by Taylor Hart
He turned to her. “What?”
“My mother wanted dirt on you for the article.” She shook her head. “I told her Texas Waters doesn’t have any dirt. He’s an honorable man. More honorable than most.” Tears ran down her face. “I’m so sorry.”
He didn’t respond right away, but when he turned to face her, tears were running down his face. “I started crying today in the hospital, next to my father.” He swallowed, and his eyes fluttered closed. “You know what my father said to me?"
This was unexpected. “What?” she asked quickly.
He shook his head and sniffed, a small smile on his face. “He told me he’d raised me better than this. That he’d raised me to be a man and keep my stuff together because real men don’t cry. Because I was a wimp if I cried.” Texas let out a sad laugh. “Then he tugged his oxygen mask back on and turned to the side, dismissing me.” Texas let out a broken laugh. “The old man is lying there, dying, hardly breathing with the oxygen on his face, going into coughing fits, and I actually …” He slammed his fist into the water, splashing both of them.
Liberty flinched, but didn’t move.
More tears on Texas’s face. “I was actually having one of those moments where I felt bad for him, and I thought about what I’d told you about that stupid car.” He pointed at it. “I felt this loss.” He clutched his chest. “For everything that we hadn’t had between us. For growing up with this emotionally idiotic father who rode me hard. Was just plain mean most of the time. I mean, half the time I was afraid to come home because I didn’t know if he’d beat me that day”—he gestured to the house—“for who knows what.” He swerved away from her and stepped a couple more feet away, wiping his face.
Tears. Tears she hadn’t realized had emerged blinded her as they raced down her face.
In all her life, she’d never been afraid to go home. Maybe she had felt neglected in another sense, but never afraid.
She heard him sucking in deep breaths and saw him wiping his face even more. Then he jerked another fist into the ocean.
In this strange moment, she realized they were both running in different ways. She closed the space between them.
He was still. Stoic. His jaw line hard. He stared off at the ocean.
“I’m sorry.” It was all she could think of to say.
“For what?” He still looked away from her.
“For what’s happening to your father. To you. Your mother.” She’d never had a solid religion. Never understood the mysteries of the universe, why things happened. “I don’t have any answers, but I am so sorry.” Her heart ached for him.
He scoffed, and it sounded like he didn’t believe her.
She waited, feeling this whole evening wrap around her, making her feel like she’d been transported into another world.
That’s how it’d been with Texas she realized. He didn’t live in the real, normal world. Well, maybe he did, but she felt like when she was with him it was all different, like she’d gone to a different planet than the one she’d grown up on. The polite, civilized one.
They both stood there for an awkward amount of time, and she started to turn back to the house. “I’m sorry I came. I’m sorry about everything.”
“Wait.” He commanded in that bossy, sergeant way of his.
Pausing, she turned back to him.
“What did you tell him?” He turned back to her.
Instantly, she knew who he was talking about. Her mouth went dry. “Uh, that we kissed.”
He grunted. “Did you tell him that you kissed this?” He pulled his arm up and pointed to his barbed wire tattoo.
She shook her head, her breathing heavy. “No.”
He gave her that same, smoldering look. His intensity. It was electrifying to her.
“Did you tell him you knew going to Nigeria was running?”
“I never said that.” Her voice rose with the sound of the ocean.
He put up a hand to silence her. “You didn’t deny it either.”
“I want to cover the refugee story,” she said insistently, feeling like a spoiled two-year-old, needing to stomp to make her point.
He nodded. “I know you do.”
“So Nigeria isn’t running away.” She tossed back in his face.
Leveling her with a glare, he bit the edge of his lip. “Do you love him, Liberty?” His voice had dropped a notch, and now, he was right in her face, his eyes boring into hers. “Do you love him? Because I can’t.” He broke off. Then he turned back, looking more determined. “You’re in my mind. You … I think about you.”
Every part of her stilled.
“I can’t get you out of here.” He pointed to his head. “Your snooty upbringing. Boarding school. Watching you fall off the stupid ski lift. What it felt like to get called on my crap by you. I have like twenty-five songs brewing about you”—he let out a light laugh—“that I can’t write because if I write them, then I lose you. Right? Then that’s my pain. I know you’re a reporter, hired to do a story, but all this felt so real to me. Like the most real and beautiful and scary thing in my life.”
She choked back her emotions, hating that his words made her finally understand what she was feeling.
Tears fell on his cheeks. He swore and wiped at them. “My father tells me not to cry, and now, I can’t stop.” He shook his head. “How come you’re the one person who I think even gets it? Me?” He choked out a laugh. “Isn’t that pathetic? I’m twenty-eight years old, and I’m dealing with this crap, and this girl I’ve known only two weeks is closer to me than anyone else.” He turned and splashed the water then turned back to her. “And she doesn’t want me.”
Anguished was the only way to describe his facial expression.
Her heart was breaking. “Texas, I do get it. You’re right to feel the things you feel, and your father doesn’t get to dictate to you how to feel. This”—she gestured back to the bashing of the car—“this whole thing is good. It’s a breakthrough.”
