by LuAnn McLane
“This?” Her eyes widened. “What exactly was this, Trace?”
“Sex, Princess.”
“Don’t call me that.”
He shrugged, and even though it was tearing him up, said, “Sierra said once I was no Prince Charming.”
“Apparently, she was right.” She blinked at him and swallowed hard. Then, as if just realizing she was still naked, she scooted back and scrambled for her clothes. Unable to find her underwear, she cursed and slipped her dress over her head.
Trace had to fist his hands so he wouldn’t reach out to her. He wanted to grab her, hold her close, and tell her not to go, and yet he couldn’t. “Good luck, Dakota,” he finally said in a more civil tone. “And take care of yourself.”
“Go to hell,” she said in a broken tone, and turned and walked away.
“Believe me, I’m already there,” Trace whispered into the dark.
26
Butter My Butt and Call Me a Biscuit
The pen in Dakota’s hand felt as if it weighed twenty pounds, and as she put the tip to the signature line, a cold bead of sweat rolled down her back. Her breath came in short gasps, and for a sickening moment she thought she might actually pass out.
“Are you okay?” Ruth Jackson asked with a frown on her face. “You don’t look so good, Dakota.”
“I’m fine,” she lied, but the words on the page blurred and the pen slipped from her cold, clammy hand. “Could I have a bottle of water, please?”
“Sure,” Ruth answered, and scooted back from the table. “I’ll be right back.”
“Thanks.” Dakota tried to smile, but failed. The past two weeks had gone well in the studio. She loved the creative process, loved the music. But the rest? “Terrifies me,” she whispered. “I cannot do this.” She put a hand to her chest and swallowed hard.
Ruth breezed back through the door and handed the cold bottle to Dakota. “Here you go.”
“Thank you,” Dakota replied as she unscrewed the plastic cap. She took a long swig and set the bottle down on the shiny surface of the table. Everything at Sundial Records appeared bright, reflective, and modern—even the pen. Outside the huge picture window were tall buildings casting long shadows.
“Talk to me, Dakota,” Ruth encouraged in her no-nonsense tone.
“I miss the lake.”
“Excuse me? You mean that fishing camp?”
Dakota nodded. “Yes. I miss my cabin. My front porch. Friends. The sounds of nature and the smell of the water.” Trace.
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that I can’t do this.”
“Dakota, the songs are phenomenal. Everyone is buzzing with excitement. You could be the next big thing. What is holding you back from stardom? A fishing camp?” Ruth reached over and patted Dakota’s hand. “Look, I know you’ve been down this road before. It can be a roller coaster ride. But this is your shot at something lasting instead of fleeting. Take it, for goodness’ sake. If you don’t, you’ll regret it the rest of your life.”
Dakota thought about that for a long moment. “No, what I’ll regret for the rest of my life is giving up the peace that I found for the terror of performing live. Tour buses and hotel rooms. Lack of privacy. Losing myself.”
“Sure, there is a price to pay, but it will be well worth it. Believe me.”
Dakota shook her head slowly. “No, Ruth. For the first time ever, I’m going to believe and trust in myself.” She tapped a finger to her chest. “What I want and not what others want of me.”
Ruth leaned forward in her black leather swivel chair. “Tell me what you want and I’ll get it for you.”
Dakota looked Ruth straight in the eye and said, “Sell my songs.”
“What?”
“I’ve come to realize that I’m a songwriter. A creator. That’s what I’ve always loved.” She tapped her chest again. “The music lives in my heart, my soul, but I’m not a performer.”
“There’s not nearly as much money or fame.”
“Neither money nor fame make you happy. I’m living proof. Look, I know there are plenty of musicians who live for the road and performing live. Thank God, because they bring so much joy to the audience.” Dakota shrugged. “But it’s just not in me. I want to create, compose songs that people will sing along with—that they’ll remember and love, that maybe even make a difference in their lives, bring back memories or help ease them through a difficult time. But that’s where it ends.” She handed Ruth the pen. “Sorry.”
