She has the good grace to cringe. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to seem critical. It’s just different. But I think I like it. It’s simple and easy. The whole town feels like that. Like a warm hug from a friend you never knew you needed.”
“Pretty imagery. Mind if I write that down?” I ask. When she smiles, I pull my phone out and hit Record on my voice notes, which is my version of ‘writing it.’ I hold it out to Willow and she leans in to repeat herself.
“Like a warm hug from a friend you never knew you needed.” She laughs a little at the awkwardness of talking into my phone, and I make sure to get that too. I toss the phone into the console and we roar to the outskirts of town.
“You’d be able to get some great shots downtown during the day of the hustle and bustle of folks visiting and shopping on the square. There’s a park on the east side where ducks and geese congregate. But if you want animal shots, I’ve got a whole zoo’s worth at home you’re welcome to photograph. Horses, cows, pigs, goats, dogs, a barn cat, and a bunch of asshole guys who’d probably smile pretty for you. Well, except for Mark. He don’t smile much.”
“That’s the oldest Bennett brother, right? The one in charge of everything and married to Katelyn?” she says. We’ve talked through a lot of this already, but I like that she remembers the details.
I nod. “Yeah. If you wanted some nature shots, we’ve got fields and trees and crops that’d be pretty too.” I’m trying to give her as many things as I can, hoping she’ll want to photograph them all and that it’ll take a long, long time to do so. Time she can spend at my side and I can spend soaking her in.
“We’ll see. I usually take pictures of whatever I’m doing that day, nothing special, nothing particularly planned out, but I like to take the opportunity to explore and see what I can experience and share.”
I can feel her eyes on me, tracing over my profile as I keep my eyes on the road. “You can take a picture of me if you want to.” I’m half-joking and half-serious, but I’m still surprised when she dives for the floorboard and comes back up with her good camera. Richard was right, it’s nearly as big as she is, especially with the lens that she’s got on it. She does a quick change, carefully setting the lens back into the bag and coming out with another, smaller one, which she attaches easily.
“Tell me about you,” she orders gently, already snapping away.
I chuckle, self-conscious. “I don’t know what to say. I’m just me—a farmer, a singer. Not much to tell.”
Click. Click.
“That’s a bold-faced lie, and you know it, Bobby. Don’t go getting shy on me. I like when people talk as I’m taking pictures because then I catch every expression. Tell me . . . about when you were a kid. What was little Bobby’s big dream?”
She never goes for the obvious question, that’s for sure.
“That’s easy. To be a famous country musician one day. I thought I was going to get out of this small town, never have to shovel shit a day of my life, and would fill stadiums with people chanting my name.” I smile at the ease with which that dream comes roaring back to life. “Younger me thought this town was basically a prison. I guess all small-town kids think that to some degree, drawn to the excitement of the flashing lights of the big city. Probably the same way city kids think life out in the country is slow and easy.” I throw her a knowing sideways glance.
Click.
“And now?” she says.
I can’t see her face, not really. She’s hidden behind the camera, and I’m trying hard to keep my eyes on the road so I can get us safely to Lookout Point. But there’s a deeper meaning to what should be a light question. Surprisingly, with my attention half on driving and half on her, the words spill out.
“Now, I see why people stay here. It’s not because they’re trapped. It’s because it’s . . . home. Shay is always leaving—she and Luke travel a lot for his work with horses, and she’s so excited to go every time. No matter where they’re headed.” I shake my head a little, chuckling. “She’d be excited about the armpit of New Jersey during a heat wave. That’s just how she is, wants to see it all, do it all. But when they get back, I can tell they’re exhausted. A few days at home, working their asses off in the sunshine and fresh air, and they’re back to being right again. It’s different, but it’s good. And I’ve made my peace with it. I’ll work the land I grew up on as long as Mark’ll let me, sing at Hank’s as long as he’ll let me, and make my life right where God stuck me twenty-eight years ago.” I shrug, a little embarrassed at how unambitious I sound. I might be in a rut, but it’s a good one, with a long, steady, straight line that gets me where I’m going—to a life well-lived and hard-worked day by day.
