Song for a Cowboy

by Sasha Summers

  Emmy was frozen; the image Vanessa’s words painted was devastating.

  “With the drugs?” Guy asked.

  “Yes. With drugs. A lot of them. Anyway, Brock’s father and aunt—forgive me for sharing this part, Brock—were the foundation for his recovery. When his father started suffering from Alzheimer’s, wandering and getting confused, Brock got clean. Boom, it was like…he needed to be there for the man who’s always been there for him.” She shook her head. “That was all it took.”

  Emmy was trying not to cry. Brock would have felt terrible—his father was everything to him. And that Brock might not be there for him or let him down? It would have been enough to get him clean and keep him that way.

  “Fast-forward to about three months ago. My sponsor was unavailable, I was in a bad place with Mark, and I called Brock. We’ve talked on and off, more of ‘Hey, are you staying out of trouble? Good, bye,’ sort of thing. I would call him, he would talk to me until my sponsor was available, and then we’d hang up. But then I took advantage of him, knowing how kind he was. I showed up when I needed money.”

  “You? Aren’t you engaged to the richest man in the universe?”

  “Was. Almost. I never wanted Mark to think I was after his money. I’ve never asked him for money. I had a big shoot coming up, but I didn’t have what I needed, and I needed it now. My mom has never asked for anything, ever. The woman is a saint. But she’s always wanted to live in this adorable little artist community around Georgetown. A house came open and, if I wanted it, I needed money now.”

  “But you couldn’t ask Mark.” Guy nodded.

  “And because Brock knows about my addiction problem, he couldn’t just hand over money. Because, again, he’s this amazing guy who didn’t want me to be tempted. So he drove me there, gave me money, and watched me write the check.”

  “You’re not moving in with Brock Watson?” Guy clarified.

  “No.” She shook her head. “Never was.”

  “And these pictures?”

  “Well, as we have now established, Brock is a saint.” She was crying now. “Mark found out about the money. Assumed the worst and kicked me out. My sponsor was in Dallas, so…”

  “Ah, you called Brock.” Guy nodded. “Yeah, he is turning out to be quite the hero of your story here.”

  “He is.” She nodded. “Okay, the pictures. I was covered in makeup and slobber by the time we got to his place. This picture is him showing me that the shower handle sticks and how to jiggle it here. This one is me hugging and crying on him for coming to get me from downtown in the middle of the night. And that’s the next morning. I left in his clothes because mine were gross. Him standing there, like that? It’s either relief that he doesn’t have to deal with me anymore or, because he’s a sweetie, he’s hoping I don’t do something stupid.” She paused. “That’s it. There is nothing going on with us. His heart is taken, Guy, but not by me. Any woman who gets him, you better hold on tight because he’s a rare soul.”

  Emmy was kicking the blankets back, earning a reproachful meow from Watson and a laugh from her sister. “Sorry, Watson. Mommy has to hurry.”

  “Well, that takes care of that.” Guy nodded. “Let’s talk about this new clothing line you’re involved in.”

  Krystal hit the pause button and the screen froze. “I think she’s telling the truth. I saw his face that day in the parking lot when you went to see him off. Yeah. She’s telling the truth.”

  “I thought you hated him?” Emmy pulled open the dresser drawer, pulling out pants.

  “I don’t think I do now.” Krystal slipped out of the bed. “Now, get your tush dressed, get your smile on, and go get your man.” She clapped her hands. “I mean, you are going to see him today, right? The whole singing at the halftime show during one of the biggest games this season?”

  “Right.” Emmy nodded, slowing down. “He’ll already be at the field.” There wasn’t much point in hurrying over there. She’d see him at the game. Still, she wanted to see him. The sooner the better. She packed up her makeup and hair supplies and waited for Sawyer to come pick her up. When the black Suburban pulled up, she practically sprinted for the door.

  “Guess you saw the show?” Travis asked when Emmy climbed into the Suburban.

  “Is that why you’re here?” she asked, smiling, as Krystal and Jace climbed in after her.

