38
S ilver Springs, a quaint mountain town two hours north of Resurrection, is so adorable it puts every country song I’ve ever sung to shame. Main Street teems with old brick buildings that house museums, restaurants, boutiques, and western stores. Motorcycles line one side of the street, while a jagged mountain looms over the town square, giving a postcard-perfect backdrop.
I duck out of a boutique, scour the surroundings, then smile when I spot Ford coming down the opposite end of the street.
Ford slips something in his shirt pocket when he reaches me. “Good haul?”
I lift the bags. “You’ll never break me of shopping.” We’ve spent most of our Saturday running ranch errands, but I couldn’t resist a detour into a cute shop.
“Never dream of it,” he says, face solemn. Twisting, he drops the bags of feed into the bed of his truck.
“Should we get back?” I ask after we finish loading up the truck. The late afternoon sun hangs low in the sky.
“Nah, baby. We’re not goin’ back.” His eyes soften as he says, “It’s time for that date.”
I hold his gaze. “Really?”
“Really.” He pulls me close. “Been working you to the bone, Birdie Girl. Time to have some fun.”
Over the last week, it’s been chaotic bliss. I’ve spent my days working in Dakota’s bakery. Ringing up customers, taking out the trash, helping her with lines out the door. Evenings, I go back to the ranch and tend to the chickens. Then, it’s me and Ford.
On the ranch, life doesn’t feel overwhelming like it does on stage. It’s easy. Freeing. I can’t tell if it’s meds or therapy. Either way, they’re both working. I haven’t worn my bangles in a week. That dark hole glimmers less and less.
After locking his truck, Ford places a protective hand on the small of my back. “Dinner?”
I bat my eyes at him. “All planned out, Country Boy?”
He wraps an arm around my shoulder, steering me in the direction he wants us to go.
No man has ever taken me on an actual date. Ford has been different ever since he told me we weren’t friends. More serious, more intense. I like that he told me where we stand, but I still don’t know what happens after the summer. Go back or stay? And who’s saying Ford even wants me to stay? He has a job offer he’s still considering. An actual life. Would I throw a wrench if everything if I said I love him?
First things first. I need to focus on getting my money and getting out of my contract.
Then I’m free.
Then I can do anything.
And if it means telling Ford I love him, well, maybe I’ll do that, too.
I’ve been brave all summer. I can do a little thing like tell this broody mechanic I love him. Even if it feels like the scariest thing I’ve ever done.
“Here,” Ford says, gesturing to a red brick building with a sign above the door that reads Butcher and Baker. He opens the door for me and we step into a dimly lit, elegant restaurant. Ford checks in with the hostess and then we’re led to a small table covered with a crisp white cloth. We’re tucked by the window, where the evening glow adds a touch of warmth to the scene.
Ford pulls out my chair, pressing me into it with a hand on my shoulder.
My heart flutters. “You made reservations.”
He sits across from me, touching his shirt pocket like he’s reminding himself there’s something in there. “Yeah, I did.” His voice holds an edge I’ve never heard before.
After we order drinks, I watch as he picks up the large leather-encased menu. His face is boyish and awkward.
My stomach drops into my high heels.
I see what he’s trying to do. Show me we can work. That he wants to do this. The glass of red wine by his hand when I know he’d rather have a beer. The stiff starched shirt when he looks so damn good in a baseball cap and torn up t-shirt. He thinks I want a fancy date.
A hard swell of love nearly knocks me over.
He doesn’t belong here.
Hell, I don’t belong here.
It’s like the sun breaking through the clouds. That slow burn of realization. Everything clicks. My new life will cost me my old.
I don’t care. Fame, fortune—they can have it.
I’d rather be with Ford than anywhere else.
I lean in. “Psst. Country Boy.”
Brow furrowed, he glances up from the menu.
“This doesn’t feel right.” I reach across the table to take his calloused hand in mine. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
I smile. “Somewhere more us.”
