by Ali M. Cross
Something as simple as a sincere compliment was a boon to the performer. Even if the relief only lasted a few minutes, for those few minutes, you felt human again.
And Fiona’s humanity was exactly what Nix had expected. Maybe, if he could heal this broken bird and help her sing again, God would bless him, and he’d feel free to sing, too. Because all this thinking about Fiona had made him wish for the stage again, himself. Not for the huge, screaming crowds of teens head-banging in the mosh pit, but to sing for an audience at least. Maybe Variety. Right now, Nix thought, that would pretty much mean everything.
He shook his head and cleared his voice, realizing that he’d kept her waiting for a response to her question. He imagined her paranoia was in full blown panic mode. “Fiona, you are stunning. The newspapers had no idea what they were talking about—you’re more than a phenom. You’re an angel. Truly. It’s not just the tone of your voice, but your interpretation of the music. It’s—perfection.” He meant every word, and he watched as they made their way through her mind and, hopefully, into her heart. He wanted desperately for her to believe him.
The Ice Queen, Fiona MacDonald, melted.
Her shoulders relaxed and her eyes seemed to soften, revealing a vulnerability that almost threatened his resolve not to fall for this girl. “Thank you,” she whispered.
The sincerity in her eyes, in those simple words, were the finishing touches to a web of security and friendship that seemed to have woven around them. It made him brave enough to say, “I also wanted to ask you—” he cleared his throat and thought about picking up his mug just for something to distract himself. He took a deep breath and said, “Fiona, did someone attack you? Were your vocal cords damaged?”
Her eyes widened and she gasped, her hand flying up to her turtleneck-clad throat. For a moment their eyes locked and neither moved, both too stunned by the words that hung between them like a declaration of war.
Fiona stood slowly and drew her blanket around her like a cape. “Get out,” she said in a whisper.
Nix stood too and moved around the coffee table to reclaim his hat, which he turned and turned in his hands, his fingers sliding around the sturdy stitched hem on the felt. He took a step toward her, earnestly hoping she would see his compassion for her. “Look, I’m sorry if I—”
“Please,” she said with more bite. “You need to leave.”
Her face had gone pale, with spots of high color rising from the collar of her turtleneck and standing out like bruises on her cheeks. Her eyes, wary and hard again, glared at him and Nix felt sorry for that.
Fiona needed connections, he saw that. She needed a friend, someone who understood her, who she could be herself around but this—this pain, this truth was impossible for both of them. Nix wanted to be that steady, reliable person who could be a friend like she obviously needed—but he’d never been that person for anyone before. That kind of vulnerability felt too fragile in his hands.
And he’d screwed it up. Looking into her fierce, proud eyes, he knew she’d never give him another chance.
“I came here to apologize, Fiona. I’m sorry you felt I’d attacked you. I really want you to feel safe here—and safe at my club, too. If you decide to come on by, free drinks, okay?” Lame, he thought. Free drinks. Now she’s going to think I only came by to sell her on coming to the club. Inwardly, he hoped she never stepped foot inside. Because then she’d see something of him and he had a feeling that Fiona would take one look at it and know exactly what it all meant—his secret in plain sight. He wasn’t sure he could handle that. She said nothing else as he turned for the door.
“See ya around,” he said. He pulled open the door and stepped outside just short of a run. He’d been so comfortable there just moments ago, and now he couldn’t wait to get away. He wasn’t ready for the kind of honesty Fiona needed, he realized. And he wasn’t sure he could help her without revealing himself.
FIONA HID OUT IN HER ROOM THE REST OF THE DAY, ignoring calls from her sister to join her for dinner. She’d known every minute of her journey home that it was a mistake, and not eight hours into her return, she was ready to bolt—she was desperate to.
After pacing around her room, she began to pack her things—but there was absolutely nowhere else to go. Even if she thought one of her friends from the Met would let her stay with them, she didn’t have enough money to fly back there. Ha, she thought to herself. What friends? She’d been a diva, and that meant everyone was a competitor and she had always planned to be the one on top.
