My UnTrue Love (A Kinda Fairytale #7)

Epilogue

No mates are there, for cy’ote kind,

Since that singer forsook his,

Now they must steal, until they find,

What True Love really is.

Lyrics from the folk song “Crossroads Coyote”

Two Years Later

Alan A. Dale stared at Pecos Bill, trying not to act like he was staring.

He’d interviewed lots of famous people, but he’d never interviewed anyone this famous.

Ever since Bill appeared on Home on the Range , he’d been a household name. His first performance of “My Own True Love” was all it took to catapult him into the stratosphere. Add to that him somehow lifting the True Love curse for coyotes and his generous support for dozens of women’s organizations, and Bill was the rarefied type of celebrity who just about everyone loved.

Nobody else even came close to his popularity. Except maybe Sir Galahad, but he hardly ever put out songs. Pecos Bill put out lots of them. It seemed like he was always inspired and working on his next hit.

Alan felt nervous standing beside the number one recording artist in the world. It made him even more nervous that the world’s number one recording artist was so very, very difficult to interview.

Bill had said all of a dozen words in the last half hour. And six of them had been “who,” “are,” and “you.” He’d asked that twice. He stood by a split rail fence, watching young horses frolicking around a paddock. He seemed far more interested in the foals than he did in generating exposure for his new album. Maybe he knew it didn’t need publicity. It was going to go platinum the second it was released, just like his last three.

Alan swallowed and pretended to know jack-shit about ranching. “Nice horses.”

Bill grunted.

“They’re really…” Alan hunted for an adjective. He was a writer. He knew a lot of words. “…horsey.”

“Who are you, again?” Bill sounded pretty sure there’d been a mistake and Alan should’ve been shot on sight by bodyguards.

Not many reporters were allowed ‘round the mountain and onto the sprawling ranch Bill called home. He’d bought Buffalo Roam with the money from his first record, offering the cattle baron who’d owned it double the value of the property, so long as he left the horses.

That old man was no dummy, so he agreed.

Now, the former owner lived on an even bigger spread in Oz, with multicolored horses and way nicer weather. Bill didn’t seem to worry about overpaying for the land. What did he care about money? He had fucking all of it! He looked right at home, one booted foot resting on the fence rail and his eyes on all his peaceful acreage.

Alan was honestly still shocked he’d been allowed past the massive gate of the estate. He hadn’t been near Buffalo Roam’s main house, and he hadn’t seen anything worth reporting yet, but at least he’d made it this far. That was closer than most people got to Pecos Bill.

For all the man’s colossal fame, Bill’s life was a black box. His one semi-informal event had been the reopening of The Kitchen, which he’d headlined, along with Tony Beaver. That had been such a huge party that the sheriff had to shut down the whole Saloon District to control the crowd.

Tony Beaver’s drumming career exploded from all the exposure. He was now dating Mamie O’Rourke. The Kitchen was re-established as the hottest saloon in town. Dinah Hornblower was having a rekindled love affair with some coyote rodeo rider. (Their relationship was so angst-filled, tumultuous, and public in its sexual indecency that it made Alan miss his days as a tabloid reporter.) But Bill…? He just went back home.

Pecos Bill didn’t crave approval. Didn’t talk about his existence off of the stage. Didn’t sell his face for advertisements. Didn’t post on Ti-Yi-Yo much, except for supporting feminist causes with Mamie O’Rourke, and teaching songs to kids on Wednesdays. And cactus pictures. He liked to take cactus pictures.

Even Bill’s unauthorized autobiography was dull as hell, because nobody could dig up any salacious details to blow out of proportion. The man was always honest! Bill simply recorded music and released it, letting his art speak for itself without any transparent bids for adulation.

What kind of a celebrity didn’t need constant attention?

“I’m a reporter. Your publicist gave me this interview.” Alan reminded him, praying Bill didn’t just walk away and leave him standing in the yard.

“I have a publicist?”

“I mean… yeah?” He swallowed. “Her name is Nancy.”

“If Nancy was my publicist, I’d figure she’d know I’m not fond of publicity.”

“She did say that, but she’s also my cousin-in-law.” Alan had nothing to lose by telling the truth. “And I’m going to lose my job, if I don’t land something big soon. The whole family knows it. I’m a scandal sheet guy, trying to go legit. Internet gossip sites take all the business away from print journalism. Have you heard of Vulture Valente?”

“Rings a bell.”

“Well, I can’t compete with that kind of instant access. I need a new line. But I’m not great at mainstream celebrity reporting. Never had a real story published.”

“Huh.”

Alan shrugged. “Plus, I played my one ace with Nancy: I told her I knew you from way back and that you’d be okay with seeing me.”

“Which is a lie.”

“No! Not at all.”

Bill finally glanced his way, his gaze skeptical.

“We do know each other.” Alan persisted. “Kind of. I was the first person to ever interview you, as a matter of fact. About four years ago.”

Bill blinked at him with zero recognition. Alan was literally an anthropomorphized weasel. Most people tended to recall his brown fur and wire-rim glasses. Bill seemed to be blanking or he just didn’t care.