Ford grins, then he tosses a large tip on the table and we all but run out of the restaurant.
Outside, Ford looks up and down the block. The sun sinks below the horizon. “Lead the way, Birdie.”
I take a step toward a neon lit bar when my phone rings.
I groan. Ford stiffens.
Then I blink.
“It’s Doctor DiFeo.” I answer it. “Hello?”
“Reese?” Doctor DiFeo’s voice sounds over the line. “I’m sorry to call after hours, but I had something that couldn’t wait.”
“Of course.”
“Those pills you brought me on your first session, well, I wanted to confirm it before I said anything, but…they’re not depression meds. They’re sedatives.”
It feels like I’ve been sucker punched. I gasp. “What?”
I’m vaguely aware of Ford. His hand going to my shoulder, his amber eyes worried and searching.
My head spins. “But—But I was taking those for such a long time.”
“I suspect you were drugged, Reese. Without your consent.” Over the line, the flip of papers. “It’s a high dose prescription. I suspect your manager or therapist was slowly upping the dosage when you became resistant to its effects.”
Rage heats me up. That’s why I was always exhausted and never felt like I was getting better. Why, when I arrived here, I felt more awake than I ever did.
Grief and rage consume me.
All this time I wasn’t crazy or broken and it could have been easier? Gavin could have helped me, and he didn’t?
The lengths he’s gone to control me. My IUD, what I wore, my money, my contracts…
At first, I thought it was business, but now it’s terrifying. I ran because I felt that dark hole caving in on me, but what if it was saving me? My doubts and hesitations about Gavin have been right all along.
“I want you to be careful around this man, Reese,” DiFeo instructs, pulling me from my thoughts. “You’re my patient and your safety comes first.”
Oh god. Dizziness swims around me. I brace a hand on the brick building to steady myself.
“I will,” I tell her.
After thanking Dr. DiFeo, I hang up the phone and explain everything to Ford. His eyes widen in understanding, and I watch the realization—the rage—hit him.
“Motherfucker,” he swears.
“I don’t know why I didn’t see it. I didn’t…”
“Don’t do that,” he orders in his deep, stern voice. “Don’t blame yourself. This isn’t your fault.”
My cheeks heat with anger. “I hate him. I hate that I have to play this game because it feels like he’s still winning.”
A muscle jerks in Ford’s jaw as he covers his mouth with his large palm and thinks on it. His worried gesture. The intensity of his fury, his protectiveness, crackles in the space between us. “You’re not going back, Reese. I won’t let you.”
He tucks me against him, his piercing amber eyes scouring the street like Gavin’s out there, watching us.
What if he is?
“Let’s go back to the ranch,” Ford says.
“No.” I blow out a breath. “This doesn’t ruin our night.”
I’m not letting Gavin interfere with my life ever again.
Last Chance Honky-Tonk is the diviest dive bar on the windiest back road. Sawdust-coated dance floor, flickering neon on the walls, and guitar picks hot-glued to the ceiling. Ford and I sit at a sticky table, ignoring the suspicious stares from bear-guzzling locals. We order food, shots, and a pitcher of beer.
After the phone call with Dr. DiFeo, Ford’s handsome face still hasn’t lost those tight lines of tension.
“Relax, Ford.” I touch his arm. “You look like you want to commit a murder.”
Ford stares at me like he’s furious and amused at the same time. “I do want to commit a murder.”
I laugh, then bite my lip. “He can’t get to me, right?”
“No.” His words are heated, angry. “He can’t.”
“So let’s forget about it. I’m here and you’re here and we’re going to have fun.” I swirl a finger around our drinks. “C’mon, Country Boy, show me some of that swagger.”
Ford studies me, rolls out his shoulders, and takes his shot. I follow suit.
“This is what you had in mind, Birdie Girl? Slummin’ it?”
“No,” I tell him. “It’s never slumming with you.”
He scrapes a hand along his jaw, holds it in contemplation. “I’ve been thinking…”
“Dangerous business.”
