Page 133 of Risking it for the Cowboy

That was a hell if I know if he’d ever seen one. She’d been attacked last night. Hurt. Her and Daisy were probably back at her house with the busted window and the sagging floors and memories of Jason beating on doors.

The illness roiled again. He swallowed hard to hold the bile in and cleared his throat to loosen the tightness that kept gripping him.

“I’ll repay y’all the registration fee when my auto works engine coughs up a payment.”

Bo and Jack glanced at each other, frowning. “What fee? We didn’t pay a fee—”

“This next one, y’all, has taken East Texas by storm!” the master of ceremonies, an Austin radio personality, reverberated through the speakers. “Regular features on our partner station KXLT 102 the Goat’s Homegrown Hour, they’ve made waves with their newest song ‘Flower Girl’ and their signature style hearkening to old school classics and bluegrass pickin’—”

T.R.’s chest squeezed again. Fuck! He pounded his chest. The crowd and the judges were going to expect the banjo. But he was only one set of hands and there’d be no melody without the guitar.

“With only four minutes to wow the judges, let’s give it up for the final act of the Homegrown Awards Show! With more than a decade on the music circuit, maybe this will be a big break foooorrr … McClintooooock aaaannd the Disclaimers!”

The crowd roared, like rivers rushing over a fall.

“Three, two, one … go.”

The manager gestured out stage right. Into the lights projecting down from the batten. Into the setting sun hovering over the trees and shining onto their faces.

They waved to the flock. T.R. forced a smile, raising his guitar pick high as light glinted off his belt buckle, as Jack saluted and Bo waved his sticks and then climbed up to the drum set perched on a platform behind them.

The crowd hushed. The panel of judges sat forward on the dais in front of the crowd. Dylan Jones front and center, country legend. Aussie singer Brayden Bones, who’d made a name for himself opening for Keith Urban and now signed record deals as an agent in Nashville, sat to Jones’s left. Natasha “Nettie” Blackrose with her giant Dallas hair and rhinestones the size of lone stars sat tucked in the middle, an old-school vocalist in her seventies known for her bedazzled denim and cowgirl boots summed up the panel to his right. And lastly, Ricky Ortega. He watched them curiously, brow riveted. Had Ortega seen what had happened last night? Seen Jason strike her and him see red? Something about his serious expression told T.R. that he had.

“Hello, y’all. Tell us about yourselves,” James said, his signature tinted glasses on.

T.R. cleared his throat. The ache in it wouldn’t abate, even if his lungs had finally calmed to normal tempo again.

“Hi, folks. I’m McClintock, and this is Jack and Bo. Jack’s a dad of two boys and runs the best damn BBQ truck in Nacogdoches County. He ain’t just smokin’ on the bass, he’ll smoke you some brisket too.”

The crowd laughed.

“Bo here on drums might be quiet—”

Ba-dum-tss! The audience laughed at Bo’s spontaneous humor.

“But don’t be fooled. He’s a daredevil as a top rodeo bullfighter in the PRCA, and plays like Animal on that set…” The laughter surged again.

Braydon, known for his hard looks and few words, cracked a rare smile. But then, he looked at Charlie’s banjo. Alone. On its stand. The bit T.R.’d written to introduce her stuck in his throat.

“And, uh … yeah. Ch…” The air left his lungs for a beat, to utter her name out loud. “Charlie couldn’t be here today. Been kinda a crazy night, gettin’ here and all.” Ortega’s brow pleated further. “Which is a shame for y’all, ’cause Charlie might give Earl Scruggs a run for his money. The most talented banjoist … the coolest little girl named Daisy…” His voice left him again. “Makin’ it as a single parent and teaching paleobotany at our local college.”

“He sounds like an amazing man,” Jones said. “A shame we can’t meet him.”

The hurt in his chest hurt, squeezed harder. Ortega leaned forward now, as if waiting for T.R. to correct James.

He scuffed the toe of his boot into a dent on the stage instead, clenching his jaw hard so the damned thing didn’t tremble. He couldn’t. Couldn’t make her real to this crowd.

“You think you have a shot at winning without this important piece to your audition?” Ortega asked.

He fixed his charming grin on his lips. Lifted his eyes and swept his arm out at the audience. What a waste of Bo and Jack’s three hundred bucks.

“We’ll sure try our best.” A giant no, because how did one pour water from an empty well? How did one make art without a muse? “So, without further ado, we’re gonna play our—”

“What about you?” Nettie asked.

“What about me, ma’am?” he asked the country starlet who’d shut down a packed Dolly’s Stampede.

The woman, a grandma who’d held babies on her hips and old folks’ hands while they passed, steepled her ringed fingers at her lips, and leveled a deciphering look at him. She could look deep all she wanted. Ain’t gonna find any water in this here well.