“We met in Nottingham? At a wedding?” Every sentence Alan uttered came out as a question. “Maid Marion had brought you in to perform at her reception? You weren’t too happy. You told me she’d basically kidnapped you.”

Bill slowly nodded, as if recalling that day. The castle exploding had been pretty memorable.

“At the time, I worked for Nottingham’s Naughtiest News .” Alan went on, encouraged that Bill was at least listening. “Always hunting for a celebrity scoop, you know? I’d hoped you were some new, up-and-coming musician. I asked you if you were, as a matter of fact, but you told me no. You told me that you weren’t a singer.”

“‘Cause I wasn’t a singer, back then.”

Alan sensed an opening for an insightful interview question. He adopted a professional tone. “What changed to make you a singer?”

“Started to sing.”

Alan’s shoulders slumped forward.

He had no idea how to make this article better than the hundreds of boring, uninformative stories other reporters had written about Bill over the last few years. Short, bland, and unobjectionable. Nothing new or special to say. His editors would never publish it. Alan would lose his job and the bank would foreclose on his condo. He was screwed.

His whole life was screwed.

There had never been anyone more screwed, except maybe that nobody musician who blew himself up in that swimming pool. Alan forgot his name. Jimmy or something.

“And I met my manager.” Bill went on thoughtfully, oblivious to Alan’s mental doom-spiral into poverty and unemployment. His expression became much more engaged. “Clementine changed everything .”

Alan’s jaw sagged, shocked out of planning his future as a cautionary tale for other journalists. That remark about his manager was the most revealing thing Pecos Bill had ever said to any reporter. Ever . He scrambled for a follow-up question that would keep the conversation going. “Can I talk to her?” It was the only thing he could think to say.

“Talk to Clem?” Bill’s eyebrows slammed down, as if Alan suddenly posed a mortal threat to everything he held dear. “About what?”

“Whatever she wants to talk about. Anything. Nothing. Life.” Now he was coming up with plenty of words, but none of them seemed to be digging him out of his hole. Bill kept staring at him with predatory intensity. “I’m sorry. I just thought she might have some insights into the music industry or…”

Bill cut him off. “You want to interview Clem?” Tension seemed to ease from his shoulders.

“Yes?” It was another statement delivered as a question.

“Huh.” Bill looked back towards the horses for a long moment. “Clem never gets enough credit. Never wants it. Everything is because of her, though.” He seemed to be mulling things over in his head. “And she does like to talk.”

Another pause, where Alan was smart enough to stay quiet.

Then, Bill reached into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out his phone. A couple of swipes on the screen and then he was talking to someone on the other end. “Howdy, Miss Clementine. You busy?” His voice was totally different, now. Warm and happy. Like he and his manager were best, best friends.

Was it wrong to pray for an interview? Because Alan was now praying. This was his story. He could already tell.

“Well, a reporter I can tolerate finally showed up and he wants to talk to you.” Bill continued affectionately, a whole new person with his manager. “No, he wants to talk to you . About all the great work you do. So get your pretty self down to the paddock, lickity-split.”

Alan’s eyebrows rose at the flirting.

“Well, one of us is gonna talk you up to this nosy fella, darlin’. Unless you want him to hear my version of our history --like how you singlehandedly drove all my success and how I wouldn’t even be a damn thing without you-- I suggest you… Yes, it is so the truth! You know how important it is for me to ensure that women get their due in this industry.”

Bill’s manager was the force behind his achievements? Now Alan really wanted to talk to her.

“Now, Clem, I can’t help the way I see things. As an artist, I have to be true to my own memories and feelings and…” Bill smirked. “That’s what I thought. See you in five minutes.” He hung up and went back to watching the horses, his voice losing all of its momentary openness. “Alright, she’s comin’.”

“Great!” Whatever was happening, it was big. Alan had been a reporter long enough to sense a career-changing scoop when it fell into his lap. “I can’t wait to meet her.”

Bill slanted him a hard look. “You fuck this up… I’ll fuck you up.”

“I won’t print a word about you that you don’t approve.” Alan promised, ready to sign that vow in blood from all his vital organs.

“I don’t give a shit what you say about me .” Bill scoffed. “You just be careful what you say about her or I’ll ruin your whole goddamn life, got it? If Clem gets upset, you’ll be food for rabid buzzards.”

“Yes, sir. I totally understand. Um… Do buzzards get rabid?”

“I’m willing to find out, if you are.”

Alan wasn’t willing to find out.

Two minutes passed in total silence.

A kid about eighteen meandered up on a horse, from the other side of the fence. His eyes were a strange shade of light brown and there was a low-slung, black cowboy hat on his head. “Another damn agent, wanting a new record?” He asked Bill, like Alan couldn’t hear him.

“Reporter.”

“Hell, that’s even worse. Why is he here?”

“He’s gonna interview Clem.”

The kid pondered that idea. “Oh.” He finally said and there was a bit of approval in the sound. “Yeah, alright. She’ll like that. Just so he doesn’t stress her out.”