He shook his head then looked away. “What the—”
“Texas, I’m talking to you.”
He swerved back. “Is this you, the fiancée of Hale? Or the you that kissed me? That bore her soul to me? That I kissed. That I still want to kiss.” His eyes were glassy. He cursed again. “C'mon, Liberty. C’mon. Don’t talk to me like you’re my psychologist.”
Every part of her wanted to deny what he was saying, but she couldn’t. Her hand trembled.
He reached out, putting his hand into the water and found hers.
She didn’t know how to react. She could feel herself slipping, getting dragged under. He was like a huge magnet she couldn’t stay away from. She’d never. Ever. Felt like this before. It terrified her but here she was.
“Tell me what Hale said when you told him about the kiss.”
Even though this wasn’t a funny moment, she smiled because Texas was smart and sarcastic and completely funny.
“Tell me.” He jerked her arm.
Once again, she knew there was no getting out of this.
“He told me he understood, but he was sure it wouldn’t happen again.”
“And you agreed to that?” Texas pulled her closer to him.
His skin was slick with water, and she was melting. “I didn’t … we just moved on.”
“What does that even mean?” He kept her close.
“I just resumed the conversation, and we talked about going to a different conference.”
“After you go to Nigeria?” He had an incredulous expression on his face.
Yanking her hand away, she scowled at him. “I’m going to attend a different conference. Later.”
He let out a breath. “What?”
She met his eyes. “I thought you’d be happy about that.”
Holding her close for a second, he asked. “Are you? You’re giving it up, just like that?”
She was confused. “You’ve been pounding at me for two weeks telling me it was dangerous.”
“Yeah, and
you’ve been telling me it’s important.” He pushed back.
“It is.” She was breathing heavy.
He shook his head. “You give up what you believe in so easily, huh?”
That ticked her off, so she pushed him hard in the chest and backed away, feeling like a sellout. “Go to hell.”
But he was next to her, grabbing her hand and yanking her back. “Your daddy fought for what he believed in.”
Now, he’d hit below the belt. “Don’t talk about my daddy,” she said mimicking in his southern way.
His eyes got fierce.
Closing the space between them, he pulled her against him again.
Closing her eyes, she felt herself let go. Felt herself give way immediately to this force between them.
He stopped right before their lips touched.
Every part of her wanted to scream at him. Kiss me!
“What do you want, Liberty?” His breath was on her face, and she could smell him. The familiar soap scent and a bit of sweat under the salty scent of the ocean.
“What?” she murmured, too intent on his lips.
Holding her face between his hands, he dipped his head and gently kissed the side of her neck.
Fire burned through her.
“What do you want?” he whispered in her ear. He dropped his lips back down her neck, trailing kisses along her jaw line and stopping right before her mouth.
She was lost and found and everything in his touch.
The water rushed in, a wave almost knocking them down.
He gripped her tighter. “I want you to understand something. The next time you kiss me, you better mean it.”
Her heart pounded and she thought she could hear it swooshing into her ears.
“Because if you kiss me again, you’re mine.” He breathed heavy and then, abruptly, let her go, swerving away from her.
His words shook her to the core. She stumbled and almost fell back into the water. How could she feel so rejected by him and simultaneously so pissed off, knowing he was right?
She’d been a fraud. Was a fraud at this moment—flying here to be with him.
All the while, she was still with Hale.
Overwhelming sickness fell through her and she turned, trudging away from him. “I hate you, Texas Waters,” she whispered.
Striding out of the water, not letting it slow him down, he turned back to her, a grin on his face. “I would be disappointed if you didn’t.”
Chapter 20
One Week Later
Would Texas be lying if he said he wasn’t sad about sending her away? About letting her go? About not kissing her, possibly for the last time?
No. He was devastated. Sad was too weak for what he felt.
Tortured would probably be a more fitting description.
He sat on the stool in the production room at Montana’s house. He’d told his band to take a break and let him get his stuff together.
They were mostly finished with the album and they would start the tour in five days. He had to get his crap together.
His heart had been broken. Cracked. It felt like not only had this woman crept inside of him, she’d torn everything apart in the process, sliced him open, put a magnifying glass on all his faults, all his insecurities. Then she had almost healed him with the very essence of her. But she had left before it fully healed.
In her absence, the gash widened. It seemed to have no bottom. It went too deep.
After that ugly night with the car, he’d cleaned up all the glass and the broken metal. Then he’d covered it, knowing his mama wouldn’t look beneath.
She didn’t like to look beneath the cover when it came to his father.
When he’d woken at eight the next day to his mom knocking, he’d opened the door and his mother had looked deeply concerned when she told him Liberty had left.
Hearing that, he’d told her he had to get back to Wyoming. He’d flown back, but he hadn’t really slept in a week. Hadn’t worked out. Had hardly eaten. He was completely off his schedule and feeling like his eyes would swell shut if he didn’t get some sleep soon. But the song had taken him for a ride. Songs always took him on one when they were vying to get out.
