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I’m quiet, thinking hard.
“You have to keep writing,” I say finally. “It’s just what you do.”
He lets out a sigh. “I know.”
“Maybe a book?”
“Hmm, maybe. The whole thing with writing—making any kind of art, really—is you got to fill up the tank with real life. Otherwise, it doesn’t taste like anything. One day, in a few weeks or months here, I’ll wake up and start writing something that gets me back in the saddle. For right now, I’d like to live it for a bit.”
I lean into him. He’s a rock solid wall around me.
“I get it,” I whisper. “Thank you for not asking me to leave.”
“Leave this ranch? Nah, baby, I’d never ask you to leave. It’s your home.”
My throat is tight, eyes wet, but in the best way.
“It’s your home now too,” I say.
We’re both quiet for a long time. Faintly, the wranglers start to settle. Cattle low in the west field. My heart flutters in my chest, beneath his forearm.
“I love you,” I whisper, voice fragile.
He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t miss a beat.
“I love you too.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
COEN
A YEAR LATER
It’s so early, the sun isn’t up yet.
In the studio, off the west side of the ranch house, everything is quiet. The pale wood floors glint. Sabrina picked out the rug, a woven mat rolled across the center of the room. On the far side are all the instruments. A keyboard, a steel guitar, and a few other things I’ve picked up on visits to the music store. Closer to the door, with double windows looking out over the western field, is my desk.
I sink down and open my laptop.
I’ve been writing a lot more since finalizing the rest of my contracts and going on hiatus. All the shit I wrote for them was good, especially Mason’s album, which spent a week at the top of the charts. I tried to block everything out, but I ran across a Rolling Stone article a week after its release.
…it seems everything that passes through Coen Taylor’s studio turns to gold… He’s established himself as one of country and folk’s greatest writers since Hank Williams played on the shortwave…
Sabrina was so damn proud of that, she ordered the magazine, cut it out, and framed it. That kind of embarrassed me, but it made her happy. I let her hang it in the studio on the shelf in the far corner, where my awards sit. I don’t look at those much, too busy looking ahead, but it’s nice to have someone reminding me I’m doing good.
In the quiet, I crack my knuckles.
My finger hover over the keyboard. Yesterday was a slow day. Today, I can feel the torrent of words waiting to come out.
They do, for the next half hour, until my phone beeps. Shaking my head, I resurface and get to my feet. There are barn chores, and as the assistant manager of Maxwell Ranch, I like to get things done before the manager lifts her head from her pillow. That means more selfish time for us.
I cross the lawn, hands in my pockets.
Everything is so damn peaceful here. I’m coming alive, one day at a time. Sometimes, I barely recognize myself. I know, when Bill came back at the end of the summer, he did a double take. I’ve been sleeping through the night, eating good food, and getting plenty of sun. Some days, I feel like a very well cared for plant. When Bill left again at the beginning of the summer, he told me to make sure I didn’t fall off the wagon. I don’t intend on it.
He’s thriving in Portland. I’m not sure what it is, but sometimes, I think Bill’s personality would have meshed better with living in the city. He goes to spin class now and told Sabrina he’d just discovered something novel, which turned out to be a morning green smoothie. He’d probably have gotten in a lot less trouble if he’d stayed in Portland with his family. But then, I wouldn’t have the prettiest girl in the world and a ranch that might just have saved me. Sometimes, I wonder if Bill will be back this winter. I hope he is. It would upset Sabrina if he wasn’t, but I also see incredible improvement in his health up there.
It’s a tough choice to make. We’ll face it together when it comes.
