CHAPTER 11
JAMIE
T he following week Jamie, Ruth, and Poppy headed to Clayton’s ranch.
He’d offered to pick them up from Shorty’s building but Jamie wasn’t in the habit of accepting favors, especially from men.
It felt too much like giving up control, and she’d learned the hard way what happened when she did.
Besides, she would be spending the next few days with him and she wasn’t in any hurry to make nice.
“Where are we?” Jamie peered out the window and groaned. There was nothing but farmland for miles, mostly cows and horses. She pinched her nose. “It smells like shit.”
“It smells like a farm,” Ruth said, inhaling deeply through her nose.
“That’s gross.” As far as Jamie knew she’d never been to a farm. Maybe a petting zoo when she was a kid, but probably not. It didn’t seem like something her parents would do, considering it was a daytime activity and they were night owls.
“I think we’re heading in the right direction,” Ruth said, glancing at the GPS on her phone. “It’s just up there.” She leaned forward and added to the driver, “Please take the next right. ”
The car turned into an unmarked driveway and drove along a dirt road, slowing as it approached a metal grate that caused the tires to bounce when they crossed over it.
“What was that?” Jamie held onto Poppy for dear life.
“A cattle guard,” Ruth said casually.
“A what?”
“They’re meant for cattle, so they don’t cross the road.” Her assistant chewed her gum. “We have them in Oklahoma. They’re quite common.”
The car drove down a long narrow road that wasn’t wide enough for two vehicles to pass. It ascended a hill and passed a barn before stopping in front of an A-frame ranch-style house with a porch spanning the width of the building, two rocking chairs facing outward upon it.
Next to the house there was a carport containing an old beaten-up truck.
She assumed it belonged to Clayton, but where were his other vehicles?
Derrick had a collection: a black Porsche, a yellow Lamborghini, a red Ferrari of course, and his everyday car, a Plum Crazy—a proprietary purple—Dodge Hellcat that he’d souped up with wide tires, ceramic coating, and a Barton shifter he never stopped bragging about.
Clayton opened the front door as soon as they arrived. He wore a dark blue and black plaid shirt that Jamie hadn’t seen before, and his reddish-brown beard had grown since the last time she saw him.
“What’s all this?” Clayton gestured at a multitude of suitcases packed in the trunk.
“My stuff,” Jamie said, carrying her dog. “We’ll be gone for a few days.”
“I’m bringing one bag and my guitar.”
“I’m surprised you’re not wearing the same thing every day and using a washboard to clean your clothes in the river.”
“You’re not funny.”
“Yes, I am,” she said .
Clayton kissed Poppy on the head. “You can put her down. There’s nothing here to be afraid of.”
“She just had a bath at the groomer’s.” Jamie kicked the ground with her boot. “And there’s nothing but dirt until you reach the grass over there.”
“Sometimes my feet don’t touch the pavement for months.” Clayton showed her the bottom of his boot, emphasizing his point. They were black—the color of his heart.
The front door opened and Duke galloped out, making a beeline for Poppy.
“Down, boy!” Jamie said, but the Lab leaped up, his filthy paws landing on her chest.
“Sorry!” Nolan yelled from the front door, but Duke dashed toward the open pasture, paused, wagged his tail, and barked. Nolan walked over to Jamie, his shaggy hair bouncing. “This must be Poppy,” he said as the dog sniffed his hand.
“Poppy Rose,” she said. “She’s been sleeping a lot lately. Too much playing with Duke, I’m afraid. That dog’s a handful.”
“Handful . . .” he repeated. “I think you’re being too nice.”
“I’m Ruth!” Jamie’s assistant waved, a guitar case in the other hand.
Nolan’s smile lit up the sky. “Let me help you with that.”
“This?” Ruth pulled the case up to her waist. “This is nothing compared to the feed bags we have back home in Oklahoma.”
“What kind of farm?” Nolan asked.
“Wheat mostly, but we have cows and chickens—”
“I’m a veterinarian.”
“I know!” Ruth’s bright green eyes sparkled with excitement. “Jamie said you were the smart one.”
“And the better-looking one,” the rock star added .
“Shot through the heart again,” Clayton said, clutching his chest as if she’d wounded him. “That Bon Jovi record blew my hair back.”
“That’s a hot take,” Jamie said. “Should we tell the 1980s?” She looked around, puzzled. “Where’s the bus?”
“Gus is bringing it around from my parents’ house,” Clayton said. “My girls have been using it as a Barbie camper.”
“Your parents live here?” Jamie asked, stunned. She’d never understood people like Ruth and Clayton who enjoyed spending time with their families.
“Over yonder.” He chopped his hand through the air. “Nolan’s got the next plot over. Momma loves keeping us close.”
“I should’ve known you were a momma’s boy.”
Clayton scratched his beard. “Well, she looks after my girls when I’m gone.”