“And a bar full of folks chanting your name is enough, even though it’s not a stadium and you smell like shit at the end of every day?” she prompts, clicking again.
A cold sliver of ice slices through my heart, knowing that’s not entirely true. But sometimes, what you get has to be enough. Not every singer gets the big deal. Not every farmer owns his land. But I take the opportunity she’s giving me and laugh. “I don’t smell like shit every day. Just on fertilizer days, and I showered.” I sniff my pit obnoxiously, but really, I’m making sure that long shower did its job.
She laughs, and the seriousness is left at mile marker ninety-one.
A moment later, I turn off the main road onto a dirt road that starts climbing quickly. “Is this the part where you take me out to the middle of nowhere to kill me and bury my body? If so, tell my mom I love her for me, ’kay?” she says dramatically, ending with a smile.
“If I were taking you to the middle of nowhere to kill you, I wouldn’t have done it in front of a whole bar full of people. Plus, I own pigs. I’d just feed you to them. They can pick a body clean in a few days. Don’t ask me why I know that,” I deadpan.
She looks over at me, grinning and not scared in the least. At least she gets my humor. That’s a major point in the win column. “Did you know that there was a guy who almost got away with murder because he killed a dog?”
I hiss. “What the fuck?”
She pats my arm. “Wait, it’s bad but surprisingly smart. And bad.” I lose track of what she was saying after feeling her palm on my skin. She continues, “So, this guy killed someone . . . I don’t remember the circumstances, though. Accident? On purpose?” She waves her hand. “Doesn’t matter. But he buried the body way down deep, then halfway back up to the surface, he buried a dead dog. The police dog sniffed around and they dug up the grave. So the police found the dog and thought the police dog had gotten confused. Killer almost got away with it too, except the police dog kept whining then jumped in the grave, pawing at the ground, so they dug a little deeper. And boom . . . dead body. Or well, another one, I guess.”
“Jesus, that’s awful. Why do you know that?” I ask.
“True crime shows on late-night TV. Sad story, but I liked that the police dog outsmarted the criminal.” She seems equally horrified and vindicated.
“I’m surprised you watch that shit,” I say honestly. She seems like she’d watch Hallmark movies or romantic comedies, something light and fluffy like cute kitten shows.
“I work late hours and there’s nothing on but Unsolved Mysteries and infomercials at three in the morning. Netflix is a lifesaver, but when I was saving up for my last lens, I canceled it to save money.”
Frugal. Willing to sacrifice.
I store the informational tidbits away in my mental Rolodex of Willow Parker facts.
We break through the last few overhanging branches and into a clearing. “We’re here.”
There’s the complete blackness of the night surrounding us, broken only by a curved slice of moon too high in the sky to offer any real light. “Where’s here?” Willow asks, looking through the front window and then her side window.
“Lookout Point. Hang on,” I tell her. I pull a U-turn, backing up carefully. In the glow of the reverse camera, I can see the questioning look on Willow’s face
. “Trust me. Close your eyes. It’ll be worth it.”
To my surprise and delight, she does, though she warns, “Just a reminder . . . a whole bar full of people, including Unc, saw you take me out of Hank’s. You’ll be the first suspect.”
I chuckle and turn off the engine. “Stay there, keep ’em closed.” I get out and run around to her side, opening her door. I help her down, careful to not get too close . . . yet. Slowly, I walk her toward the back of the truck. “Stand right where you are for a second. Lemme lower the tailgate.”
Down it goes with a slight thud, and I steer Willow in front of it. “Okay, I’m gonna pick you up and set you on the tailgate. Still got your eyes closed?”
They are. I can see how she’s pinching them shut against the desire to open them and see what’s around her.
I circle my hands around her waist and lift. She naturally jumps a tiny bit and I set her on the tailgate. She leans left a little and I steady her with strong hands. “Ohh!” she exclaims, then laughs at her overcorrection.
