The Unforgettable Queen of diamonds
Cartwright Ranch Book 1
Nellie K. Neves
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
A Sneak Peek:
Thank you for reading
Other Books By the Author
Copyright
To Rebecca- For growing up under your salon chair, to tamales, and everything in between, you've been the best mama bear big sister a girl could ask for.
Chapter 1
Kennedy
My heart might break through my ribcage if I keep on like this. I know better than to push my limits, but I need this. If I’m ever going to be anyone, if I’m ever going to prove myself, I have to conquer this.
Sweat beads above my lip. I press them together to dispel the buzz of nervous energy. The spotlight warms my skin, but with anxiety burning from the inside out, it feels like too much. Is it possible to love something and hate it all in the same breath? It has to be. Because there’s nothing I want more than to hold this microphone under the lights and sing, but my body acts as though I’m putting it through torture.
The seats are all empty. They have been for years. My fear is irrational. Even if I manage to squeak out a sound, or better, belt out a song, no one would hear me. Other than the doves in the rafters, I’m alone in the old auditorium. I step back, just beyond the ring of the spotlight and the pressure of a thousand bricks lifts from my shoulders. One day, I’ll conquer my fear, and at least the mice in the walls will hear me.
That’s better than nothing.
I step down from the stage and take the stairs up to the control panel. It’s eight switches before the whole pace goes dark and the equipment is off. Using the light on my phone, I pick my way out of the old auditorium. We abandoned it once the new one was built. With only one way in or out, no air conditioning, and limited seating, it’s basically a dinosaur. I’m surprised dad hasn’t flattened it yet, probably just sentimentality that keeps it standing. A nod to the way we started things at Cartwright Ranch.
Cold dew gathers in the air and chills my scorched skin. This is where I belong, in the dark, behind the scenes, not up in the light, star of the show. It’s been my place for years. I’m kidding myself to think it’d ever change. The show must go on and all that, but it’s not like it’ll go on without me there running it.
Lights from the house flicker twice, a message from my dad that he sees me on the path, and he’d like me to come talk. I draw in a breath and let it tumble out with a sigh. Another day, another duty list. It’s a good thing I love him. My feet follow the worn trail without so much as a thought, and I make my way back to the house.
Psychologists say that the oldest child is the most responsible. They worry about the family name being upheld and want to protect honor and whatnot. Middle children are supposed to fly under the radar, forgotten.
It’s all hogwash if you ask me. I invite someone to come take a peek at the Cartwright family, and maybe they’ll have a new case study to blow the rest out of the water. I’m the responsible one, not Victoria, my older sister. I’d love to be the forgotten middle child, but since I turned fifteen, I’ve been front and center getting it all done. I dream of a life of my own, apart from my family, chasing the dreams I’ve kept secrets for years, but that’s all it is, that’s all it will ever be. Dreams.
My mom died when I was young. Car accident. She went fast. It was a head-on collision. I was fifteen, Vic was seventeen, and Hudson, my younger brother, was eight. Vic should have stepped up, taken on the brunt of helping to raise Hudson, but all she took to raising was H-E-double-you-know-what. While Vic hit every party in the county, I helped Hudsie with homework, wiped his tears, and made sure the science fair project didn’t explode.
Maybe if mom hadn’t died, things would be different. I wouldn’t feel the weight of the world on my shoulders. If I didn’t have that weight, maybe I could conquer my fear of performing, or take a few lessons, or try something new. But as it stands, I hold the family together. I carry the brunt of the work. I’ve stepped in to manage the ranch and all the work that goes with it now that dad’s health isn’t where it should be. I don’t have time to chase dreams about stardom or standing in the spotlight. Those are best left for the moments I sneak in the old auditorium, playing pretend at a different reality where dreams are still possible, and I still have freedom to choose my own path.
“Kenny?” My father knows the sound of my steps and stops me in the hall before I can pass his office. “Kennedy, can you come in here?”
Like I wasn’t planning on it anyway, but Vic would be the one to say that, not me. I roll over and let it go. That’s the only place the psychologists are right with their birth order theories. Middle child: Peacemaker, AKA Kennedy Cartwright.
I lean inside the door and smile at him sitting there. A half-inch of Coke is still in his glass. One oversized, round ice cube still taking up most of the glass. I bought him the specialty ice tray last year for his birthday. At first, he didn’t like it. He told me he didn’t want ice watering down his drink. Later, when I questioned him, he changed his mind. He said he liked the way it felt to roll the sphere ice cube around, feeling like a big shot. It’s dumb that he thinks he has to play at big shot. Not a single person in this county, heck, most of this state, that doesn’t know who Ace Cartwright is. He’s a legend.
“Whatcha need, Dad?”
“Tomorrow,” he taps his fingers against the desk as he speaks, like he’s playing a grand piano or something, “I need you to head over to Santos Sound. I’ve got it set up so you can check out some of their acts for the summer series. Maybe add a few to the event binders for the future.”
