Now, all we have is each other and our ranch. Connelly Ranch has been a staple in our small town in Tennessee since my grandparents moved here from Boston back in the fifties. My great grandparents moved to the United States from Ireland before my grandfather was born and had a couple successful businesses, but my grandfather had other dreams.
Connelly Ranch & Inn was founded in 1957, and, once upon a time, it flourished. Now, it's a daily struggle to keep our heads above water and the bank from taking everything my family has worked hard for. With my grandfather getting older, a lot of responsibility for managing the ranch and inn has fallen on my shoulders.
Two years ago, the Inn stayed booked beyond capacity through the year, but now, we are lucky to get half the business we used to. It's primarily due to the many repairs that need to be done, like the Inn needs a new roof, the plumbing is shot, and half the time guests complain about not having hot water or pipes leaking. Also, when my grandmother got sick with cancer, my grandfather took out a loan on the land the ranch sits on to pay her medical bills.
Now, we are so far in debt, we can hardly pay what little staff we still have. Six months ago, I had to let our cook and housekeeper go because we could no longer afford to pay them. The only two employees we have left are our ranch hands, Steve and David. They have been working for my grandfather for over twenty years and are as loyal as two people can be, even when I'm late paying them, which is pretty much all the time. For the past several years, I have been working down at the hair salon in town to keep up with the bank payments.
Shaking those thoughts away, I lift my mug to my lips and take another sip of coffee. Every morning, just as the sun begins to rise, I stand on the front porch and take in all the beauty Connelly Ranch has to offer. Sure, there is a lot of work to be done, but nothing can take away waking up to the sight before me. Connelly Ranch sits on twenty-two acres of sprawling hills with lush green grass. We have twelve horses, nine goats, fifteen chickens, five dogs, and more stray cats than I can count. We also have a pretty impressive garden filled with tomatoes, squash, peppers, potatoes, beans, lettuce, cucumbers, and strawberries. For most of the meals I cook, the ingredients come from right out my front door. My grandfather and I take pride in what we offer each person who decides to stay at Connelly Ranch. Then you have the main house, or as we call it, Connelly Inn. The house was built back in the twenties. There are massive pillars and a wrap-around porch that expands the entire home, and the top floor has a balcony for guests to enjoy. Many of them like to eat their meals out on the terrace. The view is just as beautiful at sunset as it is at sunrise. The interior of the house is just as unique, with a large foyer. We've upgraded the home over the years, but we have also kept a good bit of the original design of the inside, such as the hand-carved staircase.
The sound of the floorboards creaking behind me through the open front door knocks me out of my wandering thoughts, and I turn to see my grandfather's large form making its way into the kitchen. "Hey, Daideò. What are you doing up?" Even though my grandfather was born in the States and doesn′t talk with an accent, we still embraced some of our heritage, which is why I call him Daideò. My grandfather walks up beside me at the counter and begins pouring himself a cup of coffee. I stand up on my tiptoes and kiss his cheek, his bushy beard tickling my nose. "You're just getting over a cold and should be resting."
My grandfather scoffs. "Those doctors don't know what they are talking about telling me I need rest. I feel fit as a fiddle."
Arthur Connelly is as stubborn as they come. At nearly seventy-three, he can give most younger men a run for their money. The words "taking a day off" are not in his vocabulary. And his body and health show for it. My grandfather is a burly man, standing at over six feet tall, with a broad chest and a bushy reddish-gray beard. He looks intimidating, but deep down he's a big teddy bear.
"I'll take care of the stalls this morning if you want to catch a couple more hours of sleep," he tells me as he takes a sip from his mug. "You didn't get in until after midnight last night."
I shake my head. "I can't. I have to work at the salon today, and when I get home tonight, I'm going to finish tearing the carpet out of the hallway upstairs." My grandfather and I live at the Inn, though our section of the sizable ten-bedroom house is separate from where the guests stay. "Johnny was able to get me a deal on some new carpet. Unfortunately, I can only replace it a little at a time, so I’ll start with the hallway since the carpet up there was ruined when the pipe busted in the bathroom the other week. We don't have any guests on the top floor this week anyway."
