by Anne Jolin
I feel his eyes sizing up the competition. He must determine it’s not worth it, because his stool scrapes across the floor.
“Sorry,” he says begrudgingly before vacating his seat.
“Thank you,” the bartender says.
I look up at hazel eyes. Shaking my head, I chuckle. “Seems to me like you had everything handled just fine on your own. Deserved an apology is all.”
“Reed Hennessy,” she says, reaching her hand over the bar. “I own the Sundance, and that there”—she nods towards the brute of a man coming towards us—“is my brother.”
After swallowing the contents of my glass, I put my much larger hand in hers. “Branson Tucker.”
It’s hard to see the resemblance between the two as her brother leans his hip against the counter beside me. “You good, Reed?” His face hardens in question.
“I’m good.” She nods. “Meet the out-of-towner, Branson Tucker.”
“Mackenzie Hennessy,” he clips out, shaking my hand with a firm grip. “You can call me Mack so long as you’re here.”
I fall into easy conversation with the sibling duo, and a few glasses of bourbon later, I’m about ready to call it quits for the evening. Then a god-awful sound crawls through the speakers.
Tap. Tap. Tap. “Is this thing on?” a pretty voice says, talking too closely into the microphone.
After turning around, I cross my arms over my chest and lean back against the bar to watch.
“You see, I . . .” Her voice drops off as she argues with someone offstage and out of my line of vision. “I promised my big sister it was karaoke night tonight.” She stumbles a little. “So,” she says, pointing her finger out towards the crowd, “whaddaya say, Hennessy? How ’bout a little Shania Twain?”
Something about her appearance nags me, but I’m distracted when Reed mumbles, “Oh, lord.” She sighs before nodding towards Mack. “Go on and set it up for ’em. Poor girl’s had a rough one. She wants to embarrass herself on stage, let her do it.”
It only takes Mack a few minutes to get the old school karaoke machine set up, and as he puts in the song they were looking for, the blonde onstage motions for someone to join her. When she furrows her brow, I think she’s given up, but then she points towards Mack.
“Help a girl out?” She smiles.
The bastard caves almost immediately.
The whole thing is too darn funny—drinks and a show.
I can see the top of his cowboy hat move through the crowd. He must find who he’s looking for, because I hear a squeal as he hoists another blonde girl onto the stage.
The girl’s back is to me, her thin frame staggering a little. From the way neither can seem to stand without swaying, I’d guess they won’t be remembering much of anything come morning.
“Ladies and gents.” The girl with my microphone winks. “Let’s give a big ol’ round of applause for . . . Drum roll, please?” she asks, and a few men oblige. “My big sister, Looooondooooooon Daniels.”
My heart unexpectedly slams into my ribcage as music floods the bar. I’m grateful as fuck for the barrier, or I’d be picking the organ in my chest off the floor right about now.
She slowly spins, a white summer dress moving against her skin, and I feel like I’m trying to breathe under water. She grabs the microphone from her sister and scowls as she finally faces the crowd, a flush of embarrassment staining her cheeks.
The blood in my entire body goes straight to my head, and I have to grip the bar behind me to keep my knees from buckling at the sight of her.
She’s perfect, gold like honey, and far more captivating in person than she has been in the media.
“Hi,” she giggles softly, batting her eyelids a little.
Her voice moves the blood to another part of my body, and I shift the weight between my boots in response. The room feels hotter than a goddamn two-dollar pistol. I can feel my heart beating inside my head.
She scrunches her nose up at the screen in front of her, desperately trying to focus. After missing the first few bars, she catches up and starts to sing. “I’m goin’ out tonight. I’m feelin’ all right. Gonna let it all hang out.”
Everyone, country music lovers or not, knows this goddamn song, but in this second, I can’t remember a single lyric to Shania Twain’s “Man! I Feel Like A Woman.”
