by Kim Redford
She could tell what was going on just as well he could, but she handed it to him anyway. If he wanted to help, she appreciated it. She enjoyed the entire process of sitting on the stage with guitars in hand, easing their way back into music together.
“Sad to say it.” He shook his head as he examined the guitar. “But this one’s had its day.”
“Neck?”
“Yeah. Look. Here’s the problem.” He held up the guitar and sighted down the long neck. “It’s bent.”
“Isn’t there a screw to put it back in alignment?”
“Not on this model.” He handed it back to her. “Might as well throw it away.”
“That’s a shame, but it’s what you get with cheap.”
“Back in the day, cheap was cheap. Nowadays, cheap gets you a pretty good guitar.”
“And one that has an adjustable screw in the neck.”
“You bet.”
She set the guitar aside and cocked her head to one side. “Looks like you’re the guitarist of the hour.”
He grinned, nodding. “Just what I always wanted to be.”
“Don’t get cocky,” she teased. “I could take that guitar away from you.”
“As if you need it…not with that voice of yours.”
She smiled, enjoying his compliment as he hit a few bars in a minor key, always her favorite. And with as little as that, her entire world broke open as Craig went into Willie Nelson’s “Crazy,” written in 1961 and made famous by Patsy Cline’s sultry voice.
He looked at her with a slight smile as he played only for her, saying with music which could sometimes come so hard with words, telling her that he was crazy for loving her, crazy for feeling so blue, but he wasn’t going to stop anytime soon because she was his world.
Nothing he’d said so far could have touched her like his music. She joined him, letting her soprano soar over his bass as they blended together, rising, falling, rising again. She felt her entire body react—hearing the music, feeling the music, doing the music—as she leaned toward him. And he turned to her, fingers flying over the strings as they edged closer and closer until they were joined as one in music and soul.
And she knew what she’d been missing…maybe her entire life. Giving. Accepting. Connecting. She let her voice soar in clear, pure notes to the rafters above as she opened her heart and let love flow into her, because it came from him in wave after wave, like a living, breathing elemental force so strong that there was no denying its power.
Finally, he let the song fade softly away and leaned toward, her, smiling sadly but hopefully. “I love you.”
She kissed him on the lips, so full of the emotion he’d instilled in her that she couldn’t speak—she could only feel a love that was like the blazing passion of the song they’d created together.
“That’s how I feel,” he said. “That’s how I’ll always feel.”
She smiled, feeling so much stronger than she had in a very long while. “I want to change that song. Maybe another of Willie’s, where he talks about nothing being better than making music with his friends.”
“Nothing’s better than making music with my love.” Craig set his guitar against the stage, then turned and cradled her face with his hands. “Are you going to tell me to stop?”
“If you dare to even think about stopping, I’ll tell you to keep going.”
He slowly lowered his head, then pressed a soft kiss to each corner of her mouth before gently taking her plump bottom lip between his teeth and sucking it into his mouth.
She’d forgotten—or had she?—how the slightest touch from him could make her feel as if she were soaring on an undulating melody that took her higher and higher until there was only the music…and the two of them.
She wound her hands around his neck, thrusting her fingers into his thick, shoulder-length hair, as she kissed him in return, nibbling his lips, nipping at him, licking him. She needed to taste him, feel him, delve into him, so she thrust into his mouth just as he picked her up and set her on his lap. Now she was surrounded by his heat, his strength, his desire. And she shivered in response.
He raised his head to look at her, keeping his hands around her hips. “You can’t be cold. Not in here. Not in August.”
“It’s you. And you know it.” She put her hands flat on his chest, feeling the hard contours of his muscles, the fast beat of his heart, the quickened pace of his breath.
He tightened his hands, then slid them slowly—so very slowly—upward, as if to give her time to reject him if she needed to be free, until he reached the lower curve of her breasts. He stopped, his breath coming quicker.
She traced down his chest until she reached his hands, those talented hands with the rough fingertips that she knew so well, and then gently but determinedly moved them up and over her breasts.
He squeezed gently. “You’re sure?”
“I stopped being sure the moment I saw you again.”
He rubbed thumbs across the tips, until they hardened into taut peaks, and she couldn’t hold back the groan that rasped from her lips.
With that sound, he slipped his hands under her bottom, lifted her, and spread her legs to straddle him on the edge of the stage.
She nestled into him, feeling his hard, hot bulge press against the most intimate part of her, separated by nothing more than the thin fabric of their jeans. She grasped his shoulders and pulled him tightly to her as he put one hand around her back and the other around her hips, holding her steady as he rocked against her, letting her feel his need, building her desire, joining them closer and closer.
She kissed him, softly, moist, urgently, on his lips, his cheeks, eyes, then to his ears, where she traced the intricate whirls with the tip of her tongue. She felt him shiver at her touch, so she returned to his mouth and delved deep, tasting him, toying with him, taking him with her to their own special place until he broke the kiss.
“Fern,” he rasped. “I need to ask again. Do you want this? If not, we need to stop now. I can’t take much more and hold on to my control.”
“I don’t want you in control.”