She flopped onto the bed, an arm thrown over her eyes. She couldn’t get any more bottom than this.
She woke in the thin light of early morning to the sound of voices and dogs barking. Her smart watch was dead, having apparently been on her wrist all night long, so she dug around for her phone. 5:30 a.m. Of course it was.
Rolling onto her side, she attempted to ignore the noises and go back to sleep, but the sunlight only grew brighter, and despite her best efforts, the sounds of the ranch waking up for the day were oddly comforting.
Flopping onto her back with a huff, she stared up at the ceiling.
She felt more rested than she had in months. Maybe even years. Even when she’d been in the hospital after the attack, she’d barely slept she’d been so anxious about her voice and her place at the Met. Yet one day home and she’d not only napped yesterday afternoon, she’d slept like a baby for more than twelve hours.
She cleared her throat and tried a very light falling scale to test her cords. They were tight, and still very sore, but the sound was high and bright.
Okay, she thought at the ceiling. I’ve got two choices here. Continue to be the whiner I’ve become, or give up that role and be…what?
Do I go back to being the diva? The girl who couldn’t wait to get out of here six years ago?
Her thoughts trailed off. She didn’t know how to be anything else. She’d been playing the diva for so very long. The alone girl. The different girl. She’d long ago convinced herself she had no other choice but to move on up and out because she didn’t belong here.
But that wasn’t an option right now. The doctor told her she’d need at least three months of no strenuous singing. The Met had told her to check back “next year.” Fiona had seen the virtual hand wave in the air. The sort of New York nod to some time that really meant no time at all. Oh, she had no intention of letting the Met off that easy—she’d definitely be back. But she knew she’d better be in the best shape of her life before she even went calling.
Which left her exactly here. At the family ranch in Podunkville, Colorado for at least nine months. She couldn’t imagine returning to things the way they were, with her already a stranger to her family.
She sat up, catching for the first time the delicious aroma of sausage and onions. Her stomach rumbled. She was a singer who couldn’t sing, but she was also an actress. That’s what the stage was all about, right?
Swinging her legs off the bed, Fiona drew herself together.
“You’re a MacDonald,” she told herself. “You don’t have to like it, but MacDonalds don’t just lie about while other people serve them hand and foot. So get yourself together and act the part.”
She nodded and got to her feet.
Ten minutes later she stood in the kitchen, wearing her ranch clothes she found in boxes in the closet. A pair of ratty jeans with holes in the knees, cowboy boots she’d forgotten were so darn comfortable, and a plaid shirt pulled over a black T-shirt. She’d tied her hair into a knot at her neck so there’d be room to plunk on the battered cowboy hat she held restlessly in her right hand.
Lindsay turned to slide a plate full of eggs onto the kitchen table and jumped, tipping the plate and almost dropping all the contents to the floor. Fiona rushed forward to steady her sister and the two of them laughed self-consciously. With the plate safely stored on the table, Lindsay looked up at her little sister.
“Well,” she said. Fiona felt her heart strings tug at the look of
pure hope shining in Lindsay’s eyes. Lindsay wanted so badly for her to truly belong, and that just wasn’t going to happen. This was just a part Fiona would play until she was ready to return to New York—but there was no reason to upset Lindsay in the meantime.
Fiona pulled her sister into a hug, wrapping her arms tightly around her. “Thank you for welcoming me home, Lin,” she said quietly. “I’ll do my best to pitch in.”
“Oh gosh,” Lindsay said after a quick squeeze. She stepped back and swiped her fingers under her eyes. “Just be yourself. You have no idea how happy we are to have you home.”
“Thanks,” Fiona said. But she was wondering if she even really knew herself at all.
Like magic, the boys appeared as soon as Lindsay had the table covered in food.