Ruth pursed her lips and blew out a long breath.
“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”
Ruth reached over and squeezed Dakota’s hand. “I admire you for turning down what most could not. There are a lot of people who do something they hate for a living simply for fame and fortune or ego. You are obviously made of stronger stuff.” She patted her hand once more. “I commend you for that.” Ruth shook her head again. “Having said that, I can’t talk you out of this, can I?”
“Not on your life.”
“In this business, you have to be in for all or nothing. It’s life consuming. There’s no reason to move forward if you’re not in one hundred percent. Hey, I represent songwriters too. Believe me, the wheels are already turning.”
Dakota smiled and felt as if a huge burden had been lifted. “Thanks so much for understanding.” She stood up and walked around the big desk.
“While you were totally professional, just like you used to be, I could tell that something was wrong. I should have approached you sooner, but I chalked it up to nerves.” She stood up and gave Dakota a hug. “Head back to your happy place where this inspiration came from and keep the material coming, okay?”
“Will do.”
“I have to ask. Is there a guy involved in this decision of yours?”
Dakota pulled back and asked, “Why do you say that?”
Ruth shrugged. “There were many times when you had this faraway, dreamy look on your face. Are you missing more than the lake, Dakota?”
Dakota felt a heaviness grab hold of her heart. “There was someone. It didn’t work out.”
“Maybe now it can.”
“No.” She shook her head sadly, but smiled. “Sell those songs for me, okay?”
“Will do. Are you heading back to Willow Creek tonight?”
“It’s my home now. So yes.” She gave Ruth another hug and then hurried to her hotel room, packed, and headed down the road in the direction of Tall Rock. She needed grass beneath her feet and a front porch to sit on. She needed to hear Sierra’s laughter, Grady’s jokes, and Gil’s happy bark.
What she needed most were Trace’s strong arms around her.
But she would not let that happen. Fool me once, and all that, she thought with a sad shake of her head. She decided for a while, until her heart healed, she would have to avoid him at all costs, which wouldn’t be an easy task, since he lived right across the street. She would do as she once promised and stay out of his way. If she found herself stuck in a bathtub or tossed overboard, she would call 911, not Trace Coleman.
Dakota looked at her watch and decided if she only stopped once she could make it home to see the sun set over the lake and maybe grab some leftover supper from the kitchen. She considered calling Sierra to let her know she was on her way, but because she hadn’t talked to her friend since she left, Dakota wasn’t sure what kind of reception she would receive, so she decided to keep her arrival a surprise.
As she drove, she wondered if Trace had thought about her at all over the past two weeks while she had been in Nashville. It ticked her off that her thoughts kept centering on a man who had made it clear that she meant nothing more than casual sex, and every time her phone rang she wanted it to be him. “No more,” she said firmly. “I’m going to head to Dewey’s Pub and find me a hot young cowboy,” she stated with fervor.
To make Trace jealous?
“No, to move on,” she answered her pesky brain. With a groan, she turned on the radio to
take her mind off of Trace Coleman once and for all. He probably hadn’t given her a thought and would be annoyed that she was back at the marina, messing up his orderly life once more. “Well, too bad,” she muttered, and started signing along with Taylor Swift’s song “Love Story,” but then wrinkled her nose. “Yeah, right. Happily ever after is a crock,” she mumbled darkly, and then smiled, thinking that “He’s No Prince Charming” would be the title to her next song and she’d sing it very loudly as she wrote the scathing words. Yeah, she’d sing it loud and proud and hope it became the song of the year, and when she accepted her award she’d tell the whole world that the song was about a broody, jackass cowboy who wouldn’t recognize love if it slapped him upside the head.
“There, I feel much better now,” Dakota said with a brisk nod, but of course she really didn’t feel better in the least. Then she had to go and think of the other songs she had written with Trace in mind, and a lump formed in her throat. “Damn it all to hell,” she cursed, and smacked the steering wheel. She swerved so hard that a tractor trailer truck honked its horn at her. “Damn you, Trace Coleman. I hope your ears are burning!”
