by Leigh Duncan
For the moment, Garrett ignored his brother’s thinly veiled request to be let off the hook. He waved his cup through the air. “You should go with ’em, Mom. I’ll have the day off on Sunday. No reason I can’t take care of LJ.”
“You’d watch him for a full day? I don’t know...” Doris’s eyebrows bent until they filled the space above her nose.
Garrett shrugged. How hard could it be? In two weeks, he’d already mastered feeding and bottling. LJ’s diapers no longer fell off when he changed them. The boy went to sleep as soon as he broke out his guitar. They could build with blocks in the living room, play peep-eye and pat-a-cake for a couple of hours and both take long naps. Heck, he might even have time to catch some bullriding on TV. “Sure, Mom,” he said. “You plan on it. We’ll have a great time, LJ and me.”
Doris eyed Garrett’s younger brother. “What time would we need to leave?”
“Around five. Maybe a little after.”
Five? Garrett blinked. “That early?” he asked, hoping he’d heard wrong.
Hank toted his cup to the sink. “You remember how it was when we were kids. It always seemed like the middle of the night when Dad would wake us. We’d load the horses and gear and be on the road before sunup.”
“I remember.” Hanging out with his dad and his brothers, testing his limits on the back of a bucking horse—those had been some of the best days of his life. He turned to his mom. “LJ gets up at, what? Six?” So much for his plans to sleep in on Sunday morning.
“Maybe I should stay.” Doris edged her coffee aside on the heavy oak table.
“Nah, you go with Hank. I’ve got this covered.” Garrett pushed away the uneasy feeling that he’d bitten off more than he could chew. “I’ll expect a glowing report when you get back.”
“I guess that settles it, then.”
Warmth filled Garrett’s chest at his mom’s wide smile. He swigged the last of his coffee and settled the mug on the table. “I guess we’d better hit the road if we’re gonna make the jam on time. Ready?” He aimed a pointed glance at Hank.
“As I’ll ever be.” Reluctance showing in each stiff-armed movement, his brother lifted a banjo case off a nearby chair.
Garrett grabbed his hat from a peg near the door. He had his reasons for wanting Hank to accompany him to the jam at Pickin’ Strings. Reasons that had nothing to do with a certain leggy newcomer to town. Or at least, not much.
“You boys have a good time tonight,” Doris said after both men had bussed her cheek. “It’s nice to see you getting out together.”
“Yeah, about that,” Hank murmured once the screen door slapped shut behind them. “I could use a night off. You sure you need me to go with you?”
“Yeah. I do,” Garrett answered, his voice hard and unyielding. With his brother in the room, he wouldn’t dare make a move toward Lisa. He thought for a moment and added, “You can tell me all about Noelle’s latest blue ribbon on the way there.”
“Man,” Hank said, giving in. He slid his banjo case between the seats of the truck. “You ought to see that girl ride.”
Between bragging about his daughter’s success in the ring and the barrel-racing school his wife had established, Hank monopolized the conversation all the way in to Okeechobee. Which was fine with Garrett. He held up his end of things with a couple of well-timed grunts and just enough questions to prod things along. All of which gave him more time to think about the situation with Lisa.
After a night of the best sex he’d had in forever, she’d told him to keep his distance. Which should have been fine. He wasn’t looking for a relationship. Especially not with someone who longed for a baby the way Lisa did. On that count, he wished her luck—really, he did. But his family was complete.
That was reason enough to keep his distance, but it wasn’t the only pebble in the horseshoe. From the little he’d gleaned about her history, Lisa had spent most of her life on the road. Sooner or later, she’d probably miss the sound of applause, the challenge of performing on a different stage in a different city every night.
To a certain extent, he could relate. He’d felt the same way while he was riding the rodeo circuit. For him, though, bustin’ broncs had always been a means to an end, a way to earn enough money for college. After that, he and Arlene had moved to the big city, where they’d spent a few years trying to make a difference in the lives of underprivileged kids. But he was back now and, for LJ’s sake, he’d come home to stay. His motherless son needed the structure and stability that the Judds’ deep roots in south Florida would provide. Needed family. Their future was in Glades County, where LJ would grow up under the watchful eyes of an army of aunts and uncles.
