“I don’t mind. It’s the least I could do for the guy who helped me get settled. He’s a good dude. Helped me find property to rent, a studio to record in, and even had some of my shit unpacked before I got into town. You don’t get that kind of service anywhere besides small town, USA.”
“Damn straight.” I giggled. “Don’t forget it.”
“I couldn’t if I tried,” he said, readjusting all the tack he’d been holding for a while now and turning to fully face me. “Wanna go for a ride?”
My face heated. He most definitely was talking about horses, but that sure as hell wasn’t what I was thinking.
“Gotta show you that not everything I do is disappointing.” He grinned, tossing out a wink.
Little butterflies flew from my belly to my throat, but I didn’t dare show it.
“You wish,” I said, running my tongue across my teeth.
Chapter Seven
Itried hard—or rather I wanted to try hard but failed miserably—to decline Stetson’s invite. What could I say? I was just a girl who loved being in the saddle. It was hard to pass up anyone’s invitation, or at least that was what I told myself to feel less guilty about secretly wanting to go.
“Damn,” he said, pulling the reins tight and slowing his horse, Cheyenne, to a stop. “This place doesn’t even look real.”
We’d come to a clearing on top of a hill overlooking acres of George’s land. Kentucky Bluegrass covered the entirety of our view, swaying in the wind and sending an urgent sense of peace through my body. In the distance, the Appalachian Mountains met the rising afternoon sun, bringing much-needed warmth to the day.
Shrugging my horse, Valhalla, to a stop, I closed my eyes and let the sun roam freely across my face. “I know, it really doesn’t. Sometimes I feel selfish that I get to come here whenever I want, knowing there are people out there who will never experience this kind of belonging. Sometimes it just doesn’t seem fair.”
“What do you mean by belonging?” he pondered.
“I just mean…” I paused, contemplating what I wanted to say next. “Never mind. It’s probably gonna sound stupid,” I admitted in defeat.
“Woah, woah, woah.” He tugged Cheyenne closer to Valhalla, and in doing so, his leg rested against mine. “Whatever it is, it’s not stupid. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. I only asked because belonging somewhere doesn’t sound half bad right now.”
I lifted my head and found his baby blues waiting for me. The desperation in them was strong, but the rest of his body remained unbothered. I couldn’t imagine someone like him not having a seat at every table, but something inside of me wanted to explain exactly what I meant.
A soft smile spread across my face. “I just meant that when you’re out here, everything feels possible, like if you wanted, you could just reach out and grab whatever it is you’re after. Like, look around…” I raised my hand up. “It’s in the way the wind wraps around you, the way the birds and insects sing to you, and the way the remoteness carries you through even on your darkest days. It’s the kind of belonging that nestles itself right here”—I laid my hand on my heart—“and never leaves you.”
I inhaled, the dewy blades of grass smelt of a new day, and with every exhale the tension in my chest loosened.
“Sorry,” I quickly threw out, gazing back over the hills. “That was probably more than you bargained for.”
“Don’t be sorry. Don’t ever be sorry for sharing parts of yourself that most people never get the chance to see,” he said. “There’s a lot I would do to be able to share those parts of myself.”
“But isn’t that what you do for a living? Share yourself, your thoughts, and your experiences through your songs?” I asked, confused by what he meant.
“Hm.” The noise was low as it escaped his mouth. “You’d think. But lately I’ve found my songs are sounding more like what IthoughtI wanted and a lot less like what it is I’m really after.”
“Can’t you change that?”
“If only it were that easy,” he said, dropping his head.
“Isn’t it? Can’t you just go find a new songwriter who fits your vibe a little more or something?”
His eyes shot up and over to me as a chuckle that sounded more like a rumble of thunder left his chest. “First off, I write most of my own songs, and secondly, people don’t always want to hear the truth.”
“That’s for you to decide, isn’t it?” I argued, feeling the need to defend him. “You’re the artist, you should get to choose what music your fans hear from you.”
“Hey, hey!” He threw his hands up in surrender. “We’re on the same team here. Why do you think I made my way to Quincey Falls? I’m doing my best to make sure that happens.”
“Good,” I huffed, feeling accomplished.
“Damn. You are fiery. If you’re ever looking for a job, let me know…” His familiar shit-eating grin reclaimed its spot on his face.