“Wanna make some noise, really raise my voice. Yeah, I wanna scream and shouuuuuuut.” She hollers along with the music, and Lord have mercy if she isn’t absolutely bloody awful. I don’t think the girl could carry a tune in a bucket, but she’s cute as hell.
She shuffles a little from side to side. Her long legs are encased in nearly knee-high, beat-up, red Durango cowboy boots.
Hell if I don’t want to marry her right on the damn spot.
Call me a stalker, or crown me the King of Creeps, but I had to meet her the moment I saw her on my television screen. And when I read that article, I could feel her personality through that ass clown’s unjust representation. Regardless, that’s the second I knew she would be mine.
My mother called those kinds of feelings fate, and right now, in this crowded, old bar on a Sunday night, listening to the prettiest girl I’ve ever laid eyes on butcher a classic country song, I am inclined to believe her.
“Did they drive here?” I raise my voice so Reed can hear me behind the bar. “Those girls?” I nod towards the stage.
“Hell no. Their daddy would tan their hide if they drove to the bar.” She laughs to herself like it’s something I should have known already.
“How’d they get here, then?” I know I sound nosy, but I’m two drinks and one right mind shy of caring.
Leaning onto the counter, she scans the crowd for a minute before pointing to a table off to the left of the stage. “See that cowboy?”
I nod, my gaze landing on a guy in a brown Stetson and plaid.
“That’s their ride.”
The temperature under my skin spikes and my hands curl into fists. I go to push off from the bar, but Reed’s tiny hands wrap around my forearm and pull me back.
“There ain’t no brawlin’ in my bar, no matter who you are.” She narrows her eyes at me.
“I wasn’t . . .”
Laughing, she cocks an eyebrow in my direction and subsequently drops my arm. “I spend seven nights a week servin’ drunks, and I’ve seen that look a million times before. Don’t go gettin’ bloody knuckles just yet. That’s their brother.”
“Oh.”
“Mm-hm, oh.” She shakes her head.
Every emotion coiling through my system spins completely out of control, and despite not wanting to take this moment back, I don’t want to meet her this way. Not when she won’t remember me.
No, I’ve waited nearly three weeks already. I can wait one more night.
After grabbing a business card from my wallet, I slide it across the bar. “If she looks like she’s gettin’ in anything but her brother’s truck at the end of the night, you best call me.”
Pushing off the bar, I take one last look at her on the stage.
London Daniels.
Not for long, little lady.
I am going to make her my wife someday.
I know it. ’Bout time she does too.
“LONDON!”
Shhh.
“London!”
Go away.
“I’ll get the hose if you keep pretending not to hear me.”
I squint one eye open and find my brother standing over me with a shit-eating grin on his face. “I’ll kill you,” I groan, pulling the blankets up over my head. “Go away.”
I’m about to claim victory, but it’s short-lived. The blanket is yanked off me.
“No can do,” he says. “The horses will be arriving soon. Rise and shine, American Idol.”
Karaoke.
Shania Twain.
“Oh, God.”
Did that really happen?
“Oh yeah, it happened,” Owen answers on behalf of my sluggish brain.
“That’s exactly what you look like.” He chuckles, and I throw my pillow at his head. “I’m not surprised though. After you upchucked out my truck window, you spent the rest of the night praying to the porcelain throne.”
After sitting up, I pause at the edge of my bed and wait for the spinning to stop. I haven’t drank for what has to be at least two years. The more intense my training got, the less time I spent on things that didn’t enhance my professional game. It would seem I don’t hold my liquor quite as well as I used to, if the hangover I am sporting is a telltale sign.
“Here.” My older brother thrusts two Advil and a glass of water in my direction.
After snatching them from his hand, I greedily swallow both pills and chug the glass of water. When my stomach protests against the hydrating liquid, I groan.
“Oh God, are you going to be sick again?” he whines, taking two steps backward and raising his hands in mock surrender.
“Why are you still here?” I growl, wishing he were close enough to hit.