Gently, he strummed the guitar and sang,
“Breaking my heart wasn’t as bad as I thought, the gash, the hole, the blood left me untold … but the part I can't get over—is you.
The part I can’t get over is you.
The thing they never tell you in broken heartville, is there’s times you wish you’d never taken the trip, but the stupid part…is I wouldn’t trade it still. Even in broken heartville.”
He hung his head, wishing he could gouge out the memory of her, sitting there. Right there. Looking up, he jerked a bit.
Montana Crew stood in the glass in front of him. He tapped the button. “You look like crap, Tex.”
Texas just stared at him.
He pushed the button again. “We need to talk.”
Texas didn’t move.
Montana scowled and pushed the button. “Apparently, The Times isn’t running the article.”
Cringing at the news, but unsurprised, Texas strummed the guitar. “Sorry.”
“Sorry?” Montana said into microphone, blasting Texas in the sound studio. “Sorry?”
Texas didn’t look up. He didn’t care at this point.
She was gone.
Everything felt kind of pointless at the moment.
Montana spoke into the microphone again. “Apparently, the reporter in charge wrote a great article, but has since disappeared and her editor is refusing to run it. I have a copy of it here. Come look at this Tex and explain it to me.”
Texas rushed out of the recording room, every part of him filled with adrenaline. “What do you mean she’s disappeared?”
Montana looked sad and spread his hands. “The article was sent to my people via email from the reporter, but she told us she’d been fired. When we called to inquire with the editor in charge, the woman in charge, apparently, her mother, told us she’s trying to find her.” He put a piece of paper down on the sound equipment between them. He let out a low whistle. “Sounds like a bit of a mess.” He shrugged. “But we have our own mess to fix. We needed that national coverage.” He cursed.
Texas whipped out his phone. “What’s the number for the Times people?”
“Who?” Montana looked confused.
Texas was irritated, wanted to act. “The reporter’s mother. I need her number?”
Montana looked perplexed.
“Please.” Texas stated. “I’ll explain in a minute.”
Montana pushed a number on his phone. “Yeah, I need you to give me the number for the New York Times editor you spoke to earlier in the week. The one with the daughter who’s missing.”
Texas wanted to break something. “I gotta go,” he said to Montana, pushing past him. He didn’t know how he’d do it, but he would get to that conference in Nigeria. She had to be there.
“Wait.” Montana called after him. “I have the article they are not publishing … read it and explain it.”
Texas hesitated.
Montana held the article out. He swore again. “Read the article and explain to me what happened.”
Texas let out a breath and went back to him, taking the article. From the very title, he was stunned.
The Lone Star Cowboy of Country Music.
Once again, his heart raced. He looked at Montana, who nodded and told the person on the end of his line to text him the contact info.
Texas began reading,
If you would have told me meeting Texas Waters would change my life, I would have told you not a chance. In fact, I would have taken it a step further and told you I had no use for country music or Texas Waters, and I would have professed I could have told you anything you needed to know by simply doing a Google search. I would have been wrong.
Texas Waters has more than compassion for people. He has a hero streak that runs deep. A hero streak I go
t to benefit from when I clumsily fell off a chair lift, and he, very selflessly, jumped off the chair lift to rescue me. This is only my personal experience, from before I uncovered the fact that his whole platoon was injured or killed in a building-clearing accident during his service to our country in the fall of 2015. Texas, was not only responsible for saving some of them, he also permanently tattooed the names of the six souls he lost in barbed wire around his bicep, a sacred remembrance of their lives. Of their sacrifice. Of their service. But this was the first time he’d revealed the names were even there. He’s not flashy about his heroics. It’s just who Texas Waters is.
Texas wasn’t sure he liked this part of the article and thought if he really could, he would veto all this out because he didn’t like being recognized as a hero.
The next part of the article proved Liberty knew how he felt about this issue.
Texas won’t like the fact that I’ve highlighted him in this fashion. Isn’t that a mark of a true hero—that he doesn’t think he is one?
Texas swore, and his eyes blinked. He kept reading.
Being labeled as the bad boy of country rock is a fitting title, but it doesn’t fit for the traditional reasons—to create a label for marketing records, to create an image to sell, or to deal with flaws in a media personality. Texas is the bad boy of country music because he writes what he loves. On his terms. His music has heart and soul. He doesn’t allow others to write his music and takes personal offense if people don’t understand his main message—everyone has pain. Different pain, but pain nonetheless. Pain that can, as titled in some of his songs, cause you to live hard and die young. Pain that can push you further away, and bring you back. Pain, that even pulled this reporter close to the flames of Texas Waters.
I have to admit to all of you fans out there that he is a man of fantasy. Almost unreal in today’s world of the next best thing. A man of honor and integrity, trying to do the right thing when faced with imperfect circumstances.
Texas Waters stole my heart. Showed me through his love of music, his compassion, and his service to others, that there are still true cowboys out there. True men who believe in doing what’s right at all costs. Who live by a code within themselves that, ultimately, they would give their lives for.