But here’s the weird part. For someone dubbed country music’s top star, there’s surprisingly little out there. Sure, there are tabloid rumors like bar fights, whirlwind romances, a DUI that got mysteriously buried. But nothing solid. No long interviews, no profiles, no heartfelt ballads about his hometown in rural Wyoming. Just smoke and shadows and a voice that sells out arenas and a body to match.
It doesn’t make sense.
Stars like Sam don’t get to be enigmas in the age of the internet. Not unless theywantto be.
By Sunday night, I’m sitting cross-legged on my couch, surrounded by empty coffee cups and a growing sense that this could actually be something. Because when someone that famous goes quiet and no one seems to notice? That’s a story.
And my gut says it has something to do with GwendolynStone. She’s Sam’s ex-wife and the one person who seems to have vanished even harder than he has. They divorced three years ago, right at the height of his fame. The headlines were brutal:Golden Boy Leaves High School Sweetheart Behind,Gwendolyn Who?,Country’s Favorite Stud Back on the Market.
Then, just like that, she disappeared from the narrative. No interviews. No sightings. No social media. Nothing. It’s like she stepped off the face of the earth. And now Sam’s missing concerts, ducking the spotlight, and nobody’s asking the right questions.
But I am.
My finger hovers over my phone. Frederick’s number is right there. One tap, and I could tell him I have a lead. A real one. The kind of story that could put me back on the map.
But I don’t call.
Why?
Because I don’t trust him anymore. I saw what happened last time. How fast he acceptedmystory from Kurt even though he knew it was my idea. And Jenny? She’s always right behind Kurt, riding the wave of other people’s work with that sweet, harmless smile like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
I don’t care how sincere Frederick’s pity face is. I know what it looks like when someone’s already written you off. And maybe the worst part? I think he has. And deep down, I’m terrified he’s right to.
But this story is mine. I can feel it in my bones. So, I don’t call. Not yet.
Instead of calling Frederick, I book a flight from Los Angeles to Sheridan, Wyoming. Just like that. No second-guessing. No overthinking.
Okay, maybe alittleoverthinking.
I stare at my half-empty suitcase like it might magicallytell me what people wear in small-town Wyoming. Google says the weather’s unpredictable this time of year with sunshine one minute and rainstorms the next, so I throw in layers. Lots of them. Jeans. Flannels. A jacket that hasn’t seen the light of day since my last failed relationship. And after some late-night online shopping, I add a pair of cute cowboy boots to my cart.
Are they practical? Who knows?
Do they make me feel like I might blend in better or at least fake it till I make it? Absolutely.
Besides, if I’m going to chase a story in the middle of nowhere, I might as well look the part.
Next stop: Broken Heart Creek.
Home of… honestly, I don’t know what. But maybe, just maybe, the truth.
2
My flight leaves bright and early Monday morning.
Okay, who am I kidding? It leaves at ten. But for someone who considers anything before noon a personal attack, that still counts as early.
The flight’s going to take roughly five hours, give or take a layover. Once I land, I’ll be an hour ahead of LA time. Apparently, Wyoming doesn’t observe daylight savings. Honestly? Good for them. That’s the kind of rebel energy I can get behind.
I double check my boarding pass, then glance at the half-hearted sunshine bleeding through the airport windows. The terminal smells like burnt coffee and industrial floor cleaner. Somehow, that feels fitting.
On the flight, I pull out my notebook and flip through the pages. I’ve officially become a walking, talking encyclopedia of all things Sam Stone.
Ask me anything—I dare you.
Favorite color? Black.
Horse’s name? Goliath.