“He’s too smart to throw his life away.” From Bill, that was high praise. “Besides, Clem’s new pills are workin’ like a charm. She’s said she’s never felt better. Hasn’t fainted in months.”

The kid nodded in acknowledgement, but he still sent Alan a scary sort of glare. “We’re real protective of Clem ‘round here.” The words were simple, but something about the way he delivered them had the hairs on Alan’s neck rising.

This boy was one of the most dangerous people he’d ever come across. He knew it in his bones. He sent Bill a “save me” kind of look.

Bill seemed more lazily amused than helpful. “Don’t scare the fella off, Luke. I’m just gettin’ used to him.”

“I’m Alan A. Dale.” He rallied enough to address the hard-edged kid named Luke. “Do you work here? What kind of boss is Pecos Bill?” That was a safe, generic question that invited a safe, generic answer.

“He’s fuckin’ awful.” Luke said.

Alan saw his life flash before his eyes.

“He woke me up at the crack of dawn to listen to one single verse of a song.” Luke went on, glowering Bill’s way. “Over and over and over .”

Bill’s mouth twitched. “I was feelin’ inspired and I didn’t want to bother Clem. She was sleeping.”

“You’re like an idiot, only dumber. Clem’s reporter-guy can quote me on that.” Luke gestured towards Alan.

“I’m not going to quote him.” Alan assured Bill.

Bill didn’t seem to care either way. “This is my brother, Widowmaker Luke.”

“Oh.” Alan quickly digested that information. “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“We shared a Pa, before his tragic demise.”

“Disappearance.” Luke chimed in, still watching Alan. “Nobody’s found his body. Yet.”

“Just tragic.” Bill repeated with a casual sort of finality. “Anyhow, Luke works here in the summer and on holidays. The rest of the time, he’s a classical violin student at the Westland’s Performing Art Academy.”

Wowza, that was a fancy school. Alan took heart, because nobody who was a musical prodigy could be a serial killer, right? He refused to believe otherwise.

Really, Luke’s ability was no surprise, given his sibling’s stardom. Luke and Bill’s talents had probably been nurtured from the cradle by their dead, vanished father. Great artists were always easy to identify. Alan was sure of that. It didn’t take any special skill to know when someone had a gift like theirs.

“You must be incredibly accomplished.” Alan looked Luke over with renewed interest. “I would love to interview you.”

“No.”

“We could talk about…”

“No.”

“It would only take a…”

Luke wheeled his horse around and went trotting away. “Tell Clem I’ll be back for dinner.” He shouted to Bill over his shoulder. “Unless she’s still talkin’ to her reporter-guy, in which case I’ll be back for breakfast.”

Alan’s forehead compressed. “I see the family resemblance.” He told Bill.

“Clem says the same.”

Finally, a woman with wild blonde hair and the curves of a centerfold came walking across the lawn. All the trees provided a perfect backdrop for her vibrant beauty. A brightly-colored skirt swirled around her ankles. She looked like some otherworldly combination of an expensive mistress and a welcoming earth-mother. The exact opposite of the zero-maintenance, denim-clad, taciturn cowboy at Alan’s side.

Her eyes fell on her employer and she beamed. “Bill, what mischievous scheme are you cooking up?” Even as she scolded him, her smile stayed bright and sunny. Filled with her whole heart. “Honestly, honey, why is it so hard for you to talk about your accomplishments?”

“The man wants to talk about your accomplishments, darlin’. Is it my fault you’re more interesting than me?”

“Yes, it is your fault. You keep trying to put me front and center, and I keep having to stop you.” Her hands went to her generous hips. “I’ve told you a million times: Managers don’t stand in the spotlight.”

“ My manager should. And I’ve finally got an obedient accomplice to make it happen.” Bill jerked a thumb at Alan. “Me and him go way back, so we’re gonna do the interview that I want to do.”

Green eyes rolled in exasperation. “You can be so stubborn.”

“It’s my poetic temperament.”

“Convenient how that always emerges when you want to get your own way.”

Bill winked at her, his expression lit up like he was in front of a stadium full of fans. Basking in her presence. Greedy for it. Energized by it. Right where he belonged, because she was right there too.

With a flash of the same kind of insight that had made him a damn good tabloid reporter, Alan suddenly knew that Bill did need attention just like other celebrities. He needed this woman’s attention. She was the only audience he craved. No one else mattered to the antisocial coyote, but Clementine’s approval was vital to him.

Pecos Bill needed her. Desperately.

This was all so amazing that it seemed too good to be true. Alan leaned closer to Bill, wondering if he was being tricked. “That’s really your manager?”

“That’s really my wife.” Bill said, reverence in his tone. “My partner. My muse. My True Love. My everything. Clem is everything .”

Right then and there, Alan knew he was keeping his job. Bill wasn’t the story here. Clementine was! He was already drafting an award-winning article, all about her unheralded triumph in the music industry and how she’d somehow won the heart of a coyote.

“I’m going to make that girl a star.” He whispered to himself.

Pecos Bill’s mouth curved, as he gazed at Clementine. “That girl’s always been a star.”