by Cari Quinn
He took a curve too fast, spitting up gravel on the shoulder of the road as he passed the Gruber farm. Clothes flapped on the line next to their charmingly rustic barn, a pretty usual sight in this part of the area. Wade had grown up in Quinn, Texas, a small town where football was king and ranching ran herd on many other occupations, so he felt more than comfortable here. It was in the rhinestone glitz and glamour of Nashville that he felt like an outsider in his scuffed cowboy boots, faded jeans and worn-thin T-shirts.
He’d stopped wearing a cowboy hat when his record company had decided to turn him into country radio’s version of a Backstreet Boy. Then they’d told him to lose the hat and the twang and the songs that made him who he was in favor of pop shit.
Not that there was anything wrong with pop. It just wasn’t him. He might’ve stashed his black Stetson in his truck—though it was on his head right now—but that didn’t mean he’d changed who he was at the root.
Back home, most of his friends hadn’t worn cowboy hats. Some had worn boots, some hadn’t. Most had helped their families work the land, but some had avoided the backbreaking parts by pitching the old rawhide every Friday night under the hot lights. “Gotta save the arm” had been Wade’s older brother Colton’s excuse. He’d done his share around the farm and Coach’s ranch, but he’d always managed to disappear when it came to mucking out stalls or milking Bessie. No self-respecting golden boy like Colt wanted to get caught with his head between a cow’s legs.
His cell beeped in the ashtray and he sighed. Whoever it was, he didn’t want to talk. It might be the waitress he’d hooked up with a couple of months ago. Linda was a sweet girl, but he wasn’t anyone’s bargain right now for love or anything else.
The other possibilities were record company execs or his manager, and neither was appealing. Stanley thought Wade needed to meet some new songwriters and producers to infuse his music with something edgier. More hip. Basically he was spewing Alliance Records’ BS version 2.0.
It was better he didn’t answer at all.
His phone went off again and he gave up trying to ignore the insistent chime. Looking didn’t mean he had to answer.
An unfamiliar number showed up on his Caller ID and he debated just dropping the cell back into the tray. But curiosity had him lifting his phone to his ear. “Yeah?” he said, fully expecting it to be a sneak attack from the record company.
They’d already sprung a visit with some new up-and-coming songwriter on him for the week after next. The dude was in some kind of rock-metal outfit, for fuck’s sake. What did he know about writing country songs?
Wade had said yes anyway, because the fact was, his album sales were down. Lonestar Angel had moved half the units of his previous release, and radio wasn’t playing him like they once were. Without tour dates to get him back in front of the fans until the fall when his next unnamed single was scheduled to drop, he had no way of reconnecting with his base.
Maybe new music—music he hadn’t written—was exactly what he needed, but damn if it didn’t sting.
The pause on the other end of the phone ended with the clearing of a throat. “Wade, is that you?”
Wade frowned. The voice was vaguely familiar, like a song he hadn’t heard in too many years to count. “Yes. Who’s this?”
“It’s Joel Rodriguez. From—”
“I know where you’re from.” Quinn. Joel was from Quinn. Fuck. Had thinking about his old hometown been enough to conjure one of his old buddies? “This is a surprise.”
“Not a welcome one, it sounds like.” Joel laughed. “Am I calling at a bad time?”
“Yes. No. Shit, let me pull over. I’m on the road.”
“Oh, are you on the way to a show?”
The excitement in the other man’s voice made Wade grin before the disappointment in himself reared up once again. He wasn’t on the way anywhere if he didn’t figure out how to up his worth to the record company. “Nah, just driving to clear my head. Trying to come up with some new music. You know how it is.” The lie came easily, like so many others had recently.
No, I’m not having trouble coming up with new material.
No, I’m not frustrated, pissed off and bored.
No, I haven’t turned my back on this life.
That was the biggest one of them all, because part of him had. He’d stopped connecting with the fans when his sense of isolation within Nashville had reached critical mass. Instead of his years in the biz making it easier for him to meet new people, he was retreating into himself more and more. The mask he’d once worn to make it seem like he belonged had fallen away, and he couldn’t set it back in place no matter how hard he tried.
