Dancing Bearback (BBW Shifter Cowboy Western Romance) (Bear Ranchers Book 3)

by Becca Fanning

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  MARK TITLE PAGE

  Mark

  Bearly Saints II

  by

  Becca Fanning

  MARK

  Addy Spencer stared at the neatly typed letter and felt her stomach drop to her toes.

  …The members of one of the bands we represent, The Four Saints, are very much interested in recording and performing the song you sent—or any other material you might have—and would like to begin negotiations for the rights to do so, if that would be agreeable to you. I can be reached at the address and telephone above, or, if you prefer, we could set up a face-to-face meeting, either here in Nashville or at a place of your choosing.

  Thank you for submitting your song to us. I look forward to hearing from you.

  Sincerely,

  Melinda Darling

  Konstantine Talent Agency

  Nashville, Tennessee

  “I can’t believe you sent them my song, Granny,” Addy said, fighting to keep her voice calm, though she could not stop the tremor in it. “Why would you do that?”

  “Because you’ve been hiding your God-given talent under a bushel for far too many years, darlin,’ and it’s time for you to come out and sing to the world.”

  Addy turned abruptly to face her grandmother, who stood at the kitchen table, steadily kneading a mound of fragrant bread dough with her small, strong hands.

  “But…”

  “I’m not gettin’ any younger, Addy, and I can’t stand the thought of you holed up here in the hills all by yourself for the rest of your life.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” Addy said. “It’ll be a long time before I’m havin’ to live alone up here. And anyhow, I like bein’ alone.”

  Granny Spencer sighed, because she knew the latter to be true. “I’m almost eighty-four years old, Adelaide Ann, and you know as well as I do that the only guarantee we have in this life is it’s gonna end, sooner or later. And bein’ alone ain’t the way we’re meant to live, girl.

  “You know that, too,” she added for good measure as she patted the mound of dough and turned it back into a greased bowl for its second rising. Granny then draped a clean towel over the bowl and set it on top of the warm stove.

  “I can’t do this, Granny,” Addy said, tears in her voice now, as she held the scrunched letter up in her fisted hand. “You know I can’t.”

  Granny sighed, wiped her hands on another towel then crossed the small room to reach out and take hold of Addy’s shoulders.

  “I know you think you cain’t,” the old lady said, her voice kind but firm. “But Addy, darlin’, how you gonna ever know for certain, iffen you don’t at least try?”

  Addy dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around her grandmother’s waist, hugging her close as she had since she was a little girl. Addy had shot up to be a good head taller than her elderly grandmother during her teen years, and she’d been bigger and stronger than the old lady for the past decade, but she felt small at this moment, and her beloved granny hugged her back.

  “I know you’re scared, darlin’,” she murmured, petting Addy’s thick, soft, sandy-blond hair. Addy had cut it herself again, and it was a shaggy mess, but she couldn’t make herself sit still long enough for Granny to cut it for her.

  When Granny pulled back and lifted Addy’s face to hers, her light green eyes met Addy’s deep golden ones, and Addy felt her grandmother’s frustration.

  “Fate wasn’t kind when it took your ma and daddy away,” she whispered. “You weren’t even old enough for them to know what you’d become, and your daddy never had the chance to teach you what you needed to know.”

  “Whenever I’m around strangers, I’m so afraid, Granny,” Addy whispered. “It seems like it’s only a matter of when, not if, this thing happens to me. I can’t control it. I can’t even predict it. How am I supposed to go to Nashville, if I can’t even be certain I’ll be me when I get there?”

  Granny sighed and pulled Addy to her once more. “I cain’t answer that, child,” she said. “I just know somethin’s gotta change, or you’re gonna just shrivel up and die all alone, and I just cain’t stand the thought of that happenin’ to my precious grandbaby.”

  They stood that way for a long moment, before Granny finally released her again.

  “Just promise me you’ll think about it. All right?”

  Addy sighed. “All right. I promise. I’ll think about it.”

  Granny smiled and gave her a quick kiss on her brow before turning back to the kitchen.

  “I need to get the soup on, iffen we’re gonna have it today. Why don’t you fetch your guitar and sing to me while I chop the veggies?”

  “I ought to help you chop the veggies, Granny.”

  “Nah. I can still chop just fine. And I do love to hear your music.”

  Addy sighed and headed for her room. Their log cabin was small by any standards, with one great room, that included the kitchen and living area, two tiny bedrooms, and a miniscule bath. When her parents had been alive, they had used the bedroom she used now. If they had not lost their lives in a freak accident—the mountain road they’d been traveling on had collapsed following heavy rains, sending their car to the bottom of a deep ravine—then Addy would have been living in the loft over the kitchen. From what Granny had told her, there had been talk of a new addition in the event of more children, but Addy hadn’t been quite two when her parents had died, so there had been no need for more space.

