Song for a Cowboy (Kings of Country 2)

“He asked me to.” She frowned. “You heard? Why?”

“I did. And some nurses. A few of them stopped to listen.” He sighed. “And recorded it.”

“Oh no.” She pressed against her temples and closed her eyes. Well, that clinched it. She’d waltzed in with cookies and good intentions and wound up putting a media target on Brock and his family. If he’d been mad at her before, he’d be furious now. “Of course, they did. That’s the whole reason I came. To keep my family front and center in the papers. Always. Momma would be so proud of me.”

* * *

Brock stared out the window, the clicking of Aunt Mo’s knitting needles sounding just like the second hand of a stopwatch. Each click, each second, a countdown—until Emmy Lou was gone.

Off this floor.

Out of the hospital.

Gone.

Why she’d come didn’t matter. She had come. She brought gifts, held his father’s hand, and sang him to sleep. She remembered that his father’s favorite cookie was a snickerdoodle. She remembered how much he loved Patsy Cline’s “Sweet Dreams.” She’d made his father happy. She’d done all that.

Why?

Did it matter? Shit. He could be too late—she might already be gone. Shit.

“Be back.” He pulled the door open and headed toward the bank of elevators at the end of the hall.

Emmy Lou was waiting at the elevator, leaning heavily against her bodyguard. Another reminder. Even with a sprained ankle, she’d come to see his father. He hadn’t said one word to her. Not that he had any idea what he would say. He reached them just in time to hear her say, “That’s the whole reason I came. To keep my family front and center in the papers. Always. Momma would be so proud of me.”

Brock came to a complete stop. Her words echoed in his head. The papers? To make her mother proud? Are you fucking kidding me?

Ice seeped into his veins, easing the hollowness eating away at his insides. What was wrong with him? One out-of-the-blue visit and he was ready to give her the benefit of the doubt. Why was he so willing to believe she’d changed? That she would ever change? What was it about her that turned him into such a fucking idiot?

He wasn’t hurt; he wasn’t giving her that sort of power. And he sure as hell wasn’t giving her one more minute of his time. Before he could turn around, Emmy turned and saw him, her green eyes wide. “Brock?”

Walk away. Don’t talk to her.

How could she look him in the eye? How could she visit her father, say and do all those sweet things, for publicity? What the hell is wrong with her? It felt good to get angry. Not just angry—furious. Keep your shit together. Now that they were surrounded by a group of curious bystanders, there would be no walking away. “Emmy.” His voice was thick and low.

She noticed the interest they were causing. “Can we talk for a minute?” They had an audience, which was probably why she wanted to talk.

No. It was one word. But he couldn’t say it. Pissed or not, he wasn’t going to come off as the asshole here. “There’s a family room down the hall.” Whatever happened next would be between the two of them—no one else.

“Okay.” Her voice was soft and uncertain. She was so damn convincing.

“Alone,” he added, giving her bodyguard a meaningful look.

“Okay.” A dip formed between her brows.

“You sure?” The bodyguard didn’t acknowledge his existence. He was too busy giving Emmy Lou a very disapproving look.

“I’m sure, Sawyer.” She didn’t look sure. Probably because the only reason she’d had anything to say was because of their audience. Reluctant or not, she took an unsteady step forward. “Lead the way.”

He didn’t want to help her, he didn’t want to touch her, but—like it or not—manners had been too ingrained in his upbringing not to hook her arm through his. The stroke of her fingers along the inside of his forearm set his hair on edge. Which pissed him off even more. He relived every second of her visit, every smile, every touch… Hearing her intentions firsthand had cut him to the core. Her momma would be proud.

By the time they’d reached the empty family room, he’d managed to rein in his temper—somewhat. He turned on the light and closed the door as she asked, “It’s Alzheimer’s, isn’t it?”

Maybe part of her did care. How else could she sound so concerned and look so damn heartsick? But he’d heard her; he knew her affection for his father wasn’t why she was here.

To look at her, he’d never believe her callous and unfeeling. Standing there in her cream lacy skirt and silky pink top, with her hair tied back and sparkly studs in her ears and those ever-steady green eyes, it was no wonder she had everyone fooled. Everyone but him.

“You can sit.” He nodded at one of the standard waiting room chairs lining the far wall.