“Turn down that way.” He points to the unmarked road up to the left. “There’s a small bar in the next town that hosts bluegrass sessions every Sunday,” he says, looking out aheadat the park beyond the dirt and gravel lot. “Thisis something entirely different.” Leaning forward, he points to the row of cars parked off to the side up ahead. “Pull up on the end there. We’re not going to find a spot any closer right now.”
“This happens once a month?” I ask, hopping out once I’ve parked.
He nods, meeting my stride around the front of the truck. “Every full moon, every summer, for almost as long as I can remember, just about every musician who’s ever heard a chord and tried to play, comes out here. He lets out a clipped laugh. “Helluva time and maybe one of the few charming things left of small-town living.”
Food trucks and grills with spit roast barbecue line the perimeter of the park while the distinct sounds of bluegrass, from guitars and mandolins to harmonicas and accordions fill the air. There isn’t a single moment in my life that I thought I’d be walking through a festival in Tennessee with a homicide detective, much less enjoying his company while doing so. The music drowns out the collision of it all.
“Want a beer?” the detective asks as we walk up past a makeshift beer garden.
I nod as I scan the crowd. The ever-growing band seems to take up the farthest part of the vast lawn. It’s the biggest small-town gathering I’ve ever seen. Black strings of round bulbed lights drape across the wide field from tree to tree. There aren’t any stages or any kind of production other than what’s needed for people to hear the music being played. There have to be at least twenty, maybe more, musicians all keeping time. Speakers are peppered along the long rows of wooden tables and benches. Every seat looks taken as people drink beer from pitchers or sip from brightly colored cans with the name stampedYazoo. Popcorn overflows from plastic picnic baskets and flimsypaper plates hold dark, slathered barbecue and bright-yellow cornbread.
Couples move around the dance floor, some line dancing in unison, but most twirling like they’ve danced with their partners for so long they don’t even think about the steps.
It’s when the crowd breaks off and the singer at the center hits their chorus that I see her. It’s like a collision of relief and adrenaline inside of me the second she turns. She laughs at something her sister says, and I find myself smiling along with her, regardless of being at least a hundred feet away. She’s swapped her tailored trousers and satin blouse for a short skirt and cowgirl boots. Between the tight jean vest and her hair pulled up off her neck, I can’t help but stare.Damn.
“I like Wyn. Smart and always the most level-headed of that family. I’m glad she’s found her footing since she’s been back,” he says, taking a sip of his beer. I can see him looking at me out of my periphery.
I nod, listening, because while I like him, I’m not about to trust him.
He furrows his brow, turning toward me. “But I’m curious if she’s told you what she was doing out there? Where you met.”
I unclench my jaw and tip my beer to take a sip. I’ve been waiting for the rest of what he wanted, because he sure as shit didn’t need a ride.
“I know enough,” I say, trying to keep my emotions in check. “Is this the part where you play protector and say something that’ll end in me getting arrested?” I turn to him and flash a smile.
He nods and huffs out a laugh in response.
We both watch on as Wyn steps over to where Birdie is set up. An ornate rug with a table at its center. Birdie’s perched behind it, with another person sitting across. Lit lanterns aren’t giving off much in the way of lighting, but it sets the mood ofwhat I would assume is either palm or the tarot readings that she’s so known for doing.
“That wasn’t what I planned, but I will say this, and take it exactly as I mean it.” I turn to look at him once again. “That woman has been through enough. The entire family, really, but Wyn has lived through things that most wouldn’t. So if you’re bringing more trouble her way, I’m not asking nicely, Colton.” He clears his throat. “Tommy won’t say it, so I will. I’m telling you to get the fuck out of here now if you’re going to make more of a mess for her.”
A part of me respects and appreciates that she has someone to say it. The irony is that I typically clean up problems, not make new ones.
I drain what’s left of my beer, giving myself a minute not to overplay this. It feels genuine and like he’s coming from a good place. “I have a feeling you understand what it’s like to be an outlier here.” I shake my head, swallowing past a sudden lump in my throat. “The new guy, showing up at the wrong time...but I’ve been trying to find her since the moment I thought I wouldn’t see her again.”
He tips his chin up, listening intently to the honesty of what I’m sharing.
I look out at the crowd, taking inventory of the faces—very few that I recognize from my short time here. “I’m not planning on hurting anyone, but most definitely not her.”
It must be enough for him, because he nods and pivots the conversation. “Theo mentioned you were on the invite for our next guys’ night.”
I glance at the detective, and then back to the crowd, trying to catch Wyn’s eye. “Did he?” I ask, feeling like being included with these men might not be the worst idea. If I was going to be here, then carving out a place with the men woven between the Crownes seemed like it’s exactly where I should be. I’ve been soused to coming and going, spending time with friends while I’m in and out of their towns, I don’t think I’ve ever been included a guys night.
Stevie walks ahead of Wyn, holding Nash’s hand on her way toward the horde of musicians, but Wyn stops to talk to someone, maybe two people.Who is that?
Jameson continues as I try to see through the crowd. “Listen, Nash heard him say the guys’ night thing, too, which basically means you have no choice now.” He’s about to take another sip, but then stops his cup halfway to his mouth just as someone new starts singing over the mic.
I look out at the center of the semicircle, and crooning away on the microphone is Stevie Crowne, singing aboutdriving nails in my coffin, shutting every damn person up with the way she’s singing without a single instrument backing her up. A three-count from someone in the second row gets called out, and the full crew of instruments hops into it just as the crowd starts hootin’ and hollerin’.
When I look back towards Wyn, there’s more of a gap in the crowd now, and I can see her talking with Sheriff Fury. And next to her is her colleague from yesterday, Reed.I fucking hate that guy a little more now.That’s when Wyn finally looks my way. She smiles instantly, looking down at her palm, and then back up, locking eyes with me. There’s a smirk on her face as she tries to keep her attention on whatever they’re talking about.
“The fuck is he doing?” Jameson mumbles next to me, looking at the same group and conversation I am.
“That one has trouble written all over it,” Cora says as she walks up in between me and the detective. It only takes a second to know she’s a few cups in.
“Cora,” Jameson says to her, and then glances up at me briefly. “Any word from Stan?”
She barks out a laugh, looking out at where we just were, at Wyn, Reed, and the sheriff. “Fury is real keen to find my husband, that’s for damn sure,” Cora says as she nods toward him. “That one.” She hiccups. “Pardon me.” A laugh bubbles from her lips and she covers her mouth. “He’s a pompous asshole and serious trouble. Always thought so.”