  The sun was streaming in through her window when she stepped into her bedroom. She loved sleeping on the eastern side of the house, so the sun could greet her when she awakened in the morning. As autumn deepened, she found herself rising before the sun, just as Granny did. They invariably shared their morning cup of tea in near darkness, out on the front porch in good weather, or sitting near the kitchen stove, as the kindling caught flame and crackled a cheerful greeting when it was cold outside.

  She reached for her guitar, which rested in its old, battered case in one corner of the crowded room. Her twin-size bed was neatly made, covered in one of Granny’s colorful quilts. A teddy bear she’d had since birth sat proudly in front of the pillow. Her small desk was littered with sheet music and scraps of paper holding promising scraps of song lyrics. Surrounding the small desk were bookshelves loaded with volumes on everything from Plato’s philosophy to Appalachian wildlife. Most of them had belonged to her parents before her, and she had read every one of them at least once.

  Setting the guitar on the bed, she opened the case and reached for her best friend. The Gibson had belonged to her grandfather, Granny’s husband, who had gotten it from his father, who had accepted it in trade for some labor he had provided for a man in town in the early 1930s. Even scratched and worn as the finish was, it was the most beautiful thing she had ever owned, and her greatest joy was losing herself in the music it produced.

  Addy had been home-schooled, because by the time she was five, things had gotten to the point at which she couldn’t safely mix with other people at all. Her family’s books had provided her with plenty of reading material, though, and Granny had proved to be an excellent teacher. When she’d been fifteen, Addy had managed to take and pass her GED exams at the local library, which had gotten the state off their backs about Addy not attending public school. Nine years later, she knew Granny was right: As much as Addy hated to even think about it, she was going to have to figure out what her future was going to be. Loving the farm wasn’t enough. Yes, she could manage to feed herself, but there were times when one woman couldn’t do for herself. She and Granny managed together, because Granny could call on the extended family for help, if they needed a strong back.

  Would they come if I asked them to?

  Addy frowned. When Granny died, their extended family—most of whom had never hesitated to treat Addy as an oddity at best and a complete freak at worst—would nevertheless probably insist she come live and work on one of their farm
s, leaving this one to be swallowed up by the woods. She hated the thought of Granny’s farm dying that way, but she wouldn’t have the money to keep it up, unless…

  Addy looked over at the crumpled letter she had dropped in the middle of her desk, and sighed. Sinking to the edge of the bed, she began tuning her guitar. Someone wanted to buy one of her songs. She couldn’t imagine it, but if they did, what might that mean for her income? She hated the thought of actually selling her songs—it was too much like selling a part of herself—but maybe, if the band really appreciated them, maybe then it would be okay?

  Shaking her head in annoyance at her own indecision, Addy left the letter where it sat, and taking up her guitar, headed for the front room, muttering to herself. She had reread Gone with the Wind recently, and Margaret Mitchell’s Scarlet O’Hara had it right. “‘I can’t think about that right now. If I do, I’ll go crazy. I’ll think about that tomorrow.’”

  Addy settled on the small couch, leaning back and allowing her fingers to wander over the strings of her beloved guitar. She was self-taught, having used an old chord chart she had found in the guitar case to get her started. Later she’d found chords of her own, the actual names of which she didn’t know, but they worked with her melodies. As she played, she began to relax, and soon the agency’s letter and any thoughts of the future were swept away in the music.

  Overnight temperatures had left frost on the ground, and Addy welcomed the fresh, crisp fall air into her lungs as she stepped out of the chicken coop early the next morning. The chickens had been in fine form, and there would be enough eggs to take some to the market. She was glad, because she had spied a used rhyming dictionary at the thrift shop earlier in the week, and she would now be able to buy it, if no one else had snatched it up. She scanned the hills and marveled, as she always did, at the beauty of the countryside. The drop in nighttime temperatures had begun to paint the forestland in a wash of yellow and red.

  The sound of a car making its way up their long drive brought her attention back to the present. Addy moved quickly to take the eggs into the cabin as a mid-sized SUV drove into the clearing.

  “Granny, someone’s here,” she called out.

  “I hear ’em,” Granny said, coming in from her bedroom, where she had been sorting linens. “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know,” Addy said, setting her basket on the counter and reaching into a cabinet for the cardboard egg cartons the market provided for their eggs. She would wash the eggs and let Granny take care of whoever had come to call.

  “Aren’t you even interested?” Granny asked, reaching for her shawl.

  “No.”

