Page 132 of Risking it for the Cowboy

Except his name, in bold, jumped out.

He began to focus. He didn’t have his prism glasses, and covered the first line with his thumb, dragging it slowly aside to read…

“Co-owner?” he croaked, meeting Ty’s gaze.

Ty’s smile remained but his chuckling had stopped.

He nodded. “You learn the business ropes. Get a seat on the board. And don’t get me wrong, I want to recoup some of the money I’ve put into the damned headache but … yeah. After two years, you buy out my half at a value we agree on and … it’s yours.” He gripped T.R.’s shoulder, voice falling guttural. “Always shoulda been—”

“I’m sorry, but can you keep moving to the next parking space?” the attendant said, directing them even farther from the stage.

“Bail here, man…” Tyler said, but T.R. was lost for words.

What he’d always wanted. Right here in his grip. Emotions he had no words for swirled, disorientating in his mind.

“You really have to move, sir,” the attendant complained.

“Go on, asshole. Git.” Ty shoved his shoulder fraternally now, thumping him into the door. “Jack brought a fresh T-shirt for you.”

T.R. slammed the door and sprinted.

The stage was across at least eight acres of parked vehicles, not to mention the cordoned-off field by the river where the crowd swelled in front of the stage scaffolding. The sun, late in the day, still boiled.

The farm … was he happy? Or just in shock? And yet without Charlie and Daisy … would it be as special of a place with memories of them there now that would never go away?

He was thankful for his Stetson to hide the disarray beneath. His face wasn’t shaven. And sprinting like a track star in shitkickers was blisters waiting to happen. But as he wove through vehicles, as he dodged food trucks and peered over heads to find the VIP entrance, as bands shifted, and the ninth band was announced and took to the stage amid a roar of cheers, he arrived at the security guard, T-shirt sticking to his frame.

“McClintock and the Disclaimers.” He huffed for air, swiping his sweat, as they unlocked the turnstile and let him through.

Speakers blared. He made it through the maze of stanchions and ropes, up the stairs, and backstage just as the band finished hard and waved to the audience.

He thought he smelled lilac. His eyes darted every direction. No Charlie. But Bo and Jack were sitting on stools, waiting with the stage manager who held an iPad and wore an earpiece.

“Jeezus, man, cutting it close?” Jack said as he bolted off his stool.

T.R. shook his head and scoured his scratchy jaw.

“You look like shit, man.” Bo chuckled. “What happened? All we knew is that you were gonna be late.”

“Long story. Ty said you had a fresh T-shirt?”

Jack threw a rolled-up shirt at him as he tore off his hat, ripped his old tee off. Huh. This shirt was his, not a loaner. The boys must have swung by his place to rummage in his drawers. He yanked it over his pecs and raked his fingers through his hair, tousling it, before slapping his Stetson back down.

Bo handed him a pick as the crew darted about to set up their instruments, when he saw them place a banjo on a stand. Charlie’s banjo? Not his? He looked around again, but it was just the three of them. Jack and Bo must not know. They must have grabbed it by mistake.

“Look, what d’you say we play ‘Texas True’ instead? With only three of us we can pull it off,” T.R. said, trying to master his lungs.

Hella good he’d sound huffing like a warbling rooster into the mic after his Olympic best at distance running.

The manager turned to them, a finger on his earpiece. “Sixty seconds, guys.”

“I don’t know,” Jack said. “We didn’t warm up with it, and we haven’t played it in a long time. We oughta stick to the plan. What do you think, Bo?”

Bo shrugged. “We haven’t played ‘Texas True’ in months.”

“Where’s, uh, Charlie?” he hedged, taking the earpiece the tech crew gave him and affixing it to his ear, clipping the transmitter to his belt at his back.

Jack looked away. Bo gave his signature shrug again and stood, as the manager motioned them.