Page 80 of Tracking Wolfe

As soon as I climbed in the truck, I grabbed the journal and slid it into my daypack, unwilling to let it out of my sight again.

As we pulled out of the campground, Jake looked over at me, still with an easy smile on his face. “So, is the just friends thing because of your dad’s friend? Be honest.”

I’d already decided not to share that with him. I wasn’t concerned about hurting his feelings anymore, but I didn’t want to give him more information about me than he might have already gotten.

“I’m not going to be in Colorado much longer,” I said. “And I’m not up for a long-distance thing.”

Which was… actually true. Even with Trace, I wasn’t sure how it would work. His roots in Legacy were as deep as they could grow, while I’d lived in San Francisco my entire life.

But who was I kidding? I’d probably move to Antarctica if it meant having a future with Trace. Moving to Legacy—the town where my siblings and cousins already lived—would be a joy. Hell, it would feel like coming home.

I’d meant what I’d said to Trace yesterday. It was my favorite place on Earth.

“Too bad,” Jake said. “Guess that cuts Trace out, too. He lives in Montana, right?”

I shrugged uncomfortably. “Not sure what that has to do with anything. I told you, this isn’t about⁠—”

“And you’re in the music business,” he continued like I hadn’t spoken. “So you probably can’t leave California.”

My entire body went cold as I glanced over at him. “Um…”

He flashed me a smile. “I know you said it was a secret, but it’s just us here. Must be wild to grow up with Jude Marian as your father.”

The blood flooded back into my brain so fast, it made me dizzy. “Right. Yes. Wild.”

Chill out. He knows you’re Wolfe Marian, Jude’s son.

He figured that out back when you got Shay the guitar.

Jake tapped his thumb on the steering wheel as a Randy Travis melody played through the truck’s speakers. “Your dad’s a fucking legend, man. For real.”

I nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He flicked on the blinker and turned right onto a small gravel drive, marked only by a splintered wooden stake in the ground.

“Speaking of music,” he said. “Do you have any tips you can give Shay about getting into the music business? I figure you must have insight, growing up around all that stuff.”

His words disappointed the fuck out of me. This was exactly why I’d used a different name on my trip.

“It’s not an easy industry to get into,” I said, trying to keep my answer polite but vague. The kind of stuff I’d know from growing up with a father in the industry, rather than anything I’d learned from my own experience.

Jake nodded. “Pretty sure Shay told you, but she wants to be the next Taylor Swift. Like every girl her age with a guitar does, I guess. But she’s serious about it. She’s been watching YouTube videos her entire life, practicing as much as possible. She’s special,” he said confidently.

As he pulled into the small gravel parking area at the trailhead, I tried to think of a polite way of speaking the truth without being harsh.

Shay was talented and serious about pursuing her dreams. But so were thousands of other people. She didn’t have what it took to break out in the music business yet, though. And it would take a lot of study and effort to find it.

“Well, to start, she’ll need lots of vocal training,” I began. “And a hook. A style or sound that’s different and distinctive. There are a ton of artists trying to make it who are carbon copies of each other. Generic good voices without that special something. She needs to figure out what differentiates her from those other performers.”

“You could help her with all that.”

“Me?” I blinked over at him. “I know a few guitar techniques. I don’t have the experience or education I’m talking about.”

Jake shrugged. “Your dad does. Or he knows people who do. He could help her. The way he helped her get the new guitar.”

“Our family’s charitable foundation helped her with a new guitar,” I corrected. “After I made the request to an established program that provides instruments for student musicians in need.”

He gave me an indulgent look. “C’mon, Wolfe, we don’t need to tiptoe around it. You’re Jude Marian’s son. He’d do it if you asked.”