CHAPTER 4
CLAYTON
Thirty minutes later he turned into an unmarked driveway that once had a langley ranch sign at the gate.
Several years ago some fans discovered where he lived and his father, a large-animal veterinarian like his brother, removed the sign and nailed it to the barn closest to the main house to prevent any further disturbances.
The Langleys had lived on the same land for over two hundred years, with armies destroying their fields during the Civil War.
They didn’t speak much about those days, his great-grandad had said, and it was just as well since there wasn’t much to be proud of .
After his first record went gold, Clayton bought the neighboring parcel of land and the one next to it for his brother.
He always wanted to stretch out and expand his wings as far as his Tommy John surgery, to replace a damaged elbow ligament, would allow him.
He needed to stay close to his family, especially his mother.
Like any Southern woman, she was devoted to her grandchildren.
He switched on the high beams. It was a dark winter night and his truck crawled up the driveway, the ground crunching under the tires. Tennessee was cold in January, especially where he lived—the middle of nowhere—and the muddy driveway froze solid at night until the sun came up.
The lights were on inside his house—Nolan, no doubt. After Tammy left, his brother had become a permanent fixture at his home, though he wasn’t sure whether Nolan was there to keep him company or the other way around.
Clayton opened the front door and Duke whizzed by, causing him to steady his balance on the frame before entering the house.
He smiled at another yellow Lab sitting by his brother’s feet, looking for permission to greet him.
Duchess was from the same litter as Duke, but only one dog listened, and it wasn’t his.
“Go say hi, Dutch,” Nolan said, and the dog dashed over. “You’re home early.” He glanced at his watch. “I thought you’d be at the studio all night.”
“I’m heading on over to the Bluebird,” Clayton said. “Jamie and I wrote a song together and I’m plumb itchin’ to try it out.”
“You wrote some lyrics?” Nolan asked, his tone skeptical. Clayton often leaned on his co-writers for words, even if his number-one song was all his .
“Not quite,” Clayton replied with a shrug. “Hey, you ever heard of a band called the Killers?”
Nolan opened the fridge. “Yeah, sure. I went to college, remember?”
“What’s wrong with your house?” Clayton frowned as he pulled a smorgasbord of leftovers from the fridge.
“You’ve got better grub,” Nolan said. “The song you wrote—what’s it called?”
“‘I Did a Good Job of Drinking.’”
“You sure did.”
“Now why the hell did you send Jamie roses?” Clayton blurted out, remembering the mix-up that nearly drove him batty when she’d told him what kind they were.
“I thought you liked her?”
Clayton nodded. “I think she likes me too.”
Nolan shook his head. “She was giving you a pretty hard time at the studio.”
“We just mess with each other,” Clayton said, lifting the brim of his baseball cap. “It’s what we do.”
Nolan grinned. “You sure do like feisty women, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir. I sure do.”