Rough Country (Tannen Boys 3)

Her brows furrow together, turning the lines on her forehead into grooves. In confusion, she repeats after me, “A pear?”

Comprehension dawns on her face, then mine.

“You didn’t want a pear, did you?” I growl.

Her grin is full of unreleased laughter. “No, can’t say that I did. But I’m guessing you’ve been a bit of grump and Brutal thought a few minutes away from you would be nice.”

She’s as blunt as a battering ram, and I can’t help but argue. “I’m not that bad.”

One of her brows quirks and her lips purse. That’s all the rebuttal she needs. “Follow me.”

She crooks a finger, and I follow her into the kitchen, where she’s grabbing two glasses out of the cabinet.

“Is this the part where you ply me with your special sweet tea to make me spill my guts about what’s got me in a mood?” I know I’m being rude, but I can’t find it in me to tone it down, not even for Mama Louise.

She grabs a blue pitcher from the refrigerator and fills the glasses, setting one in front of me. “No, it’s not even two o’clock in the afternoon and my special sweet tea is for evening drinking only.”

“It’s so bad, you can only do it in the dark?”

She swats my shoulder, but not angrily. “Filthy boy. Drink that water. You need it after the morning in the field, and if Brutal needs to be clear of you for a few minutes, you’re not sitting around like a bump on a log. You can help me work.”

I grunt but swallow down the cool, refreshing water.

“Good. Follow me,” she orders again, and like a good dog, I do.

Outside, her garden is thick and lush. She’s definitely got a green thumb, gifted with getting things to grow tall and hardy. Like her sons. Like us Tannens, even though we were full-grown when she pulled us out of our too-small pots and replanted us in richer soil.

“We’re weeding the garden and harvesting anything that looks ready.” All business and no mushy stuff, we get to it.

It’s quiet as we work, and I find myself humming. After a bit, Mama Louise hums along with me, picking up the melody from Dig Down Deeper.

“That one new?” she asks.

She’s broaching the subject carefully, casually, as if I won’t catch on to our conversational topic if she doesn’t spell it out for me in bold, exclamation marked statements like Shayanne is prone to do.

“Yep.” That’s all she’s getting from me, today or any other day.

“It’s pretty.”

I wait for the questions that don’t come—what’s wrong? Why are you grumpy? Wanna talk about Nashville?

The answers—Nothing. Same as always. No.

But we’re silent. I dig into the earth, feeling its cool graininess in my hands. Mama Louise lets me avoid her unasked questions for a long while.

Finally, she’s had enough and stops, resting her dirty hand on her face to shield her eyes from the sun.

“If you’ve gotten so grumpy that Brutal is ditching you, we should probably figure out what we’re doing tomorrow too. You thinking we should can some bourbon carrots or weed the yard? Both gotta get done, so I’ll let you choose.”

“I can’t. Brutal and I have another row to check.”

“Then you’d better get yourself in a better mood, mister. Pull that weed,” she directs, pointing at a big one I missed with my distracted mind elsewhere.

I yank on it hard, taking out my frustrations on the weed that’s grown where it shouldn’t be. A lot like me. I’ve grown tall and hardy here in Great Falls, and it’s a great . . . garden. But what if I’m meant for another, bigger garden of my own? Like Nashville.

The weed gives way suddenly, and I go sprawling on my ass in the dirt. Knees bent, I rest my arms on them and let my head fall.

“They offered me the record deal,” I whisper. I shouldn’t confess to this. It’ll ruin everything, but I can’t stop it from affecting me and that’s ruining me too.

Mama Louise doesn’t so much as slow down with her weed pulling. “Of course they did. The question is . . . why did you say they didn’t?”

I blink in confusion. “Wait, you knew I got an offer?”

She stops, her eyes boring into me. She’s always had kind eyes, blue and fringed with dark blonde lashes, but now, those eyes are looking at me as if I’m dumber than the tomato plants.

“Of course they’d want you. Your songs are amazing, poetry like nothing I’ve ever heard. You’ve got the voice of an angel” —I snort in disbelief, but she steamrolls over me— “mixed with the grit of the devil. It’s beautiful, Bobby. A gift.”

I let her compliments sink in. Most folks, I simply brush their praise off. But not hers. Mama Louise’s means something to me.