Once he agreed to a wedding date and said, “I do.”
Their families expected him and Kelsey to marry, seeing as they were high school sweethearts and got engaged after graduation ten years ago. Kelsey was sweet and generous, his first love. So what was stopping him from setting a wedding date with her? It’d make everyone happy...
“Can we get your autograph?” A trio of gals shimmied close, wriggling in their boots and fringed skirts as they stared Heath up and down like he was the last steak at a family reunion.
He shot them a giggle-inducing smile and signed the backs of their phone covers with an offered Sharpie. They flicked their hair and batted eyelashes long enough to scare a daddy longlegs.
“Call me, sexy.” One of them shoved a paper in his pocket before traipsing out the door, Silver Spurs’s last customers.
Heath read a cell number on the note followed by a <3 Jaimey and crumpled it up.
“Did you make up your mind about Nashville?” Clint snagged the paper, drained his brew and chucked the can in the recycle bin behind the bar.
“Hey!” groused Kevin, Silver Spurs’s owner. “Make yourselves useful and put up some chairs.”
“You got it.” Heath quit drinking, despite his dry, hoarse throat, and headed for tables grouped around a pool table.
“Do you ever say no?” Clint caught the dishrag Kevin hurled at him and wiped surfaces as Heath cleared.
“He’s a people pleaser.” One of the waitresses, June, held out her tray for the empties Heath collected. “My therapist says I’m one, too. Means you always make everyone else happy except yourself. That’s why I owe five hundred bucks to Pampered Chef.”
Clint slapped the dishrag on another table and swished it across the wet-ringed surface. “Are those pans solid gold?”
June laughed and her earrings, peeking from beneath a short pouf of strawberry blond hair, danced. “My friends threw parties all month. I had to order from each or I’d offend them.” She shifted her weight and sighed. “See? Can’t say no, just like Heath. Though that’s why we all love our heartbreaker.” Her nails lightly scraped his cheek as she patted it. “Just remember: ‘to please is a disease.’” She sashayed away.
“I’ve said no before.” Heath diligently stacked Kevin’s chairs, despite needing to get home for some shut-eye. In four hours, he’d be vaccinating calves alongside his brothers. He rubbed his gritty eyes, then hoisted another chair.
And what was wrong with wanting to make people happy?
“Like when?” Clint scooped peanut shells into a pail.
“Ummmmm...” Heath’s brow creased as he searched out an example. “I didn’t let Pete Stoughton borrow my bike.”
“Dude, that was in eighth grade,” Clint laughed.
“Still counts.” Heath positioned the last chair and hustled back to his half-finished beer. The empty bar top met his eye. He bit back a request for another when Kevin pressed a hand to his back as he straightened from the mini fridge.
“What about Nashville? Are you saying no to that?” Clint tossed his dishrag into a bucket filled with cleaning fluid.
“Nashville?” Remmy ended what’d sounded like an argument on his cell phone and joined them. “What’re you talking about?”
“Clint’s been posting our videos on YouTube. Some Nashville person saw them and wants to give me a tryout.” Heath propped a hip against the bar, his tone casual, as if this wasn’t the biggest thing that’d ever happened to him.
“Some Nashville person? It’s Andrew Parsons!” Clint grabbed a cherry from the garnish bin and tossed it in his mouth.
Remmy’s eyes bulged. “You’re fooling, right?”
Heath shook his head and despite his best effort to act unruffled, the movement was jerky, tense.
“He owns Freedom Records.” Remmy shoved his longish hair from his face. “They’re the biggest country music company in America. Heath’s gonna be famous.”
Heath held up a hand. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. It’s only a tryout. A snowball in hell has a better chance than me earning a contract. I’m not sure if I’m even doing it.”
Clint jabbed his index finger into Heath’s chest. “You gotta do it, dude.”
“You want me to leave the band?” Heath shoved his balled hands into his jeans pockets.
Clint shrugged. “Once you make it, you’ll bring us with you.”
Heath scuffed floor dust with his boot tip. “What’s wrong with just gigging?”
“Nothing if you want to get paid in beer and pocket change and never have anyone except Carbondale hear your originals. You’ve got talent. Don’t waste it.” Clint ambled behind the bar and popped the tops off some longnecks when Kevin disappeared into the back room. “Wouldn’t you like to make real money?”
Heath lifted the offered beer and sipped. Writing and performing music had never been about money. He understood the grasp music had over people, what they needed it for, how it got them through and the role he played. He lived his life in service to song. Freedom Records would help him reach more people, millions of lives to touch...to move. He wanted the chance as badly as he wanted his next breath.
Remmy waved a hand. “Once he marries Kelsey, he’ll be plenty rich.”
Heath bristled. “Who’s saying that?” Locals had accused Pa of marrying Heath’s now-deceased mother for her money. The rumor mill revived last week when he married Joy Cade, the well-off widow and matriarch of their feuding neighbors, a rivalry that began over 130 ago with a suspicious death, vigilante justice and a priceless jewel theft.
Remmy chortled. “Just about everyone in Carbondale.”
Clint nodded. “Quit being so sensitive.”
Heath raised his bottle to cover his red face. His brothers had dubbed him “The Sensitive Cowboy” when he’d been the only one able to soothe their disturbed alcoholic mother with music. He’d been the family peacekeeper and her minder, keeping her from calamity until he’d made one selfish decision and it ended in tragedy. He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood.
Clint cocked his head, studied Heath a long moment, then shoved his shoulder. “Lighten up, dude. And what was with that solo? Must have been one of them scouts in the audience.”
“Yeah,” Remmy chimed in. “That was triple time.”
Jewel’s magnetic brown eyes returned to Heath. “Just thought I’d shake things up.” He donned his leather jacket.
Clint blocked Heath’s path to the door. “So, are you going to Nashville?”
Heath fumbled with his zipper. “I have to talk to Kelsey first.”
Remmy shrugged into a plaid jacket smelling faintly of hay, feed and manure. “If she loves you, she’ll support you.”
“Yeah, right,” Clint scoffed, guffawing, then sobered when he met Heath’s scowl.
Sure, Kelsey was a bit traditional. The only child of wealthy parents, she wanted the kind of respectable, conventional life she’d grown up with...white-collar parents who toiled at desks, not on microphones or in the saddle. People who sipped champagne at charity benefits rather than slugging beer in a stifling honky-tonk.
Kelsey was used to getting what she wanted, and she worked hard to get it. He’d