Chapter 9 Sunrise
Sunrise
WALKER
As usual, I’m up with the sunrise the next morning.
I love waking up early at the same time every day. It feels like a luxury after spending months at a time on tour, barely knowing what time zone I’m in, losing track of day or night. The only constant in my life being the view of the clouds out of the window of a private jet.
It’s no way to live.
A man is meant to have the earth beneath his feet. To let his body fall in with rhythm of the seasons. To sleep in a bed of his own.
With a woman of his own beside him.
At least I’ve got three out of four going for me these days.
Sadie and Jonah are still asleep, and I feel a sense of satisfaction knowing they’re slumbering peacefully in their beds.
I don’t dwell on the stray thought that I’d feel a hell of a lot more satisfied with Sadie in my bed.
Downstairs I make coffee, enough for two, and check the weather report and my email.
Weather’s good. Email is not.
The president of my record label has taken to emailing me himself every week. Not to bug me to make another record already, like I know he’s dying to do. He’s too smart for that. No, he talks to me like we’re friends.
I mean, I like Carter Caldwell fine enough. We came up together. Me as an artist, him as a music exec. We went from up-and-coming artist (me) and A&R boy genius (him), to Grammy-winning Stagecoach headliner and record company president.
It’s been a wild decade for both of us.
In some ways, we are friends. But I don’t need to hear from him every fucking week like I’m one of his golfing buddies getting ready for bottomless mimosa brunch, or whatever the fuck it is the suits do with their free time.
Now he’s asking if I want to come back to Nashville to do a televised benefit concert at the Grand Ole Opry.
I reply the same way I reply to most of his little pen-pal missives. Some variations on the grab bag of:
no
stop emailing me
we’re not friends
fuck off
no thx
Sent from my iPhone
Really, I should block him.
Sadie’s first downstairs. Today she's wearing denim cutoffs and a white cotton top, her red curls loose down her back, eyes still soft with sleep.
I think I might actually give up one of my guitar-playing fingers if it meant I got to watch her wake up in my bed, those red curls strewn across my pillow, those blue eyes blinking up at me.
But those are dangerous thoughts to have.
I need to lock them away in a vault and throw away the key.
“Good morning,” she says with a yawn. She stretches, and the top rides up, showing more creamy skin.
She looks like she rolled straight out of bed and into the kitchen, and it’s a really fucking sexy look. She’s not even trying to be enticing. She just is.
And I… I need to be looking at literally anything else.
I pick my coffee cup.
“Morning. Sleep good?”
“Yeah. That mattress is the nicest I’ve ever slept on. What’d you do, pluck an angel’s wings and stuff the bed with them?”
More like paid an obscene amount of money for overnight delivery of the same kind of mattress the Queen of Brunei sleeps on.
I'd spent all afternoon telling myself I didn't want her here, and then stayed up until midnight making sure she'd be comfortable when she arrived.
“Something like that,” I say.
“How did you sleep?” she asks.
Huh. First time someone’s asked me that in a long time.
“Fine. Coffee’s on the pot for you.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
Look at us, having a civil conversation. This is good.
Too bad I’m about to ruin it.
“I need your keys,” I tell her.
She tilts her head. “Why?”
“I’m getting you new tires.”
The sleepy, peaceful look vanishes. “Walker, I took them to the tire shop already and they said they were fine for now.”
“I say different.”
“I can’t afford it yet.”
“I’m paying.”
“I can’t let you do that.”
“It’s my kid you’re driving around, so there’s no ‘letting me’ about it. I’m fixing it, and I’m paying. End of story. You can drive my truck while I take your vehicle in.”
Her eyes spark with annoyance. “You’re the only person who could make doing someone a favor into a dictator’s command.”
“It’s called being your boss, sweetheart. Get used to it.”
Leaning her hip against the kitchen counter, she gives me a skeptical look. “Have you ever even had a boss yourself?”
“Come to think of it, no.” I smirk at her, just because I know it will annoy her, and I like the way her cheeks get flushed when she’s annoyed. “But it turns out I’m a natural at being one.”
Jonah comes downstairs then. I ruffle his hair as he passes. “Morning, buddy.” I kiss the top of his bedhead.
“Morning.” A huge yawn. “Can I please have pancakes?”
“It’s an oatmeal kind of day,” I tell him.
Sadie’s already going to the fridge and taking out the ingredients. “I got you, sweetie. Want some cinnamon in it?”
