Chapter 10 #2
Between them they ushered her to the BBQ and fussed over her, making sure she had enough to eat while enquiring about her grandmother and discussing the weather for tomorrow, which was supposed to turn rainy overnight and might interfere with Stevie’s first trail ride.
Then she and Mags sat on a hay bale and chatted with the other guests, and it was so pleasant in the relative cool of the evening, the aroma of wood smoke and cooking meat scenting the air, that Stevie almost forgot about Clay.
Almost.
Until the low rumble of an approaching motor pricked at her ears and she glanced towards the barn to see a vehicle approaching from the track that wound behind it, headlights slicing a path through the dark. Moments later the pickup pulled to a stop near the hitching posts about thirty yards away.
Clay’s pickup.
‘Well I’ll be,’ Mags murmured as the door opened and out strode Clay.
Stevie’s gaze ate him up. It was like that first day all over again, with Electra, mesmerised by the way the man moved, by the rugged power in his frame.
She could not take her eyes off him – from the snug fit of his jeans and plaid shirt rolled up at the elbows to the arrogant ease of his stride. He was compelling.
And then there was the weight of his stare.
Even hooded in the shadows of night, Stevie could feel his eyes on her, watching her intently as he walked a straight line to her position.
His gaze stroked her skin like the hot lick of fire and her heart skipped a beat as he grew nearer and nearer, making her feel both enthralled and utterly gauche.
Clay Calhoun was so incredibly out of her league, so out of her range of experience and yet, her body throbbed with desire under his unwavering attention.
She’d dreamed about him these past two nights, waking hot and achy, and those dreams came flashing back now in all their carnal intensity.
How was it possible to have no real experience in ways of the flesh and yet be so certain that this one man could debauch her so thoroughly she’d never be the same?
The narrow circle of her purity ring felt like a heavy, metal shackle around her finger, and Stevie’s thumb played with the back of the band, spinning it around her finger, her throat thickening as Clay’s boots stepped ever closer.
Ten feet. Nine feet. Eight feet. Seven. Close. So close now. His gaze not leaving hers. The firelight catching his face and flashing in his amber eyes.
Six feet.
A slight, almost imperceptible nod of his head at her, which Stevie felt down to her toes as Mags said, ‘Well, look who the cat dragged in.’
Clay completely ignored the jibe as he veered away, trekking behind them, and Stevie’s breath left her chest in a rush, her pulse skipping madly.
‘Mustn’t have any food in his fridge,’ Mags mused, half turning to watch her brother pass by them, clearly as surprised by Clay’s presence as Stevie.
‘Saw your brother a few years back in San Antonio,’ said a pretty, blonde thirty-something woman sitting on the opposite side of the fire. ‘Now that’s what I call a man.’
‘I second that,’ agreed her friend.
‘I third it,’ added another woman.
Stevie had been chatting with the women a little earlier. The three friends were from Florida and had come to the ranch for a rustic experience. Just the girls. But now Stevie was thinking they might have an ulterior motive for choosing the RVR.
And that sat like a bucket of cold worms in her belly.
Mags snorted good-naturedly. ‘Yeah, but we don’t like his head to get too big around here,’ she quipped, and everybody laughed.
Sliding her gaze to the side as Mags answered another query about her brother from a guy who was here with his wife and two little kids, Stevie watched as Clay joined his parents at the BBQ.
John and Theresa seemed as surprised as Mags to see him, looking at each other quizzically as Stevie strained to eavesdrop.
Thankfully the direction of the breeze was working in her favour.
‘Well, boy howdy, darlin’,’ John said, his lips twitching. ‘Look who we have here.’
Theresa dug her husband good-naturedly in the ribs before hugging Clay and saying, ‘To what do we owe the pleasure?’
Clay rolled his eyes. ‘A man’s gotta eat, don’t he?’
‘Of course.’ He scored another hug from Theresa before she pointed at the table. ‘Grab a plate.’
‘Stevie?’
Dragging her attention back to Mags who was looking at her questioningly, Stevie realised she was being asked a question about whether she’d ever performed at any rodeos, and she smiled and shook her head. ‘Quite a few state fairs, but no rodeos,’ she confirmed.
The conversation spun on from there and Stevie went with the flow, determined to ignore the enigmatic presence of Clay Calhoun behind her and enjoy the evening as she’d enjoyed the previous three.
