She winked at him and then asked, “Can I get you a couple of drinks?”
“I’ll have an iced tea, thanks,” I said; since I wasn’t twenty-one I couldn’t order a drink in a restaurant. And besides, there could very well be a baby growing inside of me at this very minute. I felt flush with warmth at the thought of last night, cupping one hand over my lower belly.
“Whatever you have on tap, I’ll take a tall,” Mathias said.
“Name’s Pam,” she told us. “You two got here at a good time. We’ll be packed ass to ass in here in a half hour or so. My cousin Garth’s band is playing tonight.”
Her prediction was correct, as the place grew crowded soon after.
“I think this must be a townie bar,” Mathias observed as we ate towering bacon cheeseburgers, drippy with delicious grease. He wiped his chin with the back of one hand. “You can tell everyone here is local.”
“As local as tumbleweed,” I agreed. “I have never seen so many cowboy hats outside of a country music video. It’s pretty cool, if you ask me. Except that I feel a little naked without one.”
The couple at the table to our left was decked in full western attire, the likes of which I would expect to see at a rodeo; the man sported an impressive handlebar mustache.
“Honey, you want to stay and listen to the music?” Mathias asked. Framed in the windows, the sky glowed with a silver twilight. The candlelight lanterns atop the wagon wheel tables gave the space a welcome glow, and I felt at home here.
“Sure, for a while,” I said, and then gasped as a guy trying to squeeze behind my chair bumped the back of my head with a guitar case.
“Holy shit! I’m sorry!” he cried, bending down to inspect my hair as though I was spurting blood. “Are you all right? Jesus, it’s so packed in here…”
“I’m just fine,” I said as Mathias and I looked up at him; he appeared stressed, reddish-gold hair standing on end. He carried a guitar in a black case, a huge, overflowing backpack hanging haphazardly over one shoulder. He eyed the stage, far away across the bar, almost in a separate room, and muttered, “Dammit!”
“What’s up?” Mathias asked, in a companionable fashion.
The guy looked back at us. “I knew I shoulda got here sooner. The table where we normally sit is full and I’ll have to kick people off it. I hate doing that.” He scrubbed a free hand through his hair and asked, “Shit, can I join you guys for a sec? I hate to ask, you’re probably on a date, but I gotta take a load off.”
“Sure, sit,” Mathias invited, and I could tell he was amused by all of this.
The guy settled his gear on the floor with considerable relief; it spilled all over the place beneath the table. He plopped onto a chair and seemed about to say more, but was distracted by his phone. Catching it up, he turned slightly away and then proceeded to have a rather heated discussion with someone on the other end.
Mathias raised both eyebrows at me, sipping from his beer.
“Dammit,” the guy said finally, ending the conversation and chucking his phone atop the table. The bartender immediately sent an incinerating look his way, drawing her index finger across her throat, and he called out, “Sorry, Lee! It didn’t chip, I swear!”
“What’s going on?” I asked, trying not to giggle.
The guy shot me a wholly embarrassed look, eyebrows lofted, as though he was concerned that I might be offended by his cursing. He explained in a rush, “Our lead singer crapped out on us just now and we’re supposed to play in less than a half hour.” He heaved a world-weary sigh, again swiping one hand through his hair. He was deeply tanned and lightly freckled, about Mathias’s age; he lowered his face into both palms.
The thought occurred to us simultaneously; Mathias met my gaze and asked silently, Should I go for it?
A smile crept over my lips; I took a sip from my iced tea as I said back, Hell, yes.
“Hey,” Mathias said, leaning to tug on the guy’s t-shirt sleeve to gain his attention. “I don’t know if it helps or not, but I’m a pretty good singer. I’d be happy to fill in, if you want.”
The guy lifted his face, clearly surprised. He was really cute, lean and lanky and kind-of naughty looking, with brown eyes fringed in auburn eyelashes. I would have bet good money that as a kid he was the one to get everyone else in trouble with his ideas; he had the look of it about him, somehow. He cried, “No shit? God, that would be fucking awesome. Free drinks, on the house, for the whole set.” He looked at me, again with the sheepish attitude, as he explained, “We play for beer.”