After nearly clipping the truck, Dakota cranked the music up loudly and sang at the top of her lungs. She stopped at a red light, and while tapping her fingers on the steering wheel to Kenny Chesney’s “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy,” she saw a Ford dealership out of the corner of her eye and smiled slowly, knowing exactly what she needed to do.
An hour later, Dakota rolled down the highway in a mean-looking jet-black Ford F-150. She should have been intimidated by the big truck, but in the mood she was in, Dakota drove like she owned the road. She stopped only once to gas up, use the ladies’ room, and to purchase a giant cherry ICEE that froze her brain and turned her tongue bright red. Just as she was taking the last slurp, she pulled into her driveway. She tried really hard not to look over at Trace’s cabin and almost did it, but at the last minute glanced his way. Lights were on, so she assumed he was home, which meant she could head over to the kitchen and grab some dinner without running into him.
Thank God for small favors.
After she dragged her luggage inside, she opened the windows. “It feels good to be home,” she whispered, and then headed out the door to the kitchen.
“Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit,” Sierra said when Dakota opened the back screen door. “You’re back?”
“Yes,” Dakota answered in a rather small voice.
“But what about Nashville?”
“Done.”
Sierra wiped her hands on a dish towel and tossed it onto the kitchen island. “So you mean to tell me we’ve all been moping around here thinking you’re gone for good, and all for nothing? Trace has been wound tighter than an eight-day clock and even Gil had been sulking around.” She tapped her cheek and paused as if in thought. She put her hands on her hips for a moment while giving her a measuring look. “Need a beer?”
“Definitely.”
Sierra turned and grabbed a couple of bottles from the fridge. She slid one over to Dakota, who took a long swig.
“Are you back because it didn’t pan out?”
“No, I’m back because I want to be. I discovered that songwriting is my passion. Not going on the road to perform.”
Sierra’s eyes widened. “Does Trace know?”
“No,” she said crisply.
Sierra rolled her eyes. “Please don’t tell me y’all are gonna play that stupid stubborn game? The man has been miserable without you.”
“He was miserable before I came here, Sierra.”
“Yeah. But not while you were here.”
“Look, Trace made it clear that he didn’t give a fig if I left forever.”
“Oh, give me a break.”
Dakota put her hands on the island and leaned forward. “It’s true!”
“And you believed him?” Sierra raised her palms in the air.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Sierra gave her a stare. “Dakota Dunn, if your brain were made of dirt, you wouldn’t have enough for a garden.”
Dakota mulled that one over and said, “Oh. Well, that wasn’t very nice.”
“No, but damned true!”
“So what are you saying?”
Sierra took a slug of beer and then thumped down the bottle. “Did you ever think that he pushed you away so that you would chase your dream rather than stay with him? That he didn’t want to hold you back from something you wanted—from a chance of a lifetime, no less? It tears him apart he had to give up what he loves, and he certainly wouldn’t want you to. Come on, Dakota. Think about it. The man was being as unselfish as it gets!”
“He was so mean about it. He said I didn’t fit in here.”
“Of course. How else could he push you away? He knew exactly what he was doing.”
“Oh, God. What if you’re right?”
“Trust me. I’m right.” She came around to Dakota’s side of the island and put her hands on Dakota’s shoulders. “It happened the way it should. You went to Nashville and made the decision for all the right reasons. You shouldn’t have had to give up your dream, Dakota.”
“I would have.”
“Yeah, but now you can tell him that for sure and really mean it. Now you know what you really want. What you need. This is perfect. Go to him.”
She put her hand to her chest. “I don’t know if I’m brave enough to risk giving my heart to him a second time.”
Sierra gave her shoulders a little shake. “Oh, quit with the sappy song lyrics and get your ass over to his cabin. He’s probably in the hot tub.”
