Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 99399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
I looked at him blankly, while inside, I was having a mental seismic shift. Another seismic shift.
Was it possible I’d been looking at this wrong, too?
What if people pointing to my father as the reason for my success was a good thing?
Because it was absolutely true that if I’d been raised by a Jude and Derek Marian who were schoolteachers in Omaha, there wasn’t a chance in hell I would’ve developed my music talent enough to find the success I had as Fletcher Coe. And if I hadn’t grown up hearing my dad pour his heart into his lyrics and watching him struggle to craft a perfect harmony, I wouldn’t have known that effort was just as important as raw talent.
My success was partially because of my father’s… and that was a feature and not a bug. Not something to be ashamed of, but something to be grateful for. Something to proclaim from the rooftops.
“Whoa,” I said as the world shifted around me.
“You okay, Wolfie?”
Lennon moved over and put his large hand in my hair, tilting my head back so he could squint into my face. “You look a little pale. You want a sandwich before we go?”
I laughed, the sound loose and strange in my throat. “I’m okay. Or I will be soon. But you should know… I’m in love with Trace Bishop,” I said.
He shot me a confused look. “Uh… yeah, and I own a cow or two. We sharing understatements of the year? What’s happening right now?”
I couldn’t help but laugh again. “I know, I know. I didn’t do a great job of hiding my feelings. But now…” I tested the words on my tongue. “We’re together. For real.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Well, fucking finally! Jesus fuck, Wolfe. That was the longest slow burn in romance history. Congratulations.” His forehead creased again. “But then… where is he?”
“Not far behind me, I hope. But there’s something I needed to do first. And I was hoping you could help.”
When I explained part of my plan, Lennon called two of his ranch hands to return the vehicle for me while he loaded me into his own truck. On the ride into town, my brain spun like a washing machine with an unbalanced load. By the time we pulled around back of our cousin Alex’s restaurant to find parking, my palms were sweating, but I was even more sure of my plan.
The Spring Sling would be set up right in the middle of Founder’s Row in the center of town, with a music stage at one end and artists’ booths in tidy rows along either side of the blocked-off street.
Several singers and groups would play on the music stage after the introduction and welcome speech, and the coordinator had promised me a ten-minute spot three acts into the lineup.
“I’ve never performed in front of an audience before,” I whispered as Lennon threw the truck into Park.
I hadn’t told my brother about Fletcher Coe. Not yet. I’d only told him I’d arranged to perform a couple of songs for Papa tonight.
“It’s been way too long since I’ve heard you play or sing, Wolfe, but I know you’re going to do great. And if it comes from your heart, he’s gonna love it.”
My little brother was a softie. One of the kindest men I knew.
I reached over and squeezed his arm. “Thank you. And thanks for being here. Promise to rush me off the stage if I vomit or otherwise make a fool of myself?”
His warm laughter filled the cab of the truck. “This town could use a little drama. Give us something to post to our socials besides the new flavor at the dairy barn. Spoiler alert: it’s salted caramel.”
He had no idea. Legacy’s socials were going to light the entertainment world on fire tonight. I wanted to whimper.
“You ready?” Lennon asked with a grin.
“As I’ll ever be. Let’s go.”
I grabbed my guitar from the back, opened the door, and stepped out into the cool Montana night. As we made our way through the crowds to the wings of the stage, I hid behind Lennon’s larger frame to avoid being stopped for a chat. The only person I spared a glance at was my sister, Rosie, whose pink cheek I stopped to kiss on my way past Avery Marian’s painting booth.
“Wolfe!” Rosie squealed. “You came!”
Lennon made our excuses and continued to lead me to the stage until he introduced me to the music coordinator, a woman named Nessa.
We spoke for a couple of minutes to confirm my tech requirements, and then I was shuffled over to wait behind the band that would play before my set.
I pulled out my phone to review the new song I’d planned, trying my hardest not to hyperventilate. Papa’s breathing exercises ran through my head, forcing me to slow down and focus. Prepare. After drinking a few sips of water, I did some vocal warm-ups.