“Where are the girls?” Jamie asked.
“At Momma and Daddy’s,” Clayton said. “They were out riding.”
Jamie swallowed. “I’m nervous about meeting them.” She had no experience with kids and worried her sharp tongue and quick temper might make her a bad influence.
Clayton glanced over. “Fair warning, they may ask for an autograph.”
She blinked. “You never told me they liked my music.”
“You never asked.”
The truck rolled past the barn, tires crunching over the gravel driveway. As they rounded the circular loop a stately brick house came into view, towering white columns stretching toward the sky. Jamie had read about homes like this earlier—Antebellum, the book had called it. Built before the Civil War, its history was etched in weathered brick and timeworn shutters.
Clayton hopped out and opened the back cab door for her, while Nolan helped Ruth down.
Jamie swatted his hand away. “What are you doing?”
“Helping you.”
She let out a short laugh. “I don’t need your help.”
“Well, you did this morning when you damn near set my house on fire.”
“Oh, my goodness!” Ruth gasped. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” they said together. Some things were better left unspoken.
Clayton rang the doorbell at his parents’ house, a courteous gesture since their door was unlikely locked. A striking woman in her early sixties with long gray hair opened the door. She was the same height as Jamie and had voluptuous curves that hugged her dress. Assuming it was Mrs. Langley, Jamie handed her the bouquet and the bottle of wine.
“Thank you!” She accepted the gifts and hugged her. “And you must be Ruth. Welcome to our home.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Langley,” Jamie said. “Thank you for the food in Clayton’s fridge. It’s delicious.”
“My pleasure, and feel free to call me Birdie, sugar,” she said with a smile. “Everyone does.”
Clayton held the door open and Jamie stepped inside, pausing just long enough to slip off her boots. She wasn’t sure if it was expected to, but the quiet weight of his gaze made her aware of the moment.
“I’d keep your shoes on if I were you,” an older man with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair said. He extended his hand. “Dr. Elroy Langley—Doc for short.” There was nothing short about Doc; he was at least Clayton’s height, maybe taller.
She shook his hand. “Jamie Keaton.”
“I’m well aware.” He released her hand. “The girls are beside themselves.”
“Where are they?” Clayton asked.
“They just got in,” Doc said, pointing upstairs. “Your mother’s having them wash up before supper.” He shook Ruth’s hand. “You must be the assistant.”
“I’m Ruth, sir. I’m from just outside Tulsa.”
“God’s country.” Ruth nodded and smiled. “What can I get you ladies to drink?”
“A vodka and soda for Jamie,” Clayton said. “Ketel One.”
“You know how to make it,” Doc said to his son, then turned to Ruth. “And what about you?”
“I don’t drink, sir.”
“Neither does he.” Doc pointed at Nolan. “You two go easy on my mix, now.”
