Say You'll Marry Me

She was right, of course, but she didn’t have to throw it in his face. Despite their somewhat amicable parting, her lack of faith had eaten at him all afternoon while he changed the oil in her grandfather’s tractor. The belittling feeling had burrowed deeper as he fixed the pasture gate, and now headed home.

He didn’t know if she’d called Brian Thomas to halt the money transfer or not—didn’t even want to know, because if it was done, it was done, and there was nothing he could do about it.

But he didn’t want it done, damn it. A man was supposed to be able to provide for his wife, not have her pay his debt.

You’re not really going to marry her, idiot!

He frowned at the thought, then thrust it aside. The thing was, he was thirty-two years old and always figured he’d have a family of his own someday. Between Joy’s challenge, and Edna and Millie’s snide remarks, his pride was taking a hell of a beating. Whether he had to pay the bank, or Joy, it was time to prove to everyone he wasn’t just some poor farmer who wasn’t good enough.

In the next instant, his heart jammed up into his throat and shortened his breath. Less than two weeks to come up with a half-million dollars—legally—was impossible. He’d fail for sure and prove everyone right. That thought did nothing to ease the constriction in his chest.

“What about your music?”

This time his stomach roiled, and he shook his head as he pulled into his own driveway. The songs he wrote were never intended for anyone else’s ears. They were personal to him, so why would anyone else want to listen?

Besides, with no formal training on the guitar, or for song writing, no one was going to pay money for his stuff. A lot of it was crap. He didn’t doubt Joy had only said he was good to be nice, and if he gave her anything to send to her friend, she’d probably have the guy pretend to buy a bunch of the songs and pay for them herself. Since they were already so good at pretending, it would be a convenient workaround to giving him the money.

“You ain’t sending anything to anyone, so stop thinking about it.”

Except he couldn’t. All through checking his herd, filling water tanks, feeding hay, and maintenance on his own few remaining pieces of equipment, the idea nagged at him. It was well after dark when he went into the house to scrub the grease and oil off his hands before showering and downing a large bowl of cereal for dinner.

Dressed in a T-shirt and cotton shorts, he went out on the porch to sit in his father’s rocking chair with the radio tuned to a country station through the open window. As usual for mid-September, the night air was cool, but after the heat of the Indian Summer day, the slight chill felt good on his skin.

He leaned his head back and let the music wash over him, listening to the words and melodies with a critical ear. Mixed in with the drinking and cheating songs, there were quite a few stories about the important things in life. Home. Family. God. Friends. He’d known they were there all along, it was what drew him to the genre in the first place, but now he realized some of them weren’t so very different in sentiment from the lyrics he wrote.

But would his be good enough?

That sickening roller coaster feeling hit him in the gut again as his cell phone rang. Thankful for the distraction, he got to his feet to grab it off the counter. When he realized it was almost ten p.m. and saw the Dolinski ranch number on the caller I.D., his pulse skipped.

“Hey, Al, what’s up?”

“Logan, it’s Joy.”

Now it was the sound of her voice that made his heart beat faster. “Oh…hey. Is everything all right? Your grandparents okay?”

“Yeah. They’re sleeping.”

“I thought something might be wrong seeing how late it is.”

“Oh, no, sorry. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No. Just…not used to calls this late.” Or ever.

“I tried calling earlier, but there was no answer, so…”

“I was out in the barn.”

“I figured.” There was an awkward pause before she continued. “I wanted to apologize, and let you know that I did call Brain to cancel the payment earlier. After…you know, I went back inside.”

After their kiss. The pause told him she was remembering the lip lock just like him. The memory was enough to distract him, and it took a few seconds for his brain to process her words. Relief and pressure made an odd combination. He ignored the incre

ased volume of his internal ticking clock and focused on the first emotion.

“Thank you.”

She gave a soft laugh that triggered a sharp pang of longing. “There aren’t many people who would thank me for not helping them.”

“I’m not like most people.”