by Lori Wilde
“Don’t tell me this is Lauren.” Cash squatted beside her.
“Yep.” Lauren offered him a gap-toothed grin and twirled like a ballerina. “I’m me.”
“Last time I saw you, you were knee-high to a grasshopper.” Cash held his hand a couple of inches off the floor to show how short she’d been. They’d come to visit him backstage when The Truthful Desperadoes performed at a concert in Dallas not long after Lauren was born.
“Silly.” Lauren giggled. “I was never tinier than a grasshopper.” She paused, looked up at Sam. “Was I, Daddy?”
“No, sweetheart. Your uncle Cash is given to hyperbole.”
Uncle Cash. He liked how Emma encouraged her kids to call him uncle. As if he was part of the family. As if he fit.
It felt nice. Seeing as how he’d never really fit anywhere. Emma understood. She’d had a rough childhood too. Unstable mother. No brothers or sisters either.
“Hyper . . . hyper what?” Lauren crinkled up her nose that was the exact same shape as her mother’s.
“He’s exaggerating,” Sam explained.
“Oh!” Lauren’s eyes popped wide. “You mean he tells tall tales like Grampa Cheek?”
“Exactly like that, my bright girl.” Sam puffed up his chest with pride.
“Where’s Charlie?” Cash straightened.
“He’s thirteen, and doesn’t like hanging out with the old folks anymore. He’s spending the night with his cousins, but he’ll be at your concert tomorrow night.”
Cash glanced over his shoulder; the audience was thinning out, but a few people were hovering, hoping to speak to him or get an autograph.
“Looking for someone?” Sam asked.
“Huh?” Cash tried to appear cool, but he was embarrassed at having been caught searching for his muse.
“Oh, I get it. You’re worried about fans breathing down your neck. Leave it to me.” Sam waved at the looky-loos. “Folks, Mr. Colton will be available for autographs after tomorrow night’s fundraiser, but right now, he’s our guest and we’re about to take him out for dinner.”
“Sorry,” a man apologized.
“Didn’t mean to intrude,” said someone else.
“Thanks for coming to Twilight,” added another.
Cash raised a hand, rewarding his fans with a smile. “See you tomorrow night.”
Emma appeared in street clothes and toned-down makeup. “Are we ready to go? I know it’s a little early for dinner,” she apologized to Cash as they headed toward the front exit. “But I have to be back at six-fifteen to get ready for the seven o’clock performance.”
“No worries.” Cash patted his stomach. “I’m hungry enough to eat a bear.”
Lauren giggled. “There he goes again, hyper . . . hyper . . . telling tall tales.”
Emma laughed and pinched her daughter’s cheeks. “Daddy’s been trying to teach you big words again, hasn’t he?” She winked at Sam and slipped her arm around her husband’s waist.
Sam leaned down to kiss her.
Not wanting to intrude on their private moment, Cash went ahead of them, stepping into the lobby, just in time to see Paige exiting.
A full musical score galloped through his head—riffs, licks, chords, rhythm, the whole enchilada.
The doors to the theater were solid oak painted cream with windowpane cutouts. She stopped on the sidewalk, turned, glanced back.
Their eyes were two locomotives traveling in opposite directions on the same track, smashing through the windowpanes and into each other.
Smack! Shatter! Train wreck!
And music. So much music shifting through his head like spilled cargo.
Panic widened her eyes and he felt it too—that flutter of fear, the hot thrilling jolt of pure awareness, the absolute knowing that there was something here for him, and the sheer terror that accompanied it.
Quickly, she spun on her heels and sprinted away. Leaving him bedazzled, befuddled, and bewildered.
Call it fate, call it superstition, call it down right crazy, but for the life of him, Cash couldn’t shake the nagging notion that somehow this woman and his musical creativity were intricately entwined.
And he had absolutely no idea how or why.
Chapter 3
Beat: The unit of musical rhythm.