As the thought occurs to me, my pillow comes back to haunt me. He launches it across the room, and it connects with my pounding head.
“I hate you,” I murmur, toeing my boots off.
“The first trailer will be here in fifteen minutes,” is the last thing he says before the door to my apartment closes and the sound of his boots going down the barn stairwell hits my ears.
After standing up, I pad to the bathroom, and the sight in the mirror is absolutely terrifying. My long hair is sticking out every which way, the mascara I was wearing is now under my eyes and running down to my cheeks, and my dress, well . . . that appears to be crooked.
I look like a hot mess. Emphasis on the mess.
I debate whether it’s even possible to look half decent without taking the time to shower, but come to a hard no on that decision.
Ten minutes later, I’m showered and no longer smelling like something found in a barn—despite the fact I am, indeed, something that can be found in a barn. Checking the time and realizing I have none to spare, I slip a pair of cut-off jean shorts on and pull an old camouflage hoodie over my head before stepping into my work boots and forgoing doing up the laces.
I grab my aviators and a hair elastic off the kitchen table, putting my hair in a ponytail as I descend down the stairs two at a time.
“You look how I feel,” Aurora moans as she walks through the barn doors.
Walking up to her, I shove my hands into the pocket of my sweater and kick dirt in her direction. Then I sit on a bale of hay. “Morning.”
“Morning,” she repeats, plopping down beside me and putting her head between her legs.
Honestly, from what I can remember of the night—which, I’ll admit, is only anything before my fourth beer—it went better than I’d expected. There were, of course, the people who stared, which I really only encouraged by making an idiot of myself on stage, apparently. But, aside from that, most people left us alone, seeing as Owen had decided to join us. He wasn’t the kind of guy whose baby sisters you messed with when he was around, not unless you wanted to be wearing a shiner come the next morning.
We were lucky anyway. It was more of the older crowd—our daddy’s age and such—there last night. I’d sure have gotten a lot more negative attention had the place been more of a high school reunion. Everyone in a small town loves to knock their peers down a few pegs, even when we’ve long since graduated.
I hear the sound of tires coming down the road and lean forward to see what looks like three massive truck-and-trailer combos a few minutes away.
Daddy must have heard them too. He’s coming down from the house, adjusting his ever-present ball cap on his head.
“Holy hell,” Owen says as we all move to stand in the driveway. “Look at them rigs.”
He isn’t kidding. Each truck and trailer match—white, black, and gold, with logos reading Tucker Farms on every door. It’s impressive, and I’m sure they cost a near fortune. Real estate must be damn good work to be in around here.
The first rig in the convoy pulls to a stop in front of us, and a petite brunette close to my age climbs from the passenger’s seat.
“Good morning,” she singsongs.
I wince behind my sunglasses. Her chipper voice is a little too loud for my hangover’s liking.
“I’m Charlotte.” She looks directly at Owen when she speaks, and I’m thankful everyone misses the rolling of my eyes. I’m hardly ignorant to my older brother’s reputation and poor taste in pastimes, but occasionally witnessing it can be somewhat gag-worthy. “I’m Mr. Tucker’s barn manager. I’ll be overseeing the transport today, and ensuring all the horses get settled.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Charlotte. I’m Owen.” My brother grins, sliding his hand into her outstretched one.
After knocking him with her hip, baby sister is the next to chime in. “I’m Aurora.”
“And you must be London,” Charlotte says in my direction. While the statement hardly comes across as harsh, there’s an underlying context there.
I’m not sure why I didn’t consider the possibility that all of these people coming today might know who I am, might have seen the shot I blew or the tabloid articles that ripped me apart because of it.