“No problem. You’ve got me exactly where you want me.”
She pushed back and looked deep into his eyes, knowing she wasn’t as sure as she sounded, but she wanted to try and see if she could go there again…to a place where they could reconnect and find a deeper pleasure in each other, as they were now. “Let’s go back to your cabin.”
“Why don’t we make it our cabin,” he said.
As she started to respond, she heard the front door slam open. She jerked back from Craig, looking toward the bar.
“Fern Bryant!” a voice called out. “Heard you were back. Where are you?”
She jumped to her feet, pushing hair back from her face while feeling as if she’d been caught in an indiscreet act.
“Why the hell didn’t I lock the front door?” Craig growled, glaring in that direction. “Can’t we get any peace and quiet around here?”
She looked toward the entry, where a woman in a power wheelchair and with thick silver hair in a long plait, who was wearing a blue shirt, Wranglers, and black boots, zipped toward them. She was followed by a tall, slim woman with curly ginger hair wearing a crimson blouse and a long swirling skirt with rhinestone-studded cowgirl boots and a dozen or so long necklaces.
Fern clapped her hands in delight at the sight of two of her favorite folks from Wildcat Bluff. “Hedy Murray and Morning Glory!”
“And just how long were you going to take to let us know you were back in town?” Morning Glory asked as she gave Fern a big hug, then stepped back and looked her over. “You lost weight. On purpose or were you wasting away for that big hunk over there?”
“Leave her at least a secret or two, can’t you?” Hedy held out her arms to Fern.
After Fern gave her other friend a tight
hug, too, she stepped back and took a deep breath, feeling love bubble up inside her. “I’ve been gone too long, haven’t I?”
“Too long!” Hedy scoffed. “Never should’ve left in the first place.”
“She may have just needed space to find herself,” Morning Glory said.
“In case you didn’t notice, we left the sixties some time back.” Hedy gave her BFF a roll of her eyes with a teasing grin on her face.
“Some truths are eternal,” Morning Glory said, giving a slightly superior sniff. “Anyway, the sixties will live on forever.”
“At least so long as hippies like you survive,” Fern said.
“I plan to live forever.” Morning Glory gave Fern a wink with an eye sporting bright-blue eye shadow.
“See that you do,” Fern said. “We need you.”
“That’s the truth of it,” Craig said. “The county couldn’t manage without you two…particularly Hedy masterminding Wildcat Bluff Fire-Rescue.”
“I couldn’t do it without all our fine volunteer cowboy and cowgirl first responders.” Hedy gestured toward him. “They’re the backbone of our community.”
“Speaking of which,” Morning Glory said, “we’re here on a mission.”
Craig groaned, glancing at Fern. “You know what that means.”
She grinned, nodding. “They might be in need of volunteer services.”
“Wild West Days has hit a snag,” Hedy said.
“When has it ever gone completely snagless?” Craig asked.
“Never,” Morning Glory replied. “But once we heard Fern was back in town, we figured the two of you could help us out.”
“How?” Fern wondered if she was ready to be thrust back into the heart of the county so quickly after her return. Then again, these tireless powerhouses could overrun the stiffest objections, so she doubted she stood a chance of resisting them, even if she wanted to.
“Out with it.” Craig grinned around at the group. “MG, this had better be good, or—”
“Don’t complain before you’ve even heard our suggestion,” Hedy said.
“Suggestion?” Craig laughed, shaking his head. “When have you two ever suggested anything? Generals giving orders is more like it.”
Morning Glory put a hand over her heart as she glanced at Hedy. “I’m deeply wounded that he’d even suggest such a thing to lovely ladies like us. Aren’t you?”
“Not in the least,” Hedy said. “I just want to know where they stuck my stars.”
“I could make you some,” Morning Glory gave Fern a mischievous little smile.
“Ash might have put them in his kitty bed, thinking, as the fire station cat, he’s the general,” Fern said.
“Well, that’s the truth of it,” Hedy agreed. “Nothing gets by him.”
“And that’s just what he’ll wear around his neck for Wild West Days,” Morning Glory said. “He’ll look good in stars.”
“He looks good in everything he wears for the holidays.” Hedy gave them all a self-satisfied smile. “But there’s no use trying to get us off point by talking about the handsome Ash.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Craig said.
“What do you have in mind?” Fern glanced from one friend to the other. “I’m not sure how much I can help.”
“It’s right up your alley,” Morning Glory said.
“Here’s the deal.” Hedy tossed her plait over one shoulder. “Bert Two was supposed to work with the high school drama department to spearhead the reenactment of the shoot-out between the Hellions and Ruffians for control of Wildcat Bluff during Wild West Days.”
“Right,” Craig said. “And it sort of combines with music events at the Lone Star Saloon, doesn’t it?”
“That’s where we’re going to play, isn’t it?” Fern felt confused by all the events that she’d never participated in before.
“Yep.” Hedy nodded in agreement.
“Bottom line,” Morning Glory said, “Bert Two broke his foot when his four-wheeler turned over while he was chasing down a bull.”