  Granny shook her head and muttering, went to see who it might be.

  “Good morning, ma’am,” the stranger said when Granny opened the door.

  “Well, good morning, young man,” Granny replied.

  Addy thought she detected approval in her grandmother’s voice and braced herself, knowing the polite “young man” would be asked in for tea.

  “Is this the Spencer place?” he asked.

  “It is. May I ask who’d like to know?”

  “The name’s Saint, ma’am,” the stranger said. “Mark Saint. I’m here about a letter sent to you by Melinda Darlin’ concernin’ a song?”

  At least Granny sighed before she opened the door wider in invitation. “Of course you are. Come on in.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Addy paused then carefully placed the egg she’d just washed and dried into the waiting carton. She turned to the newcomer—it would have been unforgivably rude not to—but she was careful to keep back in the shadows of the kitchen.

  “This is my granddaughter, Adelaide,” Granny said, moving toward the kitchen. “Can we interest you in a cup of tea, Mr. Saint?”

  “Thank you kindly, ma’am. I would enjoy that.”

  “Where did you come from this morning, Mr. Saint?” Granny asked, reaching for the tea kettle, which was already simmering on the stove. “Good, heavens, you didn’t drive all the way from Nashville this mornin’, did you?” she added, with a quick glance over her shoulder.

  “Oh, no, ma’am. I drove across state yesterday and stayed with my folks last night.”

  “So you don’t live around here, then?”

  “Well, we—my brothers and me—we have a place in Nashville, now, but the family still lives up in Clayton Hollow. That’s near Thorn Hill.”

  “I know of it. You still have some family in these parts, then.”

  “Well, you could say that, ma’am,” he said, grinning. “Our pa was one of ten and our ma one of eight, so I’d guess that qualifies as ‘some.”’

  Granny laughed and gestured toward the kitchen table where the man took a seat. Addy could only stand and stare, frozen in place by the man’s appearance. He was tall—well over six feet—and as broad-shouldered as some of the lumberjacks she’d seen pass through the village. His jeans were worn, as were his flannel shirt and boots, but he was clean and didn’t look at all sloppy. His hair, trimmed neatly short, was the color of the old mink stole Granny kept in her hope chest, and it gleamed where the sunlight touched it through the window. His voice was low-pitched and smooth. She imagined it turned heads when he sang.

  “As I’m sure you must have guessed, Mr. Saint,” Granny said, adding boiling water to the tea pot and dunking the tea ball into it, “Addy is the one who wrote the song. I’m just the one who sent it.”

  “Well, ma’am, I’m certainly glad you did. It’s a beautiful song, and we’d sure like to record it.

  “And would you want a woman to sing it?” Granny asked, placing a mug for him on the table and filling it.

  “Granny…” Addy said.

  “It sure does seem to call for one, doesn’t it?” Mark said. “That’s one of the things I’d like to talk to your granddaughter about.”

  He looked up from his tea mug, and his eyes met Addy’s. She couldn’t quite suppress a gasp, for his were the same deep golden color she saw whenever she looked in the mirror.

  “What do you say, Ms. Spencer?” Mark asked softly. “Would you be willin’ to sell us the rights to perform your song? And might you be willin’ to sing it with us? It sure does speak from the heart about this place.” He gestured broadly. “Makes it just the kind of song we like to perform.

  “And in case you’re wonderin’,” he added, “The Four Saints don’t go for any of that glitter and bright lights, pyrotechnics and smoke crap—beggin’ your pardon, ma’am. We sing about home and family, love and life. We stick with acoustical instruments only—I play the same bass fiddle my great uncle used to play—and we don’t amplify any more than we have to. We like small gigs and small recording studios, none of the big time concert venues or high tech bells and whistles.

  “So, iffen you’d be interested, I’d sure like to take you to Nashville and introduce you to my brothers.”

  “You want to take Addy with you now?” Granny asked, shocked into interrupting.

  “Oh, no, ma’am,” he assured her. “It’s a long drive to Nashville, so we’d have to leave early in the mornin’. And I can wait a couple of days, though I should be back in Nashville by sometime on Thursday, if that’d work for you. You’ll probably want to talk to Mel on the phone before we leave, too, just to set your mind at ease.”

  “Mel?” Granny asked when Addy remained mute.

  “Melinda Darlin’,” he said. “She’s our agent at the Konstantine Talent Agency, though truth be told, she a lot more to us, too. See, Mel’s gonna marry my older brother, Matt, in the spring, so she’s pretty special to all of us. Anyhow, she’s got an apartment with a guest room, and she said to tell you she’d be glad to have you stay with her while you’re in Nashville, so you don’t have to worry about a hotel or bein’ alone.”