Jace (Kings of Country 1)

Once inside the car, Krystal dozed off to the sound of Emmy Lou playing some candy game on her phone. When she woke, the faintest whispers of a new song were hovering on the edges of her mind. They parked and Krystal all but jumped out, pushing through the oversized wooden doors and into the showplace foyer with the mile-high ceiling and art deco light fixture her momma had pushed for. When it was on, the whole floor sparkled—courtesy of the mica chips and crystal veins in the marble flooring. It was over-the-top, just the way her momma liked it.

But the click of nails against the tile had her smiling and she dropped to her knees as Clementine came sliding around the corner, hobbling on three legs, rear end wagging and in full happy mode. “Did you miss your mommy?” Krystal asked, scooping up her dog. “I missed you, too. You would have been proud of me, Clem. Mommy sang her heart out.”

“And got all goo-goo eyed over a guy,” Emmy joined in. “If your mommy had a tail, he’d have her wagging it.”

Krystal laughed so hard she almost dropped Clementine. “You are hilarious, Emmy Lou.”

“Deny it?” her sister asked, hands on hips, waiting. But Krystal was still laughing too hard to answer. Emmy nodded. “I didn’t think so.”

Krystal stood, holding Clem. “Don’t you listen to her. We’re going to make something yummy.” She carried her dog into the kitchen, still smiling.

“Clementine is not going to help you cook,” Emmy Lou argued. “You’re going to put her down. And wash your hands.”

“See how grumpy Auntie Emmy is, Clem?” She giggled as Clementine gave her chin several wet doggy kisses. “I think you’d be a good little sous chef.”

Clem grunted and wiggled.

“After you have a potty break. Maybe? We’ll convince Auntie Emmy, don’t worry.” Krystal carried Clementine to one of the large french doors leading out into the rose garden. A faint melody was taking shape, hints of a connection forming. A solid tempo. Yearning fiddle. She stood in the door, pondering, the heat from the Texas sun and the whir of the cicadas so deafening she lost her train of thought. “Nothing like a Texas summer to remind a gal how blessed she is to have things like air conditioning,” she said over her shoulder.

“If Gramma were here, she’d tell you to stop letting all the bought air out,” Emmy answered.

Which was true. Gramma had been a child of the Depression. Waste not, want not. And letting ice-cold “bought” air drift outside was a pet peeve of hers. “Hurry up, Clem, before Gramma comes back to haunt us.” Krystal laughed as Clem came barreling back across the lawn and inside, heading straight to her water bowl. “I know, it’s hot out there, isn’t it?”

Clementine sat, staring up at her with adoring eyes.

“I know, Clem. I love you too, baby.” She blew the dog kisses, mentally flipping through some of her favorite recipes. “I’m thinking buttermilk biscuits and apple pie?” They were two of her specialties—not that she was out to impress anyone. No way. No one to impress. Not at all. If she were, she’d make her lime sour cream cake. Or her turtle chocolate truffle cake. But she wasn’t. So extra-flaky, extra-sweet, and extra-gooey apple pie would have to do.

“Good.” Emmy opened the fridge. “Roast chicken? Baked potatoes? Salad?”

“Perfect.” Krystal began pulling ingredients: flour, baking soda, buttermilk, eggs. Her favorite ceramic mixing bowl. The melody picked up.

A few words popped up. A male voice was singing. That stopped her. She frowned into the bowl of sifted flour, one cracked egg in her hand. She didn’t write songs for men. Sometimes Travis got a line here or there—part of the chorus—but never a full-out song. And yet the words were definitely masculine. A ballad. Heartfelt and raw.

She’s dancing in his arms now…

She hummed a few notes to get the feel of it.

Just friends. Easy to say. But I miss you. Every damn day…

“New song?” Emmy asked, sounding far away.

She nodded, using two forks to cut the shortening into the flour. No matter how many fancy gadgets her daddy bought her, she insisted on cooking the way her gramma taught her. A dash of this, a pinch of that, and a whole lot of butter. It calmed her, helped her focus.

Tonight’s about them. Not about us. Exchanging their vows. And pledging true love.

He kisses his bride. They both cut the cake. They smile and they laugh, but my damn heart aches.

And seeing her now, on the dance floor, smiling that smile, makes me want more. And all I can say is how I feel.

She dumped the ball of dough onto the marble countertop and rolled it out, sprinkling a bit of flour on top, before smoothing it out with the roller again and pressing the dough into the pie plate.

“It’s got a good melody.” Emmy Lou handed her a large bag of green apples. “I like it.”

“You do?” She smiled at her sister, prepping the apples and swiping the peels and cores into the bag to take to the stables later.

Emmy nodded. “Sad, though.”

Krystal laughed. Most of her songs were sad. It’s not like she set out to write heavy, emotional things—they just sort of fell out of her head and onto sheet music. “You know me.”