“Not Fernando, I hope.” Craig appeared concerned at the news.
“As if Storm would let him endanger her beloved bull,” Hedy said. “No, it was a bull on Bert’s ranch. The bull’s fine, of course. Anyway, we’re trying to keep Bert Two off his feet till he has a chance to get a little healing under his belt.”
“How’s that going?” Craig asked, smiling.
“About like you can imagine,” Hedy said. “Bert is about to tie his son to his bed to keep him down.”
“He’ll heal,” Morning Glory glanced at her friend, then back up. “But he needs time to recover.”
“Right,” Hedy agreed. “And as if that wasn’t bad enough, funding was cut for the fine arts department by the state, so we basically don’t have a drama department.”
“That’s bad,” Fern said, feeling a terrible loss at the news. “Music, too?”
“Not gone yet.” Morning Glory played with her necklaces in agitation. “We’re scrambling to put together something, but it’ll take a while, and kids are already in school again.”
“What can we do to help?” Fern asked. “Students need fine arts to develop creative skills for later in life.”
“You don’t need to tell us,” Hedy said. “But that’s not where we need you right now.”
“We’re a month out from Wild West Days.” Morning Glory glanced around the group. “Not much time for a change in leadership, but lots of stuff is already in place.”
“I hope you’re not suggesting that Fern take over,” Craig said. “She’s just back in town and—”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Hedy said, interrupting him. “We want the two of you to chair Wild West Days to make it the biggest, most successful event ever known in this town.”
“We’re running Wildcat Hall here. That’s plenty, isn’t it?” he asked.
“We need both of you on this,” Morning Glory said. “As you well know, it’s a big fund-raiser for Wildcat Bluff Fire-Rescue…and it helps all the merchants in town.”
Hedy turned sharp brown eyes on Fern. “What do you say? Are you in, or are you out?”
Fern glanced at Craig and shrugged her shoulders. “How can we let down the entire county?”
He groaned, glanced down at the guitars, then back at her. “If you think you can do it, I’m with you. But it’s a big bite out of the next month.”
“I know.” She looked at her friends. “I guess you can count us in, but we’ll need all the up-to-date information on the events.”
“You’ve got it.” Morning Glory gave her a big grin and a bigger hug. “I knew we could count on you.”
“Right,” Hedy said. “Ivy says you’ve got the show-biz touch and that’s what we need here.”
“I don’t know about that, but I’ll give it my best.” Fern felt as if she’d been hit with nothing but shocks since she got back to town.
“Craig can help you with the particulars,” Morning Glory said. “He’s been at this rodeo a time or two.”
“I have at that,” Craig said. “But I’ve never chaired it.”
“Just round ’em up and head ’em in the right direction.” Hedy chuckled with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “We’ll do all the rest.”
“Famous last words.” Craig clasped Fern’s hand as he glanced at her. “Was it calmer on the high seas?”
“One thing you can say about Wildcat Bluff County”—she grinned at the group as she squeezed his fingers—“there’s never a dull moment.”
Chapter 9
Later that afternoon, Craig carried Ivy’s suitcase, along with Fern’s carryall, toward her new cabin. Fern wore her guitar on her back and held what was left of their lunch in a crushed sack. He walked as slowly as possible, regretting every single step that took them closer to her place. He
had no appreciation whatsoever for birdsong, rose blooms, or the sultry, sweet-scented air of late summer.
They’d come so close, so very close, to where he wanted them to go…and then, once more, it’d all skittered out of his control to land somewhere totally unexpected and unwanted that took Fern’s attention away from him. If he couldn’t even keep her in his cabin, how did he expect to keep her in his life?
He felt frustrated even as he did what needed to be done. She had to have her own space. He got that. He just didn’t want to get it. Music was the key, but now they’d been put in charge of Wild West Days. It was about as far away as they could get from where he wanted to go. At least they’d gotten a little closer to music in planning entertainment for the Lone Star Saloon.
Anyway, how did you lose funding for an important program in a school? Short-sighted or cash-strapped administrators, he guessed. Bottom line, it meant another fund-raiser coming up in the near future. That was okay by him. It was about the only way for a small county community to take care of its residents when individuals—and in this case, a school district—ran into financial trouble due to big medical or other unforeseen bills. They’d pull together like they always did to support their own folks.
He couldn’t complain about helping out with Wild West Days, although it was bound to slow down his pursuit of Fern. He’d step up to the plate to help others like he always did when they were in need or trouble. Maybe it was the first-responder instinct in him or simply a man who understood that sometimes folks just needed a little extra help to get over a hurdle. Even so, he trudged up to Fern’s cowboy cabin with a heavy heart.
The Settelmeyers had prepared the crimson cabin, so named because of its accent color. It had red window frames and a shiny red door to brighten the overall appearance, and squatted on vintage redbrick posts about two feet in diameter, with brick posts holding up the front corners of the porch, leaving a crawl space underneath.
He followed Fern up the stairs, appreciating her even more than the well-done rock work and hand-carved wood railing. She stepped onto the porch and moved past two comfy rockers—both painted bright red.