“I better ask what you play,” Mathias said, excitement beginning to radiate from him at this unexpected opportunity. I grinned to see it, excited, too; I could not wait to hear him in action.
The guy leaned over and grabbed something out of his backpack, then settled a chocolate-brown cowboy hat over his head. He tipped the brim, giving me a teasing wink. “Give you one guess.”
“Good deal,” Mathias said, relieved. “Country is my thing. You guys are in luck.”
“Case Spicer,” he said, by way of introduction, shaking our hands. “I’ll say we’re in luck. You just saved our asses! I mean, Garth and I can sing, but I’d rather play, you know what I mean? I’m playing bass tonight, but the fiddle’s my personal best instrument.” He grinned engagingly. “So, you guys like country music, huh?”
“For sure,” Mathias agreed, just as I said, “It’s our favorite.”
Two other guys, toting instruments, threaded through the growing crowd, spied Case, and then headed our way; they resembled each other closely enough that they were clearly brothers, both lean as spareribs (as Gran would have said), with shaggy, medium-length brown hair and long noses that dominated their handsome faces; the older of the two sported a goatee and lots of stubble. He bumped Case’s upper arm with a closed fist and announced, “So, we’re pretty much screwed.”
“No, guys, this dude just offered to sing for us!” And Case indicated Mathias, who rose and offered his hand.
“No kidding? You’re serious?” The older of the two brothers shook Mathias’s hand, the tension in his shoulders relaxing. He wore well-used jeans, a thin necklace of braided leather strips, and a dark brown t-shirt the exact color of his eyes. He exuded an open friendliness that put people at ease.
“I heard you play for beer,” Mathias joked. “And I’ll need a hat.”
“Shit, we got a hat for you,” he said in reply, and then introduced himself. “Garth Rawley. This is my little brother, Marshall.”
“Mathias Carter. And my fiancée, Camille Gordon,” he said, and I stood to shake hands as well, feeling drawn into their group with a sense of immediate welcome, as though we were, for this one night at least, all part of some big, close family. There was an air of merriment among the three musicians, a sense of past good times, and many more to come.
“Damn, you are one lucky man,” Garth Rawley said to Mathias, shaking my hand and then turning it over to kiss my knuckles, but not in an impolite way; it seemed gentlemanly, a gesture from another era of manners. He nodded, releasing my fingertips. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, leaning to shake Marshall’s hand next. I would bet he wasn’t much older than me, probably not old enough to drink in a bar, but maybe around here no one cared. He was similar in appearance to Garth, but clean shaven and with eyes of a beautiful, rich gray, framed in long, coal-black lashes. Hiding a smile, I thought, Ladies’ man.
“Ma’am,” he said politely, giving me a wink.
Case asked, “Are you two on vacation? We’d know you if you were from around Jalesville.”
“We’re from Minnesota,” Mathias said. He reclaimed his chair and I couldn’t resist claiming his lap, subsequently freeing a chair for one of the Rawley brothers. Mathias hooked an arm comfortably around my waist. He explained, “We’re out here visiting relatives in Bozeman.”
The Rawleys straddled chairs at our table, leaning on their elbows, while Case rooted around until
he found a cowboy hat, which he handed to me. “Here’s one for your man. You want to do the honors, hon?”
“Sure thing.” I turned to Mathias and settled the black hat over his hair. I slowly adjusted the brim. He saw the expression in my eyes and winked; he knew how damn good he looked.
“We do lots of old-school country,” Garth was saying. “Like Johnny Cash, some Willie and Waylon, a little Hank, Jr. What’s your range, Carter? You got any favorites?”
“I know a bunch of Travis Tritt, Garth Brooks, Toby Keith, some Charlie Daniels,” Mathias said, his thumb making small circles against my belly, sending hot little pings straight south.
“We know a lot of that nineties-era country,” Garth said. “I’m lead guitar and I’ll chime in on vocals. Case here is bass guitar,” (he pronounced it ‘gee-tar’), “and little bro is our drummer.”
Case tipped back his hat brim and then joked, “I know I look like a fucking greenhorn but I can’t see what I’m writing otherwise.” He held a short lead pencil and grabbed a cocktail napkin. He licked the pencil point and said, “Let’s make a playlist.”
