“THANK YOU FOR coming out tonight, Carbondale!” Heath Loveland shouted into the mic at Silver Spurs, the town honky-tonk. A drumroll behind him, followed by a cymbal crash, punctuated his closing set’s final remark. His bass player, Clint, hammered a quick, throbbing beat.
Heath loosened his sweaty grip on his Fender and peered into the throng of country-western-dressed locals, searching out his MIA fiancée. No surprise she hadn’t shown. In fact, it would have been a surprise if she had, seeing as she disapproved of his gigging. “We hope you had a good time tonight.”
Raucous hoots and hollers rose to the exposed-beam rafters in answer. Stamping feet vibrated the dusty wooden floor. Water streamed down condensation-covered windows while overhead fans stirred humid air reeking of beer, body odor and peanuts. Beneath Heath’s Wranglers and black muscle shirt, sweat slicked his body.
A wide smile creased his face as he absorbed the room’s electric energy. Playing for hyped crowds was like a hit of pure sunshine; it lit him up with the force of a solar blast. Hardworking folks watched his band, Outlaw Cowboys, to forget about life for a while, and he gave them that amnesia: a hat-raising, boot-stomping, tail-swishing night out.
“We love you!” a pair of cowgirls in Daisy Dukes screamed from the front row.
He tipped his black cowboy hat, earning him another earsplitting screech, and ignored Clint’s eye roll. Not a night went by that Clint didn’t gripe about renaming their band the Heath Loveland Fan Club. Heck. Wasn’t like Heath could do anything about it. They followed him from show to show. What’s more, he’d never get involved with groupies, even if he wasn’t already spoken for…though he supposed their attention figured into Kelsey’s demand he quit gigging and “grow up,” as she put it…
…and set a date for their wedding.
A heaviness clamped around his chest. He slid a finger along his damp T-shirt collar, stretching it from his steaming neck. She’d be fit to be tied if he told her about this morning’s call from Nashville. And she’d never agree…
“Marry me, Heath!” an unfamiliar female voice hollered.
With a wink, he strummed a quick open-string scale, then cranked a tuning peg to sharpen his G, sending his hovering female fans into a tizzy of squeals and shrieks. “How about a little Johnny Cash to finish us out?”
“Yeah!” roared a pack of men near the bar. They raised their overflowing mugs.
Heath strummed the opening notes of “Folsom Prison Blues” and caught his bandmates’ surprised expressions from the corner of his eye as they scrambled to catch up. Usually they closed with one of the band’s originals. Yet this cover popped in his head and shot straight to his fingertips before he’d given it conscious thought.
He played close to the bridge for added twang as he growled out the opening verse. The gravelly words were dredged from a dark well inside him. Low and deep. He was stuck, trapped, he crooned, listening to the train going by without him. His chest ached. His eyes stung. Like every tune he performed, he experienced the song’s pain, loss, regret, becoming the music, the notes pouring from him like an open wound.
He grabbed his Fender’s headstock and bent it back, strumming low on the E string so the notes arced as they flew. When he hit the bridge, his foot stomped on his Boss compressor to give it lots of swells. Behind him, Remmy, his drummer, pounded a driving beat while Clint thrummed the deep bow-wow-wow bass line that vibrated your body, your organs, your cells even.
His gaze swept the stomping crowd as he sang and stopped dead on a pair of luminous brown eyes. It wasn’t so much the shape that caught his attention, though they were enormous in her freckled face or the thick fringe of lashes surrounding them—it was their ferocious expression. A fierce hunger and an aching vulnerability directed not so much at him but at his music…which was him…the person few really saw.
Jewel Cade.
His new stepsister.
His fingers stumbled and missed the eight fret when he changed chords. Heat swamped his face. He tore his attention from Jewel and muted the strings with the side of his hand for the next seven bars before risking another glance.
Her magnetic eyes lifted from his guitar and clicked with his and in that moment, a strange sense of connection, a recognition, jolted through him. Despite the dim light, he spied her rapt expression. It softened her lean face, parted her full lips. She wasn’t just listening to music, she was breathing it in, was sustained by it, just like him.
Music was his life support. Once taken off it, would he survive?
He ripped into his guitar solo, hammering the B7 chord, adding extra flourishes as he kicked up the tempo.