"I don't want you to worry about the upstairs. I'll get Steve to help me finish it today." He kisses the top of my head. "You're taking too much on, Becca. More than what's your responsibility."
"We're a team, Daideò, and I love this place just as much as you. I'm not giving up on bringing it back to life," I say with conviction. "I love you, Daideò." I give him a hug.
"I love you too, Becca"
I finish the last sip of my coffee and turn to go inside. "I’ll get breakfast prepared for Mr. and Mrs. Miller, who checked in yesterday, then head into work." I give my grandfather one last kiss on his cheek. "I'm going to stop by the store after I finish at the salon and then go to the pharmacy to pick up your medicine, so I'll be a few minutes late getting in. And don't worry about dinner. I have a couple pans of pre-prepared lasagna I'll throw in the oven."
After making sure the Millers have coffee and placing some homemade blueberry muffins and fresh-cut fruit out on the breakfast table in the kitchen, I head into town. I pull into a parking spot in front of the salon and spot Ellie stepping out of her vehicle. She gives me a beaming smile, and I give her one in return as I climb out of my truck.
"Good morning, Becca."
"Morning, Ellie. Did you have a good weekend? How's Hope?"
"I had a great weekend. We went to Jax's parents for a barbeque Friday, and I tagged along with Jax Saturday while he worked an event and went to see a friend up in Nashville. What about you? How was your weekend? And how's that sweet grandfather of yours?"
Ellie and I walk into the salon, and I prop my purse up on the counter. "It was pretty good. Nothing too exciting. And my grandfather is doing better. I think he's finally kicked that nasty cold."
"I'm happy to hear that," Ellie says.
A few minutes later, the shop has opened, and I'm just getting off the phone from booking a client when Lana Jenkins walks in. "Great," I mutter to myself and mentally prepare to deal with whatever crap she's no doubt going to throw my way. Lana was the bane of my high school existence. I was the awkward tomboy with unmanageable, frizzy, curly hair who preferred cowboy boots over the latest hot girl obsession. It didn't help that I seemed to get along better with boys than girls, one being Lana's boyfriend. Carter and I grew up together and were best friends all the way up until eleventh grade, when he and Lana started dating. No matter how many times Carter tried to tell her we were just friends, she still loathed the friendship Carter and I shared. It didn't take long for him to choose Lana over me.
Carter ended up going to a college in Texas on a baseball scholarship after high school, then soon was signed by some Major League team and Lana followed him. I was secretly happy when I heard Carter made it to the Major Leagues. It had always been his dream.
Rumor has it Lana was caught screwing one of his teammates a few months ago, so he kicked her to the curb. Now, she's come back home to lick her wounds. But I'm sure Lana's side of the story will be much different. She will probably spin it in a way that makes her look like the one who was scorned. Anyone who grew up in this town and who knows Carter will know better. Carter is not the cheating type. When we were ten, Carter's parents divorced because his dad cheated. At a young age, Carter vowed to never be like his old man. Especially not after witnessing the hurt his mom went through in the years that followed, watching the man she’d been married to move on and build a new family with the woman he cheated with.
&
nbsp; The whole situation between Carter and Lana came as no surprise to anyone. But what did surprise me was running into him last month here in town. He was here visiting his mom and the two of them were at the pizza shop down the street. We got to talking and the three of us ended up having lunch together. Carter told me that after kicking Lana out of his life, he realized how toxic she had been making his existence for years. He ended up apologizing for how he’d acted in the past and wanted to see if we could somehow get back a little of what we had when we were kids.
I'm not one to hold a grudge, because the only person that hurts is yourself. Besides, when you're a teenager, you make all kinds of stupid mistakes. I've spoken to my old friend three times since then and am excited to see him when he comes to visit his mom again in a couple of weeks. Now Lana is sour since I'm sure by now she has heard that Carter and I have reconnected.
