Feeling strangely self-conscious, I reach over and turn up the dial. It’s my own voice, younger, brasher, coming through the truck speakers.
I glance sidelong at Sadie.
She's already smiling.
“You know this one?” I ask. A little gruff.
“It's one of my favorites.”
I’ve won awards for this song. I’ve heard it called a modern classic by people whose opinions I respect. And somehow none of that has ever made an impact like her sayingit's one of my favorites.
I can't help but preen a little at that. I'm only human.
Jonah is singing along in the backseat, getting about everyfourth word right. Sadie is looking out the windshield, and I watch her lips move slightly with the lyrics, the real ones, the right ones.
She knows the words.
She knowsmywords.
The song builds toward the chorus and Jonah throws his whole self into it, belting the words at a glorious off-key warble, and Sadie laughs. It’s perfect, because it’s the three of us driving along on dirt road on a Montana summer evening, windows down, mountains turning gold outside.
This is why I make music.For moments like this.
Usedto make music, that is.
And even though it’s my voice on the radio, I’m the only one in the car who’s not singing.
On impulse, I take Sadie’s hand and twine my fingers through hers. Her fingers curl around mine without hesitation. Our eyes lock briefly before I turn my gaze back to the road.
I don't let go.
Music fills the air. My music, from back when I still made it. The woman I’m crazy about is wearing a flower in her hair, one that my son picked for her for the simple reason that he loves her and wanted to make her happy.
My dream life.
Just not mine to keep.
Chapter 18
Family Dinner
WALKER
We pull up to Rosemont with her hand still in mine.
I hold it a beat longer than I need to before I get out to open her door.
It would be the most natural thing in the world to keep holding her hand all the way up to the front door.
But that’s not what this is, so I drop it.
My youngest brother Tanner is in the round pen, working Wild Rose's newest addition, a two-year-old colt yet to be broken. Tanner makes his living on the back of rank bulls, but he's always had a way with horses too. For a man who chooses to spend eight seconds getting the hell thrown out of him for sport, he has a gentleness with animals that'll bring even the most skittish of them around.
Jonah goes bounding up to the fence line, both handswrapped around the top rail, boots hooked on the bottom one. “Uncle Tanner!”
“Jonah, my man!”
He swings down from the horse in one fluid motion, boots hitting the ground soft, and passes the lead rope to the new ranch hand. Trevor? Tyler? Shit. Some towheaded kid from Texas who's been here three weeks but is proving his worth so far.