“Where’s the fire?” Clint muttered close to Heath’s ear, jamming beside him, but Heath only played harder.
He shredded the notes, alternating octaves, grabbing the horn of the guitar and pulling the top into his stomach to bend them. Sweat rolled down the sides of his face and his muscle shirt clung to his torso. His fingers slid along the neck from one fret to the next. He toggled while he plucked up one note, then stroked down another, fast and tight, picking like a madman. One, two…eight phrases later, and he peered up from his guitar in Jewel’s direction. Was she impressed?
And why did he care about his new stepsister’s opinion?
Disappointment washed over him. She was gone. He kept strumming, continued singing, but his earlier excitement faded. A few minutes later, he ended the song with a rowdy flourish to roof-raising applause. Heath and the rest of the band broke down their equipment, loaded it in Remmy’s van and then sauntered back into Silver Spurs for some tall cool ones.
Clint signaled the bartender and ordered beer. “Who are you looking for?”
Heath quit craning his neck. “No one,” he lied. He sought out Jewel’s fire-engine red hair for no good reason except the connection sparking between them. Had he just imagined it?
Not that he’d pursue her, even if he weren’t already engaged. She wasn’t even his type. He liked gals who wore makeup and nail polish, who fixed their hair pretty and smelled like flowers. Soft and sweet. Jewel, on the other hand, was scrawny and hard-edged, a prickly tomboy cowgirl who preferred horses to people and was as approachable as a cactus. Not to mention they were now family, and he was engaged to a woman he was supposed to love forever.
“Last call!” shouted the bartender to the mostly cleared honky-tonk. He slid them three cans of Bud.
“Has Kelsey made any of our shows?” Remmy asked.
“She’s busy with work.” Heath gulped his beer and scanned the room again.
Kelsey, a tireless volunteer and fund-raiser at the local animal shelter and food shelf, also helped at her father’s ranching supply company, Hometown Ranching. When he and Kelsey married, she expected him to leave his family ranch, Loveland Hills, and join the business. He tugged at his limp collar again. Nothing against their enterprise, but working the open range left him free to sing to the cattle, compose songs by the campfire and gig in the local honky-tonks. He’d have to give it all up…
Once he agreed to a wedding date and said, “I do.”
Their families expected him and Kelsey to marry, seeing as they were high school sweethearts and got engaged after graduation ten years ago. Kelsey was sweet and generous, his first love. So what was stopping him from setting a wedding date with her? It’d make everyone happy…
“Can we get your autograph?” A trio of gals shimmied close, wriggling in their boots and fringed skirts as they stared Heath up and down like he was the last steak at a family reunion.
He shot them a giggle-inducing smile and signed the backs of their phone covers with an offered Sharpie. They flicked their hair and batted eyelashes long enough to scare a daddy longlegs.
“Call me, sexy.” One of them shoved a paper in his pocket before traipsing out the door, Silver Spurs’s last customers.
Heath read a cell number on the note followed by a <3 Jaimey and crumpled it up.
“Did you make up your mind about Nashville?” Clint snagged the paper, drained his brew and chucked the can in the recycle bin behind the bar.
“Hey!” groused Kevin, Silver Spurs’s owner. “Make yourselves useful and put up some chairs.”
“You got it.” Heath quit drinking, despite his dry, hoarse throat, and headed for tables grouped around a pool table.
“Do you ever say no?” Clint caught the dishrag Kevin hurled at him and wiped surfaces as Heath cleared.
“He’s a people pleaser.” One of the waitresses, June, held out her tray for the empties Heath collected. “My therapist says I’m one, too. Means you always make everyone else happy except yourself. That’s why I owe five hundred bucks to Pampered Chef.”
Clint slapped the dishrag on another table and swished it across the wet-ringed surface. “Are those pans solid gold?”
June laughed and her earrings, peeking from beneath a short pouf of strawberry blond hair, danced. “My friends threw parties all month. I had to order from each or I’d offend them.” She shifted her weight and sighed. “See? Can’t say no, just like Heath. Though that’s why we all love our heartbreaker.” Her nails lightly scraped his cheek as she patted it. “Just remember: ‘to please is a disease.’” She sashayed away.