But Lisa...
Other than her music store, she had no ties to Okeechobee. He doubted she’d last a year before small-town life became too confining and she moved on. All that said, though, he knew he should be a whole lot happier with her insistence on a platonic relationship. His head told him it was the right move. So why did he question whether he could play by her rules? He shifted in his seat.
“And that’s when Kelly told me she was painting the barn bright orange with green trim.”
“Nice,” Garrett murmured.
“Seriously? An orange-and-green barn?” Hank leaned across the front seat to punch his upper arm. “In what universe is that nice?”
Garrett managed a sheepish grin. “Sorry. I was thinking—” about things he wasn’t ready to discuss with his brother “—about LJ and what it’s gonna be like for him to grow up without a mother.”
“That’s gonna be tough, no matter what.”
“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking, too.” Garrett tapped the brakes as he passed the Okeechobee city-limit sign. Even on a weeknight, heavy traffic clogged the main road through town. “What would you think if I decided to sell the house in Atlanta and made the move to Glades County a permanent thing?”
Hank rubbed his chin. “I’d say that was a great idea. Me and Colt, we’d be glad to help you watch out for the little guy. If you stayed here, it wouldn’t all be on your back. Or Mom’s.”
“Yeah.” He’d never have made it through the last year without his mother’s help, but he couldn’t expect her to shoulder the burden of raising his son. “That’s why I’m thinking we should stick around after Randy and Royce come back from Montana.”
Hank flipped the visor down and back up again. “You hear from them lately?”
“Not a word. You?” Garrett slowed to let a pedestrian cross against the light. After their dad’s funeral, the twins had practically begged to take over as permanent managers of the Circle P. The timing couldn’t have been worse. Forced to choose between moving his sick, pregnant wife to the ranch and passing the job that was rightfully his on to his brothers, Garrett had agreed to their request.
“It’s been one delay after another with them. Whatever’s keeping them in Montana, it must be mighty important. So—” Hank flipped the visor back into place “—you won’t go back to Georgia?”
Garrett pictured himself moving around in the little house he and his wife had shared. He shook his head. “Nah. My time there is over. You think you could sell the property for me?” Hank knew the real estate market better than most. Before he’d married the girl next door and started raising livestock for the rodeo, he’d owned a real estate office in Tallahassee.
“For you? Anything. Let me check some numbers this week. I should be able to come up with a good selling price. I’ll help you find a new place, too, if that’s what you decide.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.” It felt good to have the beginnings of a plan for the future, even if he hadn’t filled in all the blanks.
“Here we are,” Garrett said, pulling to the curb outside Pickin’ Strings. “Looks like she’s ready for us.” Lisa had created room for a circle of folding chairs by pushing the sales racks against the walls. He swallowed, and hoped he was ready, too.
From the passenger seat, Hank studied the bright interi
or. “I like what she’s done to the place,” he said. “What do we know about her?”
“Not much.” Garrett shrugged. “She’s divorced. I was in the store the other day when her ex dropped by. He’s a piece of work—pushy, bossy. I’d call him a bully, but Lisa swears he isn’t one.”
“If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, chances are it’s probably a duck,” Hank chimed in.
“My feelings exactly. There she is now.” He aimed his chin toward the figure he’d spotted in the glow of light from the back room. Lisa wore one of those long skirts that should have hidden her assets. On her, though, the denim pinched in around a tiny waist before hugging slim hips and dropping down to brush shapely ankles. She sank onto a folding chair and leaned down to grab a guitar from its case. Garrett watched, mesmerized, as she plucked a few strings.
“I remember her now. Saw her at the get-together at the Barlowe place last spring.” Hank’s head bobbed up and down. “She’s a fine-lookin’ woman.”
Garrett cursed the way his pulse had surged. Careful not to say too much, he managed a noncommittal, “I guess.”
