Rough Country (Tannen Boys 3)

“Huh, well then it sounds like we’re both gonna be fine.” Unc’s decree is final, a sign to the universe that he won’t have it any other way. Surprisingly, it does settle the butterflies in my belly.

I look past Unc, down the bar to see Doc Jones and Richard. They lift their beers my way, signaling that they’ve got Unc. I know for a fact that Doc Jones will call me if he feels it’s warranted. He’s done it before. And he’s got both Mom’s number and mine. Plus, Mom is coming back for another visit next month.

Mom is making up for lost time with Unc, much the same way I have. Not by working the bar but by visiting and talking on the phone. I’m not sure about what—that’s between them—but whatever happened with Grandpa seems to be water under the bridge.

But I haven’t answered fast enough for Unc, and he bends down, getting in my face. “You’re getting on that bus, capiche? But you’ve still got one more shift scheduled so you’d best get to it. No lollygagging about. Don’t make me fire you on your last day.”

I roll my eyes at his exaggeration but can’t help pressing a quick kiss to his scruffy cheek. “On it, Unc.”

This time, when I start cutting the lemon, it’s with a clearer mind and heart. I’m doing this . . . going on the road with Bobby because Unc is okay. Well, he’s still a grumpy, stubborn old man, but he’s as healthy as a horse and that’s what counts.

Who would’ve thought this is how my life would turn out that day I drove into Great Falls, yelling at the mountain for judging me? Maybe I just hadn’t realized that it was welcoming me home.

“Hey, everyone. I’m Bobby Tannen.”

The no-big-deal greeting is almost comical at this point because everyone knows who Bobby is. Literally everyone.

He’s had two more number-one songs since he got that first big check, and one of his hits plays on country radio every hour of the day. His three-month concert tour is completely sold out, and there’s a whole new group of people clamoring to get a piece of him.

But he’s taking it all in stride as long as I’m by his side. That’s what’s important to us both.

He strums the strings of Betty, looking thoughtful. “For a long time, I fought doing this. I would play in the fields, and Brutal was the only one subjected to my shitty songs.”

The audience laughs, and Bobby smirks, holding them in the palm of his hand even as Brutal shouts from the reserved family table, “Off-key every time until I taught him how to carry a tune in a bucket.”

Ignoring the dig, Bobby continues. “Eventually, I found my balls, and Hank over there gave me a chance.”

“Cocky shithead wouldn’t take no for an answer,” Unc yells over the din, keeping Bobby grounded and not letting his head get too big.

“Not like you paid me for those first gigs, anyway,” Bobby retorts.

The crowd looks behind them, waiting for Unc’s comeback, but he throws a dismissive hand in the air, giving Bobby the win.

“So I started singing up here,” Bobby continues, “and it healed something broken in me. You helped me do that.” It’s a heavy confession, meaningfully exposing Bobby’s soft underbelly, something he rarely does, even to me. “Now they want me to go around and sing for more folks. And I’m excited to do it, ain’t gonna lie about that. But it won’t ever be the same as singing right here at home. So, thank you . . . for listening, for singing with me, for making me well enough to do this for my family.” He throws a meaningful look to the Tannens and Bennetts in the corner. “For myself.”

Unexpected silence settles over the crowd, and then applause bursts out.

“Give ’em hell, Bobby!”

“Sing your heart out!”

“Bobby! Bobby! Bobby!”

That one turns into a chant, booted feet stomping to the beat. I think Bobby is getting his first real taste of what this concert tour might be like because his dark eyes go wide in surprise, and under the bright light, I can see a blush to his cheeks.

“Thank you.” One last sincere phrase, and then he shakes his head, back to his gruff attitude. “Let’s sing some shit.”

And he does. He sings all his number-one songs, does a few favorite covers, and then sings a few songs off his just-released album. It’s the first time he’s played some of these in public, but the crowd sings along as though they’ve heard them dozens of times before.

I think Bobby’s surprised at that, though he shouldn’t be. He wrote them on a trip to Nashville in January, and they haven’t even hit radio play yet. Miller had been happy to work with Bobby again, regardless of what record company he was signed with, and they’d made some beautiful music together.