“I’ve said no before.” Heath diligently stacked Kevin’s chairs, despite needing to get home for some shut-eye. In four hours, he’d be vaccinating calves alongside his brothers. He rubbed his gritty eyes, then hoisted another chair.
And what was wrong with wanting to make people happy?
“Like when?” Clint scooped peanut shells into a pail.
“Ummmmm…” Heath’s brow creased as he searched out an example. “I didn’t let Pete Stoughton borrow my bike.”
“Dude, that was in eighth grade,” Clint laughed.
“Still counts.” Heath positioned the last chair and hustled back to his half-finished beer. The empty bar top met his eye. He bit back a request for another when Kevin pressed a hand to his back as he straightened from the mini fridge.
“What about Nashville? Are you saying no to that?” Clint tossed his dishrag into a bucket filled with cleaning fluid.
“Nashville?” Remmy ended what’d sounded like an argument on his cell phone and joined them. “What’re you talking about?”
“Clint’s been posting our videos on YouTube. Some Nashville person saw them and wants to give me a tryout.” Heath propped a hip against the bar, his tone casual, as if this wasn’t the biggest thing that’d ever happened to him.
“Some Nashville person? It’s Andrew Parsons!” Clint grabbed a cherry from the garnish bin and tossed it in his mouth.
Remmy’s eyes bulged. “You’re fooling, right?”
Heath shook his head and despite his best effort to act unruffled, the movement was jerky, tense.
“He owns Freedom Records.” Remmy shoved his longish hair from his face. “They’re the biggest country music company in America. Heath’s gonna be famous.”
Heath held up a hand. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. It’s only a tryout. A snowball in hell has a better chance than me earning a contract. I’m not sure if I’m even doing it.”
Clint jabbed his index finger into Heath’s chest. “You gotta do it, dude.”
“You want me to leave the band?” Heath shoved his balled hands into his jeans pockets.
Clint shrugged. “Once you make it, you’ll bring us with you.”
Heath scuffed floor dust with his boot tip. “What’s wrong with just gigging?”
“Nothing if you want to get paid in beer and pocket change and never have anyone except Carbondale hear your originals. You’ve got talent. Don’t waste it.” Clint ambled behind the bar and popped the tops off some longnecks when Kevin disappeared into the back room. “Wouldn’t you like to make real money?”
Heath lifted the offered beer and sipped. Writing and performing music had never been about money. He understood the grasp music had over people, what they needed it for, how it got them through and the role he played. He lived his life in service to song. Freedom Records would help him reach more people, millions of lives to touch…to move. He wanted the chance as badly as he wanted his next breath.
Remmy waved a hand. “Once he marries Kelsey, he’ll be plenty rich.”
Heath bristled. “Who’s saying that?” Locals had accused Pa of marrying Heath’s now-deceased mother for her money. The rumor mill revived last week when he married Joy Cade, the well-off widow and matriarch of their feuding neighbors, a rivalry that began over 130 ago with a suspicious death, vigilante justice and a priceless jewel theft.
Remmy chortled. “Just about everyone in Carbondale.”
Clint nodded. “Quit being so sensitive.”
Heath raised his bottle to cover his red face. His brothers had dubbed him “The Sensitive Cowboy” when he’d been the only one able to soothe their disturbed alcoholic mother with music. He’d been the family peacekeeper and her minder, keeping her from calamity until he’d made one selfish decision and it ended in tragedy. He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood.
Clint cocked his head, studied Heath a long moment, then shoved his shoulder. “Lighten up, dude. And what was with that solo? Must have been one of them scouts in the audience.”
“Yeah,” Remmy chimed in. “That was triple time.”
Jewel’s magnetic brown eyes returned to Heath. “Just thought I’d shake things up.” He donned his leather jacket.
Clint blocked Heath’s path to the door. “So, are you going to Nashville?”
Heath fumbled with his zipper. “I have to talk to Kelsey first.”
Remmy shrugged into a plaid jacket smelling faintly of hay, feed and manure. “If she loves you, she’ll support you.”
“Yeah, right,” Clint scoffed, guffawing, then sobered when he met Heath’s scowl.