“Oh, I thought your ex-wife would’ve had them.”
“I’ve got full custody.”
Jamie cleared her throat. “Oh, I didn’t know that.” She turned in a circle, taking in the view. “Where are your cars?”
“My truck’s in there.” He pointed to the carport.
“No, I mean the rest of them?”
“That’s all I’ve got.”
On the bus ride to Atlanta Clayton sat at the front with Ruth while Jamie took the back bedroom—Clayton’s room—to write.
She half-expected it to be decorated with Merle Haggard posters, baseball memorabilia, and empty Cheetos bags, but it wasn’t.
It was actually pretty nice. A white duvet covered the bed, with wooden night tables on either side—oak or birch, she guessed.
There was even an ensuite bathroom with a shower, which was unusual for a tour bus.
Luckily she’d remembered to pack a lint brush, so she retrieved it from her bag and rolled it along the duvet. Duke’s hair was everywhere, and being blond it was difficult to see against the white backdrop. If only she had some cootie repellent she’d be all set.
An hour later a knock sounded at the door. Poppy raised her head and emitted a soft bark.
“Come in,” Jamie said, welcoming the distraction. She was about to read some mean tweets to feel bad about herself.
Ruth walked in laughing. “Gus is so funny!” She held her stomach. “He’s got so many stories! He drove for Garth Brooks—he’s from Tulsa—Tim McGraw, and Vince Gill. They’re country artists.”
“I know who Garth Brooks is. He put out that weird Chris Gaines record, remember?” Jamie lowered her voice to a whisper. “What do you know about Tammy Travis? Clayton’s got custody of his kids.”
Ruth closed the door behind her and sat on the edge of the bed. “I don’t know much, other than she fell off the face of the earth after she got pregnant. I assumed she was busy raising her kids.”
“Yeah, same.” Clearly there was more to the story. “I googled her, and there isn’t even a recent picture.”
“It’s weird, James. I’m curious about what happened.” Ruth lay on the bed, propping her head up with her hand. “Can I share a secret with you?”
Jamie arched an eyebrow and nodded.
She continued, her voice taking on a dreamy quality, “I have a crush on Dr. Nolan Langley.” A blissful sigh escaped her lips, her eyes glazing over.
“Really?” Jamie asked, tilting her head as she studied her friend. “He kind of looks like Clayton. ”
Ruth’s dreamy expression snapped into one of pure indignation. “What do you mean? Clayton was People’s Sexiest Man Alive.”
She met her stare with an unimpressed look. “I don’t remember voting.”
Ruth gasped. “You don’t think he’s handsome?”
“You mean if I didn’t know him?”
Ruth nodded, urging her to be honest.
Jamie pursed her lips, considering. “I guess. But he’s so annoying I couldn’t get past it. And those dad jokes? The worst form of torture imaginable.” She shuddered for effect.
Ruth groaned, throwing her hand up. “You’re impossible.”
Four hours later they finally rolled into Atlanta. The sky stretched wide and clear, a crisp blue unmarred by clouds, and the mild seventy-degree air felt almost like spring—especially compared to the winter chill they’d left behind in Nashville.
Jamie walked to the front of the bus, hitching her bag higher on her shoulder as she stepped over a crumpled hoodie in the aisle. She exhaled, already picturing the gleaming marble floors of her hotel, the hush of luxury, and—most importantly—a bed that didn’t reek of Clayton.
“Well, look who’s up. You get some good rest?” Clayton asked.
“I wasn’t sleeping,” Jamie said defensively. “I was writing. Dusty thinks I can get at least two of my songs on the record.”
“What about Doofus?”
She smirked. “I wasn’t going to tell him. ”
“He wouldn’t know the difference.” Clayton tugged at the mess of twisted ropes in his hands. “He asked for some changes on my last record, so I waited a few days and sent the tracks back.” He smirked. “Loved ’em.” He looked up, eyes glinting. “Didn’t change a damn thing.”
“I’m going out for a fucking smoke,” Gus interrupted.
“Language,” Clayton reminded him. “There’s a lady present.”
“Do I look like a lady to you?” Jamie smirked. “Your language is fine, Gus.” She locked eyes with Clayton. “I hate watching my language.”
Gus tipped his hat and took Duke with him.
“Where’s Ruth?” she asked.
“She went to check you guys in.” Clayton set down the ropes and picked up his guitar from the couch, strumming idly.
“Why don’t you have a PA?”
“A what?”
“A personal assistant.”
“Don’t need one.” He rested his guitar on his lap. “Want to hear something I’ve been working on?”
“I’ll put my Simon Cowell hat on.” She closed her eyes in response to his vacant stare. “Never mind. Don’t you watch television?”
“Only when it’s baseball season.” He strummed his guitar. “It’s called ‘You’ve Got Every Right to Be Wrong.’”
“That’s my line.”