Song for a Cowboy (Kings of Country 2)

For some reason, her wobbling smile gutted him. Probably because it made him think of one of the worst mornings of his life. While he’d been rain-soaked and devastated standing on the porch of the Kings’ house, CiCi had bragged about Emmy Lou’s ability to smile through anything, her gift at performing—on the stage and off. CiCi hadn’t just broken his heart; she’d made him doubt every second he and Emmy Lou had spent together. That was probably the thing he hated most—all those memories tainted.

Now, here she was. Hurt and still forcing a smile. “You don’t have to smile.” He hadn’t meant to snap.

She blinked, sniffing hard, and stared down at her ankle.

Yes, he was a dick. For both of their sakes, he needed to let her family handle this. But one look told him the Kings were leaving the stadium—out of earshot. There was no sign of her looming bodyguard. Some bodyguard. Or the woman with the tablet.

Dammit. He sighed, running a hand along the back of his neck. “Can you walk?”

She nodded, still staring at the ground—sniffing harder now.

He held his hand out.

“I can manage.” Her voice was soft but lined with steel.

Stubborn. He kept his hand out and his mouth shut. From where he stood, he could see that her ankle was already ballooning up. She needed ice and some anti-inflammatories—and his help.

Emmy pushed off the speaker to stand, hissed sharply, and immediately sat. Because she was stubborn. And I’m a dick. He stepped closer, too close for her to ignore his hand. She did—refusing to take his help or look at him. But his frustration faded when a wet spot formed on her shirt, then another.

Tears.

I am a fucking asshole. He’d rather feel irritated than the sudden hard tug in his chest. He didn’t have room for softness when it came to Emmy Lou. Then again, when it came to her, he’d never had a choice. “Emmy.”

Her head popped up, and she furiously wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. The tip of her nose was red. And, dammit, she was still trying to smile.

He crouched beside her, ignoring the sensory overload she triggered. “Let me help you.”

“You need ice for your face. I don’t want to be a bother—”

“Duly noted.” He stood, reached for her, and swung her up into his arms.

“Brock, I can walk.” Her hands pressed against his shoulder.

“I know.” He nodded at her ankle. “If you want to make that worse, you can. Don’t you have a video to make tomorrow?” That was pretty much all the guys could talk about—Emmy Lou King, her legs, her voice, and wondering what sort of getup she’d be wearing for the video.

She was going to argue, he could tell. Instead she said, “I need my purse.”

He stooped and let her grab her purse.

“Thank you.” She stared at her purse.

With his focus fixed on the door to the locker room, he carried her across the field. He didn’t think about the brush of her ponytail against his bare arms or the hitch in her

breath or the way she relaxed into his hold, her slight frame too fragile. She’d always done this—brought out his protective side. Little did he know, he’d been the one who needed protecting from her.

“What about your leg?” She sniffed.

“What about it?” He frowned.

“Should you be carrying me?”

No, definitely not. But that had nothing to do with his leg and everything to do with the effect she had on him. “I’m fine, Emmy Lou.” He would be—once her scent wasn’t filling his nostrils.

“I wasn’t angry about Ricky Ames,” she said suddenly. “I mean, I was. But not about anything he said to me. Guys are like that sometimes.”

I bet they are. Men tended to notice beautiful women. But noticing and acting like a complete prick weren’t the same thing.

“I was upset because of what he said…about you.” Her words ended on a hiccup.