Page 33 of Wild and Wanted

Stevie had been chatting with the women a little earlier. The three friends were from Florida and had come to the ranch for a rustic experience. Just the girls. But now Stevie was thinking they might have an ulterior motive for choosing the RVR.

And that sat like a bucket of cold worms in her belly.

Mags snorted good-naturedly. ‘Yeah, but we don’t like his head to get too big around here,’ she quipped, and everybody laughed.

Sliding her gaze to the side as Mags answered another query about her brother from a guy who was here with his wife and two little kids, Stevie watched as Clay joined his parents at the BBQ. John and Theresa seemed as surprised as Mags to see him, looking at each other quizzically as Stevie strained to eavesdrop.

Thankfully the direction of the breeze was working in her favour.

‘Well, boy howdy, darlin’,’ John said, his lips twitching. ‘Look who we have here.’

Theresa dug her husband good-naturedly in the ribs before hugging Clay and saying, ‘To what do we owe the pleasure?’

Clay rolled his eyes. ‘A man’s gotta eat, don’t he?’

‘Of course.’ He scored another hug from Theresa before she pointed at the table. ‘Grab a plate.’

‘Stevie?’

Dragging her attention back to Mags who was looking at her questioningly, Stevie realised she was being asked a question about whether she’d ever performed at any rodeos, and she smiled and shook her head. ‘Quite a few state fairs, but no rodeos,’ she confirmed.

The conversation spun on from there and Stevie went with the flow, determined to ignore the enigmatic presence of Clay Calhoun behind her and enjoy the evening as she’d enjoyed the previous three.

Even if it killed her.

An hour later, at Mags’s suggestion, with everyone’s belly full of the cobbler that had not long been served and the firelight mellowed to coals, Stevie pulled out her guitar.

Was she hyperaware of Clay sitting on the opposite side looking better than any man had a right to, flanked by the three Floridians who had monopolised his attention from the moment he’d sat his very nice ass down?

Yes.

But, as always, when performing, she slipped into an entirely different persona. The small, intimate gathering persona was different to the sold-out stadium persona but it still cloaked her introversion enough, allowing her to be a more gregarious form of herself.

‘Well,’ she said with a self-deprecating laugh, looking at the expectant faces as she absently strummed the strings, the acoustic resonance vibrating beautifully in the stillness of the night. ‘I guess I better get “Forever Without You” done first, save everyone wondering whether I’m going to play it or not.’

There was a general murmur of laughter soothing the nerves that were always present to a greater or lesser degree depending on the crowd size.

‘And then I thought I might sing a couple of the older hits that hopefully everyone will know. I might even take a couple of requests,’ she said with a smile, which had everyone around the circle nodding.

But not him. Clay watched her with the same brooding expression he’d watched her with all night. The one causing a throb in her pulse and a hitch in her breath.

She strummed the strings again, watching her hands as she did so. ‘As you all probably know by now, I wrote this song for my sister, Yolanda, who passed a couple of years ago. She was the yin to my yang and I miss her every day.’

Sometime soon Stevie hoped that she’d be able to elaborate with small gatherings like this about all of her emotions, but it still felt too personal.

Staring into the glowing coals, Stevie’s vibrato floated into the air as her fingers picked out the opening chords, and it seemed like every single person around the campfire leaned in a little – even him. Her voice rang soft but clear into the cocoon of silence that had billowed overhead.

Because she had sung it so many times, the song had lost its immediate emotional wrench – she could sing it without crying, without breaking down. Mostly. But each note added a stitch in the living, breathing tapestry of her grief. One day maybe it’d be complete but for now it felt very much like a work in progress.

The last chord melted into the night and for a beat nobody moved or spoke. It was as if everyone gathered had been holding their breath, then slowly, the clapping started. Not loud or raucous, no whistling or cheering, just steady applause wrapping Stevie in a hug of understanding.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured, her gaze finally lifting, catching Clay’s across the circle, burning bright with something she couldn’t fathom and didn’t know if she wanted to.

Lordy – she was so out of her depth with this man.

‘Thank you,’ she repeated, giving herself a mental shake as she forced herself to acknowledge the dozen other people present. When the clapping died down, she said, ‘Now the soppy stuff is out the way.’

A brisk strum of her guitar and a murmur of laughter put them back on the right track and Stevie belted out a few of her older songs, took a couple of requests and ended with a tongue-in-cheek version of one of her all-time favourite songs, ‘Rhinestone Cowboy’, changing it to cowgirl for laughs, poking fun at herself and her mission at the RVR.