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It was Melba Wadley.
Melba was his office manager, dispatcher, and mother hen.She was efficient, dedicated, and a force to be reckoned with.She had worked for the sheriff’s department for the last forty-four years and knew Texas law better than anyone in the state.She was divorced and had raised three kids mostly by herself, was a grandma to eight grandkids and foster mama to a zoo of dogs and cats that she kept trying to pawn off on Decker—which was how he had gotten a lazy hound dog.She could shoot a row of tin cans off a fence from twenty yards away, had won more than her share of ax-throwing contests, and went dirt bike riding with her kids and grandkids.She sang in the choir at church every Sunday, but never refused an offer to get a cold beer on a Saturday night.
Decker pretty much adored her.Even if she did get after him a lot.
“I’m not making you chicken salad for lunch anymore if you’re not going to come back to the office to eat it.”
His stomach growled at just the thought of Melba’s chicken salad.“I’m sorry.It’s been one helluva day.”
“So what was Donna Nichols so up in arms about?”
“Dan Wheeler got drunk last night and peed on her petunias.”
Melba chuckled.“Serves her right.I swear that woman needs someone to pull that self-righteous corncob out of her butt.Too bad her milquetoast husband doesn’t have enough balls to do it.Oh, and speaking of balls, Viola Stanley came by to see you with a plate of brownies.The girl still can’t cook worth beans—yes, I tried one—nor is she very bright.Anyone with eyes can see you’re not interested.”
“What makes you say that?”
Melba snorted.“You are one of the most intense men I have ever met in my life.When you focus on something, you give it one hundred percent of your attention.Whether it’s ironing your clothes, eating one of Sheryl Ann’s muffins, or filling out a report.And you’re about as interested in Viola Stanley as you are in learning to two-step—which I’ve repeatedly told you is one of the prerequisites of being a true Texan.So just let the woman know so she can poison some other poor fool with her cooking.And speaking of poor fools, I just got a call about a beat-up Mustang being broken down on the side of Highway 333.I called Dave to tow it back to town.”
Decker should thank her and let Dave handle it.It wasn’t like word about Sweetie’s return wasn’t already spreading like a lit fuse through Wilder.He should make dinner, have another beer, and then see if he could teach George to fetch a ball.
But, for some reason, that wasn’t what he did.
“Don’t bother Dave.I’ll handle it.”
ChapterFour
Sweetie didn’t even remember falling asleep.One second, she’d been struggling to tuck a fitted sheet over the edge of her mattress, and the next, she woke up tangled in that sheet with her cheek pressed to the drool-dampened mattress.
Rolling to her back, she blinked at the late afternoon sun streaming in the window.When her eyes had adjusted, she glanced around the room.
Everything looked exactly like it had when Sweetie had packed up and headed for Nashville after she’d graduated from high school.Cloe’s side of the room was neat as a pin with a bookcase filled with perfectly lined-up books and her collection of childhood toy horses.Sweetie’s side was stuffed to the gills with life mementos: the giant-sized stuffed animals Jace had won her at the county fair were crammed on top of each other in one corner, the shelf above her dresser held a jumble of childhood trophies, beloved dolls, and a Miss Soybean rhinestone tiara.The full-length mirror frame on her closet door was lined with pictures and concert and school dance ticket stubs.And her bookcase was stuffed full of notebooks filled with all the song lyrics she’d written over the years.
As long as she could remember, she’d had melodies and words swimming around in her head.When she learned to write, she’d started jotting them down in notebooks.
Getting up from the bed, she sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the bookcase and pulled out the first one.She couldn’t help but smile as she read the first song she’d ever written.“I Love Mi Hors” had only three verses.I love mi hors, I love mi hors, I love mi hors.The next song was more complex.I hat gren beens, I hat gren beens, I hat gren beens ...but I love mi hors.
As time went on, Sweetie’s handwriting and spelling had gotten better and so had her lyrics.Most of the songs were still about her horse, but she’d started adding verses of why she loved her horse so much.He always takes me for a ride, even wen it’s cold outside.
Sweetie didn’t know how long she sat there going through notebook after notebook.It was like reliving her life through lyrics.Like a journal written in songs.There were songs about her life on the ranch: “Cattle Drive” “Muckin’ Life” “Sunday Supper” “Skinny Dip.”There were songs about her family.“Mama’s Hugs” “Stupid Sisters” “Grandma’s Garden” “Daddy’s Girl.”There were songs about growing up.“Little Boobs” “One Big Pimple” “Eve’s Curse.”Then there were songs about Jace.Love songs from a teenage girl completely besotted.“Football Hero” “When He Smiles” “One Lucky Girl.”But in the next notebook the songs became sadder and darker.“Look Right Through Me” “Who Am I” “Fighting to Breathe.”
She remembered writing those songs.Remembered feeling like she was trapped underwater struggling to get to the surface and no one seemed to know she was drowning.Not her parents.Not her grandmother.Not her sisters.And especially not Jace.
“Leaving to Live” was the last song she had written before she’d left town.She hadn’t taken any of the notebooks with her.These songs were her past life.They had no place in her new one.When she got to Nashville, she planned to write better songs.Hit songs.
And she had tried.She had filled numerous notebooks with all kinds of words.But that’s all they were.Words.They hadn’t come close to conveying feelings and telling a story like these songs did.It was like she had left the real Sweetie right here on these shelves—in this room, on this ranch—while the fake Sweetie had gone to Nashville to become a star.
But people didn’t want a star with no substance.They wanted the real thing.
Somewhere along the lines, she had lost the real Sweetie.
“Sweetie!Come down here!”
Her mother’s voice startled her out of her thoughts and she carefully placed the notebooks back on the bookshelf.She dreaded going downstairs to supper and having to deal with her daddy.As much as she hated to admit it, his rejection had hurt.There had been a time when she had been the apple of his eye—his Sweetie Pie.But only because she’d done everything he’d ever asked of her.She couldn’t be that daddy’s girl again.She wouldn’t be.She was a grown woman with her own dream.
She looked at the notebooks on the shelf.
But what if Daddy was right and her dream had been the wrong dream all along?
