Song for a Cowboy (Kings of Country 2)

Since Momma couldn’t stop that from happening, she was bound and determined to be there to make sure he didn’t bother her. Emmy had done her best to assure her he had no interest in talking to her, let alone bothering her. But she’d pulled out the promotional stills from the DFLM shoot, slid them across the counter, and sighed.

“After all he’s put you through, Emmy Lou,” Momma had said. “I think it’s best if you have someone with you who will look out for your best interests.” She’d taken her hand. “And since no one else in this household seems to understand what those are, I’m not leaving your side.”

That was why Krystal had bailed on her. It was hard enough to have her mother and sister in the same room when Momma wasn’t on the warpath. Poor Daddy was bearing the brunt of it. From her razor-sharp tone to the daggers she kept shooting at Daddy, it was going to be a long day—and they hadn’t even started the shoot yet.

Five minutes later, Chad waved her forward. “We’re ready for you, Emmy.”

“That’s my cue.” Emmy smiled, relieved to put some distance between herself and the storm brewing between her parents. She stood on the green X taped to the field. After three walk-throughs, she knew where to hit each mark. The only difference this time? The players would be on the field with her.

Everything was timed to perfection.

The beat started thumping, Chad pointed her way, and the stadium went mostly dark. When the beat dropped, the lights pivoted up, casting her in a foggy spotlight. As the beat continued, she started walking—the next beat drop raining a shower of sparks from overhead. She stopped, dead center, and started singing.

Standing on the field, beneath the floodlights.

I hear the roar of the crowd, wanna make them all proud.

Standing strong and proud, ready for the fight.

My heart’s beating in my chest, know my team is the best.

Each line, a new spotlight would come on and illuminate a player. She’d high-step her way over, toss her hair, pose at their side, and move on. It was easy enough. Some players smiled, others wore their game face; it didn’t matter. These were the players people loved seeing. She only teetered once, the burn in her ankle making one step less deliberate than the rest. But she kept going, hoping only she noticed.

Once the chorus came up, another shower of sparks exploded; a backlight cast her in a blinging halo and the fan had her hair swirling around her shoulders.

She belted out the chorus.

Because I’m a warrior.

This game is a battle.

Because I’m a warrior.

And I fight for you.

Since the Kings were well-known Houston Roughnecks fans, it made sense that she’d end her performance next to a Roughnecks player. Meaning Brock.

Maybe it was knowing her mother was there, watching every little detail, that kept her focused. Maybe it was his chilly behavior in the first-aid station yesterday. Maybe, just maybe, she was finally getting over Brock Watson. Whatever the reason, she strutted into the spotlight with purpose. She planted her feet, stopping directly in front of Brock, and threw her head back as she rounded out the final chorus.

“Because I’m a warrior. Warrior…” She drew in a deep breath, ignoring the throb in her ankle. “And I fight for you.” She pointed at the camera, smiling brightly into the lens.

“And…cut.” Chad was clapping. “That was amazing.” He waved her over. “Come check it. I don’t want to jinx anything, but we might not need to—”

“I don’t want to tell you what to do, of course, but you might want another take.” Momma was using her “aw sugar” voice, all Southern charm. “Poor Emmy Lou did a little biddy, teeny-weeny offbeat step. I’m sure i

t’s fine as is. But you might want to consider another take?”

Chad slid his earphones onto the top of his head. “Oh?” He frowned, leaning forward to stare at the screen. “Where?”

“Let me show you.” Momma was all smiles as she traipsed across the field in her platform heels, white linen pants, and bright-pink silk shirt.

Emmy deflated, doing her best not to put any weight on her injured ankle—or acknowledge the very warm, very solid presence at her back.

“You okay?” Brock’s voice was pitched low, setting the hair on the back of her neck on end.

She barely nodded, not trusting herself to look at him. Especially not now that Momma was watching them, eyes narrowed, over the camera.

“Emmy?” he repeated, his tone far too warm—far too gentle.