“Oh sure. I get it. You creative types need your mental space,” Joel teased, his familiar voice tossing Wade into the past so swiftly that he wondered when he’d stepped out of his Silverado and into a DeLorean.
The road in front of him melted away, becoming an acre of shimmering green grass. Joel, the center on the team, flashed Wade a grin as he walked up to the football and prepared to kick. It was an often-thankless job on the squad, but a hasty kick could set the wrong tone for an entire game. Tonight, Wade was feeling good. Ready to do some damage. With the roar of the hometown crowd in his ears, he glanced toward the cheerleaders, hoping to catch a glimpse of Charlene in her short black and silver skirt.
And he did. Oh, he did, but she was smiling at Colt. Pound for pound, a star linebacker was almost always worth more attention than the kicker who played his guitar better than he ran the field.
“You know it,” Wade said, steering to the side of the road so abruptly that Melody lifted her head and let out a low yelp. “Sorry, baby.” He patted her head and turned off the truck. For once, he didn’t want to listen to music.
Not even his own.
“So how’ve you been?” Wade asked into the silence, surprised to realize his palm was clammier than it had been just a moment ago. “It’s been a damn long time.”
“Too long. We haven’t talked in what, two years? Three?”
“Something like that. Damn shame how time gets away from us.”
“It is.” Joel sighed. “Look, Wade, this isn’t just a social call. I have some difficult news.”
Images flashed in Wade’s mind. His little sister, Hollie, nestled away in the library, surrounded by books older than she was. Colt, running with those stupid earbuds in his ears, music set on scream. His mama, rocking on her porch swing. His pop, working the land without a cross word no matter how long or hard the day he’d put in.
Charli. God, Charli.
“Who?” Wade asked, unable to say more.
“Coach Carr had a heart attack a few days ago.”
While Wade reeled, Joel continued, his voice somber. Wade heard snatches of what his old friend said—“bypass surgery” and “Lorelie is doing too much”—but the rest couldn’t cut through the white noise buzzing in his ears.
Coach getting sick? How was that even possible? He remembered a strapping man with a quick wit who didn’t tolerate any crap from his players, especially when they strayed too close to his only child, Lorelie. She was a tomboy who’d been more than capable of taking care of herself, but that hadn’t stopped Coach from warning the guys that they better mind their manners in her presence. Since none of the boys had dared date her themselves, they’d formed a sort of black-and-silver Titan shield around her, making it nearly impossible for her to meet anyone new.
Not that there was a whole lot of new in Quinn anyhow. Hadn’t that been one of the reasons Wade had used to explain his need to split the minute he had his G.E.D. in hand? He hadn’t even been able to tolerate sticking around the last few months until graduation. His future in music couldn’t wait.
Neither could his need to get away from the sight of Colt and Charlene together. Laughing. Dancing. Kissing.
More. So much more.
Now Coach was in the hospital. Recuperating from the sounds of things, at least. Still, how was he even supposed
to unglue his vocal cords enough to reply? Shock had frozen them in place.
“Hey man, you still there?”
“Yeah. I’m here. Look, what do you need me to do?” Now that he’d figured out how to speak again, the words flooded out of his mouth. “I’m sure there are expenses not covered by insurance. I can send—”
“We need you,” Joel interrupted quietly. “Not your money, just you.”
Wade fell silent.
“I know you have a tight schedule, and you can’t just pick up and leave Nashville.”
Oh yes, I can. I need to. “I’ll head back as soon as I can,” Wade said before sense kicked in and demanded he make the same excuses he’d made to his family over and over again about visiting Quinn. He wasn’t still avoiding his hometown after all these years. And Colt.
And Colt’s wife.
Ex-wife now. Still fucking hurt. He figured it always would, like that old kicking injury that ached every time it rained. Just one look into Charlene’s dark brown eyes would bring it flaring back to life.
“Great.” Joel exhaled. “It’s going to be so good to have you back home again.”
Wade tipped back his mirrored sunglasses and faced his tired blue eyes in the rearview mirror. Home was a nice word.