"Well, if it isn't Becca Connelly," Lana says, her voice sounding like nails on a chalkboard.
"Lana," I return in a bored tone. "Is there something I can help you with?"
Lana hitches her gaudy thousand-dollar purse up on her shoulder. "Yes, as a matter of fact, there is. My hair is in desperate need of attention, and it seems this is the only salon within a fifty-mile radius." Lana peers around the shop, wearing a sour look on her face as if she's too good to be in such a place. Ellie, who is currently giving Mrs. Milly her monthly trim, pauses with her shears and gives Lana a once-over.
Not bothering to hide my eye roll, I pull up today's calendar on the computer. "I'm sorry, but we're all booked today. However, I can get you in with Ellie next Friday at eleven o'clock."
"Are you serious? Can't you make an exception?"
Apparently, Lana forgot who she was talking to, and the look I'm currently throwing her way tells her so.
She flips her blonde hair over her shoulder. "Fine."
I book Lana's appointment and wait for her to leave, but luck is not on my side. "So, you're a hairstylist now, Becca?" she asks.
"No." That is all I offer.
"What, you just take people's appointments?" Lana snorts. I see nothing has changed. She's still the same snob she was back in high school.
"Yes," I say, not feeling at all embarrassed about my job. "I also run the Inn. Working here is something I do part-time."
"Really? I heard the bank took your grandfather's ranch."
Of course, she would know my business since her father works down at the bank. It takes everything I have not to bitch-slap the smirk off Lana's face, not to mention when you live in a small town, everyone knows your business.
"Lana…" I go to say, but I'm cut off.
"How's that handsome baseball player of yours, Lana?" Mrs. Milly, who is currently sitting in Ellie's chair, asks. Mrs. Milly is a seventy-something-year-old busybody who happens to be our town's leading source of gossip. Sometimes she gets on my nerves, but today I couldn't love her more.
"Oh," Mrs. Milly continues. "That's right. He dropped you like a hot potato. I heard he even took back the engagement ring. Word is, you had to move back home with your folks because you don't have a penny to your name." Mrs. Milly shakes her head and tsks.
This time I don't hold back my snort.
Lana huffs. "You really shouldn't listen to everything you hear."
Mrs. Milly smiles. "That's some sound advice, Lana. Maybe you should practice what you preach."
With a sniff, Lana turns on her heel and storms out of the salon. I turn toward Mrs. Milly with a massive grin on my face. She doesn't say anything. Instead, she just winks then turns back to face the mirror.
3
EASTON
I wake to a new sunrise, feeling like roadkill and my head throbbing. A couple of years ago, I could blame my current condition on partying too hard. Nowadays, I simply attribute it to sleeping like shit. That's the thing about insomnia—she's a cold-hearted, blood-sucking bitch.
I throw the covers to the side and rise from the bed. My bare feet slap against the cold floor as I cross the room, then pull open the curtains and let the sunlight wash over my body. Standing naked in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, I soak in the warmth of the sun. A few years ago, I decided to make Nashville my permanent place to live when we are not touring. A place I can come back to and recharge. There's just something about Nashville and its people that relaxes the soul.
I live in a luxury loft near Music Row, overlooking the river. From where I stand, I can see the stadium where we played for a sold-out crowd the night before. Emptiness, mental exhaustion, and being devoid of motivation are all I feel looking out on my city. All I can think about is escaping it all and seeing my family back in Montana.
A meow, followed by fur rubbing against my calf, causes me to look to the floor. "Hey, dude." I talk to my cat Gizmo. "Are you hungry?" He tilts his head back and meows again.
"Do you really think you should be standing in your birthday suit for anyone to gawk at?" Mallory, East of Addiction's publicist, suddenly appears.
"What the fuck, Mallory?" I turn to find her standing in the doorway of my bedroom. "You aren't allowed to enter my home whenever you wish." Stepping away from the window, I snatch a robe lying across the arm of a nearby chair and cover myself.