“His leg has been bothering him?”
“Since you left. It’s all about stress, tension. He needs you, Dakota. I really, truly believe he let you go because he loved you and not the other way around.”
Dakota felt tears well up in her eyes. “If you’re wrong, I’ll kick your ass into next week.”
Sierra half laughed, half sobbed, and then squeezed her hard. “Good one. Now go!”
27
Coming Home
Trace eased into the hot, bubbling water and sighed. His damned leg had been as tight as a drum all day. He stared down into the swirling water and thought about Dakota for what seemed like the millionth time that day, and slapped the surface. “Damn.” Now here he was, sitting all alone once again in his hot tub, wishing she were with him. After a few minutes the jets ceased, and he leaned against the edge with another long sigh. He wanted to call Dakota and see if she was okay and ask how things were going.
But he didn’t.
He actually tried a couple of times just that day to think of marina-related issues as an excuse to contact her, simply to hear the sound of her voice. Once he even picked up the phone and dialed her number. “God, how lame is that?” he voiced out loud, and then sat up straight and frowned. “What?” He cocked his head to the side, thinking he was hearing things when Dakota’s voice seemed to softly float to him on the evening breeze.
She was singing.
Trace closed his eyes and listened to the love song and pictured her on her front porch, strumming her guitar. The tightness in his leg ceased and he relaxed. A smile spread across his face.
And then the music stopped. He sat up and waited, straining his ears, but heard nothing but the buzz of insects and the howl of a coyote.
Okay, he was officially losing his mind. He settled back into the water, closed his eyes, and sighed once more.
“Care if I join you?”
Trace’s eyes opened wide and he shifted, slipped, and flopped around like a duck taking a bath.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” She arched one eyebrow and smiled.
Trace opened his mouth to say something but could only swallow hard when she started unbuttoning a western-cut plaid shirt tucked into frayed cutoffs. His heart hammered when she reached the last button, but instead of slipping out of the shirt, she stopped. Well, damn.
“You got any more longnecks
in that cooler?”
“Yeah,” he finally croaked. The shorts barely covered her butt, and when she bent over and fished around in the ice, he about swallowed his tongue. She used the tail of her shirt to twist off the cap and then tilted the brown bottle up and took a long pull from the beer.
“That hit the spot,” she said, and licked her lips. She set the bottle down on the edge of the tub and slipped out of her shirt, revealing a shiny blue bikini bra. She took another drink of her beer, letting him look his fill before she shimmied out of her frayed cutoffs and kicked them to the side. “Here I come, cowboy.”
When Trace watched Dakota, wearing a tiny blue bikini, ease into the tub, he went from his duck impression to a fish opening and closing his mouth as if gasping for air. Deciding he needed to appear calm, cool, and collected, he closed his mouth and cleared his throat. He rested his arms on the edge of the tub and struck what he hoped was a nonchalant it’s-no-big-deal-that-you’re-here pose, but one elbow slipped on the slick surface and he slid sideways into the water. He came up sputtering. “I meant to do that.”
Dakota laughed softly. “Are we switching roles?”
Trace threaded his fingers through his wet hair, shoving it out of his eyes. “Just what’s going on here, Dakota?”
“I’ll cut to the chase. I love music. It is in my blood.”
“I know.”
“And you sent me away, thinking you would keep me from fulfilling my dreams if you asked me not to go.”
Trace remained silent, not sure if he was ready to put his heart out there yet again.
“But it’s songwriting that’s my passion, not performing.”
His heart beat harder, but he said, calmly, he hoped, “Okay.”
“Trace, I realize now that you let me go chasing my dreams instead of holding me back when you knew I would have stayed had you asked me to.”
Trace looked down at the water.
“Am I right?”
Trace hesitated, and then slowly lifted his head and looked at her across the shimmering surface. “Yes. And it was the single most difficult thing I have ever done. Bar none. And I’ve done some tough stuff in my day.”