Chapter 2 Cleo
cleo
. . .
“Damn, it’s hot for October,” Cook said as he leaned over the massive portable BBQ pit and grabbed a foiled baked potato. “Thought the news said it wasn’t supposed to be so hot?”
I laughed, putting my hands on my hips and surveying the space.
Cook was right. It was hotter than hell, but that didn’t seem to stop people from showing up.
Today was one big celebration and Dad’s party was in full swing.
Cars had been pulling through the Black Springs gate all day, and they were still coming.
Red and white tents filled the pasture, giving people a place to escape the sun and grab a drink to cool off.
Lennox and Lincoln’s carefully curated playlist played softly over speakers placed throughout the masses.
Tonight, there’d be a live band playing, though no one knew who.
Dad had kept that one a secret from everyone.
Knowing him, I wouldn’t have been surprised if it was some drifter with a single guitar who only played Conway Twitty covers.
My dad loved to give back to the community and had invited damn near everyone he knew, which meant most of the Ashwood population was going to be out at the ranch. Even our employees got the day off, thereby giving the Hayes family a busy morning attempting to pick up the slack.
After Lennox dragged me from my bedroom, I wandered over to Cook’s tent to help with the food prep. Most of it had already been taken care of—he was a bit neurotic when it came to his craft—but there was still plenty of setup to account for.
I was the only one of my siblings working today, which was fine.
I didn’t mind. It gave me something to do instead of crashing out while watching cowboys wrestle steers.
I looked toward the table where my family sat.
Mom and Dad had come by multiple times, trying to get me to hang up my apron and join them.
I made up some excuse, telling them I felt bad leaving everyone else to deal with Cook’s wrath. It wasn’t completely a lie.
For someone who listened to nothing but Hank Williams and spent his weekend fishing, you wouldn’t think he’d be such a snob, but I’d seen Cook get worked up over the order of toppings on a burger.
I could still remember the time he had the audacity to criticize my great-great-grandma’s banana bread recipe in front of my mom.
She didn’t talk to him for at least two months because he remained steadfast in his opinion.
Honestly, it was still a hot-button topic. I didn’t think they’d ever been the same.
“You know how Texas weather is,” I said, refilling a roll of paper towels. “No one can predict what it’s gonna do.”
“It’s days like this I wish I’d taken a job in a state that actually has seasons,” Cook muttered. “This is bullshit.”
I paused, turning over my shoulder to look at him. “And you’ve lived here how long again?”
His eyes darted to the side. “My whole life.”
“That’s what I thought,” I laughed. “You had the chance to leave, and you didn’t. Just think about all the places you could’ve worked if you’d followed your food-loving heart.”
“I couldn’t give up fishing.”
“You realize there are lakes and rivers in other states, right?”
Cook nodded. “Yeah, but your dad keeps y’all’s stocked, so I don’t have to worry about running out.”
I shrugged. “I guess that’s the price you pay.” I picked up the case of sodas, ready to walk past him to refill one of the coolers, when my stomach let out a horribly embarrassing growl.
Before I knew it, the drinks had been plucked from my hands, and there was a very large, angry man standing in front of me. “When’s the last time you ate?” he asked, narrowing his gaze.
“I’ve been busy,” I said, shrugging him off and reaching for the case once more. He raised it above his head, looking down at me with an expression that screamed trouble.
For all his strong opinions—and believe me, there were many—nothing got Cook more fired up than people going hungry. When he wasn’t on duty at the ranch, he was often volunteering, donating his time and talent to those in need of some help and a good meal.
“Get the hell outta here until you’ve gotten some food in your belly, girl. Anthony!” he called, looking over at one of the employees he’d taken under his wing.
The kid came running up. “Yes, sir?”
“Get Miss Hayes a plate. Load it up with everything, but make sure to put the BBQ sauce on the side,” he said.
I couldn’t help but smile. “You always take good care of me, Cook.”
He huffed, but there was a flush on his cheeks. “I still remember you throwing knock-down, drag-out fits when your mom poured it all over your chicken. If I can avoid a mess, then I’m gonna do my best. I even made the spicy sauce you love so much.”
It was true. I hated most condiments, but I was pickier about BBQ sauce. Most were too sweet. After a lot of hysterical moments and refusing to eat meals, my parents finally learned what worked and what didn’t.
And Cook made one hell of a sauce.
Anthony came rushing back, plate laden with food. “Here ya go, Miss Cleo,” he said, dipping his head.
I thanked him, taking the plate so he could get back to work. Cook gestured toward the table. “Now, you go sit down and enjoy all your hard work.”
“I’ll be back,” I said, pointing in his direction. “You won’t get rid of me that easily.”
“You should be partying it up!” he called. “Not hanging out with me.”
“You’re not such bad company,” I replied. He just waved me off and started barking orders at everyone else.
