“Poppy Rose,” she said. “She’s been sleeping a lot lately. Too much playing with Duke, I’m afraid. That dog’s a handful.”
“Handful . . .” he repeated. “I think you’re being too nice.”
“I’m Ruth!” Jamie’s assistant waved, a guitar case in the other hand.
Nolan’s smile lit up the sky. “Let me help you with that.”
“This?” Ruth pulled the case up to her waist. “This is nothing compared to the feed bags we have back home in Oklahoma.”
“What kind of farm?” Nolan asked.
“Wheat mostly, but we have cows and chickens—”
“I’m a veterinarian.”
“I know!” Ruth’s bright green eyes sparkled with excitement. “Jamie said you were the smart one.”
“And the better-looking one,” the rock star added.
“Shot through the heart again,” Clayton said, clutching his chest as if she’d wounded him. “That Bon Jovi record blew my hair back.”
“That’s a hot take,” Jamie said. “Should we tell the 1980s?” She looked around, puzzled. “Where’s the bus?”
“Gus is bringing it around from my parents’ house,” Clayton said. “My girls have been using it as a Barbie camper.”
“Your parents live here?” Jamie asked, stunned. She’d never understood people like Ruth and Clayton who enjoyed spending time with their families.
“Over yonder.” He chopped his hand through the air. “Nolan’s got the next plot over. Momma loves keeping us close.”
“I should’ve known you were a momma’s boy.”
Clayton scratched his beard. “Well, she looks after my girls when I’m gone.”
“Oh, I thought your ex-wife would’ve had them.”
“I’ve got full custody.”
Jamie cleared her throat. “Oh, I didn’t know that.” She turned in a circle, taking in the view. “Where are your cars?”
“My truck’s in there.” He pointed to the carport.
“No, I mean the rest of them?”
“That’s all I’ve got.”
On the bus ride to Atlanta Clayton sat at the front with Ruth while Jamie took the back bedroom—Clayton’s room—to write. She half-expected it to be decorated with Merle Haggard posters, baseball memorabilia, and empty Cheetos bags, but it wasn’t. It was actually pretty nice. A white duvet covered the bed, with wooden night tables on either side—oak or birch, she guessed. There was even an ensuite bathroom with a shower, which was unusualfor a tour bus.
Luckily she’d remembered to pack a lint brush, so she retrieved it from her bag and rolled it along the duvet. Duke’s hair was everywhere, and being blond it was difficult to see against the white backdrop. If only she had some cootie repellent she’d be all set.
An hour later a knock sounded at the door. Poppy raised her head and emitted a soft bark.
“Come in,” Jamie said, welcoming the distraction. She was about to read some mean tweets to feel bad about herself.
Ruth walked in laughing. “Gus is so funny!” She held her stomach. “He’s got so many stories! He drove for Garth Brooks—he’s from Tulsa—Tim McGraw, and Vince Gill. They’re country artists.”
“I know who Garth Brooks is. He put out that weird Chris Gaines record, remember?” Jamie lowered her voice to a whisper. “What do you know about Tammy Travis? Clayton’s got custody of his kids.”
Ruth closed the door behind her and sat on the edge of the bed. “I don’t know much, other than she fell off the face of the earth after she got pregnant. I assumed she was busy raising her kids.”