“C’mon, man. Admit it. You’ve noticed. I know you have.”
“So what?” Garrett allowed himself one small, tight smile before shifting his focus to his little brother.
“You like her.” Hank’s announcement wasn’t a question.
“Sure, but it’s not what you think. She’s a coworker. A friend, that’s all. That’s all she—” he stopped himself “—all I want. Friendship.”
“You sure about that? Nothing more?”
“Nah, man.” Garrett swung his head. “I’m not ready.” Certainly not ready for a relationship. Not with Lisa, or anyone else.
“No one would blame you if you were. That’s all I’m sayin’. When you’re willing to start livin’ again, well, we’ll all be happy for you.”
“Huh,” Garrett grunted. “Good to know everyone’s got nothin’ better to do than sit around and talk about my love life.” He slid a hand around to his backside and patted his wallet. There’d be hell to pay if his brother ever learned he hadn’t left the house without protection since the night of the storm.
“You know it’s not like that.” Hank swung toward the storefront. “You think she’ll have a good turnout tonight?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” Garrett sucked down a gulp of air as his brother changed the subject. His eyes narrowed when a teenager emerged from the back room carrying a guitar so new the price tag still hung from the neck. The boy slipped into the exact seat Garrett had planned to claim for himself...the one beside Lisa. The teen must have asked for help, because she leaned toward him, a smile playing about her lips.
“I think it’s time we got in there, don’t you?” Checking for traffic in the rearview mirror, Garrett reached for the door handle. He grabbed his instrument case from the back and rounded the truck. On the sidewalk, he tapped his boot heel, wishing his brother would get the lead out.
“What are you waiting for? Christmas?” he growled. Maybe bringing Hank along with him hadn’t been his smartest move. It was one thing to have a good wingman. Another thing entirely when the wingman slowed him down.
* * *
LISA SCANNED THE circle of sparsely filled chairs. Four guitars, a banjo and a fiddle rested on the laps of the half-dozen players. The gathering wasn’t as large as she’d hoped for, but it was a respectable start. A better one than she’d had last week when a storm had kept all but Garrett from showing up.
On second thought, she reminded herself, that had turned out pretty well.
She cast a surreptitious look at the tall rancher who’d chosen a seat on the opposite side of the circle. The man was an enigma—at once cold and hot, tender and strong. Just thinking of the night they’d spent together stirred the strongest desire to do it again. Do everything again. Except, the minute he’d had the chance, Garrett had all too readily agreed to stay at arm’s length. And while his easy acquiescence should have made her happy, it had left her oddly unsettled and dissatisfied. She gave herself a shake. It was time to stop woolgathering. She had a jam to lead and, afterward, a practice session with Garrett. She flexed her fingers, picked up her guitar and strummed an opening chord.
“Carl.” She nodded to the grizzled older man three chairs down. “Why don’t you start us off.”
Carl plucked the strings on his fiddle. “‘Angeline the Baker,’” he announced once he had everyone’s attention. “In D.”
As the group’s leader, Lisa repeated the title and the key of the instrumental before she turned to the young man beside her. “Like this,” she said, demonstrating the fingering on her guitar’s neck. With her left hand, she strummed the strings with her pick.
She flashed Tommy an encouraging smile when the boy pressed the wrong strings to make the simplest of all chords. The kid had aspirations, she’d discovered while he browsed the store for his first guitar this afternoon. Trouble was, he knew next to nothing about music. Though she could have easily sold him the most expensive item in the shop—and another business owner might have—she’d steered Tommy away from the high-end Martins and helped him choose a model better suited for a beginner.
“You’ll get it.” She tried not to wince when inexperienced fingers struck another sour note. “It just takes practice and determination.” Lots of practice and determination, she admitted as she leaned in to show him the chord again.
It took three tries before he finally got it. When he did, Carl drew the bow across his fiddle strings and launched into an enthusiastic rendition of the old favorite. With Tommy struggling to keep up, the players reached the first break in the song. Carl nodded to Garrett, who finger-picked a short variation on his guitar while everyone else waited.