My gut churns at the thought. Dale Santos owns Santos Sound. He’s like that ice cube swirling in my dad’s glass—the same width as he is tall, like a sphere with legs. I hate going to see acts with him. He clears his throat every forty-three seconds, I’ve timed it, and snarfs phlegm from the back of his gullet. When he’s meeting someone for the first time, he runs his thumbs along the inside of his belt like they’re set on tracks. There’s no room there because his belt is too tight, so his fingers turn red when his thumbs get stuck. He makes the same jokes every time I see him, about how my parents thought I was a boy, and how I’m the prettiest boy he’s ever seen, built like one too. But the worst is the way his eyes linger, like I owe him something. I never want to know why he looks at me that way.
“I’ve got a beat on a few local acts already,” I say to dad, “maybe we don’t even need to go to Santos this time.”
“Wedding season is upon us, Kenny. Trust me.” He leaves it at that.
“Yeah, I know, you’re the boss, Dad. What time is he expecting me?”
“Nine.”
I pat the door jamb twice and sigh. I glance up and catch Dad’s eye. His smile warms me from the inside out. It doesn’t take much from him to convince me. My family loyalty runs deep.
“You know you look more l
ike your mama every day.”
I nod but drop my chin to hide because the sting of tears will give me away. Almost a decade later, and it’s still too fresh. “I’ll get it on it tomorrow, don’t you worry.”
“I never do, not with you, Kennedy.”
✽✽✽
I’m out the door before Dad is out of bed. Now that Hudson can drive himself to school, my days are easier, but I’m prone to wake before the old man anyhow. It’s not far to Santos Sound, maybe twenty minutes in small-town traffic. Dale Santos kept his business local, opting to stay on the outskirts of our little town, rather than at the heart of one of the nearby cities.
Dale is technically a recording company. He’s got the equipment, the studio, every ability to bring an album to life, but in all the years my dad has been friends with him, I’ve never heard of him doing that. How he stays in business, I have no idea.
I park to the left of the house. A new luxury sedan up front doesn’t escape me, but the lifted black jeep steals my attention. I’ve never seen either one before, but that’s not usual. Santos Sound never seems void of visitors. Dale parks around back most of the time, and he insists I drive to our meetings.
Cartwright Ranch has been working with Santos Sound for eight years now. In the past, Dad went out with Dale and saw whatever new talent he’d dug up. Dad would deem them worthy or not, and Dale would take a cut of whatever money we made from the concerts or wedding reception fees. I gather we’re his number one source of revenue. Still, he has a name in the area, and we’d be stupid not to keep the partnership.
When I graduated college, with a major in business, minor in music, dad had me take over the music side of the ranch in addition to my other duties. Last year’s concert series was a huge hit, and, for my debut year, it raised a few eyebrows. Ace’s daughter hadn’t fallen far from the tree.
I pop open my car door and shift to pull myself to standing. My pencil skirt is tight and constricting, but I like how powerful it makes me feel. I need that when I’m around someone like Dale. He likes to make me feel insignificant and small. Last year he snuck in three acts I didn’t approve of and proverbially patted me on my head and sent me on my way. It won’t happen this year. I refuse to be caught off guard again. I’m ready for anything.
I knock with three crisp taps and straighten my top. The door opens with a whoosh, but it’s not Dale Santos. I blink because my eyes have to be playing tricks on me. Easily six-feet tall, with dark, styled hair. The red leather jacket he wears hangs open wide enough that I trace the outline of his chiseled frame through his tight, white shirt. Not burly, but athletic, agile, able. A whimpering sound squeaks from my throat instead of words. I blink again. Dale has either gotten the best plastic surgery that money can buy, or I’m at the wrong house.
“Are you Kennedy?” the stranger asks me. His voice is deep and booming, as if a timpani drum is beating from deep within that chest I can’t stop staring at. “Kennedy Cartwright?”
I try again for words, but my noises are incomprehensible, like a puppy whining at the back door. I blink once more.
“Are you having a stroke?” He bends a bit as if to ascertain my health. I shake my head and smile the best I can, so he won’t call an ambulance.
“I’m sorry, yes, I’m Kennedy. I’m here to meet with Dale.” It’s a struggle to keep my words straight, as if I’m in the middle of rebooting my brain.
One of his thick eyebrows juts up as if he’s not so sure about the stroke victim, but he extends a hand toward me despite his concerns.
“I’m Roman Palermo. Your appointment is with me. Dale is… indisposed. I’ve been hired in the interim.”
Can I throw my hands up in the air and holler like I just won the jackpot at a slot machine? I suppose that’s not professional, is it?
I clear my throat again and straighten my top, despite the fact that it’s perfectly straight. “Okay, do you have some acts in mind, or…”
Dale has never let me take the lead. Good looks or not, I doubt this guy will be any different.
“I have leads on a few I’d like to check out. Do you have anything you want to run by me?”
“Not today, I mean, I wasn’t expecting to,” I clear my throat again because my tongue feels entirely too big for my mouth, “Dale never asks me for any, I mean, in the past...”