He gives me a grin and says, “I put an offer in on Old Mill’s Farm.” At the arch of my eyebrow, he goes on. “Hell, Birdie, you gave me the idea. I want to start a baseball camp for kids. Put a big fucking baseball diamond smack dab in the center of that field.”
“And your Georgia mansion.”
“Yeah,” he husks. “My Georgia mansion.” He refills my beer from the pitcher. “What do you think?” His voice holds a nervous edge.
The idea is so perfectly Ford. Outdoorsy and free and easygoing. It’s what he wants. It makes him smile. I love it for him.
“I think it’s fucking amazing.” I tilt my head. Hope and worry duel inside me. “But what about the job offer in New York?”
“Yeah. About that,” he says, his eyes never leaving my face. He wraps his broad hand around my wrist, holding it tenderly, like my scars are his as well. “Listen, baby, I—”
“Hey, man, you’re Ford Montgomery.” A guy, barely older than twenty-one, comes close to us with a Sharpie in his hand. “Can I get an autograph?”
“On a date,” Ford grunts.
“Coward,” I tease. Smothering a smile, I glance over at the fan. “He really loves autographs. Make sure he signs everything you own.”
Ford laughs and snatches the Sharpie from the guy’s hands. With a flourish, he signs the back of the guy’s T-shirt. His sneakers. Ball cap. Even his beer glass. “Go to school, use protection, don’t fear tomorrow,” he drawls, before sending him on his way.
I can’t help but laugh. “Wise words.”
The strum of a guitar has me looking over at the stage.
Ford studies me curiously. “You miss singing?”
“I do. I really do. But not the crowds or the money. I miss…that.” I nod at the person on stage. “Intimate audience. Small stage. Doing it for me.”
“You should go play.”
“What?” My eyes widen when he stands. “No. Ford—”
I try to grab the hem of his shirt, but he’s too quick. I watch in horror as he strides over to the singer on stage. They duck their heads and confer, then Ford slaps a wad of cash into his hand. He heads back to me.
“You’re up.”
I blink at the people craning on their high tops. “I don’t believe you.”
His grin gets wider. “You scared, Birdie?”
“No, I’m—”
“If anyone recognizes you, they’ll think you’re staying here. Not in Resurrection.”
I arch a brow. “Very sly of you.”
He just grins. “My plan all along.”
I roll my eyes.
Ford follows me and helps me onto the stage, which is a small platform covered in peanuts. As I settle on a rickety bar stool, Ford places the borrowed guitar in my hands.
He gives me a charming smile. “You got this. You do you .”
I swallow and lean into the mic. “I’m just a simple Georgia girl telling a simple story,” I say to the crowd. “But I hope you like it.”
My heart pounds. Ford’s right. It’s me and the music. I can be myself now.
I think of those yellow sticky notes.
I think of this summer.
I think of Ford.
I close my eyes and sing the song I’ve been writing ever since I arrived in Resurrection. It’s messy, but it has good bones.
Goose bumps skate across my arms. My voice lifts, and I open my eyes, focusing on the twangy hum of the six-string. Ford leans in to watch me, his amber eyes bright and intense.
Gavin would call this burning my life down, but it’s the opposite. It’s clawing my way out of the darkness to find the light. To find a place—or a person—who is mine. Who makes me happy.
Ford is a gift. He’s healed my damaged soul, my broken and wild heart. In three months, he gave me the life I’ve always dreamed up.
And I want to keep it.
I’m ready to choose him.
When I finish singing, the applause is loud and sharp. Whoops and surprised cheers come from the audience. I laugh, wave off the claps, and cover “Delta Dawn.” I’ve been dying to perform it my entire life, and tonight, I sing better than I ever have. By the time the chorus rolls around, people are clapping and dancing on the sawdust-covered floor.
When I finish, the bar erupts.
