Song for a Cowboy (Kings of Country 2)

The knot in her throat turned jagged. When he’d been drafted into the AFL, they knew things would change between them. But deep down, she’d believed him when he said he’d write to her. He’d promised nothing would change between them—that he’d love her forever.

He’d lied. Not her.

“One, two, three.” Leon tapped his foot.

At first it was a bunch of notes and noise, but then it became more recognizable. “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” on the recorder, maracas, and triangle was something else. But the kids gathered at the front of the stage, singing and laughing. She joined in, too. Then the song was over and only Brock was playing.

Emmy Lou sat up, surprised at the first notes. He was playing what she’d just performed, “I Got Your Back.” It was one of those songs that stuck at the top of the charts for almost a year. Afterward, the catchy anthem about teamwork and friendship had been used by numerous organizations—including the football league.

Brock might have given her up, but he hadn’t given up the guitar. Wrong or not, it hurt. Which made things that much worse. For all her big talk, it—he, their past—still affected her. She didn’t want him to have the power to hurt her anymore. Why am I giving it to him? She didn’t want to be the nun of country music. She wanted to love someone; she wanted someone to love her. One thing was certain: that someone wasn’t, and never would be, Brock Watson.

* * *

His fingers slid along the strings, each note adding to his mounting regret. What the hell was he thinking? The answer was obvious. Right or wrong, pathetic or not, it was a test. Would she react? Would there be even the slightest reaction to his playing? Or the guitar? Did she ever think about those days, the two of them, so wrapped up in each other—so confident in the illusion of a future together? Maybe it had never been real to her. Maybe he’d been too blind to see that. There was a mile-long list of questions he’d never get answered. But one bothered him more than the rest. Why the hell does any of this still matter so damn much?

When the song was over, the dull roar of the stadium rose. The audience, three-hundred-plus elementary- and middle-school-aged kids, were clapping and screaming like he was a rock star.

“Freight train and music legend,” Clay Reese said, still holding up his phone. “Not too bad, but how about we leave the music to the professional? Emmy Lou?”

He watched as she slid off the stool, her ponytail swinging and her shiny, pink lips smiling.

“I might have one or two songs.” Emmy Lou nodded, the mic clasped in both hands. “But before that, how about another hand for them? That was some performance, wasn’t it?” She tilted her head in their direction, her green gaze bouncing from one to the next—stopping just shy of him. With a little skip in her step, she stared out over the kids and started clapping. “Let’s keep this party going.”

When Emmy started singing and his friends and teammates started dancing, he carried his guitar off the stage. He crouched, opening the beaten-up case and placing the guitar inside with care.

“Brock.” Hank King was there, standing in the shadows just out of sight of the stage. There was a warm smile on his face. “Good to see you, son.” He took Brock’s hand and shook it, his other hand clapping Brock on the shoulder.

“Mr. King.” He was at a loss. He’d looked up to Hank King—thought he was a good man. To Brock, he’d seemed like this genuinely hardworking, talented family man with one hell of a knack for business. He’d welcomed Brock, taken an interest in his future, and supported his dream of playing pro ball. If the man had concerns about the relationship between him and Emmy Lou, he’d never said so. But when Brock had shown up on that long-ago, miserable, rainy morning, Hank King hadn’t stepped in or tried to stop his wife from severing the last threads of hope Brock had been clinging to.

“You kept up with it.” Hank nodded at the guitar case. “You sounded real good out there.”

Brock shook his head. “I’ll stick to football.”

“Glad to hear it.” Hank laughed. “How’s the leg? We’ve been waiting, hoping you’d be back on the field this season.”

Brock didn’t speculate about who the “we” was. “Doc thinks I should be good soon.” He shrugged. Just not soon enough. Every damn time he went in for a checkup, the doctor pushed his release back. Brock didn’t want to take chances—his body was his career and he needed to be in peak condition—but that was before Ricky Ames had shown up.

“Glad to hear it.” Hank shook his head. “The rhythm is off on the field. Without you, there’s a hole in the defensive line.”

He kept his opinions to himself. His loyalty was with his team, so he’d never agree with Hank—even if the man was right. After his injury, the Roughnecks had struggled through the remainder of the season. And even though he’d been recovering from an injury and nowhere near the field, he’d gotten all kinds of shit for the team’s less-than-impressive season.

“Shows the kind of leader you are on the field,” Hank continued. He peered onto the stage before adding, “Glad things worked out for you, son. I always knew you’d get what you wanted.”

Brock studied the older man’s profile. It had been years since he’d seen him, aside from his new music videos and album covers; there was always plenty of Hank King and his family in the media. At times, it seemed like every detail of the Kings’ lives was tracked and reported on. To Brock, Hank King had aged with every new picture. In person, Hank K

ing’s deeply lined forehead, graying temples, and overall weariness were telling. “I just wanted to say how sorry I am for what your family has been through the last few months.” He meant it.

Hank faced him, a sad smile on his face. “That means a lot, son. It’s been hell.” Hank paused. “You haven’t had it all that easy yourself. You doing okay?”

Brock’s nod was stiff. Day by day. That’s all he could do. The last four years of his life had been one trial after another. Every day, he reminded himself of the reasons he had to stay clean, stay strong, and keep going. Namely, his father—and Aunt Mo.

“Glad to hear it.” Hank nodded. “This life will either make you or break you. It’s finding the good—good people, good causes—that make it worth it.”

Brock didn’t disagree. But good people were harder to find than good causes. His glance swiveled to the stage. Emmy Lou, her hand up over her head and one foot tapping, belted out the chorus to “Try and Stop Me.” She knew how to put on a show. Her voice was only part of it. When she performed, she lost herself in the music—and carried the audience away with her. The kids in the audience were singing, so Emmy Lou held out the mic to them, her smile wide and sweet and beautiful. A different ache, cold and hard, took up residence in the pit of his stomach.

“Brock?” Shalene was hurrying down the ramp to the side of the stage. “Brock, you have a phone call.”

The look on Shalene’s face triggered instant panic. “From who?” He was down the stairs and jogging to meet her, ignoring the stares and whispers of the staff and volunteers nearby.