With the show not starting until later this evening, we’ve got time to kill. So I do the only thing I can. I show Tish around Broken Heart Creek.
The town is absolutely buzzing. People are everywhere—locals, tourists, Sam Stone fans wearing merch from past tours. We end up parking in a hayfield that’s been converted into overflow, then hoof it into town. The heat’s sticky, the chatter is loud, and my nerves are just barely hanging on.
I point as we walk. “That’s Knot and Spur. It’s a boutique clothing store, grocery store, and bar. All in one.”
Tish squints at the rustic wooden building with its mismatched signage and string lights hanging overhead. “That is wild. Can you imagine something like that in L.A.?”
We share a laugh that feels good, even if it’s short-lived.
I gesture to a small brick building with wide windowsand peeling paint. “That’s the library where we went so I could check my email.” Then I motion across the street. “And that’s Lura’s Porch. I never got a chance to eat there, but Sam said it was great.”
There’s a line out the door. Honestly, everywhere we look has a line. This concert has turned the sleepy town into something alive and bustling, like it’s been jolted with electricity.
“Where’s the concert again?” Tish asks, sipping her iced tea we got from a vendor.
“The fairgrounds, in the rodeo arena,” I reply, my heart thudding just thinking about it. “Which is fitting since Sam raises bronc mares.”
Tish grins and bumps her shoulder into mine. “Listen to you sounding like a real country girl.”
I smile, the breeze catching my hair as I look around this town that somehow still feels like a piece of me.
“I have a real good feeling about tonight,” she says, and I nod, even though the worry still coils tight in my chest.
So do I.
But I don’t voice it. Because as much hope as I have riding on tonight I know I can’t keep chasing a man who may not want to be found. And if I don’t reach him tonight? I don’t know what that will mean. But I’m scared to find out.
We arrive at the arena and find our seats in the fifth row. I frown as I glance down at the dented metal chair, its paint chipping and legs uneven.
Tish leans in with a hopeful smile. “Maybe this’ll work out. Maybe being further back means he’ll be able to see you better. The lights won’t be as blinding from this angle.”
I nod, even though hope feels thin in my chest.
But God must be in one of his moods because themoment Sam steps on stage, the sky cracks open like a broken heart and the rain comes pouring down.
The fans? They go wild. Nobody moves. Nobody leaves. Sam doesn't even flinch. He just stomps through the puddles forming on stage like a man possessed, belting out every lyric with raw, blistering emotion. Each note hits me like a tidal wave, because every single song is about me.
But I know he can’t see me. Because I can barely see him. The rain, the lights, the distance. It’s too much.
As the final chords of one song echo into the wet night, Tish tugs my hand.
“Come on,” she whispers. “If we leave now, we might be the first ones there.”
We slip away from the crowd, weaving through people still crying, clapping, and clinging to the moment. Outside, we find the stage door and, thank the heavens, there's only one security guard posted nearby.
“Evening, ladies,” he says, tipping his head beneath the brim of his hat.
Tish flashes him a charming smile. “Good evening. Would it be okay if we waited here? My friend is hoping to see Sam.”
He grins. “Sam’s a good guy. We went to school together, actually.”
“So, is it alright if we hang out here?” I ask, trying not to sound too desperate.
He nods. “Sure is. Might be a bit, though. Lots of folks here to see him tonight.”
People filter out, some stopping near us. A few more hopeful fans gather under the narrow overhang.
One woman, wearing a shirt with Sam’s face on it and way too much perfume, laughs loudly and says, “I plan on taking Sam Stone home with me tonight.”
