Song for a Cowboy (Kings of Country 2)

“I know, I know but…it was Brock.”

Yes. Brock. She shrugged out of her raincoat and sat in the chair placed next to the diaper-changing station. Her pulse was still way too fast, and her stomach was all twisted up. “I know.” Sitting wasn’t good. She stood, smoothing her pale blue blouse and staring down at her jeans. Her raincoat had left a perfect line midthigh. Above the line, slightly damp. Below the line, saturated. She wiggled her toes in her rainboots, water squishing.

“This sucks.” Krystal cleared her throat. “I wish I were there.”

“I do, too.” She stared at her reflection. “But I know what you’d do if you were here.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“You’d remind me that I already spent too many years and too many tears on him.” Which was true. Their breakup—rather, his sudden and complete disappearance from her life—had almost broken her. She’d cried until she was sick, and Krystal knew it, too. Krystal was the one who pushed her to get up, to keep going, every day. Krystal was the one who told her it was okay to be angry with him for deserting her without a word. And when Emmy Lou was more herself, Krystal had turned all the tears and sadness and anger into their double-platinum single “Your Loss.” “And you’d be right.”

“True.” Krystal paused. “But after I was done telling you all that, I’d get up in his face and chew him out for almost running you over. And that’s just to start.”

Emmy smiled, using toilet paper to dab away the smeared makeup from her eyes. “I’m sure you would.”

“Then I’d tell him to stay the hell away from you,” she snapped. “Like away away from you. And I’d tell Sawyer to punch him in the face. Or the gut. Or wherever it would hurt the most. I’d leave it up to Sawyer to decide—he’d probably know.”

Brock had made a habit of staying away from her, so that wouldn’t be a problem. Starting six years ago—when she’d still been sending letters to him, begging him to tell her why he was suddenly cutting her so completely out of his life. She covered her face with her hands, her stomach knotted and aching. Humiliating, pathetic letters. They should have been burned, not mailed.

“Emmy Lou. Is there anything I can do?” Krystal sighed. “I mean, besides booking a flight home—which I will do as soon as we get off the phone—”

“You will not.” She sighed. “You and Jace are coming home in a week, right? I’ll be more upset about you two cutting your vacation short than running into Brock.” Which was mostly true. “I’m not going to fall apart. I’m not. Okay, he’s here. Now I know. The chances of us running into each other again are slim. Promise me you won’t come home. Finish your vacation.”

Krystal sighed. “Where is Daddy, anyway? Why isn’t he with you?”

“He and Momma had a therapy session this morning—I didn’t want to get in the way of that. Besides, I had Sawyer. Well, until Travis called. I’m fine.” She tugged the band from her hair and twisted, wringing out the water. “You’re right. I do look like a drowned rat.”

“Whatever. You’re you, Emmy. All you have to do is walk into a room and the clouds part and angels sing.”

Emmy laughed. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

“But you’re smiling now,” Krystal said. “And it’s true.” Krystal whispered something but the words were muffled. “Jace is here.” There was smile in her voice.

“I’ll let you go, then.” Emmy put her bag on the counter. “Tell Jace I said hi, okay?”

“He says hi. And he will so kick Brock’s ass if he needs to.” There was a pause. “No, you don’t know him… Yes, the football player… That Brock.” Another pause. “He said he would totally kick his ass.”

Emmy shook her head, but she was smiling. “I’m pretty sure that won’t be necessary. But I appreciate the offer. Love you.”

“You, too, sissy.” Krystal made a kiss sound. “Talk later.”

“Okay.” She dug through her bag, pulling out her brush and makeup bag. Her momma would have a fit if she saw the state of her daughter. CiCi King was all about a woman looking her best—at all times. “Best might be pushing it.” But that didn’t stop her from attempting damage control.

Besides, she needed to remember why she was here. Her sweet daddy had found a way to work on a cause she believed in without interfering with the Three Kings’ upcoming tour. She was the new face and voice of the American Football League. She’d sing their intro anthem, do some PR for the organization, and participate in a couple of the larger American Football League’s Drug Free Like Me events. The charity program raised funds for drug addiction prevention, treatment, and recovery programs as well as outreach education in schools and sports camps. Between her millions of fans and followers and the several millions more football devotees, this was her chance to do something that mattered.

Little things like squishy socks, limp hair, or running into the boy—man—who’d crushed her hopes and dreams and heart didn’t really matter.

* * *

“Don’t you dare get water on my wood floors, Brock Nathaniel Watson.” Aunt Mo’s voice carried all the way down the hall from the kitchen.

Brock stepped back outside the front door, tugged off his worn-to-perfection leather boots, and left them on the ranch house’s massive wraparound porch. His socks were just as saturated. With a sigh, he tugged them off and rolled up the cuffs of his jeans. The damn rain continued to pour down, thick sheets hammering the roof and ground with surprising force. A crack of thunder split the air and rolled across the grey-black sky.

A flash of Emmy Lou, wide-eyed and shaking, with rain dripping off her nose and chin, rushed in on him. Again. He couldn’t shake it—shake her.

She’d been scared stiff. For good damn reason. If his brakes had locked up? His truck had skidded? The crushing pressure against his chest had him sucking in a deep breath, his eyes narrowing as he peered out into the storm. She was okay. Shaken, sure.

Hell, he was damn near in shock. She was the last person he’d expected to see. And this? Well, running her over wasn’t exactly the sort of reunion he’d imagined.