Sure, Kelsey was a bit traditional. The only child of wealthy parents, she wanted the kind of respectable, conventional life she’d grown up with…white-collar parents who toiled at desks, not on microphones or in the saddle. People who sipped champagne at charity benefits rather than slugging beer in a stifling honky-tonk.
Kelsey was used to getting what she wanted, and she worked hard to get it. He’d always admired that about her, especially as she gave even more than she took. Before they’d graduated from high school, she’d fund-raised nonstop to create a college scholarship in his ma’s name for students studying psychology with a focus on addiction.
Classic Kelsey. Sweet, generous and focused.
She always knew exactly what she wanted. Seeing as Heath didn’t sweat the small stuff, he had no problem letting her have her way until recently. She’d given him an ultimatum: set a wedding date by the end of August or else.
Just a couple of months away…
“Promise you won’t let this pass by because of everything going on at the ranch.” Clint folded his arms over his chest.
Heath grimaced. With money issues dogging the ranch, as well as an unrelenting drought, Loveland Hills struggled. They’d secured an extension on their overdue mortgage until fall. If they kept their herd intact through the summer, despite dried-up watering holes and the Cades’ refusal to let them access the Crystal River through their property, they had a final chance to earn enough at fall cattle auctions to prevent foreclosure.
“They can do without you for a week. Heck, I’ll take off work to fill in for you,” Clint offered.
Heath pulled off his hat and tossed back his damp hair. “Thanks, man.”
Clint’s mouth turned down in the corners. “I know you, buddy…if something comes up at the ranch, you’ll bail.”
“You’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t take a chance.” Kevin called from behind the bar.
Heath’s pulse kicked up as the idea of chasing his dream settled inside…like it had a right to be there. The image of Jewel Cade’s rapt face returned to him. Usually she had a chip on her shoulder, a hard exterior and closed-off expression screaming “back off.” Yet tonight, his music had transported even her, an exhilarating experience he wanted to repeat with millions of others. He drew in a long breath, then released it. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
Clint clapped Heath on the back, and Remmy shot him an approving nod.
“Don’t forget us when you’re a big shot,” Remmy joked.
“This head ain’t getting any bigger.” Heath donned his hat, pulled the brim low and sauntered outside with his buddies.
After waving them off, he rounded the corner to the rear parking lot. A petite redhead, struggling to haul an enormous spare tire from beneath the bed of her dually, pulled him up short.
“Need a hand?”
His heart did a funny kind of flip when the woman turned, and deep brown eyes met his. Instantly, her surprised expression turned into a scowl.
Jewel Cade.
“Nope.” She dug the heels of her boots into the gravel and heaved backward. Her biceps, revealed by a black tank top tucked into faded Wranglers, strained. With a cry, she fell on her butt, the spare tire still lodged beneath the rear bumper.
“Do you need to change it?” Heath eyed the dual-rear-wheel truck. She could easily get home on what she had.
“I’m. Not. Showing. Up. At. Home. With. A. Flat. Tire,” she grunted, tugging harder.
Heath rubbed the back of his neck, puzzling out the scrappy cowgirl. Why worry about going home with a flat? Her brothers, part of the hot-tempered, impulsive, mouthy Cade clan his family had feuded with for over a hundred years, ribbed her from time to time. Was she sensitive about how they’d react? It seemed improbable. Her impressive left hook kept them in line. Some called Jewel cocky, boastful and brash. Yet he’d glimpsed another side tonight, seen a vulnerable hunger that’d called to him.
“Oof!” She landed hard on her back again and stared up at the brilliant star-studded sky, winded. A warm June breeze ruffled the loose red strands from her braid and carried the scent of decaying pine needles, wet soil and wild honeysuckle.
He held out a hand, but she ignored it, shoved to her feet, and marched back to the spare with her jaw set. “If you keep gawking, I’ll have to charge you for the show.”
“I’m not—”
She angled her face his way, and her bow-shaped lips curved in a knowing smirk that infuriated and excited him. Her rosy mouth nearly blended with the freckles covering her face. She must have as many as the stars overhead, he marveled, taking in her slim nose and lean, angular cheeks. She was sort of cute beneath her frown, like Huckleberry Finn’s younger sister, cowlicks and all. “Now you’re just staring.”