  “We’ve already established I’m in favor of watching you and Brock’s awkward exchanges. They’re painful—but highly entertaining.” Travis sat back.

  “Did you bring popcorn this time?” Krystal rolled her eyes.

  “It’s game day.” Travis shook his head. “We’ll buy it there.”

  The whole ride, Emmy’s emotions alternated between pure joy and absolute terror. She hadn’t given him the benefit of the doubt. That had to hurt. She should have asked him, straight out, instead of jumping to the same conclusions everyone else had. But Vanessa had said he was keeping her secrets…because he was Brock.

  It was hard to stay calm through hair and makeup. She ran through a dozen different scenarios, but none of them felt right. Hopefully, when they were face-to-face, she’d know the right thing to say.

  “You look incredible,” Krystal said, taking her hand and spinning her around. “Is this the disco-ball dress Travis was talking about?”

  Emmy laughed. “Yep.”

  “I didn’t think I’d like it, but I do.” Krystal nodded. “You look amazing.”

  “I have, what, ten minutes?” Emmy glanced at the clock on the wall, then her reflection. “Or I could wait…”

  “Go,” Krystal said. “Hurry.”

  Emmy Lou moved as quickly as the formfitting dress allowed, with Sawyer at her side. She smiled and waved, but she tried to keep her head down until she reached the pressroom that fed into the tunnel.

  The players were lining up at the tunnel entrance, wearing their game face and getting their minds in the zone. She stood on her tiptoes, looking all over for number eighty-eight.

  “Miss King?” Coach McCoy came up behind her. “You know the game is about to start?”

  “Yes, sir.” Her heart fell. “Sorry…”

  He sighed loudly. “He’s coming now. Good news?” He waited for her to nod. “Good. Can’t have him hearing bad news before a game. Well, from the look on your face, he’s going to want to hear this.” He glanced at his watch. “One minute. Two tops.”

  “Yes, sir.” She nodded, standing aside while Gene Byrd and RJ trotted through.

  Brock was next. Head down, helmet in his hand, he was…the man she loved. I love you so much.

  * * *

  Emmy Lou. Sparkling and beautiful and staring at him. He clenched his jaw, holding back all the things he wanted to say. “Emmy.”

  “I know you have like one minute. That’s all I need.” She practically ran to him. “I am so sorry.”

  He frowned. “For what?”

  “For thinking the worst. For giving credence to voices other than yours.” She shook her head. “If you can forgive me, and I really hope you will, then I want you to know that I…have loved you since the day I met you and I always will.” She swallowed. “If you can’t forgive me, I understand. But I still want you to know that I did write you—every day. I sent them, but they never reached you. I needed you to know that, too.”

  He was staring at her, his heart full to bursting. “Anything else?”

  She shook her head, nibbling the inside of her lower lip.

  “Sawyer told me.” He stepped closer, wishing for the time to say all the things that needed to be said. “Everything. Your mother sent mine back without you knowing it.”

  She was smiling. “You wrote to me?”

  “I said I would.” He took another step.

  “Wait? Sawyer?” She could not have been more stunned.

  “Sort of my reaction
when he showed up at my place. He has an awful strong attachment for you.” Brock shook his head. “I get it, sort of, but he was determined to tell me what a fool I was for not fighting for you.”

  “He’s my brother,” she whispered.

  That was the last thing he’d expected to hear. “What?” Her brother? “That explains a lot.”

  She nodded. “And he is getting the biggest hug ever when I see him next. Whether he likes it or not.”

  “We’ll get back to that.” He itched to touch her. “As to what you were saying about loving me…”

  “Miss King, your time is up.” McCoy was red faced, waving Brock forward. “Get your ass out there, Brock. Now.”

  “Dammit.” She winced. “I’m sorry. Go.”

  “That’s some strong language, Emmy Lou King.” Brock put on his helmet, grinning like a fool and not caring in the least. “And when I get back, we can talk about that, too.” He ran out of the tunnel and onto the field, the roar of the crowd rising up to greet the players.