“What’s a greenhorn?” I asked.
The three of them laughed heartily at that, and Case gently nudged my shoulder with his beer bottle. Again, oddly, I felt a little like a beloved sister with them, comfortable despite the fact that we were virtual strangers.
“That’s someone who’s not acquainted with local customs,” Case explained. “For me to wear my hat like this makes me look like I haven’t got a clue how it’s supposed to be. Carter,” and he nodded at Mathias, who planted a kiss on my bare shoulder, his dimple deepening, “you gotta keep that brim level with the earth, just so. Take my word.”
Mathias nodded gamely. “Duly noted.”
“Let’s start this crowd out right, do some fast sets first,” Garth decided. The Spoke was really bumping now, people crowding the wagon wheel tables, the servers moving like worker bees through a noisy, neon-tinted field of honeysuckle. The woman who’d seated us appeared and asked, “What’s the word, boys?”
“Our asses just got saved,” Garth said. He grinned. “Netta, this here is Mathias Carter, of Minnesota, and his woman, Camille. He’s gonna sing for us. Fuck Jason, for tonight, anyway!”
“Thank God,” Netta said, rolling her eyes, hooking one hand on her hip. “We’ve got a full house and I was afraid it might get ugly if you guys tried to sneak out. I cleared out your usual table, just so you know.” She looked at Mathias and me and said, “Good to meet you two. How about a round, guys? I’ll grab a beer bucket.”
Mathias whispered in my ear, “Shit, I just got nervous as hell.”
I slipped my arms around his neck. “You’ll kick ass. I know it.” I studied the golden flecks that shone like treasure in his irises. “I happen to know how amazing you are, especially in the shower.”
His dimple appeared. “You think they might let me keep this hat, for later…”
“You’ll be wonderful.” I rubbed his warm sides with both hands. “I can’t wait to watch. I feel like I’m at a concert I didn’t even know how much I wanted to see. I wish my sisters were here! Shit, and yours! They’ll be so mad they missed this.”
“You’re right, we better not tell them,” he said, grinning, looking slightly less worried.
“Are you kidding? I’m texting them right now!”
“At least I’m dressed a little like a country singer.” He adjusted the hat. “Faded jeans, black t-shirt…”
“You look incredible,” I adored, cupping his jaws. “You have just the right amount of scruff. I’ll probably have to fight about fifty girls off of you once you start singing.”
“Hey, I hope you know how grateful we are,” Garth said, leaning to bump the side of his fist against Mathias’s shoulder. He cocked his head to one side and looked between us, lips quirked in consideration. “You sure you two have never been out this way before tonight? Shit, it’s strange, but I feel like we’ve met before. Like I know you from somewhere.”
“That’s fucking weird, I was just thinking the same exact thing,” Case said.
“Same here, no fooling,” Marshall said. “I thought that when we first walked up.”
“I’ve been out this way as a kid,” Mathias said. He added, half-joking, but I could hear in his tone that he was in agreement, “Kindred spirits? And hey, I’m glad I could help out.”
“About that playlist?” Case prodded. “We got fifteen minutes ’til show time, men. The boys are almost done setting up the equipment,” and he used the pencil to indicate the three teenaged boys running power cords, propping up amplifiers and arranging drums on the little pie-shaped stage in the far corner. In front of the stage stretched a smooth wooden dance floor, lit by the glow of an enormous neon moon, which clicked on with casino-grade brilliance.
“Jesus, my blood pressure just went way up,” Mathias said, and beneath his tan he went pale.
“Thias,” I said, slightly alarmed. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I really do want to. I’m all right. For the most part.”
The guys created a list of about fifteen songs, while Garth tightened a guitar string. As each minute ticked by, I felt Mathias’s heartrate increasing; his right leg, the one I wasn’t sitting upon, had taken up a nervous jittering. I cupped his knee and squeezed. He polished off another beer and then wrapped me in both arms, kissing my temple, the hat brim bumping lightly against my hair. One of the teenagers did a quick microphone check, and Garth, Case, and Marshall began gathering up their gear.
