Cowboy in the Making. Julie Benson

as well as at herself for her schoolgirl foolishness. “His band with that trailer-trash Miranda Lambert imitation has a top-ten album. They’re on a world tour, performing in front of thousands of people while I’m playing weddings and anniversary parties.”

      And working a day job to pay the bills.

      She and Tucker had been high school sweethearts and the star vocalists in the choir. The fall after graduation they’d packed up their belongings and headed for Nashville. Soon after arriving, Emma had discovered there were hundreds of other young hopefuls who’d done the same thing, and breaking into the industry was tougher than they imagined.

      Her relationship with Tucker hadn’t gone according to plan, either. Things grew rocky between them within a week and got steadily worse. Then, two days after she’d told him she was pregnant, he’d waltzed into their dumpy studio apartment and announced he didn’t love her anymore. Just like that. No buildup. No preparation. No warning. Since by that point she wasn’t all that crazy about him either, it was a horrible relief when he moved out.

      “Hearing about how well his career is going has to be tough,” Avery said.

      “I don’t begrudge him his success—”

      “You may not, but I sure do. He didn’t earn it. Not when the song that got him noticed and led to his recording contract was yours, too.”

      “I’ve changed my mind. You’re right. He doesn’t deserve it.” When Emma had stumbled across a video of him on YouTube, she’d discovered the ass had taken one of the songs they’d written, though he swore he wrote it alone, changed the lyrics slightly—emphasis on slightly—and performed it with his new band. The song’s video had received over a million hits and landed him a recording contract.

      That blow had broken Emma’s spirit. Skinny because her morning sickness lasted all day, broke and depressed, she’d hit rock bottom, packed up her meager belongings and headed home to patch up her wounds. “How could I have fallen in love with such an ass?”

      “Cut yourself some slack. You were young, and he was your first love.” Avery released her squirming pup, who bounded off and tackled one of his siblings.

      Age and lack of experience explained her mistake with Tucker, but what about Clint? She couldn’t say the same for him, since she’d made that blunder two years ago. How could she have missed the fact that he was nothing more than Tucker version two-point-oh?

      “We need to make a Tucker voodoo doll,” Avery said.

      “Now, why didn’t I think of that? The idea has definite possibilities.”

      “I wonder if he’d lose his voice if we stuck pins where his vocal chords are.”

      “Better yet, let’s harpoon him in another more private area and hope he loses use of that little piece of equipment.” That would serve him right for hooking up with every blonde who could carry a tune—even if she needed a bucket to do it—when they were together.

      “That’s the spirit. All guys aren’t like him, you know.”

      Avery had always believed in love and happily ever after. Even after her high school sweetheart had left for Stanford and broken up with her via email. Then, a year ago, Reed’s brother was deployed to Afghanistan and he returned to Estes Park to stay with his teenage niece. After a bumpy ride, the pair had cleared the air, fallen in love all over again and married soon after that.

      “If you want to take the day off, I can handle things around here.”

      Emma shook her head. “Thanks, but no, thanks. I’d rather be here and stay busy. If I go home all I’ll do is throw on sweatpants and crawl on the couch to eat Häagen-Dazs Chocolate Chocolate Chip ice cream while I watched Thelma and Louise. That’s just a pathetic pity party, and I refuse to do that.” Not now. Not when she’d come so far. “But you can help me make that voodoo doll.”

      * * *

      MICK HALLIGAN STOPPED when he walked into his restaurant. For a minute he stood and surveyed what he’d built. With the Formica tables, industrial-style chairs with the plastic padded seats and the country memorabilia, some people would call his place a hick bar, but looks were deceiving. His restaurant was so much more. People came to Halligan’s to connect, to celebrate special times with family and friends. Everyone, staff and customers, knew each other and their lives were interconnected. They meant something to each other.

      “I’ve got a plan, but I need your help,” Mick said to his friend of almost fifty years and fellow Vietnam War vet, Gene Donovan, when he walked into the kitchen.

      “Is it something for the business?” Gene asked as he stood chopping onions for the marinara sauce for the meatball sub sandwiches.

      “This has to do with family. Mine and yours.”

      “You know whatever it is, I’m in.”

      “I knew you would be, but I thought I’d ask anyway.”

      Mick sometimes wondered how he would’ve made it through the hell of Vietnam if Gene hadn’t been there in the trenches with him. They’d kept each other sane through the madness. Then, when shrapnel had torn Mick apart and he’d lain in a heap bleeding like a stuck pig, Gene had literally saved his life. Risking his own neck under heavy gunfire, Gene had made his way to Mick and dragged him to safety.

      “I’ve been thinking about what matters in my life. It’s family, friends, my ranch and this place. What good is having land and a business if I don’t have anyone to leave them to?”

      “You’ve got your daughter.”

      A daughter who’d written him off along with the rest of her past. Having a cowboy, Vietnam vet father who ran a country-western bar didn’t sit well with Kimberly or her hotshot corporate executive husband.

      “Fat lot of good that does me.” When he’d realized Kimberly wouldn’t visit him for fear of her husband learning about her wild-child past and the son she’d given up for adoption, Mick had offered to come to California, but she always had an excuse why that wouldn’t work. They were moving or remodeling the house. Her husband was in the middle of a big deal at work. While he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, Mick had finally got the message and stopped asking.

      “If I leave everything to Kimberly, all she’ll do is sell what I’ve built and pocket the money. I’m not about to spend eternity rolling over in my grave because a developer built condos or a resort on my land, and I don’t even want to think about what she’d do to this place.”

      Gene nodded in agreement. “That would make for an unhappy afterlife. What do you have in mind to do about it?”

      “I’ve been thinking about Jamie. He understands the way I feel about the land and this place.” Mick smiled at the memories and the wonder in his grandson’s eyes when they’d ridden around the ranch for the first time. The kid had taken to being on a horse like he’d been on one all his life. Some things were just in a man’s blood, and Mick knew the land was in Jamie’s. “I want to leave everything to him.”

      “Then do it.”

      “I intend to, but I miss having family around. I miss Jamie. He’s my only grandchild. Hell, my only real family other than you.” Since his wife, Carol, had died five years ago, the loneliness had settled into Mick’s bones and his soul.

      Mick glanced at the clock on the wall. The other staff wouldn’t arrive for at least a half hour. Good. He didn’t want anyone overhearing what he was about to say to his old friend. “I’m going to tell you something, but you’ve got to promise not to tell anyone.”

      “Haven’t I kept more than one of your secrets over the years?”

      “You sure have, but this one’s different. It’s not my secret.”

      Gene glared at him. “Like that makes a difference to me.”

      “Jamie’s hand didn’t heal right.”