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Millie and Dave Travis ran through several songs, staples by Cash, Waylon, and Cline. Eventually, the music did what it always managed to do. It soothed the rough edges, made all the broken pieces inside her fit, and she felt light and free. Head down, she picked a rambunctious song that had the crowd cheering and stomping their feet, her rich voice cajoling the kind of notes not many could reach. She didn’t showboat. She wasn’t that kind of singer—she was a master of melody, of highs and lows and all the in-betweens that melted together in a tapestry of song that made most folks stop dead and listen, while the others moved and swayed and lost themselves in her voice.
Millie played another song. And then another, her face turned to the light, eyes closed as the music swelled and then softened until it was just her and the guitar and a haunting melody that had the bar watching in silence. It wasn’t one of hers, but a Hank Williams song that transcended time and place. It was full of longing and sadness, and as she opened up her heart and let the music take her, Millie got lost in it.
So lost she didn’t realize at first that another voice had joined hers. Or that the energy had changed. It had thickened and widened, gotten bigger than just her. His voice wrapped itself around hers, as if his harmony wasn’t meant for anyone other than Millie, and it felt likehome.
When they finished the song, she kept going, caught up and unaware, and Cal followed along, his voice a perfect foil to hers. When she finally stopped the place was utterly bereft of sound. Like a vacuum had sucked it all out. But then a clap echoed, and another…and another, until the entire bar erupted.
Millie slowly opened her eyes and gave a small nod. Her throat was full, and she wouldn’t have been able to talk if she wanted to. She handed Dave the guitar and walked off stage into the shadows to the right. Her heart was nearly beating out of her chest, her body shaking from adrenaline, when she felt a hand on her elbow. She counted to ten and turned around. Cal stood, his eyes hooded as he watched her.
“That was—”
“Don’t,” she interrupted him, hand up.
He paid no mind. “I’ve never heard anyone sing like you,” Cal said, voice low and intimate. “I miss it.” He took a step closer. “I miss you, Mills.” His voice wavered. “I miss all of it.”
Millie gazed up at this man who, at one time, had meant everything to her. A man she’d dreamt of a life with. A man she’d given all of herself to, only for him to leave her on a cold night in February while the snow fell and the silence pressed in.
He’d broken her. He’d crushed her spirit and dreams and didn’t even know it. Or if he did, he sure as hell didn’t care.
Her gaze fell from his as a burn began to build in her gut. It spread like wildfire as memories and pain and longing and anger jumbled together, making her feel sick.
Hemissedher?
“Don’t ever do that again,” she said through clenched teeth.
Cal’s mouth tightened at her tone. “Do what?” he asked carefully.
“You know the rules in this place.” Her chin jutted forward. “You don’t take the stage until you’re asked. It’s not a free-for-all. Especially for out-of-towners.”
Cal’s mouth fell open, and for the first time in the last few days, Millie felt like she had a modicum of control.
“You’re not one of us anymore. We don’t care that you’re some fancy singer from Nashville who wears five-hundred-dollar boots and rides around on a plane with balls on the side of it.”
“Balls?”
“The bull on the side of your plane?” Was that a smile touching his mouth? Millie Sue Jenkins was so mad, it was a miracle smoke wasn’t coming out her nose and ears.
“Pretty sure Dirk’s privates aren’t on display.” Thatwasa smile.
“Dirk?” she all but spat at him.
“It’s what we call the bull. He’s the logo for my label.” That smile she wanted to punch widened. “And just so you know, my boots cost me twelve-fifty. That’s one thousand two hundred and—”
“Yeah, I get it. Only an asshole would spend that much on a pair of boots that are no different from the ones for sale at the Co-Op.”
“They’re Italian.”
“I don’t care.”
“Why are we fighting about my boots and Dirk?”
“That’s not what we’re fighting about,” she retorted. “Actually, we’re not fighting. I’m telling you that I don’t want to share a stage with you ever again. My place, my rules.”
“I think you’re afraid,” he said so softly, she barely heard him.
“Are you high?” she said, anger making her voice sharp.
Her stomach flipped over because suddenly, he was so close to her she could count his damn eyelashes. See the freckle near his right eye. Smell that scent that shouldn’t smell so damn good. Not when she was furious and pissed and…