  His focus was crystal clear, holding the opposing team at a standstill and laying those who tried to break through on their back. They were winning at the half. Spirits were high—but none higher than Brock’s.

  Emmy was here.

  She loved him.

  She wanted to try again.

  What else did he need to know? Nothing. He headed into the locker room, listened to Coach rip apart their offense and point out their near miss in the second quarter, and then turned to the board for a few last-minute strategy points.

  While the rest of the team was cooling down, he dug through his gym bag for the ring he’d bought the night Vanessa had called him. All those plans…all the misunderstanding. No more. From here on out, Emmy would always know where she stood with him. He headed out onto the field.

  Emmy Lou was on the stage, singing her heart out. She was standing, head thrown back, her long, blond hair swaying as she belted out “Your Loss.” The crowd went crazy when she finished.

  “Y’all have been a great audience. I’ve got one more for you. It’s new. But you’ll probably figure out who I’m singing it to. I’m hoping he’ll hear it—but I guess we’ll see.” She closed her eyes and sang.

  One step, what can go wrong? What’s left for me to lose?

  Each day, a fresh start, stronger, if that’s what I choose.

  One hope, rising inside me, that you’ll hear my song.

  Each night, I close my eyes and hope I wasn’t wrong.

  Cuz losing you, still wanting you, won’t leave my mind.

  And losing you, yes, loving you has left me color-blind.

  All I see is you… All I see is blue.

  Blue skies for miles,

  Bluebirds flying high,

  Bright blue like your eyes.

  Don’t you know, oo-hoo—I’m blue when you’re gone.

  One step, I’m going faster. Can’t wait to get to you.

  Each day, with you here beside me, if that’s what you choose.

  One hope, rising inside me, that you’ll hear my song.

  Each night, I close my eyes, beside me where you belong.

  Cuz losing you, still wanting you, won’t leave my mind.

  And losing you, yes, loving you has left me color-blind.

  All I see is you… All I see is blue.

  Blue skies for miles,

  Bluebirds flying high,

  Bright blue like your eyes.

  Don’t you know, oo-hoo—I’m blue when you’re gone.

  He was moving before she’d finished singing. Jogging across the field with one goal in mind. And the minute people saw him, the crowd was on their feet.

  He waited until she was off the stage to approach her; there was only so far he was willing to go. They might be able to see him but what he said was for her ears alone. “Hi.”

  She was smiling, breathing hard and flushed from her performance. “Hi.”

  “That song.” He didn’t stop until they were close enough to touch. “I like it.”

  “You know blue is my favorite color.” She stared up at him, those green eyes blazing. “Always has been.”

  “You said you loved me.” He waited for her to nod. “I’m doing this here and now so that you, and the whole damn world, know where my loyalty and my heart lie.” He knelt in front of her. “Because I don’t want there to ever be another doubt.”

  The volume of the crowd was so high, he couldn’t hear himself, let alone her. With a sigh, he waved one of the refs over. “Can I borrow that?” he asked, pointing at his mic.

  The ref smiled and handed over the mic.

  Brock shook his head. “Emmy Lou King, will you marry me?” The question bounced off the stadium walls, so loud he winced. Just when he was certain the crowd couldn’t get any louder, they proved him wrong.

  “I will marry you, Brock Watson.” She was smiling, staring down at him as he slid the ring on her finger. Then she was tugging him up. “We should get off the field before I get you another penalty.”

  He handed the mic back to the ref and walked off the field, holding her hand. Once they’d reached the sideline, he tilted her chin up. “Family dinners at your house are going to be interesting as hell.” His kiss was featherlight. “But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  She started laughing.

  Until he was kissing her. And once he was kissing her, holding her, everything fell into place. As long as he had her with him, things would be okay.

  “I love you, Brock Watson,” she said between kisses.

  “I love you, Emmy Lou King.” He kissed her again. “Always have. Always will.”