I let my eyes wander over her from behind the safety of my black lenses. She’s around my height and slender—although, if I had to guess from the constant rigid position of her breasts, which stretch her white polo tight across her chest, they’re likely fake. Everything about her is posh, just like the vehicle she arrived in. Not a hair on her white breeches, not a scuff on her black riding boots, and not a strand of hair in the braid that runs down her back out of place. She’s the Equestrian Barbie, and as I slip my hand into hers, my confidence gets knocked down a peg or two.
“That’s me.” I attempt not to scoff as I say it, but whether it worked or not, I don’t know.
She eyes me a second longer before turning her attention to my father as he approaches. I’m quickly distracted when I see movement in the back of the first trailer. The spacing between the panels doesn’t allow me to see much, and without realizing it, my boots are moving of their own free will towards it.
The wheel wells are too far forward, and despite not being short, I can’t see inside. When I check over my shoulder, it seems everyone’s still thoroughly engrossed in dialogue, so I opt to begin unloading the horses, if not at least to satisfy my curiosity.
After unhooking the latches on both sides, I carefully let the gate swing open. Luckily for me, it’s not the same as our trailer, so I refrain from having a repeat performance of my unloading Chil over a week ago in this same spot.
As soon as the gate is down, my eyes catch the swish of a black tail, and I smile when a matching black head turns to the right and eyes me over his shoulder.
“Hey, guy,” I coo, smoothing my voice out as I step up into the trailer, running my hand over his backside. “You’re a handsome fella, aren’t you?” I whisper, running my hand down his side as I walk the length of his powerful body.
“You always have to talk to a horse when you walk around them or you’ll scare them. Are you listening, London?” My Momma’s voice plays in my head. “You have to speak before you touch them or they’ll be startled.”
I skim his dark coat, allowing him to know where I am, even when he can’t see me. Horses have blind spots, so talking to them and keeping continuous contact relaxes them.
When I finally reach his neck, I pat him softly. “Wall Street Warrior,” I hum out loud, reading the gold nameplate on his tan leather halter.
He snorts in response, and a small laugh escapes me, echoing inside the trailer. Some of the other horses start to get restless, but I’m completely captivated by the harnessed power under the palm of my hand.
I’ve never seen a horse this dark before. Although I’ve not moved all the way around hi
m, I have yet to see any white markings on his entire body. He’s jet black and stunning.
Scooping my arm under his head, I rub his muzzle. “Should we get you out of here, guy?”
After loosening the lead rope, I pull it out of the hook and cluck twice with my tongue. Then I push a finger into his chest. In response, he moves backwards.
People would assume that, because horses are so large, they’d require harsh, strong touches to get them to respond, but they actually need very small, light cues to understand what you want from them. Especially if they’re well trained. If I were to lean all of my body weight into a horse, they would, in turn, lean back against me. Whereas, by pushing him with my fingers and making signals with my voice, he will move where I ask him to, with very little effort on my part.
The black beauty backs out of the trailer with ease, but the look on Charlotte’s face as I walk towards them is hardly one I’d like to see again.
“What are you doing?” she snaps, worry clouding her pretty features.
Stopping abruptly, I purse my lips at the somewhat absurdity of her question, as she can quite clearly see what I am doing. “Unloading the horses,” I answer, looking over her head to my family.
They seem equally as dumbfounded by her sudden change in demeanor.
“That’s Bran—” She shakes her head as if to correct herself. “That’s Street, Mr. Tucker’s horse. He’s not to be handled by anyone other than myself or Mr. Tucker.”
Well, okay, then.
“I’m sorry, I—”
“Don’t let it happen again,” she announces curtly, walking towards me.
Wonderful. Now I’m being reprimanded by a woman my own age for more or less petting a horse.
Something behind me pulls Charlotte’s focus and she halts in her steps. The transformation that happens on her face would be comical if it weren’t so confusing.
I’m so perplexed by the woman that it takes me a few seconds to recognize the sound of an engine approaching, and by the time I’ve turned around, the bright-red Corvette causing the composed woman in front of me to act stupid rolls to a stop, the engine still purring.