she didn’t nip it in the bud. Yet it had been so long since she’d found a man who liked her simply for being herself rather than being the Chelsea Harris. If she was infatuated, so be it. She’d take the time to see exactly where that road would take her.
The door opened to Russ, who had an enormous smile on his face. He strode across her dressing room and shook her hand hard enough to rock her whole shoulder. “You were great.”
“Thanks.”
Her gaze drifted over his shoulder to see Ethan standing in the doorway, his shoulder casually leaning against the frame. His arms were folded over his broad chest, and his face was an unreadable mask.
“Hi, Ethan,” she said. “Did you enjoy the show?”
The only reason she knew he’d even heard her was because he gave her a curt nod.
Russ gushed like a longtime fan. “You sounded great. And damn, you picked some great songs.”
Ethan gave his eyes a roll, probably at Russ’s inability to find any adjective other than “great.” His silence weighed heavy on her.
“Thanks, Russ. I appreciate it.” She had to gently extract her hand from his enthusiastic grip. Then she carefully stepped around him to move closer to Ethan. “Would you like to go someplace quiet and have a drink with me after I get changed? Helps me unwind after a performance.”
