HEATH SHIFTED RESTLESSLY in a straight-backed chair as he awaited Andrew Parsons. His eyes roamed over the framed platinum records hanging in the producer’s office. Legendary names and iconic songs jumped out at him. Would he find a place on that wall someday? It’d been three months since his failed tryout with Freedom Records, ninety-two nights of nonstop gigging, 2,208 hours of missing Jewel so bad his body felt like a bruise, beaten; his heart, broken. His only relief had been writing songs and recording demos in hopes of securing a contract with another company. He used to sing his troubles to the wind. Now he sang to Jewel, hoping she’d hear them someday and think of him.
Morning rain tapped on the floor-to-ceiling windows. It turned downtown Nashville into an impressionistic painting of itself, blurred lines and colors running into each other. When he’d first arrived, he’d been intent on making his mark on this city. Instead, he spun his wheels like a stuck pickup. Why had Parsons summoned him today? Had he changed his mind and decided to sign Heath after listening to the new demo he’d sent?
The thought didn’t excite him like it once had. His eagerness had given way to loneliness. Sure, the crowds were bigger, the paychecks, too. Yet he enjoyed performing for the friends and familiar faces at Carbondale’s honky-tonks more.
He pulled up the collar of his jean jacket against the damp chill seeping through one of the cracked-open windows.
Here, folks looked out for themselves, grinding to get discovered, thousands chasing one dream. After singing every night and staying mute all day to save his voice, he hadn’t had a decent conversation in weeks. Months.
He gigged with down-to-earth guys, but they didn’t compare to his Outlaw Cowboys bandmates. The groupies hitting on him didn’t hold a candle to Jewel. Her memory burned brighter than the city lights. How long since he’d seen the way her eyes flashed a deep brown and narrowed like a wild animal when he riled her, the way her freckled cheeks filled with color and her eyes lit like sparklers when she laughed, the way her soft lips responded beneath his…?
A vision of Jewel pressed softly against him at the gala rose in his mind’s eye, and an extraordinary sense of warmth spread through him. His heart lurched, and his pulse throbbed in his fingertips.
Too darn long.
Living without her felt like existing in a coma—his life support, his music.
Was he happy?
No.
But if he went home, he’d abandon the road to a music career. He’d never expected it to feel so empty, though. What happened when reality didn’t live up to your dreams?
The door behind him whisked open and Parsons strode in with his customary speed. In five steps, the tall, slender man reached his desk chair and sat. He had dark hair that circled a significant bald patch, and wore jeans, a pressed shirt in country checks under an old-fashioned blazer, and polished cowboy boots no real rancher would be caught dead wearing except—of course—at his own funeral.
Parsons thrust out a hand. “Keith. Good to see you.”
Heath opened his mouth to correct him, then shut it and pumped the music producer’s hand instead. Who cared what the guy called him so long as he earned a contract in the end?
Parson leafed through pages inside a folder. Heath stiffened when he recognized his song title on one of the sheets. “Got the new demo you sent. No denying, you’re a talented singer and the ladies love you.”
Heath braced for the silent but he sensed.
He forced his breathing to slow and his muscles to relax. Mediocre steaks and rejection were two things he’d become familiar with in Nashville. If Parsons didn’t like his new material, why call this meeting?
“And you’ve made progress from our initial tryout.” Parsons pressed a button and ordered a couple of coffees from his receptionist.
Heath realized that he clenched his fists and opened them. “Glad to hear it, sir.” He rubbed his palms against his legs. He’d worked hard to pay for studio time to record, writing lyrics about his messed-up heart on sleepless nights.
“I’m not offering you a recording contract. Yet. Your voice is too much of a throwback.” Parsons studied the records crowding his wall. “Like a young Johnny Cash or Hank Williams.”
“I appreciate the comparison. Grew up listening to them.” A ghost of a smile curved his lips as he recalled singing “It Ain’t Me, Babe” with his mother. It was a happy memory from one of her good days. One he treasured. She’d loved the oldies. He’d thought he’d only sung them to please her…yet he’d grown to love them, too, and music, because of her.
Heath nodded his thanks to the receptionist when she passed him a warm mug. Steam curled off the dark surface. The smell of roasted beans was sharp as he breathed it in, waiting for Parsons’s next critique. What others thought of him wasn’t more important than his reality, he’d come to understand these past few months. He wasn’t the negligent, selfish son whose abandonment caused his mother’s suicide. Pursuing what he wanted didn’t automatically lead to disaster. His mother chose her path, and he’d needed to as well that tragic night. He hoped she understood. Deep down, he believed she did.
In fact, she might even be proud of him.
“Milk? Sugar?” Parsons held up packets.
Heath shook his head, then burned his tongue when he sipped the black brew.
“I like the classics, too. Don’t get me wrong.” Parsons dumped sugar into his coffee and stirred. When he dropped the small plastic stick on the empty packet, a wet brown stain spread. “But country fans aren’t listening to them now. Brett Young, Luke Combs, Midland…that’s where it’s at. I’d like to hear more traditional voices like yours on the radio, but it doesn’t translate. Performance, appearance—you’ve got it. Singing, too, but the style won’t sell enough records.”
Heath took a deep breath, ordering his thoughts. “Why’d you call me in then, sir?”
