Ouch. But Colt was still smiling, secure in his own worth, his attention already moving on.
He’d never intended to stay, I realized dully. “I’ll get my guitar. Pack my things.”
“No. No, this break is good for you. You sounded great last night. You need to stay until you’re a hundred percent.”
“What about the tour?”
“Don’t you worry about the tour. Mercedes can fill in for you for a while longer. You just concentrate on writing those songs. Dewey’s riding my ass for the new tracks. We’ll be back in the studio before you know it.”
I didn’t protest. I was too stunned.
I was off the tour.
He was leaving. Leaving me. I wasn’t enough to keep him here. I stood numbly as Jimmy loaded the bag in the trunk, as Colt kissed me and got in the limo and drove away.
“You okay?” Dan’s concerned face shimmied in my vision.
I forced myself to smile. “Fine.”
Not fine. My head throbbed, little flashes of light at the back of my eyes. My skin was clammy and cold, my palms sweaty.It’s only temporary, I told myself.“We’ll be back in the studio before you know it.”
Dan was still talking, his voice coming from very far away.
My heart raced. “I... What?”
The ground tilted.
“I’m gonna get your ma,” Dan said before I fell.
Honey?” My mother’s voice was brisk and warm. Her hand was cool and comforting on my forehead, which was strange, because I seemed to be shivering. “Let’s get you up to the house. Amy, you stay here and give Dan a hand with the goats.”
Amy widened her eyes. “But I don’t know what to do,” she said, which was possibly even true. Amy never had liked helping on the farm.
I struggled to sit. “I can help.”
“You fainted,” Amy said.
“Did you eat breakfast?” Momma asked.
No. “I’m fine.”
“The March women’s motto,” Amy said.
Mom gave her a straight look. “Here’s another one. Take care of your sister.”
Amy grinned. “Better Beth than the goats.” She put her arm around me. “Come on, Mouse.”
I’d always liked my nickname.Mouse. It suggested something small, neat, unobtrusive. But now I felt weak and embarrassed. I leaned on Amy as we walked toward the house. “I’m so sorry.”
I was the older sister—by fourteen months—but growing up, it never felt that way. Amy always wantedmore, always rushing ahead while I hung behind, clinging to childhood. I was happy with what we had, still playing with dolls while she paged through teen magazines.
She was surprisingly kind and competent, though, bringing a washcloth for my face as I sat on the edge of the bed. “Can I get you some crackers?”
I shuddered. “I don’t need anything.”
“How about a drink of water?”
“Yes, please.”