Jonah’s face brightens. “Ooh, yes.”
I put the keys to my Sierra on the counter. “There’s already a booster seat in the back. Don’t mess with my satellite radio presets.”
“Why, are they all tuned to your music?” she asks innocently.
Brat.
I don’t dignify it with a response.
Two hours later, I’ve got brand new tires on Sadie’s vehicle. Her car is old but she takes good care of it. The oil’s been changed, the inside is tidy, and she’s got a first aid kit and a spare towel and blanket in the back.
I have to assume she put that towel in there after I chewed her out for not having one.
I’m not proud of my methods, but I can’t deny they produce results.
I stop at Rosemont on the way back to pick up the teddy bear Jonah requested I get back for him.
My brothers and I have all built our own places further out on the ranch, but Rosemont is the original: the home we were raised in, the house my great-great-grandfather built when Montana was still a territory.
Besides Rafe’s vintage Chevy, both of my brothers’ trucks are parked out front. It’s rare they’re in town at the same time. Slade’s on the road with his hockey team all the time and Tanner’s on the rodeo circuit.
And Josie’s only ever around for Thanksgiving or Christmas these days.
So it’s a semi-complete mini family reunion.
I walk into the house to find them all around the kitchen table, along with Dad. Rafe nods at me and I return the greeting. He’s always been a man of few words, and I appreciate that.
Can’t say the same for my youngest brother. The few words, or the appreciation for him. He could talk the horns off of a bull and it’s fucking annoying.
“Howdy,” Tanner says. “If it ain’t Mr. ‘World’s Sexiest Country Star.’ Did your hordes of shrieking fans let you through the gates? How did you survive all the panties launched your way?”
There was a New York Times article a couple of years ago that decided to run their profile of me with that headline and Tanner has never let me live it down.
“Fuck off, you old rodeo clown,” I grumble, but I return the back-slapping hug he gives me.
“Old? That’s rich, coming from the eldest brother. Is that another grey I see underneath that cowboy hat?”
Slade unfolds himself from where he’s sitting at the kitchen table.
He’s one of the most decorated defensemen in the NHL, but now he’s starting to move like the decade-plus of playing pro hockey is catching up with him.
There’s the separated shoulder. Nose that's been broken and reset at least twice that I know of.
Three Stanley Cups, three different teams, three cities he left before they finished spraying the champagne.
Never the same jersey twice on that ice in June.
Slade doesn't do long-term commitment. Not with teams, not with women. He’s always been a lone wolf.
When he gives me a half-hug, I notice the way he holds his right arm slightly away from his body as he pulls me in with his left.
“Shoulder?” I ask under my breath, so Dad doesn't hear and restart the argument about Slade needing to take better care of himself.
“It's fine.”
“It’s not fine,” Dad says, from across the kitchen. So much for Dad not hearing. Can’t get anything past that crafty old man.
Slade's jaw tightens. “It's fine enough.”
“He won't see the team doctor,” Dad says, from behind his coffee cup. “It’s that man’s job to tell you when you’re pushing it too hard.”
“No, his job is to shoot cortisone into my shoulder between periods so I can finish the game.” He rolls his shoulder back. “I’ll get the surgery after the season’s over.”
Tanner slides a mug of coffee Slade’s way.
“Here you go. Dark and bitter, just like you. Hey, we gotta start planning your retirement party. I’m thinking we go for a big crowd.
Balloons. How do you feel about pink? Or rainbow?
Maybe a giant cake that one of your favorite puck bunnies can pop out of.
Throw some glitter on you before she takes you up to your room for some TLC. ”
If there were ever a more nightmarish scenario devised to torture Slade, I can’t think of one.
Slade’s glower gets darker and darker as Tanner talks. “Keep your balloons and bunnies to yourself.”
Tanner shakes his head. “So sensitive.”
“So fucking dead if you try it,” Slade replies.
Tanner just grins. “Seriously, man, you gotta lighten up a little. What good is all the money and the fame if you can’t have a little fun with it?
” His green eyes turn to me. All of us have the same eyes.
Our mother’s green eyes. Despite the color being identical, they look different on every one of us.
On Tanner they're mischievous and laughing. On me and Slade they're not.
“Same goes for you, old man,” Tanner tells me. “At least you used to be fun.”
I think of my son. My failed marriage. My career starting to run me instead of the other way around.
I tell him, “Some of us had to grow up, T.”
Tanner's easy grin doesn't fade so much as sharpen. He sets his mug down.