“I’ve regretted turning you down.” Parsons stared hard into Heath’s eyes and the lines of his face cut deep. “Hearing your new demo made me realize why. I should have had you work with our vocal coach to retrain your voice. In a couple of months, we could have you sounding just like Luke Bryan.”
Heath clamped a hand on his knee to stop it from shaking up and down. If he learned a modern country sound he’d change who he was, putting himself aside to appease someone else again.
“Let me get Jim Este up here to see what he thinks.” Parsons picked up the phone and requested his secretary connect him to the renowned Freedom Records vocal coach.
While Parsons relayed his wishes, Heath stared out at the umbrella-carrying pedestrians scurrying across the Cumberland River bridge. They hustled back and forth, eager to escape the driving rain, but were they really going anywhere? Was anyone?
Heath’s own thoughts were a jumble, veering from anticipation and curiosity at the thought of working with a legend like Jim Este to concern at losing touch with the sound, the storytelling that’d drawn him to country music in the first place. He hadn’t left behind the woman and life he loved to become someone else. He didn’t need cheering crowds or a contract to be a musician. Just as Jewel had been right not to let him become a full-time rancher for her sake, he’d be wrong to transform into a different singer to fit the country music industry. He defined his career, not anyone else.
“Jim’s on his way,” Parsons said. “He’s pleased at the idea of molding the next big country star.”
Pleased.
The word struck Heath in the pit of the stomach, like a rock from a sling. His whole life had been about pleasing others.
Heath set down his half-finished coffee and stood. “I appreciate the offer, sir, but I won’t change who I am.”
“Just your sound.” Mr. Parsons waved a dismissive hand. “When we first tried out one of our top female recording artists, cats in heat were less pitchy.”
“My sound is who I am,” Heath said mildly, hoping that the sudden lurch of his heart didn’t show. “Thank you. I’ll show myself out.”
A knock shook the door’s wooden panels and a tall, well-built man with stubbled cheeks, spiky, highlighted blond hair and hazel eyes strode inside. He wore skinny jeans, a loose sweater and trendy sneakers that looked too young for him. “How can I help?”
“Convince this young man not to walk away from the greatest opportunity in his life, one he’ll regret, Jim.”
Jim Estes frowned. “I’ve listened to your demo. If we expand your upper register, get rid of that twang and add in some falsetto, we—”
Falsetto? The word had false right in it… Heath cut off Jim with a headshake. “I’m not interested.”
Jim peered at Parsons, eyes wide. “Is he for real?”
Parsons scratched his bald patch. “Unfortunately for us, he’s too real.”
“He’s got talent.” Jim rubbed a knuckle hard across his lips and glanced at Heath. “You’re one heck of a songwriter.”
Heath tipped his head. “Appreciated.”
“We need those songs.” Jim paced. “At least half a dozen of our singers would sound great on them.”
Parsons strode around his desk. “You’re right.” He drew a deep breath and seemed to relax a bit. “It’s a shame to waste those looks, but how about becoming one of our songwriters?”
Heath felt a rushing in his ears, together with a peculiar sense of detachment that sometimes came from a draft of Daryl’s moonshine after a long day in the saddle. “Meaning you’ll buy some of my songs?”
Parsons clapped him on the back. “I want all of them, and first crack at the next ones you write and the ones after that, if you’ll sign a contract with us.”
Heath suddenly forgot how to breathe. He worked his tongue in an effort to regain enough saliva to speak and noted the names of famous songwriters on Freedom Records’ platinum discs, too. He didn’t need to be on stage, didn’t need the attention, the adulation, for a creative outlet. Stardom wasn’t his dream, after all; Jewel was. He could write songs anywhere, and he’d rather do it by her side. Where better to compose music than in his hometown beside his muse?
His love.
Parsons’s cheeks puffed as he released a long stream of air at Heath’s silence. “And I’ll also let you sit in on the recording sessions. You can do backup vocals and instrumentations on the songs you choose,” he added, then turned to Jim. “Keith drives a hard bargain.”
“I accept,” Heath said, achieving speech. Euphoria burst inside him. Flash bang. He pumped Parsons’s hand, strode to the door and paused. “And the name’s Heath. Spell it right on the contract, now.”
He nearly chuckled at Jim Este’s and Parsons’s shocked expressions. No more appeasing others. Not even music industry titans. His fast strides carried him down the hall and out into the rainy fall morning. The pavement was dark with wet and the air thick with the scent of woodsmoke. Heath settled his hat firmly, bending his head into the wind.
Rain was falling in a downpour now, crashing through the canopy of the tree-lined street, their trunks streaked from it. They arched over him, a vibrant tunnel of colors, urging him onward, making him feel as if it anything was possible at the rainbow’s end. Happiness, success, even love. His breathing was ragged and fast, his heart thumping, his boots splashing through puddles, never moving fast enough.
With every step he was soaked some more, but with every step he cared less. This was a baptism. A rebirth. He rounded a bend in the sidewalk and headed onto the Cumberland River bridge. He wiped the rain from his face, felt his sodden clothing cling coldly to him, impervious. Leaning over the railing, he watched the water swirl, driving in one direction.
He knew the direction he needed to go in, too.
West.
To Jewel…
If she’d still have him.
She valued her independence, and he’d never want her to lose it.
As for him, he couldn’t live without her. Not anymore. Not ever again. It was what he wanted; what pleased him was Jewel.