“No… I…” He shifted on his feet. Why did Jewel keep him off-balance and lingering? Heath eyed the empty parking lot and cocked his head at the distant yip of coyotes lurking on the forested slopes surrounding Silver Spurs. “Who are you with?”
“Me,” she panted, the cords of her neck popping as she hauled on the wedged spare harder still.
“No one else?”
“Myself and I.” Her sarcastic tone called a smile to his lips. “Something wrong with that?”
Since he’d only ever dated Kelsey, he had limited experience with women. Kelsey preferred he accompany her everywhere, and his sister, Sierra, was never without at least a four-legged friend. Jewel’s dogged independence, her refusal to ask for help, to depend on someone, intrigued him and left him wondering. Did she have any friends? “No…it’s just… I’m not leaving you here alone.”
Jewel quit tugging to point out a twelve-gauge shotgun mounted on her pickup’s gun rack. “I can handle myself.”
No doubt, yet a desire to help kept Heath’s stubborn feet planted. So much for being a people pleaser. By staying, he angered Jewel, something he usually avoided. But Jewel tapped a stubborn streak he didn’t recognize. Stranger still, he was enjoying their test of wills. “Your mother wouldn’t want me to—”
“Look,” she cut him off, “just because our parents are hitched doesn’t mean you and I are brother and sister now. You’re still a Loveland, which makes you public enemy one.”
He hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. “Just trying to be neighborly.”
“If you want to be a good neighbor, stop suing my family for five million dollars.”
His jaw clamped. “You owe us. A Cade judge revoked our easement across your property without just cause.” Long ago, after the Cades jumped to the wrong conclusions and strung up Everett Loveland for the death of Maggie Cade and the disappearance of her priceless sapphire, the Cades sued to revoke an easement allowing Heath’s family access to the Crystal River to water their herd. With their consistent water source gone, Loveland Hills fell on shaky financial ground that only worsened through the years as summers became drier and drier.
“A lie.” When Jewel staggered backward again, he stepped ahead of her, yanked out the tire and rolled it to the flat.
“Hey!” she protested, but he ignored her, grabbed up a nearby long-handled wrench and fitted the squared-off crank over the tire’s bolts. Within minutes he’d whipped off the flat and heaved it over the top of her truck bed.
“Not bad for a Neanderthal,” Jewel drawled behind him.
“Neanderthal?” When he turned, she’d already fitted the spare into place and stretched a hand out for the wrench. He passed it over, impressed as she secured the new wheel faster than he’d removed the old.
“Yeah,” she grunted as she tightened the last bolt. “Primitive man.”
“I’m not primitive.”
She sat back on her haunches and eyed her tire change. “You practically clubbed me over the head to get the tire.”
“I’ve never raised a hand to a lady.”
Her gaze collided with his. “Don’t get your panties in a twist. And I’m no lady. Or some damsel in distress. Play your hero act with your fiancée.”
With that, she tossed the long wrench in her truck bed, hopped behind her wheel and started up her powerful engine. It throbbed, loud, in the night air. Before she left, she leaned out her window, her expression smug. “And you’re welcome.”
“For what?” Shouldn’t she be thanking him?
“For protecting your fragile male ego. See you in court!” She shifted into gear, then raced off, her tires kicking up gravel.
He coughed on exhaust fumes and dust as he stared after her disappearing taillights. Aggravating, cocky, exasperating woman. Yet the wide smile reflected in his rearview mirror when he started his pickup belied his irritation. He reversed from his spot and cruised onto the road.
Why was he so amped?
He had plenty to worry about. The make-or-break Lovelands versus Cades trial began in August and tomorrow, he’d tell his family, and Kelsey, about his Nashville tryout. Would they support him? He cranked a George Strait tune and lustily sang along, a sense of buoyancy nearly lifting him from his hard seat.
The audition of a lifetime awaited him, but he suspected one saucy redhead might, oddly, have something to do with his mood, too. He’d moved Jewel while performing, her reaction strengthening his resolve to chase his dream.
His foot stomped on the gas and cool air drove through his windows. Potent anticipation lifted goose bumps on his arms. He had the world tucked in his pocket. For the first time in forever, a career in music seemed within reach and Heath aimed to go for it, no matter the cost.