“Okay, one last thing . . . don’t move and don’t peek.” I run back to her side of the truck and grab her camera. I’m no pro, not even an amateur, but I can press a button. Hopefully, that’s enough. Standing beside her again, I aim the lens at her.
“On the count of three, I want you to open your eyes and see Great Falls. One, two, three . . .”
Click. Click. Click. Click.
I have no idea what I’m doing, so as she opens her eyes, gasps, and covers her open mouth with her hands, I just keep pushing the button. She looks from the view before us, inky blackness dotted with white lights and the surrounding mountains, to me. She’s looking through the lens into my eyes, I swear it.
Click. Click.
“It’s beautiful,” Willow whispers, even though it’s just the two of us.
“Gorgeous,” I answer, not talking about the city view but about her.
Her eyes meet mine, and I lower the camera. The yawning space between us disappears, though I stay rooted where I am, and the invisible thread between us pulls tight, humming with possibility.
“Do you feel this? Am I crazy?” One quick, audible swallow, and she adds, “This is crazy. Never mind. Pretend I didn’t say that.”
I have zero intention of doing so.
I carefully set the camera down, knowing it’s her baby as much as my guitar is mine. The mere fact that she let me hold it and didn’t freak out is more than I could say about Betty. Nobody touches her. Nobody but me.
I step between Willow’s knees, lightly laying my palms on her bare thighs. Looking her directly in the eye, I say with no reservation, “I saw you across the room a week ago and wanted to know, one, who the hell was behind Hank’s bar, and two, why the hell you weren’t already in my arms. I’ve been going crazy inside thinking it was just me. So no, I don’t think you’re crazy. Or if you are, I am too. Yeah, I feel it, Willow.”
I take her hand in mine and lay her palm on my chest, letting her feel the way my heart is racing. Slow and steady has left the building. Well, we’re outside, so there is no building, but the point’s the same. I’m going whole-hog, full-steam ahead, and praying she doesn’t slam shut the door she cracked open.
“Oh.” Her eyes are locked on our layered hands on my chest, but the edge of a smile lifts her lips.
I press a kiss to her forehead, not wanting to push too far, too fast. “Take a few shots of the city lights while I get our picnic set up, ’kay?”
She nods silently, and I give her a little space to get comfortable with where we are now. I had a little hidey-hole carved out, but now I’m hauling in one of those big, fluffy La-Z-Boy recliners and making myself right at home in her heart.
In the cab of the truck, I send a quick text to Brody.
Don’t wait up.
He wouldn’t, but it’s only polite to let your roomie know when you’re not coming home. Besides, I know Brody and Rix would love to have the house to themselves for the night. It’s awkward when we both still live in our family home, though Brody did finally move into the main bedroom.
Then I shoot one to Brutal.
You’re on your own in the morning.
Brody replies first with his usual response . . . a middle finger emoji which translates to everything from ‘okay’ to ‘fuck you’ to ‘I love you, bro’. Brutal texts back too.
About damn time. Can’t wait to meet her. She like chicken?
The seemingly nonsensical question is anything but. It’s a sort of code in the Bennett family and now ours. If you pass the family litmus test, Mama Louise gives her approval by showing you how to make her famous fried chicken. If you fail, no chicken cooking lessons for you.
I send Brutal a thumbs-up because I think Willow is the most chicken-frying worthy woman I’ve ever met, then grab the bag of food and the shakes. Juggling them, I drop them onto the tailgate beside Willow and climb up.
“Shakes are melted enough to be drinkable now, but we need to dig in or the fries are gonna be cold and gross.”
She sets her camera down to take the cardboard sleeve of fries I’m holding out. She munches on a few, and I do the same, comfortably silent for a moment as we stuff our faces.
“What about you? What was Willow Parker’s big dream when she was a little girl?” I ask, returning to our earlier conversation.