Mathias said, “Let’s do this before I shit myself,” and the guys all laughed.
Case told me, “You get front row honors, hon. C’mon.”
As we made our way through the rowdy crowd, Garth and Case toting their guitars, people took notice, lifting drinks to salute, cheering and whistling. Even I felt a rush of nerves at this evidence of anticipation; we reached a four-top to the right of the stage, front row with a perfect view of the action.
“I’ll be right here,” I promised. He looked a little like a man about to climb the gallows for his hanging.
“I’m all right,” he whispered, but looked about to vomit.
“We’re on, Carter,” Case said, thumping Mathias between the shoulder blades, giving him a grin. “You ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Mathias said.
There were two steps leading up to the stage, which Garth climbed with a spring in his step. The crowd erupted with excitement as he tipped his hat brim and took up the mic. He yelled, “Who the hell is ready to party? Who the hell wants to hear some good fucking music this evening?”
The roar was deafening; Case, carrying his guitar, and Marshall, with sleek black drumsticks in hand, mounted the stage, waving and grinning. Mathias squared his shoulders and followed, just as Garth continued in a tone that reminded me of a circus ringmaster, “We’ve got a friend from out of town joining us on lead vocals this evening. Sorry, ladies, he’s about as taken as the morning train, so don’t get your hopes up. But let’s give it up for Mathias Carter! How’s about a big ol’ Jalesville welcome!”
I wished more than ever that Tish and Ruthie could be here to witness this moment. I clasped both hands and brought them under my chin, too exhilarated to sit down, as Mathias attempted to offer a grin, holding his hat to his chest as he gave a small bow; he straightened, looking my way, and I blew him a kiss. I tried to pretend I didn’t hear the way all of the women in the crowd were screaming for him and instead just reveled in the fact that he was doing something he had long dreamed about.
“I wanna see asses on the dance floor!” Garth commanded, handing the mic to Mathias; for a second I thought he was going to faint. As Marshall lifted his drumsticks and tapped them together to count off the beat for the first song, I brought my folded hands to my mouth.
You’re all right, honey, it’s all right.
Garth and Case bent to their guitars, faces taking on expressions of absorption, givi
ng over completely to the music. They had decided on “Should’ve Been a Cowboy” by Toby Keith for the first song.
Mathias closed his eyes. I held my breath.
And then his rich, true voice took up the first line of the song. It was one of his shower favorites, and though he kept his eyes shut until the second time he reached the chorus, I knew he was indeed all right. I exhaled and then a smile broke over my face, the warmth of happiness. For a second I watched the crowded dance floor, again noticing that cowboy hats seemed required wear around here, even for the women. But I could not keep my eyes long from Mathias, who overcame his stage fright and was now thoroughly enjoying himself, and I smiled all the wider. Probably all of my teeth were showing, but I didn’t care.
You, I thought. You are mine and I belong to you.
Tears glinted, blurring my vision, and as everything took on a hazy outline I was blindsided by a rushing sense of déjà vu, a vision—a memory?—flowing across my mind. I saw us, all of us, Mathias, me upon his lap and held close, Garth and Marshall and Case, all sprawled around a crackling campfire, singing, sending our laughing voices into the everlasting night sky. There was a sense of wide-openness all around us, sparks rioting outward from the flames like scarlet fireflies. Our horses somewhere in the darkness close to us. And joy. I felt it as surely as someone pressing a red-hot branding iron to my ribs.
It’s us, but not us.
We’ve all been together before, in the past.
I know it’s true. It already happened.
The song ended and Mathias brought the mic closer to his lips. “Good evening, Jalesville, I hope you’re in the mood to dance.”
I could hardly hear over the roaring response. Mathias grinned, this time for real, and found my eyes in the crowd. “I want to say hi to my fiancée, my sweet darlin’, my Camille, who’s right over there…”
I blushed as hotly as the neon lights on the beer sign behind the stage, as just about every cowboy hat in the place turned my way. Mathias continued, “My only regret about being up here is that I can’t ask you to dance, honey.”
“I’ll dance with her!” shouted more than one person, and I hid my face, giggling and shaking my head.
Wild Flower Page 19