“Is there anyone else joining us?” Fiona asked once Jack closed the door behind him. “There’s enough food for an army here.”
“What are you talking about?” Jack said, taking a seat. “There’s barely enough here for me. I have no idea what Gavin’s going to eat.”
In response, Gavin picked up the plate of sausage and dumped half of it onto his plate.
“Aw, man. See what you’ve done? You’ve messed up my carefully planned attack and Gav’s beat me to it.” Of course, Jack said all this while he swiftly piled eggs, biscuits, hash browns and all but four of the remaining sausages onto his plate.
“You just keep talkin’ little brother,” Gavin said between bites. Somehow he’d managed to get his whole plate full of food while no one was looking.
“Grace!” Lindsay said. Gavin scowled, but he put down his fork and obediently reached out his hands.
After a moment’s hesitation, Fiona put one hand in Gavin’s and the other in Lindsay’s and bowed her head.
“Dear Father in Heaven,” Jack began, low and soft, completely free of the humor from just moments before. “We thank thee for they bounteous blessings, for our land, our animals, and our family. We’re thankful for the roof over our heads and our amazing parents for providing so well for us. We’re thankful for this glorious life we get to live, surrounded every day by the beauty of thy world.
“Father, we’re especially grateful for the return of our little sister. Please bless Fiona with comfort and peace. Bless her that she’ll know what thou would have her do. Bless her that she’ll know how much she’s loved and how happy we are to have her with us.”
“Bless the food already, will ya?” growled Gavin under his breath.
“And thank you for this wonderful breakfast Lin has prepared. We’d be lost without her and that’s a fact. Please bless her for all she does for us. And please bless this food that it’ll strengthen us and allow us to do all that must be done today. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.”
“About time,” Gavin said.
Lindsay glared at him. “Amen,” she said.
“That too.” Gavin stuffed a forkful of eggs into his mouth, but he winked at Lindsay and she gave him a begrudging smile in return.
Fiona moved her food around on her plate, her mind caught up on the things Jack said in his prayer. On the way she’d felt while she listened. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard a prayer. Oh, she’d prayed from time to time but she knew they weren’t real prayers. Not the kind her mother had taught her anyway. They were all about what she needed from God. Jack’s prayer had been all about giving thanks for what they already had.
“You okay there, Fi?” Lindsay asked on a whisper, while the men chowed down on their food.
Fiona sat up taller and smiled for Lindsay’s sake. “Yeah,” she said with a smile, and filled her own mouth with food.
She listened while the day’s schedule was discussed—Jack was taking on a new hunting dog to train, Gavin was prepping gear for an excursion next week, and Lindsay had phone calls to return, menus to go over and orders to place.
“What can I do to help?” Fiona asked as her brothers were scraping up the last of their breakfasts.
Gavin didn’t even look at her when he said, “Muck out stalls.”
“Maybe do some riding, so you can get back into the swing of things?” Jack said.
“Turn out the horses. Move the geldings in the west pasture to the north. I’ve got a young stud coming in tomorrow and he’ll need his own place for a couple days until I know if I can trust him with the general population.”
“Go easy on her, why don’t ya? We don’t want to scare her away.”
Gavin looked up for the first time, pinning Fiona with his warm hazel eyes. Then he stood and took his dishes to the sink, kissed Lindsay on the top of her head and said, “Thanks for breakfast, honey.”
He shrugged into his down vest and took his hat from the hook by the door. “I don’t need to go easy on her,” he said. “You’ve always treated her like she’s a baby. Like she should be treated differently because she was the youngest. Well, she’s a grown woman and she’s a MacDonald just like the rest of us. I figure if we can work, so can she.” Then he put on his black cowboy hat, tugged it down low over his eyes, and stepped out the back door.
Jack and Lindsay looked at Fiona with wide eyes, like they expected her to bolt after Gavin’s declaration.