Even if it killed her.
An hour later, at Mags’s suggestion, with everyone’s belly full of the cobbler that had not long been served and the firelight mellowed to coals, Stevie pulled out her guitar.
Was she hyperaware of Clay sitting on the opposite side looking better than any man had a right to, flanked by the three Floridians who had monopolised his attention from the moment he’d sat his very nice ass down?
Yes.
But, as always, when performing, she slipped into an entirely different persona. The small, intimate gathering persona was different to the sold-out stadium persona but it still cloaked her introversion enough, allowing her to be a more gregarious form of herself.
‘Well,’ she said with a self-deprecating laugh, looking at the expectant faces as she absently strummed the strings, the acoustic resonance vibrating beautifully in the stillness of the night.
‘I guess I better get “Forever Without You” done first, save everyone wondering whether I’m going to play it or not. ’
There was a general murmur of laughter soothing the nerves that were always present to a greater or lesser degree depending on the crowd size.
‘And then I thought I might sing a couple of the older hits that hopefully everyone will know. I might even take a couple of requests,’ she said with a smile, which had everyone around the circle nodding.
But not him. Clay watched her with the same brooding expression he’d watched her with all night. The one causing a throb in her pulse and a hitch in her breath.
She strummed the strings again, watching her hands as she did so. ‘As you all probably know by now, I wrote this song for my sister, Yolanda, who passed a couple of years ago. She was the yin to my yang and I miss her every day.’
Sometime soon Stevie hoped that she’d be able to elaborate with small gatherings like this about all of her emotions, but it still felt too personal.
Staring into the glowing coals, Stevie’s vibrato floated into the air as her fingers picked out the opening chords, and it seemed like every single person around the campfire leaned in a little – even him. Her voice rang soft but clear into the cocoon of silence that had billowed overhead.
Because she had sung it so many times, the song had lost its immediate emotional wrench – she could sing it without crying, without breaking down.
Mostly. But each note added a stitch in the living, breathing tapestry of her grief.
One day maybe it’d be complete but for now it felt very much like a work in progress.
The last chord melted into the night and for a beat nobody moved or spoke. It was as if everyone gathered had been holding their breath, then slowly, the clapping started. Not loud or raucous, no whistling or cheering, just steady applause wrapping Stevie in a hug of understanding.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured, her gaze finally lifting, catching Clay’s across the circle, burning bright with something she couldn’t fathom and didn’t know if she wanted to.
Lordy – she was so out of her depth with this man.
‘Thank you,’ she repeated, giving herself a mental shake as she forced herself to acknowledge the dozen other people present. When the clapping died down, she said, ‘Now the soppy stuff is out the way.’
A brisk strum of her guitar and a murmur of laughter put them back on the right track and Stevie belted out a few of her older songs, took a couple of requests and ended with a tongue-in-cheek version of one of her all-time favourite songs, ‘Rhinestone Cowboy’, changing it to cowgirl for laughs, poking fun at herself and her mission at the RVR.
The round of applause at the end of her impromptu unplugged session was much more boisterous than the one earlier, and Stevie spent the next ten minutes accepting praise and thanks in equal measure as country music played over discreet speakers.
John and Theresa took to the dance floor, a raised wooden platform off to the side with four sturdy corner posts providing support for a lattice ceiling through which fairy lights had been strung.
‘Your parents know how to dance,’ Stevie said to Mags, watching the older couple bust out some serious moves to ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ as several more couples joined the dance floor.
‘They do. That’s how they met.’ Mags grinned as she watched her dad spin her mom out then back in again, landing a kiss on her mouth as he did so. ‘I know as a twenty-six-year-old I’m supposed to find their PDA cringey but I kinda love how goofy they are together.’
Stevie nodded. Her parents were affectionate too if in a more subtle way, which she also loved.
She’d never had to doubt the solidity of her family foundations and that wasn’t something every kid got in life.
Yolly had always made gagging noises whenever she witnessed it but Stevie knew that, deep down, her sister had dug it too.
As they watched, Erica – or blonde number one as Stevie had come to think of her – stepped up on the floor with none other than Clay, and the smile that had been playing on Stevie’s mouth died an instant death. Walt and Kirby accompanied blonde two and blonde three.