She disappears inside herself for a moment, her head tilted as she thinks. “I don’t know that I ever really had a dream, per se. Do you believe in destiny?”
I chew thoughtfully and nod. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, I think we’ve all got free will to do right or fuck up, but I’d like to think there’s some bigger plan somehow. You?”
“Growing up, Mom and Dad were all about experiences. That’s what they encouraged Oakley and me to chase. It was never ‘make the winning goal’. It was more about ‘being a part of a team’ or ‘learning something new’ and ‘how can I help this cause or solve that problem?’ So I never really thought that one day, I want to be an astronaut or a teacher or a photographer like most kids. My dreams were to learn a language, visit the country, and be fluent enough to get around on my own. Things like that.”
“Damn. That makes my bright lights big city dream sound shallow as hell,” I say with a laugh. “And boring as fuck.”
Willow bumps me with her shoulder. “No, it doesn’t. A dream can’t be wrong or right. It just is.”
Still not convinced, I ask, “Did you get to use whatever language you learned?”
“Comme ci, comme ca,” she says, which sounds like gibberish to me, but she seems pleased with herself as she explains. “So-so in French. I have the absolute basics of greetings, food, and asking for the bathroom in French, Spanish, and Italian because I went on a work trip with Mom one summer to visit an artist friend of hers. I knew more back then and thought I was so fancy, but I lost it because I never had a reason to use it after that.”
Suddenly self-conscious, I confess, “Shit, I barely speak English.”
“Whatever,” she says with a slight eye roll. “You sing it in a way that resonates with people, makes them feel something deep and powerful, and that’s a universal language.”
“Thank you,” I whisper huskily. Her single compliment means more than the truckloads of ones I’ve gotten in the past. Granted, those so-called fans were half-drunk and-or trying to get in my pants, but that’s beside the point. It’s because these kind words are from Willow that they mean so much.
“Did I see your guitar in the backseat?”
She’s being generous in calling the tiny bench a backseat. The only person who can fit back there is Cooper, Brutal’s stepson, and with another of his summer growth spurts, even he won’t be able to fit. But Betty does.
“Yeah.”
“Will you play while I take some pictures? Not for the blog but just for me.”
“Of course. Anytime.” I absolutely mean it. For her, I’d play concerts twenty-four, seven until my fingers bled and still keep going if she want
ed me to.
I get Betty and climb back up on the tailgate, letting the curved wood rest against my thigh the way I have so many times before. I pluck at the strings mindlessly, watching Willow move around with her camera. She’s doing something to the settings, turning a dial and checking, then turning it again.
Click. Click. Click.
I start to softly sing an old favorite, The Man in Love with You by George Strait. It’s not one of his biggest hits and doesn’t even suit my deeper, grittier voice, but Mom used to play it and she and Dad would dance around the kitchen to its slow beat so it seems like sharing that is a good omen with Willow too.
I get lost in the music but never lose track of Willow. She’s a woman on a mission, and though I’m not sure what she’s capturing through that lens of hers, she seems pleased with whatever she sees. One song turns into two, then I don’t even know how many. But I play on, singing to her but also somehow becoming a part of what she’s doing every time she glances over and gives me one of those soft smiles.
A knot in my belly is loosening by the minute, and I want to stay here in this moment, just like this, forever. A melancholy melody plays through my mind, and I play it on a loop, forgetting all the covers I know in favor of teasing out what this new tune might be. One of hope lost but found in the most unexpected of ways, when it’d seemed least possible.
“That’s pretty,” Willow says. The first time we’ve spoken in probably an hour, but it hasn’t been uncomfortable at all. To the contrary, it’s been perfect, the two of us lost in our passions but together the whole time. It’s like a beautiful weaving of interests, of attraction, of perspectives merging through two vastly different mediums. “What is it?”
“I don’t know yet. It just came to me, so I’m still playing around with it.” I pluck out the melody again and Willow hums along with the notes.
Rough Country (Tannen Boys Book 3) Page 9