Instead she stood slowly. Oh, she wanted to bolt all right, but something in Gavin’s words, in his confidence when he said them—his confidence in her—had struck a bell deep in her heart. “Guess I have a barn to get to,” she said. Then she followed Gavin—vest, hat and all—and left the house.
The cold air smacked Fiona in the face and she was instantly reminded she was far up in the mountains and winter would come along faster than anywhere else. But oh, the air was so clean and fresh. It made her feel alive, exhilarated. She stood on the back porch, the paddocks and fields spread out before her in rolling waves, encircled by the shadow-cast forest. The sun was just beginning to paint the tips of those trees green when Jack stepped out beside her and issued an ear-splitting whistle.
“Hey,” she complained, jabbing him in the ribs with her elbow. The barking of dogs ensued and Jack grinned.
“We’re burning daylight here, Fiona-bum.” And he leaped over the few porch steps, ordered the dogs to obey and trotted off toward the kennels.
She studied the gold-tinted treetops for a moment more and thought, Burning daylight. Ha! Then she struck out for the barracks—the main stable where the boarded horses were kept. She’d turn them out first, then the ranch horses, then get to work on all those stalls.
Opera wasn’t for sissies. She put in long hours standing in heeled boots, her core constantly engaged as she sang and sang and sang. She did yoga, Pilates and aerobics every day to keep her body strong and well oxygenated, and she needed every bit of strength she possessed to handle the rigors of rehearsal. As she walked toward the barracks, she swung her arms and stretched her neck. She could do this.
Golden sunshine against his closed eyelids woke Nix from a dreamless sleep. He purposely left his blinds open at night so the sun would wake him in the morning. He liked it better than an alarm clock, but he still wasn’t very good at actually getting up. A lifetime of late nights and late mornings had trained his body to appreciate long sleeps, and while he was trying to adjust to this country life, he just didn’t have enough reason to jump out of bed in the morning.
Pops snored from his spot at the foot of the bed—a hard immovable lump that wouldn’t budge for at least another couple hours. The club wouldn’t open until 7:00 tonight—what was there to get up for?
But there was that sun and it was getting brighter by the second.
He rolled over, never having opened his eyes, and pulled his duvet up to his ears. The warmth inside his blanket cave, and Pop’s rhythmic breathing, had him almost achieving sleep again when she popped into his mind.
His breath caught and he held her image in his mind’s eye for a long moment. He was sitting on the couch, his arms resting on his knees, his fingertips a whisper away from touching her. She sat wrapped up in a blan
ket, her golden hair in wisps all around her face, and her gray eyes so wide and open. Her plush, pink lips parted and he wished he’d had the nerve to kiss her. He wished he could have taken her into his arms, blanket and all.
He groaned and squeezed his eyes tight, trying to banish these thoughts of her. Fiona wasn’t as tough a nut to crack as she pretended to be, but he also didn’t think she was the kind of girl who wanted to be found out.
Some girls wore their tough exteriors as a kind of challenge—if you really want me, you’ll get through my defenses, kind of thing. Nix had the feeling Fiona wasn’t that kind of girl. Hers was no candy coating. She’d suited herself up in titanium armor and he was pretty sure she had no intention whatsoever of letting anyone in. Not on purpose anyway, and certainly not for the purpose of testing out a guy.
He rolled onto his back and stared up at the plain textured ceiling. He really ought to paint this place. Make it a little more his. He wondered what color Fiona would paint the place. Jeez Louise. Get a grip, he thought.
But even as he scolded himself, his mind conjured new images of Fiona MacDonald and snippets of their conversation played through his thoughts.
He remembered a time when all he could think about was music. He’d never been so consumed with a woman before. Until now he’d thought it was just him—that deep down he loved music more than women—but he was starting to rethink that. Maybe he’d just never found the right woman.
He sat bolt upright and smacked his head between his palms. Pops lifted his head and looked at him. Nix could swear the dog rolled his eyes before letting his head fall back to the bed with a thump.