People clapped wildly.
Markus howled like a wolf.
As Mav walked onto the stage and took the guitar, Poppy, who had been sitting by Sierra, chatting away about her day, came to Nina. She climbed up onto Nina’s lap without pause, said, ‘My dad sings good.’
‘I bet,’ Nina managed, but she couldn’t tear her eyes off the stage, where Mav was settling in, strumming the guitar as naturally as if he played for a living.
God, he was sexy, dressed in blue jeans and a black Hunt Ranch shirt, his ball cap on backwards.
‘I promised a special woman that I’d sing for her sometime, and, well, this song is one of my favourites,’ he said into the mic. ‘I’m a little rusty, so you’ll have to forgive any mistakes.’
People laughed.
Maverick looked right at Nina, winked. ‘This is “Run” by George Strait.’
Nina wasn’t familiar with the song, but it was obviously popular. She looked around as people whooped and clapped, but the moment Mav started singing, they settled down to listen, almost as if they were as afraid as she was that they might miss a moment of it.
‘If there’s a plane or a bus leaving LA
I hope you’re on it
If there’s a train moving fast down the tracks
I hope you caught it—’
His voice was deep and smooth. Nina almost couldn’t believe how good he was. And even then, she wouldn’t have cared if he’d been terrible because he was looking ather, singing toher. And the lyrics brought tears to her eyes.
‘’Cause I swear out there ain’t where you ought to be
So, catch a ride, catch a cab
Don’t you know I miss you bad
But don’t you walk to me
Baby, run, cut a path across the blue skies
Straight in a straight line
You can’t get here fast enough
Find a truck and fire it up
Lean on the gas and off the clutch
Leave LA in the dust
I need you in a rush
So, baby, run
If you ain’t got a suitcase
Get a box or an old brown paper sack
And pack it light or pack it heavy
Take a truck, take a Chevy
