Page 7 of Rebel Moon

“If a moment’s private, it’s private; you tell me to stop rolling, I stop, no questions.” Her gaze moved down the table, taking in each of us with a curiosity that didn’t feel like scrutiny so much as genuine interest. “I grew up on this music. I know that probably sounds like a line, but my dad worked constantly, and the way I found him was through the records he loved—so a lot of my childhood memories are listening to Merle Haggard and Waylon and Willie with him. So when I heard I might get to tell your story, I didn’t think about the wedding, honestly. I thought about the band. Five people who found each other and built something that lasted, in a business that eats people. That’s the story I’m interested in. How you found each other. What you’ve survived. Why you stayed. In a nutshell, Nick and I are going to be in the background, sometimes filming, other times just observing. If there’s something you’d like to share about your story, please let me know. I’m fascinated by what you’ve accomplished together.”

“She seems legit,” Knox said, under his breath.

“Are you saying I did something good?” I asked, leaning close.

“Ask me when this month is over.” He turned to look into my eyes. “But it looks good.”

Why did his praise please me so much? I chose not to examine that too carefully and focused on the delicious food instead.

3

KNOX

By the time Elliot’s pear crumble had been devoured like we were all a bunch of hungry teenagers, I’d had several IPAs and found myself having a good time.

At some point, Caspian Moon had come out from the kitchen to say hello. We’d all complimented him on a spectacular dinner.

“We’re happy to hear it. This is your month to celebrate,” Caspian said. “If there’s anything you’d like on the menu, there’s a suggestion box at the hostess desk. No promises, but we’ll see what we can do.”

Elliot came up from behind him. “And now, off you go to the tree lighting. Enjoy it.”

“Bundle up, everybody,” Finley sang out, appearing at the head of the table in a parka and a knit hat with a pom the size of a grapefruit. “Then head out to the big fir next to the campfire for the tree lighting. We’ll have a bonfire after. With cocoa and something stronger for anyone who wishes to partake.”

The whole crew funneled toward the door, tugging on coats and jackets. I noticed Madeleine pulling a red knit hat over her long hair and a puffy jacket that seemed more appropriate for the weather than the overcoat she’d worn earlier. She wore a pair of jeans, which was noteworthy in itself. In the ten years she’d been working with the band, I’d never seen her in jeans before. Between that and the negotiation she made to benefit Luci’s clinic, I was slightly shaken. Was it possible there was more to Madeleine Price than I thought?

Outside, the cold was a shock after the warmth of the restaurant. I tugged a hat out of my jacket pocket and pulled it low over my ears. I’d left my cowboy hat in my cabin.

“Eighty percent of heat’s lost through the head,” Madeleine said, falling into pace with me.

“No way?”

“Look it up,” Madeleine said.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“No push back? You’re getting soft on the first day in Montana. I can’t imagine the rest of the month.”

“Don’t get used to it,” I said.

It had stopped snowing while we ate, and the sky had opened into a deep purple scattered with stars. The ranch lay under fresh snow, blue-white in the dark. I stopped for a second, just to take it all in, thinking about my Gramps. He would have told me to stop, look up and take notice of the beauty right in front of me. I could almost hear him saying, Nights like these are a gift.

Like it always did when I thought of my grandfather, a lump formed at the back of my throat. He’d died when I was in high school, a loss that had hurt more than anything else in my life. But the stubborn old fool seemed to have lingered behind to talk in my ear whenever he pleased instead of just enjoying heaven. He loved to give me song lyrics in my sleep. Don’t ask me how he did it, because I don’t know. Someday maybe I’d have the chance to ask him.

Our group formed a loose half-circle around the fire. I’d planned on skipping out and heading to my cabin to get some shut eye, but instead I lingered, feeling slightly foolish about waiting around to see some lights turned on.

Everyone pressed together in the cold, peering up at the tree. Beck ended up next to me. “How you doing?” He took off his glasses and wiped the lenses with a cloth he drew from the inner pocket of his jacket.

“I’m good. You?”

“Well, thank you.” Beck had been raised in a suburb of Atlanta. His father’s side came from old Southern money—lawyers, reputation, tradition, country club manners, and futures mapped out before a kid even entered pre-school. His mother had been from the classical music world and had expected her talented son to follow that same route. From what he’d said, his mother’s people were disciplined, exacting people who treated music as something to be mastered, perfected, and respected. They had no time for country music. Regardless, Beck had felt the call toward country music, despite his classical piano degree from Juilliard. He walked away from the life his mother expected for him, and she couldn’t forgive him for it. Country music was in his blood and, although it had cost him a relationship with his parents, there was no angst or anger in the man. He was simply gentle and incredibly gifted.

“The filmmaker’s pretty,” Beck said softly. “Don’t you think?”

I glanced at her again. She was a beauty, with a heart-shaped face and big eyes. “She is, yeah. You looking for a December hook up?”

“You know I’m not really a hook up kind of guy,” Beck said.

That was the truth. The guy lived like a monk, even with women throwing themselves at us on the regular.