Chapter Four
Wade
I WOKE UP GRINNING, which had not happened in recent memory, and I lay there for a minute trying to decide whether this was a personality change or a medical event. The ceiling fan turned above me. Sunlight came through the curtains in bright slats. Outside the cabin window, Marisol’s kitchen radio was playing Loretta Lynn, and a horse in the stable yard was having a loud disagreement with the farrier. Between the two of them, the morning had a soundtrack, and it was better than anything on Nashville radio.
Thursday. Day four. And I, Wade Bishop, professional musician, competent adult, and man who had not grinned in his sleep since approximately never, was lying in bed thinking about a woman’s laugh instead of the two shows I had to play in the next forty-eight hours.
In my defense, it was a very good laugh.
Last night’s show had gone better than I’d expected. Layla’s solo acoustic set had started shaky and ended with the entire Saloon holding its breath, not because they were worried but because they were listening. Her voice had found its footingthree bars in and built from there. By the second song the guests had stopped talking. The bartender had stopped pouring. Sixty strangers were hearing what I’d heard on Tuesday in an empty room. I’d stood in the wings with my hands in my pockets to keep from doing anything stupid, like walking out on stage and kissing her in front of everyone.
The harmonies during the main set had locked in tighter than anything we’d played all week. Every entry, every blend, her alto dropping under my voice and holding there. Milo had given me a look after the third song that communicated, with the eloquent specificity of a man who’d known me since we were broke and playing bars for beer money, that I was in deep and he was enjoying it.
I swung my legs off the bed, pulled on jeans and a shirt and boots, and grabbed my hat. The morning was already hot. I could feel it through the cabin walls, the heavy press of a Texas June. The light coming through the curtains had that hard, clean quality that flattened shadows, and I felt clear and awake and stupidly happy, which was not a condition I had much recent experience with.
I headed for the Lodge.
The dining hall was loud with guests and the good chaos that happened when Marisol decided to flex. This morning’s spread was migas with roasted peppers, black bean hash, thick slabs of buttered toast, and a pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice. I filled a plate, poured coffee, and scanned the room.
Layla was at a table near the windows with Lucinda and one of the trail ride families. She had a pale yellow blouse on and her scarf was holding a temporary truce with her hair, and she was showing a girl of maybe twelve the back of her camera screen. The girl leaned in, eyes wide. Layla pointed at the screen, said a few words I couldn’t hear, and the girl laughed and reached for the camera. Layla let her hold it. She adjusted the girl’s grip,guided her hands, showed her where to look. The mother beside them had gone soft around the eyes.
“You’re blocking the toast,” Boyd said, behind me.
I moved while my bandmate loaded his plate with the same deliberate purpose he brought to setting up his kit, and we sat down with Russ, who was already eating and reading the Saddlehorn Gazette on his phone.
“Good show last night,” Russ said.
“It was.”
“She was good.”
“She was.”
Russ nodded once, slowly, delivering his entire review in a single head movement. Boyd ate a mouthful of the hash and gave me the nod, which was the same nod he gave to good sound checks, bad weather, and the information that the building was on fire. It covered a lot of ground, that nod. I drank my coffee and saw Layla hand the camera back to the girl, who raised it toward the window and took a shot of the meadow with the careful concentration of someone who’d just been trusted with a real responsibility.
Milo arrived at the table with a plate stacked high enough to constitute an engineering concern and sat down across from me. “Morning. I slept beautifully. Nobody asked, but I wanted to share.”
“Noted,” Russ said, without looking up.
“Thank you, Russ. Your warmth sustains me.” Milo took a bite and surveyed the room. He spotted Layla at the window table and his eyes tracked from her back to me with the swift accuracy of a man connecting dots. He opened his mouth.
“Don’t,” I said.
“I was going to compliment the migas.”
“You were not.”
“I was also going to compliment the migas.” He grinned and ate his breakfast, and I ate mine, and for five minutes the morning was simple and good.
After the meal I found Layla outside. She was heading toward the stables and slowed when she saw me coming across the yard. The smile she gave me was different from Monday’s careful professionalism or Tuesday’s cautious openness. This was happiness personified and my pulse kicked up at the gorgeous sight.
“Morning,” I said.
“Morning.” She fell into step beside me. “I was going to photograph the cattle penning demonstration. Want to come see guests try to herd cows?”
“I want very much to see guests try to herd cows.”
“Fair warning, last week a woman from Connecticut tried to herd a bull and the bull won. I got six photos and Lucinda used every one of them.” She grinned sideways at me. “The content practically shoots itself on penning day.”
