Cowboy in the Making. Julie Benson

a small town it’s hard not to.”

      Don’t sound so excited. More disappointment than he wanted to admit spun through him. Message received. He opened the car door, grabbed his suitcase and headed up the walkway to Mick’s house as Emma drove away. Too bad, though. They could have had some fun, and he could use a little of that right now.

      Mick sat waiting for him, perched in his rocking chair on the front porch. “So life’s been a little rough lately.”

      “It could be better, but then I guess it could be worse.” And would be if his hand failed to regain its strength and dexterity.

      His grandfather nodded toward the front door. “You know the way to your room. Drop your stuff off and meet me back here. I swear there’s no better place to think than this front porch.”

      As Jamie walked into the house, he smiled at the pictures of Mick when he’d played with his band, ones of his life with his wife and events at Halligan’s displayed everywhere. The progression of a life. One that meant something. Like his parents’ house, this place was a home filled with memories where love lingered in every corner.

      Once upstairs in the spare bedroom, he placed his suitcase in the corner. Nothing about this room had changed since the first night he’d slept here. The antique furniture so like Mick himself—Western in style, strong, sturdy and able to stand the test of time—had belonged to Mick’s parents, a tangible link to past ancestors. He ran his hand over the quilt his grandmother had made, wishing he’d had more time to get to know her.

      Once back on the porch, he sank into the weathered rocking chair Mick had given his wife when they’d moved into the house as newlyweds, and he stared at the mountains looming around him.

      “Emma really helped me out, but then, that’s what she does. She’s a good girl, that one. She’s held her family together over the past two years.”

      Was that what had stolen the sparkle he used to see in her eyes? She’d seemed different from what he remembered. Subdued. Distant almost.

      “She needs to have a life of her own, but every time she tries to, something happens,” Mick added, and glanced his way as if expecting him to ask for details.

      The words to ask what had happened with Emma sat perched on Jamie’s tongue, but he pushed aside the thought. He had enough on his mind without looking for more.

      “Now her fiddle player’s quit.”

      “That’s too bad,” Jamie said, refusing to rise to the bait Mick dangled in front of him. He was here to clear his head and sort out his future. Women had a way of short-circuiting a man’s brain. Best to keep from sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong. A lot safer, too.

      The moon cast a pale glow over the mountains. Gazing over land that had been in Mick’s family for generations, Jamie couldn’t help but feel a connection to his past. At times he felt like two people compressed into one body. The person created by his DNA that determined his height, the color of his eyes and his musical ability, and the person created by the parents who’d raised him. But what percentage came from which source? He suspected his need for stability, his craving an anchor in his life came from his parents. They’d provided that calm presence, that guiding force in his life, and the older he got the more he wanted that same connection they had with each other. The one he saw flicker in their eyes when they smiled at each other.

      He wasn’t sure how long he and Mick sat rocking on the porch. The rustling wind through the trees mixed with the creaking of the rockers and their voices as they talked about the restaurant, the ranch and what Jamie could do to keep busy. The conversation soothed his battered nerves. Nothing important or earth-shattering, but the chat was exactly what he needed. Ordinary and uncomplicated.

      “I haven’t told anyone about your hand, so no one should bother you about that here, but I am going to say one thing about what you’re going through. Then I won’t bring it up again,” Mick said. “Just because you can’t play the fiddle like you used to doesn’t mean you can’t play another instrument. Maybe you could play guitar in a country band. You ever thought about that?”

      Jamie shook his head. “I never considered doing anything else.” Probably because he hadn’t been exposed to other types of music growing up. When his musical ability became apparent, his parents had encouraged him to pursue classical music. That’s what they listened to. Math and music went hand in hand. Classical music appealed to them because it possessed a sense of order, precision and structure. Contemporary music seemed so chaotic to them.

      “I think you’d be a natural,” Mick continued. “After all, you’re my grandson, and it’s clear you got my musical talent.”

      As an adult, when he listened to music he chose country or rock. Listening to classical felt too much like work. Popular music let him escape. But playing it? He mulled the idea over. Maybe Mick’s suggestion wasn’t that crazy. Something new might be just what he needed. For as long as he could remember he’d sung around the house and made up tunes. He smiled recalling how that habit used to drive his sisters crazy. At five he’d started composing his own songs and performing for the family.

      “That’s something to consider.”

      Because if he couldn’t return to the symphony, he couldn’t see his life without performing. Not that teaching wasn’t a worthy profession, but there was something about being onstage that gave him a high as addictive as any drug, left him aching for a fix now, but it was more than that. He knew performing was where he was meant to be.

      “Which hand do you use on the neck of that fancy fiddle of yours?”

      “The left. The one I injured.” If he’d injured his bow hand he might have been able to stay with the symphony.

      “String instruments have a lot in common,” Mick said. “With a guitar you play the chords with your left hand. That doesn’t take as much dexterity. You do all the fast picking and strumming with your right hand. The hand that’s working just fine.”

      Mick stood, headed into the house and returned a minute later with a guitar, which he handed to Jamie. “This was my first guitar. When I was a teenager I took any job I could get to save up to buy this. After I got hurt I couldn’t bring myself to give it away. I guess part of me never quit hoping I’d be able to play again.”

      The instrument felt awkward in Jamie’s grasp, almost backward as he settled the guitar on his lap. He wrapped his left hand around the neck. He rested his other hand against the smooth wood. His fingers itched to strum across the strings.

      Jamie mulled over the idea, not sure how he felt about picking up another instrument. A little voice in his head urged him to think of the guitar as another way to work his hand. Movement was exercise, and that couldn’t hurt. Combine playing the guitar with some good old-fashioned hard work and practicing his violin...who knew what could happen? All he wanted was his life back, any way he could get there.

      “Can you show me how to play a couple of chords?”

      * * *

      THE NEXT AFTERNOON Jamie stood behind the bar at Halligan’s unloading the dishwasher and checking stock. The physical work around the restaurant felt good. He’d been in Colorado for less than twenty-four hours, but he already felt different, almost as though he’d left his problems behind in New York. ’Course it helped that no one here was asking him what he was going to do or looking at him as if his life was over and he’d disintegrate before their eyes.

      As he iced down bottles of beer for the dinner crowd, his gaze strayed to Emma, who’d shown up with her band a while ago to audition violinists. Her arrival had definitely improved the view and brightened his day. Tall enough that a man wouldn’t get a stiff neck having to bend down to look at her, Emma wasn’t so tall she looked him in the eye. Her jeans molded to her feminine curves. Her black hair spilled over her shoulders.

      While he hadn’t spent the past several years mooning over her, he admitted she’d crept into his thoughts more than a time or six, and