“Do you need some water? You seem a little parched.” He pulls the door shut behind him and motions for the driveway where I’m parked. “I’ll drive. I’ve got a case of water in the back.”
I follow him, still trying to shake the shock from my expression. Is it him, or is it the sheer shock of not going out with Dale? I mean, anyone is drool-worthy compared to Dale.
Without thinking, I head for the luxury sedan parked at the front and stop by the passenger side. I look up to find Roman is staring at me from twenty feet away. He tips his head to the lifted black Jeep. “This is mine.”
Cheeks flushing with embarrassment, I move to join him. The rise into the jeep is a bit more than my pencil skirt will allow. I bend a knee and set it to the floor but know there’s no way I can pull myself in gracefully. Turning backwards, I set my rear to the floor and grip the overhead bar, determined to hoist myself up into the cab, but lack the strength to do a pull-up. One little step on the side rail would sure help a girl out.
“Here you go,” Roman says, coming around the side of the jeep with the water bottle extended. He catches me with one hand up, bum on the floorboard, and hand bracing against the door. I drop everything and straighten my top again.
“I’m having a little trouble getting in,” I say.
“I can see that. Not a lot of give in that skirt, I guess.”
His eyes linger on my frame, but not in the way I wish they would. Instead, more like an engineer trying to solve a problem. “You want a boost?”
I’m not sure what he has in mind. Really, I should tell him we can take my car, but curiosity is begging me to find out his plans. I shrug as if it’s an answer. Setting my water bottle on the ground, Roman moves closer. His palms grip at the sides of my waist, and, as if I’m lighter than a feather, he pops me up into the cab of the jeep. He snags my water bottle and sets it in my hands. “I’ll be right back.”
The water is cool, for which I am grateful because my cheeks are red hot. Did dad know about this new, Mr. Roman Palermo? Right on cue, my phone buzzes with a text from the big boss himself.
“You meet Roman yet?”
I stifle the frustration in my chest and type back my reply.
“You could have told me I wasn’t meeting Dale.”
There’s only a brief pause before he types, “Now what’s the fun in that?”
A thud in the back of the jeep brings my attention back. Two seconds later, Roman hoists himself up to the driver seat and fires up the engine.
“We’re going to Jackson first. There’s this sibling act, a brother and a sister, that I think you’ll like. They’ve been looking for work locally and have a real down-home sound.”
Talking about music settles me. This is what I’m good at. Not climbing in lifted vehicles or talking to handsome men. I’ve dedicated my life to music, and now to the pursuit of finding talent that would be otherwise undiscovered. It’s only a tiny part of what I do at the ranch, but it’s the piece of my job that has my heart. My confidence returns as we pass the drive talking about acts we’ve both seen, music we’ve fallen in love with, and of course the work my family does at the Cartwright Ranch.
“Do you mind?” Roman reaches for the radio. I shrug to give my consent because life is empty without a soundtrack.
A familiar ballad fills the cab, something I remember from my childhood. I used to sing it at the top of my lungs with Vic and mom pretending to be my adoring fans. Back before everything fell apart and I had to push those thoughts to a backburner. I smile to myself as the chorus swells, remembering when I used to slide across the kitchen floor, hairbrush for a microphone. It doesn’t go unnoticed by my companio
n.
“You like this one?”
“Brings back memories.” I hum along with the tunes, unable to stop myself.
“Of high school?”
I frown. “More like elementary school.”
Roman casts a quick glance across the cab. “Really?”
“Yeah. Why, how old were you?”
“It’s not important.” He turns on to a side road and eases his speed. “This is Amanda and Christopher Wakely. They’ve been going by ‘Southern Comforts” when they perform, but I keep telling them they have to change the name.”
“I have to agree.” I glance over the file on the sibling set, but I keep running over his reaction instead. Why did it matter how old I was when the song came out?
✽✽✽
Roman
I have to admit, I didn’t know what to make of her at first. This Kennedy Cartwright, gaping at me on the front stoop like my left ear fell off or something. For as much as I was concerned for her health in the beginning, it doesn’t take much to see, other than that introductory moment, she’s precise, controlled, and a bit of perfectionist in everything she does.
She smooths every wrinkle from her skirt when she sits down. Her pencil bounces in perfect timing against her notebook while the duo plays their set list. But she’s careful not to make a single sound. Even her dark auburn hair, slick, straight, not a curl in sight, stays in perfect alignment. I note early on the way she lists the songs on her notepad, scores each one in five categories, but covers her writing so she won’t offend anyone.
Once the shock of not seeing Dale in the doorway wore off, she seemed to get down to business. Maybe she’s not one for changing things up. I doubt her reaction could be contributed to much else. As usual, I’ve slipped into the background, backseat to the singers’ performance. Her whole world seems to be music. She doesn’t even notice when I slip off to check my leads, disguised as a trip to the restroom. My below the radar appearance serves me well in my work. Other than a slight glance when I come back, she doesn’t seem to notice I left.
The Unforgettable Queen of Diamonds Page 1