“Good,” Carl pronounced as Garrett hit a final note. The older man bounced his bow off the fiddle strings, and the group played through the next verse and chorus. Though he was nowhere near as accomplished as his brother, Hank took the next break on his banjo. One of the other guitarists did the same. At the start of the fourth round, Carl kicked out one foot, the move a signal that the song was drawing to a close.
His head bent over his guitar, a frown twisting his lips, Tommy strummed a few bars of the next verse in the silence that followed. The boy looked up, blinking. “Sorry,” he murmured.
“Not a problem,” Lisa assured him. “We all made the same mistakes when we started out. Anytime you’re in a jam, keep an eye on the person who chose the song. They’ll usually give some kind of sign—a nod, a smile, a kick—when the last verse starts.”
“Yes, Ms. Rose.” Tommy’s color faded as quickly as it had risen.
“We’ll go around the circle like this.” Lisa spun her finger clockwise. “That means it’s your turn. Do you have a favorite?”
Panic spread across the boy’s face. “Is it okay to skip me?”
“Sure.” She smoothed the instrument strap across her shoulder. “Let’s play one Garrett and I will be singing on the roundup at the Circle P in a few weeks. How about ‘Old Joe Clark.’ In A.” She slid her capo onto the second fret and frowned. The key and a tricky chorus put the song far beyond Tommy’s ability.
“Let me see your guitar for a minute. I’ll switch it to open tuning,” she said, wanting the boy to feel included. While she made small talk with the other players, she adjusted the pegs, plucked a note or two, and then adjusted them some more before returning the instrument. “Don’t worry about the notes. Just strum in time with the music.”
Aware that Garrett waited for her signal, she caught his eye. “On four,” she said and counted out the lively pace.
The group managed the first verse nicely. At the chorus, though, the rancher and another guitar player lost their place. Lisa waited for the resulting cacophony to die down before she held up her hand.
“What?” Garrett dropped his pick hand to one knee.
“Let’s try it again. Like this.” Leaning over her own guitar, she play
ed a slight variation on the old classic. Aware of Garrett’s eyes on her, she refused to give in to the heat that crawled up her back. She played the chorus a second time and asked, “You got it?”
“Uh-huh.” He huffed out a breath.
She studied his hands as he strummed the opening chord. When he lost the tempo the second time, she sighed, tempted to move on. But experience told her that it was better to correct a mistake before it became a bad habit. She gave her hair a quick tug and waved the group to a halt.
“Try it again,” she said, doggedly ignoring the stubborn set of the rancher’s jaw or the way his eyes had darkened.
This time, the group made it through the song without a mistake.
“There, that wasn’t so bad. Who’s next?” Lisa turned expectantly toward Hank, who stared at Garrett, a thoughtful look etched into his rugged features.
“I’ll pass,” Hank said slowly.
Music filled the room as they went around and around the circle. Though Tommy took up a lot of her time, Lisa did her best to hone in on Garrett whenever someone chose one of the numbers they’d play during the roundup. Finally she checked her watch. Surprised that three hours had passed, she lowered her guitar to her lap. “Let’s wrap it up with ‘Will the Circle Be Unbroken?’” The song was a signature closer for bluegrass jams throughout the country.
Almost before the last notes faded away, Carl stood. “Good music. Good fun,” announced the man who’d barely said two words all evening. He loaded his fiddle into its case and left. Two of the guitar players stuck around long enough to promise they’d be back the following week before they, too, headed out the door. Reassured that Pickin’ Strings’s first jam had been a success, Lisa barely managed to collect her thoughts before Tommy tapped her arm.
“Ms. Rose, thanks for all the help and all. I’m sorry I didn’t play very good. Is it all right if I come next time?”
“Of course. Till then, you keep practicing those chords. You’ll get better and better.” She aimed a warm smile toward the gawky teen who’d probably realized that becoming the heartthrob of his generation was going to take a lot more work than he’d planned. Deliberately she set a manageable goal before the youngster. “Learn one song, only one, to lead in the next jam.”