Paige had enough time to pop home and walk Fritzi, the poodle she was dog-sitting over the holidays, before she had to be back at the theater for the seven o’clock performance. Her next-door neighbor, Sig Gunderson, had gone back to his native Sweden to visit relatives, leaving two days before Thanksgiving and scheduled to return the day after New Year’s.
She’d offered to watch Fritzi for free, but Sig had insisted on paying her. Because she was seriously broke, Paige had not refused, even though she loved taking care of the dog. He kept her company.
She stayed in costume. Wriggling in and out of the Lycra leggings was inconvenient, but she threw on an ankle-length woolen duster over the outfit, took off the neck-breaker stilettoes for safety reasons, and slipped into her well-worn Skechers to make the mile-long hike.
Just as the door of the playhouse closed behind her, something caused her to glance back.
And there he was again.
Emma’s VIP.
The cowboy who’d tried to persuade her to let him into the theater early.
The snow was back, falling in fat, lazy circles, airy as ballerina pirouettes. A holly wreath hung over the glass panel of the door, creating a circular frame of spry green around him, as a fine mist frosted the pane.
For a quick tick of a second it was a pure Hallmark movie moment. The loner cowboy outlined by a symbol of Christmas. A picture-perfect postcard, mesmerizing and magical.
It felt weighted, monumental, significant in some unfathomable way.
Spellbound, she couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Could only stare and stare and stare . . .
He gifted her with his master-of-the-universe smile and broke her thrall.
Paige gulped and whipped her head around so fast she almost got dizzy.
Panic sent her rushing through the crowded square, boots tucked underneath her arm, the sharp stiletto heels poking her in the side. Zigzagging around food and trinket kiosks, dodging kids waiting in line to see Santa, flying past Dickens characters engrossed in playing their parts.
Her heart pounded, and she had no idea why she was running as if hellhounds were nipping at her ankles.
From the moment she’d laid eyes on him it felt as if the sun had come out fresh and shiny after a year of monsoon rains. As if he were the bearer of rainbows and flowers and promises of spring.
And when he smiled . . . oh when he smiled . . . the world sang and lights were brighter and her nerve endings zipped and zinged and her mouth filled with the sweetest taste and . . . God, oh God, this was trouble.
She knew the feeling. Had been deceived by it before. Wanted nothing to do with it.
When she was a kid, not long after her mom took off, and her dad had first gotten sick and she was learning how to take care of him, she had plugged in the breathing machine he needed during one of his respiratory attacks. In her rush, her fingers had brushed against the light socket and a searing electrical jolt zapped her.
A lightning bolt snapped through her hand. A strange you-are-alive-and-don’t-you-forget-it thrill that also hurt. A bite. A warning.
Don’t take life lightly. You are not safe.
And that’s how she felt right now, lit up, alive, and terrified.
She slowed once she got away from the crush of the town square. Caught her breath, headed down the walkway that curved toward the marina. He wasn’t coming after her. She had nothing to run from, nothing to fear.
A sweet sadness plucked at her heart.
The ground was slushy. Her head was still buzzy from eye contact with Mr. Hot Stuff, and she wasn’t paying much attention to where she was going and nearly ran smack-dab into her cousin Flynn MacGregor Calloway.
Flynn was strolling up fro
m the lake in a red-hooded cloak, a wicker basket of cookies slung over her left arm, looking like a fairy-tale heroine—which was exactly her personality—spunky, perky, wonder-filled. A peaches-and-cream brunette with wild curly brown hair, slender but solidly build. She was kind and caring and had a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose just like Paige.
Those Scottish MacGregor freckles. Every woman in their family had them except for Flynn’s younger sister, Carrie.
“Whoa ho,” Flynn said, and put up a restraining hand to prevent Paige from crashing into her.
“Sorry,” Paige apologized.
At thirty-five, Flynn was nine years older than Paige. She was married to her high school sweetheart, Jesse Calloway, who ran a motorcycle shop on the town square. They had two small children, Grace, who was four, and Ian, eighteen months.