Too bad he wasn’t sure he had one to go back to.
* * *
ONE
“You going to help me get this feed up on the shelf or just stare at it?”
Charlene Martinez braced her hands on her hips and eyed the shelf above her head. “You do realize that I’m not even tall enough to reach that shelf, never mind haul a fifty-pound bag of cornmeal up on it, right?”
“Mind over matter, sister friend. Isn’t that part of that yoga lifestyle you preach?” With a sassy grin, Paige smacked Charlene on the ass and proceeded to haul the bag of feed up on the shelf by herself without even breaking a sweat. Her voluptuous curves damn near popped out of her tight top, but Paige never noticed the admiring glances from the ranchers and cowboys circling the store. She never would’ve believed the men frequented Wilcox’s Grub and Grain as much for a glimpse of her as to take advantage of the best feed prices in all of Quinn.
Charlene glanced down at her own pathetically flat chest. The truth was that her best friend had a frigging hot rack, better than the thirteen-point buck on the wall above the cash register.
“There. Took care of that. I swear, Mr. Mondell always calls up with the craziest orders. Today it was six bags of the—” Paige stopped and turned, pursing her lips. “Okay, go ahead. Slap me in the mouth a few times until my brain kicks in.”
Charlene had to laugh. She hadn’t even gotten the significance of the name Paige had mentioned until her brain connected the rest of the dots. Mr. Mondell meant Drake Mondell, also known as one half owner of C&D Horse Training. The C referred to Colt Bennett.
Her ex-husband. Three years’ ex, as a matter of fact, though everyone in town gave her sympathetic looks whenever Colt was brought up, as if he’d dumped her high and dry and bedded a dozen fillies since.
So he’d sort of dumped her. But that was only because she’d hung on way too long to something she should’ve let go of years before.
Live and learn, her abuelita always said. Charlene was fixing to get that tattooed on her ass, because it stuck out so far that she was sure to see it whenever she got the yen to do naked yoga at home.
“Nothing to worry about. Drake’s a friend of mine, just as he is yours. Besides, you know me and Colt are amicable,” Charlene said, patting Paige on the back as she hustled behind the counter to check inventory.
Colt and Drake weren’t the only best friends who’d gone into business together. Three years ago, Paige had inherited Wilcox’s from her grandfather upon his passing and she hadn’t been ready to let it go. She also hadn’t been willing to take over running the feed store herself. Since Charlene had just gotten out of her marriage—extremely amicable, thank you very much, which probably spoke to the lack of passion she and Colt had endured for the bulk of their relationship—she’d been at loose ends. Along with helping out at Rosa’s, her mama’s Mexican restaurant, Charlene also taught a couple of yoga classes a week and hoped to maybe one day open her own studio. The college courses she’d taken while helping out on the Bennett farm hadn’t given her quite enough background to feel comfortable managing her own business yet.
She’d ended up sharing a business instead.
Three years later, she and Paige were partners, the feed store was turning a tidy profit and she was sexy, single and free. Hell, two out of three wasn’t bad. At least her yoga classes kept her flexible for all the sex she wasn’t having. But that might change someday. A girl could dream, right?
Paige made a noise in her throat. “I do know that, but it’s just not natural to get on that well with an ex. I mean, y’all could grab a pizza together and not even give each other the side eye. That’s just flat-out wrong.”
Laughing, Charlene hopped up on the stool behind the counter and crossed her legs before pulling her clipboard onto her lap. “What’s wrong with it? I’ve known Colt since high school.”
And Colt’s little sister, Hollie. And Wade.
Thinking about him made her nervous for more reason than one. Her whole family was heavily superstitious, avoiding black cats and not stepping under ladders, and she half suspected musing about Wade might make him appear.
Besides, thoughts of Wade led to thoughts of Wade’s eyes, that faded denim blue that crackled to life as easily as his sexy songs crackled through her radio. Wade’s lips, crooked and oh-so-soft. And Wade’s hands, broad with blunt-tipped fingers that had cradled her cheeks so tenderly the one and only time they’d kissed.