My heart beats in a rapturous rhythm. I slip off the bar stool and hand the guitar back to its owner. Ford, now beside me, holds out his hands, gesturing for more applause. And it comes. So loud, so thunderous, it’s the best standing ovation I’ve ever had.
“Baby, you were amazing,” a woman says as Ford helps me off the stage. “You should be famous.”
I smile. “Maybe one day.”
Ford pulls me into a corner. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs against my hair.
Exhilarated, I tug on his shirt. “I’m just happy.”
“You blew the doors off the place, Bluebird,” he husks. “You were perfect.” Pride shines in his eyes. My entire body heats. The way this man makes me feel special is incomparable.
“You’re a star, baby.”
“Yeah,” I admit breathlessly. “But I don’t want to be.”
“What do you want to be, then?”
“With you.”
A muscle works in his jaw. His eyes grow soft. “I want that, too.”
“You do?”
“I do.”
Our gazes lock, heat.
More. So much more to say.
It feels bigger than this bar. Bigger than tonight.
Like Ford agrees with me, he touches my cheek. “Let’s get a motel. I need to talk to you. We aren’t finished.”
“Okay. One dance before we go?” This cloud-nine high is too good to get off. I want to stay on it as long as I can. With Ford.
He grins. “Can’t say no to my girl.”
My girl.
With a wild hoot, Ford swings me into a frisky two-step. Forget one dance. We dance until midnight. Eventually, the bar clears out in a horde of stomping boots and raucous conversation. As we head to the truck, people mill in the dusky parking lot. I feel eyes on us.
Beside me, Ford tenses. I don’t miss the way his hand palms the small of my back.
“What’s wrong?”
“Not sure yet. Stay close to me.”
My heartbeat kicks up when I see it. I gasp and tug on Ford’s arm. “That black SUV—it’s here.”
His eyes narrow. Before he can say anything, a man from the bar ambles over to us. “Hey, you’re that missing singer.”
“Wrong girl, buddy,” Ford grunts. He tries to grab my hand, but the cowboy steps between us.
Another voice. “Holy shit, it’s Reese Austin.”
An unfamiliar hand touches my arm. “Can I have an autograph?”
“Oh, uh…” My eyes flick to Ford. His jaw is tense as he scans the crowd.
I take the pen I’m offered. Quickly, I sign a cocktail napkin, then another.
A small circle has formed. Suddenly, I’m desperate to be away from here. To be alone with Ford. Adding to the madness, car doors slam. From out of the SUV, come paparazzi.
They’ve found me. They’ve been following me all this time.
“Reese, is this where you’ve been hiding?”
“You look beautiful, Reese. Give us a smile.”
“Ford,” I say, looking toward him like he’s my home base. There’s fear in my voice.
Someone flashes a camera. “Aren’t you supposed to be in rehab?”
“Get the fuck away from her,” Ford snarls.
Before I know what’s happening, I’m mobbed. People and cameras head toward me like a stampede of cattle.
Fear races through my chest. The crowd’s drunk. Who knows what they’ll do?
“Ford!” I stand on tiptoes, trying to find him in the crowd.
“Move, fucking move,” he roars.
My knees go weak at Ford’s voice, and I move fast, skimming under an arm, searching for a way out. Someone grabs the back of my shirt. I twist around, angry now. “Get off me, asshole!”
A strong hand comes out, catching my wrist.
Ford.
I catch a glimpse of his furious face before I’m yanked into his arms.
I cling to him, burying my face against his chest. Trusting him to get me out of here. This man . Fierce. Protective. This is why I’ve stayed—why he’s the one. Because his arms are the safest place I’ve ever been.
When someone steps in front of him, blocking our escape to the truck, he doesn’t even hesitate. He just swings with his right while holding onto me with his left.
Somehow, he gets us to the truck and throws open the door, depositing me safely inside.
And as he speeds out of the parking lot, white knuckling the wheel, I sit back against the seat and stare out into the dark. Maybe this won’t work after all. Maybe Ford is just another dream I can’t have.