Even though they were almost a decade apart in age, Paige and Flynn had a lot in common. They were both caretakers who had put their own needs aside for a chronically ill family member, and they’d both lost a parent.
Paige admired Flynn because she’d achieved her goal of becoming a kindergarten teacher and still managed to be a good wife, mother, sister, daughter, and friend. Flynn gave her hope. If her cousin could go through what she’d been through, and still find happily-ever-after, maybe, just maybe, if Paige got her act together, her dreams could come true too.
Right now, that felt impossible.
She was broke, living on a borrowed houseboat, and working several low paying jobs to make ends meet. Her friends—the precious few she’d managed to hang on to during those years she was submersed in caring for her father—were either married with children, traveling the world, in grad school, or running their own businesses.
Whereas, she was stuck where they’d all been in high school. Life had passed her by and she’d begun to despair that she would ever catch up.
“Are you okay? You look . . .” Flynn cocked her head, studied Paige with serious eyes. “Dazed.”
“I’m fine. Good. Great!” She tacked on an attagirl smile, fought off the flush heating her neck.
“Didja see him?” Flynn asked. “You must have seen him at the playhouse.”
“Who?”
“Why, Cash Colton, of course.”
Oh yeah. Paige had seen him. Twice now. Both times, boom! But she wasn’t about to let on about that to Flynn. “He’s a singer, right?”
“Not just a singer.” Flynn’s voice sailed high like the catamaran gliding past them on the lake. “A musician. He sings, plays, and writes songs. He’s the whole package. Not to mention, drop-dead handsome.”
That she knew. “What kind of music?”
“Country-and-western.”
That explained it. She’d never been much for hokey lyrics and the twang of a steel guitar, and because she’d been so wrapped up in caring for her father, she hadn’t had time for lighthearted pursuits.
“Does Jesse know about your crush on Cash Colton?” Paige teased.
“Jesse knows he’s my one and only.” Flynn grinned. “Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate Cash’s music. He’s awesome.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it.” She made a mental note to check out Colton’s music later, just to see what all the fuss was about.
“And you know, Cash is a really good guy to boot. Hard to believe someone as famous as he is would bother to get involved in a small-town charity.”
“Why is he getting involved?”
“You didn’t know? He and Emma have been good friends for years.”
“Gotta remember, I’m not from Twilight,” Paige reminded her. “And with Dad being sick and all.” She shrugged. They both knew what the “and all” meant, but neither one of them touched it.
“We’ve got to get you off that houseboat more often.” Flynn nodded as if it was a serious plan she’d already been fretting over.
“I’m good. Really. I don’t need to be in on all the local gossip.”
“You have been spending too much time alone. You’re twenty-six, and you’ve led a cloistered life. You should be mixing it up. Dating like crazy.” Flynn readjusted the hood on her cloak and a look came into her eyes, a matchmaking kind of look that sent fear rocking over Paige’s spine.
“I don’t want or need a man.”
“Honey,” Flynn said in an urgent voice. “I know you don’t need a man, but you’ve got to get back on the horse. You can’t let one bad spill ruin you on the entire gender.”
“Why do people say that?” Paige asked, shivering a little as the breeze blew over the lake.
“It’s just a figure of speech.”
“Why do you have to get back on the horse? Why can’t you stay off the horse? Why can’t you stay as far away from horses as possible? If you did that, you’d never again get thrown. Seems like an easy solution to me. Don’t. Get. Back. On. The horse.”
Flynn blinked at her, an expression of rueful pity. “Why? Because you’d never have the thrill of riding a horse again.”
“I can live with that. Plenty of happy, well-adjusted people go their whole lives without riding a horse.”
“We’re not really talking about horses, Paige.”
“I know that.”
“Maybe I’ll throw a dinner party just to get you out of the house, and I’ll invite some of Jesse’s single friends—”
“I was out of the house last night at your Christmas cookie club swap,” Paige interrupted, desperate not to get fixed up. She talked fast, hoping it would distract her cousin. “Thank you for inviting me by the way. Everyone was really nice.”