  She pressed another kiss to his lips, then smacked his rear. “Now, go kick some ass.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” But he kissed her again, for good luck.

  Don’t miss any of Sasha Summers’s captivating cowboys! Keep reading for an excerpt from the first book in her Kings of Country series.

  Available now from Sourcebooks Casablanca

  Chapter 1

  “Are you kidding me?” They could not be serious. Krystal glared at her daddy, country music legend Hank King, in pure disbelief. “Why would this be great news? For me, anyway.” Blood roared in her ears and a throb took up residence at the base of her neck. She slipped the leather strap of her favorite Taylor spruce acoustic guitar from around her neck and placed the instrument tenderly on its stand. “It’s great news for what’s his name—”

  “Jace Black,” her manager, Steve Zamora, said.

  “Whatever,” she snapped, shooting a lethal gaze at the balding little man. “I’m sure he’s ecstatic. He gets to sing my song, my best song. With the one and only Emmy Lou King.” She downed a water bottle, parched from singing for almost two hours straight.

  “Come on now, Krystal. They’re singing one of your songs,” her father soothed. But she wasn’t ready to forgive him. Or see any good in this. And when he added “You know Emmy will do it up right. She always does,” it stung.

  Unlike me. Her spine stiffened and her fists tightened. She and her twin, Emmy, were different as night and day. A point her momma was all too happy to point out at every opportunity.

  “Don’t get your feathers ruffled, now. You know I didn’t mean anything by that.” Her daddy tipped his favorite tan cowboy hat back on his forehead, crossed his arms over his chest, and frowned.

  Poor Daddy. He said the women in his life were the reason he was getting so grey. It wasn’t intentional. She didn’t like disappointing him—he was her hero. But, dammit, he couldn’t pull the rug out from under her and expect her to smile and thank him. She wasn’t a saint. She wasn’t Emmy.

  Steve tried again. “This is a win all around, Krystal.”

  “No, it’s not. Not for me,” she argued. Blowing up wasn’t going to change their minds, but m
aybe reminding her daddy how special this song was. “Daddy, you know this song means something to me, that it’s…important. I’m connected to it, deep down in my bones. I can sing it and do it justice.” She hated that her voice wavered, that sentiment seeped in. This was business. And while the business loved raw emotion and drama in its music and lyrics, they weren’t fans of it from their performers.

  “Now, darlin’, you know how it works. It’s all about timing.” Steve used his soft voice, the please-don’t-let-her-start-screaming-and-throwing-things voice. Like lemon juice in a paper cut.

  “Timing?” she asked. The only thing Steve Zamora cared about was kissing her legendary father’s ass and managing Emmy Lou’s career. “It’s been my sister’s time for ten years now.”

  Not that she begrudged her sister an iota of her fame. It wasn’t Emmy Lou’s fault that she was the favorite. She had that thing, a megastar quality—that universally appealing sweetness that the world adored. Krystal had a real hard time with sweetness.

  Why the media, fans, even the record company labeled Krystal the rebel, a black sheep, the wild child of the King family was a mystery. Marketing, maybe? The good twin, bad twin thing? Whatever. She had her days. And her very public breakup with Mickey Graham hadn’t helped. To hear him tell it, she was a selfish prima donna who’d broken his heart. It’d hurt like hell that everyone was so willing to believe the worst of her. But her pride had stopped her from telling the truth—the real truth, not Mickey’s version of it. His tall tales cemented her bad-girl image, so she’d embraced some of the freedom it gave her.

  “I get you’re disappointed, Krystal, but there will be other songs.” Daddy’s hand cupped her cheek, his smile genuine and sympathetic.

  He did not just say that. His easy dismissal cut deep. Yes, there would be other songs, but this one mattered. People might chalk it up to her breakup with Mickey. She knew better. The song had come from a wound that wouldn’t heal. A wound that haunted her dreams and reminded her to guard her heart, to never let anyone in. Every scribbled note, tweaked word, chord change, or key finagle had led her to both love and hate the finished product. But it made her proud.