Now that I actually had food in my hand, my stomach was going crazy. Hunger hit me like a sharp knife to the gut. I surveyed the table, clocking an extra seat beside a pissed-off looking Bishop. The foreman constantly wore a scowl, but he was staring down Lincoln like he’d personally offended him.
I dropped into the empty space, groaning as the stress of the day began to show.
I was running on adrenaline, denial, and an ungodly amount of coffee.
“God, I’m starving,” I said, immediately digging into the food before me.
I groaned as the first taste of homemade mac and cheese hit my tongue.
It was so good. Honestly, Cook should’ve been in some Michelin-star restaurant rather than working on our ranch.
“Remind me never to volunteer when Cook asks for help. I don’t know how anyone keeps up with him and his standards. He’s nuts!” It was only half-true. He could be a bit extreme, but I kind of enjoyed his company.
Bishop chuckled beside me. “Naw, I think you’ll still help. That’s just who you are.”
For some reason, his comment took me off guard. I’d always felt like my niceties did more harm than good—at least when it came to my own well-being. Rachel and I had joked about oldest-sibling-syndrome in college, but it’d planted a seed in my mind that continued to grow.
Neither Mom nor Dad were exceedingly strict parents.
There were basic expectations—manners, respect, and honesty were big in our house—but they didn’t ask for anything they didn’t give in return.
They never pushed me to do something I didn’t want to or told me I needed to improve at something I loved.
I think it was just a matter of loving them so much I didn’t want to disappoint them.
Rachel said I was a people-pleaser with a heightened sense of responsibility and crushing need for perfectionism, which was a fancy way of telling me I never said no and needed to learn how ASAP. In my defense, no one had taught me to be this way. It just kind of happened.
Without realizing it, the traits people had found endearing became something they expected from me. When I tried to break out of the habit, they pushed back, and guilt struck. Eventually, I found it was easier to just do what they wanted rather than live with their disappointment.
“Well, maybe I don’t want to be that person anymore. Being nice doesn’t get you anything,” I grumbled, staring down at my plate.
I didn’t know why I said it. Clearly, I was still in some kind of funk from my therapy this morning. I was too damn tired to care, though. Bishop was one of the few people I could speak to plainly.
He was a straight shooter and didn’t entertain bullshit or offer comfort because it was the polite thing to do. What you saw was what you got, and there was something refreshing about that.
Not that I’d ever say that to him. I didn’t think I’d survive the scowl he’d give me.
He didn’t push the matter, instead turning the conversation toward complimenting my cooking skills and laughing about my mom’s obsession with those stupid handheld vegetable choppers.
We were still going by the time the woman in question wandered over to the table and dropped into the seat next to mine.
“What time does the band go on?” she asked, taking a sip of her wine. “I’m ready to hear some live music.”
“Around seven, I think,” Dad said, checking out the stage. I followed his gaze, noting two white vans peeking out from behind the structure. “I dunno. It was all a little last minute, so I think they’re just making sure everything is good to go.”
Josie leaned forward in her seat. “What do you mean, last minute? This thing has been planned for months.”
Dad sighed. “The band I originally booked canceled a few days ago. Said they’d broken up. Guess our little shindig had gotten missed when they made their cancellations.”
“That sucks. You seemed excited about them.”
“Who’d you get instead?” Lennox asked.
I knew my family was excited, but I really couldn’t care less about music, especially the live kind.
On the off chance I let one of them drag me to a concert, I usually sat at the back with some kind of noise-cancelling headphones.
Though, my reasoning had nothing to do with the decibel level, and everything to do with the memories attached to music in general.
Dad splayed his hands on the table. “Well, I guess the kid I spoke with was the singer. He seemed pretty confused about why I was even calling at first. I explained the situation, and he said he’d refund the full amount I paid and still do the set.”
Goosebumps prickled across my skin as internal warning bells began ringing out. There was no way. There was absolutely no way. It was coincidence and nothing more. “That’s nice of him, but how’s he going to do that if the band’s broken up?” I asked.
Dad shrugged. “I don’t know. Guess he made some calls and they agreed to do one last show. Ain’t that cool?”
Lennox’s smile looked pained. I could feel her eyes scanning my face for a reaction, but I had nothing to give. I was frozen. Locked up on the spot and unable to think or breathe. “Sure is, Dad. Out of curiosity, what’s the name of the band?”
No. No, it is very not cool, I wanted to scream. I couldn’t, of course. Only my sisters knew a fraction of my history with the boy who became a country music star, and it needed to stay that way.
My mind was just being a dick. It was jumping to conclusions like it always did, because there was no way in fucking hell—
But then a tall figure blocked out the sun and cast a too-familiar shadow across our table. I looked up from beneath my lashes, hoping my heart would stop jumping in my chest.
“Lawson! How the hell are you?” my dad asked, rounding the table to shake my high-school ex-boyfriend’s hand.
Fuck. Me.