“Oh, that reminds me. The reason I came down to the houseboat. You forgot your take-home cookies.” Flynn extended the wicker basket stuffed with Christmas cookies.
Paige suppressed a groan. She hadn’t forgotten them. She purposefully left them behind so she wouldn’t be tempted to eat the delicious goodies left over from the cookie swap. But she didn’t want to be rude, especially since Flynn had made a special trip.
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
Careful. Careful. She had to fit into this costume for the next three weeks through the last performance of Elf on Christmas Eve, and the Lycra leggings were already pretty darn snug.
Paige gathered every ounce of willpower she could muster, and gazed longingly at the cookie basket. “Why don’t you take them home to Grace and Ian?”
“Please take them,” Flynn begged. “My house is overflowing with cookies. And my kids on a sugar high is not a pretty sight. Please, please.”
What was a cousin to do? Paige caved. “Give ’em here.”
“Thank you, thank you.” Flynn handed her the basket. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“If I gain five pounds and outgrow this costume, it’s your fault.”
“I’ll let it out for you.”
“You can’t sew,” Paige pointed out.
“I’ll get someone from the True Love Quilting Club to do it.”
“You owe me.” Paige bit into a perfect caramel apple cookie, crisp on the edges but chewy in the middle. Yum.
“Name it,” Flynn said. “Your wish is my command.”
“Do not, under any circumstances, try and fix me up.”
Flynn made a face. “I can’t promise that. You know me. I can’t help myself. I love happily-ever-after.”
“Don’t do it or I’ll buy all the pastries at the Twilight Bakery and bring them over to your kids,” Paige threatened out of self-preservation. If Flynn turned to full-on matchmaker mode, she was doomed.
Flynn laughed gleefully. “Okay, okay, I’ll try to resist.”
Snorting, Paige turned, tucked the basket under her arm, and stalked over the wooden decking to the houseboat.
And ate another cookie.
Given the situation, it seemed the only reasonable thing to do.
Never in his life had Cash eaten dinner at four-thirty in the afternoon. Breakfast, yes. Dinner, no.
Apparently Emma and her family did it all th
e time, as did the silver-haired crowd lining up outside the Funny Farm restaurant for the early-bird seating.
“They don’t take reservations,” Emma explained, “but Sam called ahead to see if we could get private seating so you won’t have to constantly be fending off fans while you eat.”
“You have plenty of fans of your own,” Cash pointed out.
Emma swatted the air. “Everyone is used to me around here. I’m old hat. You’re the big news in town.”
A hostess came out on the porch of the restaurant and clanged a wrought iron triangle dinner bell as if calling in hungry farm hands from the field. It was cute, it was quaint, and it was corny, but everyone seemed to love the show.
Waitstaff opened up wide double doors leading into the Funny Farm. Diners streamed inside as the waitstaff passed out laminated cards with color-coded seat assignments.
The hostess crooked a finger at Sam and passed him a card with pictures of black and white Holstein dairy cows on it. “You’re at the rooftop.”
“Thank you,” Emma said, and slipped a twenty-dollar bill into the hostess’s palm as she guided them toward an old-fashioned cage elevator in the corner.
Farming equipment and memorabilia were mounted on the walls. An old horse-drawn plow, pitchforks, butter churns, shiny silver milking pails, wooden cutting boards in the shape of barnyard animals. Country music was piped in through the sound system.
Sam had hold of Lauren with his left hand, and reached over with his right to take Emma’s as they got into the elevator. Cash felt out of place again. He stuck his hands in the front of his jeans’ pockets, hunched his shoulders, and wished for his Stetson to pull down over his eyes.
They stepped off the elevator into a private dining area that was empty of diners. The hostess escorted them to a circular table in the middle of the room underneath a domed ceiling.
The floor tiles were black and white checkerboard, the walls adorned with dairy cow murals—Holsteins, Jerseys, Burlina, Tux. Cash had spent enough time on his grandparents’ small ranch to distinguish one breed of cattle from another, and it surprised him to realize he was proud of that knowledge.