“You’re divorced. That means you’re supposed to hate each other’s—well, hello there. Speak of the very fine devil.” Paige’s voice took on that honeyed quality she adopted as easily as the slight twang she’d developed after moving to the area years ago from New York. Paige might’ve been born a Yankee, but it was impossible to tell when she didn’t want that fact known. “Whatcha doin’ over here this time of day, Mr. Bennett? Your partner already called in an order.”
“Paige, you’ve known me what, six years now? I think we can dispense with the Mr. stuff.” Colt turned his easy grin on Charlene. Only someone who knew him as well as she did would be able to discern the tension around his eyes and mouth. “You had lunch yet?”
Charlene sat up straighter and tried to mentally scrub the Wade-induced flush from her cheeks. Especially when she was face-to-face with his older brother. It wasn’t a new predicament to find herself in, but the whole brother-vs-brother thing in her head was getting old. Not that there had ever been any real contest. Colt had first been her boyfriend, then a few years after high school, the man who had offered her forever.
Wade had just kissed her to satisfy some competition thing he’d had going with Colt—or heck, maybe he’d lost a bet—before he left town for good.
Whatever Wade’s reasons, that momentary lapse in judgment on her part had caused her a whole lot of trouble over the years. Never mind the fantasies of going further than kissing instigated by that one stolen moment. Her future mother-in-law had witnessed the tail end of it, and had perennially doubted Charlene throughout the length of her marriage to her eldest son. She and Wade had never been alone for more than a few minutes for the five years she and Colt had been married, but it hadn’t mattered. The die was cast. She was the scarlet woman, minus the A on her chest.
Amazing what repercussions a dumbass move at seventeen could have on someone’s entire life.
She cleared her throat and refocused on Colt’s face. “No. I haven’t. You got something cooking?” He had to, because as friendly as they were, they usually didn’t have impromptu lunch dates.
Something was up. If the way he kept cracking his jaw meant anything, it was something big.
“Sure do. I’m craving some of your mama’s fajitas something fierce.” Colt slid his grin
Paige’s way. “Hey, why don’t you join us?”
The out-of-left-field invitation to Paige seemed to knock Colt off his stride as much as it did Paige. They were all friends, and friends ate lunch together, but Colt’s stiff-shouldered appearance suggested more was at work here than the simple sharing of a meal.
“It’s the middle of the day, Mr. Bennett.”
“Call me Colt, all right?” His good-natured smile was fading fast. “Come on, can’t you two take a break? Maybe let Steve the stockboy run the register for an hour?”
“His name is just Steve, not Steve the stockboy, and he does many other vital tasks ‘round here.” Paige rolled her eyes and elbowed Charlene. “Go on and get this guy out of here, would you? Some of us can’t take off for long lunches and margies.”
Colt crossed his arms over his massive chest. “Yeah, and that someone isn’t you, since you’re the boss and can do whatever you damn well please.”
Paige’s golden brown eyes flashed with a rare show of temper. “Maybe that’s how you run your business, but it’s not how I run mine.” With a swish of her hips, she headed into the back room. Then she leaned out and called to Charlene, “See? Flat-out wrong.”
“What’s her problem?” Colt leaned an arm on the counter. “I just wanted to take you ladies to lunch.”
“I think she’s sick of Mexican food or something.” Shaking her head, Charlene sighed and set aside her clipboard.
Unless Charlene was very mistaken, she was pretty sure her best friend resented Colt’s seemingly easygoing approach toward work. Paige had scrabbled for every nickel since she was a kid raised by a single mother. While Colt hadn’t been born with a silver spoon either, he’d always given off an air of indulgence that transcended his bank balance. Both before and after his brief stint in the NFL, he’d acted as if he never worried about money. Though he now spent long hours getting dirty working with his horses, he still retained the bearing of a casually rich man who rarely lifted a finger.
Still, it was odd for Paige to get irritated so easily. Normally she had a sunny disposition that alternately made Charlene envious or annoyed, depending on Charlene’s own level of caffeine imbalance that day.