"Don't go and get all modest on my account. Half of the city probably got a look at your assets by now." I feel her eyes on me as I move. "And you're the one who gave me the code to get in."
"One time because you live in the building and offered to feed my cat for the weekend I was out of town this past Christmas. That doesn't give you permission to enter at will."
Mallory sighs as I brush by her and head for the kitchen. I grab the cat food from the cabinet and pour some into Gizmo's dish. I don't bother to hide my annoyance when I speak again. "What do you deem so important that requires you to break into my apartment?" I hear her heels tapping against the wood floor as she follows.
"I didn't break in. Besides, I knocked, but you didn't answer. I got worried," she explains, and I roll my eyes. This is the third time she's waltzed in on her own. I need to change the code. "Anyway, Music Now magazine wants to interview you."
"You mean the band," I correct her.
"No. Just you," she clarifies, and I don't bother looking at her.
"No. There are four of us in the band, not one."
"You are the face of East of Addiction. You're making my job hard to do, Easton."
I stroll over to the coffee bar, pop a pod into the machine and wait for the mug to fill with my first dose of giving a fuck. "I've told you before. I don't do anything without my bandmates." I look back over my shoulder, and Mallory is standing at the kitchen island, with a look of disdain on her face.
Mallory sighs. "Fine, then why don't we go over the schedule. I've lined up a photo shoot and–"
"Not happening," I interrupt her.
"You have…"
"No." I cut her off again, lift the cup to my lips, take a decent swallow, and then face her. "My flight leaves in a couple of hours."
Mallory stares, her lips tightening as they press together.
"To where?" Her arms fold across her chest.
"That is none of your business," I'm quick to tell her.
"You pay me to make everything my business."
Her statement rubs me wrong. "I pay you to manage my public life, the one the media is privy to, not my private affairs." I tamp down my lack of patience.
"We'll see what Miles has to say."
"He knows." I'm over this conversation. "And he will remain the only one with the information of my whereabouts. Starting today, I'm on hiatus. Anything the press needs to hear, or anything you need regarding public affairs for the band, you are to go through Miles." Mallory goes to speak, but I'm not interested. "We have nothing more to talk about. Now, if you don't mind, I need to shower, pack, and get my ass to the airport." I stroll past her and head for the front door. I pull it open and wait for her to take the fucking hint and leave. Not that Mallory isn't a looker.
She's just not my type—personality-wise, that is. I also don't mix business with pleasure. It can get too messy. Mallory is good at her job, but lately, something has changed. Not in her performance but in her behavior—mostly toward me.
"Easton." Mallory looks at me.
I sigh. "My head hurts. Just go. We'll discuss band business when I get back." I rub my temple, the headache I woke up with still lingering. Mallory steps out into the hallway, then faces me, pressing her palm to my chest.
"Easton. Perhaps I can make you feel better?"
Calmy, I remove her hand. "We've discussed this before, Mallory. I'm not interested. Listen…I like you, most days, and you're a hard worker, but we are never getting involved with one another." Mallory's face hardens with my rejection, and she begins to walk away. "Also, the next time you invite yourself into my home without my consent—you're fired." I slowly close the door.
A few hours later, I'm sitting comfortably in first class next to an elderly woman as we make our descent toward the airport. I stare out the window and smile, knowing I'm that much closer to my family and friends.
"You look happy," the older lady sitting beside me says, and I look at her. Her expression is soft, of a motherly nature. Her name is Nora, and we've shared our time on the flight talking about all the adventures she and her husband shared over the years. She talks about him as if he's still here, yet she buried him three months ago. What kind of love story must that have been? Listening to her talk, I couldn't help but process what my future holds. Can I have it all—my singing career—love—a family?
At the end of the day, I want something more in my life. I want to walk off stage and see the face of a woman who looks at me for who I am, not what I do for a living.
"I am," I speak.
"I hope I didn't bore you with my endless chatter," Nora says.
"Not at all." I give her a smile, and she returns one of her own.
"That smile of yours melts hearts, doesn't it?" She laughs.
Until Easton Page 2