Rough Ryder Page 17

  When they called her up on stage and turned the house lights on, Ryder had searched the faces of everyone in the first rows. Had he thought she was just too shy to stand up and be acknowledged? The look on his face then—when he must have realized she wasn’t there—it sent a stab to the middle of her heart.

  Even if Hope and Ryder had slept together on his ranch, Brooke should have kept it professional. Stayed through the show. She closed her eyes. She’d known all along what Ryder was. He didn’t even date women long enough to have photos of himself with them appear online. Why did she think she was so special that he’d all of a sudden change his lifestyle for her? “Stupid girl.”

  “No, you’re the smartest girl in the world.” Her mother took her hand, leaning in and kissing her temple. “You just have a few more life lessons to learn before you can handle every situation logically, and not emotionally.”

  “But some situations are emotional. Not everything is logical, Mom.” She looked into Greta’s eyes, hoping for wisdom.

  “Even though you love him, Brooke, you still have to see each situation through practical eyes.”

  Which was just what Brooke had been telling herself… “Wait, what? Love?” She pulled her hand away, stood, and paced to the window. “We haven’t known each other long enough for love.”

  Terry laughed. “Have your mom and I ever told you the story of how we met?”

  She turned from the window. “About a hundred times. She was picketing your business. You saw her from your car window and joined the march, just to get to know her.”

  “Right.” Her dad took her mother’s hand. “It wasn’t love at first sight, but I was intrigued. And after talking to her for three hours, I knew she was someone I wanted to know a whole lot better.”

  Brooke loved their story. She’d written a song about it, which was currently locked in a file cabinet in her apartment. “Even though I’d like to get to know Ryder a whole lot better, he’s not reciprocating that interest. I need to move forward or I’ll end up trying to relive the past few weeks.” She sighed and picked up her bag. “So, I’m going to go back to my apartment, dig out the song called Terry Wants to Marry My Mom, and see if I can rewrite it into something that will sell.”

  “You know, selling isn’t everything.” Greta stood, and Terry grabbed his car keys.

  “Logically speaking, I’ve been too unfocused in my career. Now that I know what kind of song sells…twice…” She wagged her brows. “I’m going to revive my writing, and really get out there and show it off.”

  “Good for you.” Her mother hugged her goodbye, and her dad walked out to the garage with her.

  Brooke was grateful that Terry stayed quiet on the short drive. All she could think about was her pile of songs. She checked her emails. One popped up from the local music school, asking if she’d be interested in teaching a class in songwriting, and another came from a bar that held a writer’s showcase open mic every week.

  She smiled at Terry. “I’ve already got two job offers, Dad. Ain’t it great what a little positive thinking can do?”

  He nodded. “Positive thinking, and your name shouted out to a million people.” At her apartment, he carried her bag inside and checked every room and closet. He kissed her forehead. “Don’t forget the person who did that for you. Keep him in your heart, because—while I’m not intuitive like your mom—I did recognize the look on Ryder’s face when he searched for you in the audience.”

  “Dad, he has my phone number, and he didn’t even bother to—”

  “I’m just saying, sweetheart, I don’t think you’ve heard the last verse from that cowboy.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Brooke spent the next day organizing all her song notebooks by date, then started going through the songs to see which ones might be worth keeping. It comforted her that her more recent songs ranked better than her older ones. Using meditation techniques, she vowed to tell herself each and every day that she’d become a much better songwriter with each word she wrote.

  Three days later, McCrae arrived home without his expensive car. She was dying to call Schmiddy to ask if her stepbrother had donated any money at all to the charity, but she refrained. Barely. The next night, her parents invited her to dinner at their house to welcome McCrae home. The kid was only about half as cocky as usual, and announced that he was re-enrolling in college. Greta and Terry seemed enthusiastic, but insisted he live at home through his first semester, just to make sure he kept his grades up.

  McCrae pulled her aside and half-assed apologized for taking her song, and she cleared her mind of the burden by forgiving him and offering to work at creating a more pleasant sibling relationship between them. He agreed, and the four of them sat down to a long Yahtzee tournament.

  The music school had asked her to come in one day and talk about songwriting with each class, and since she had nothing going on in her life, they’d scheduled it. It had to have been the most fulfilling day of her career. The students’ questions had been so insightful and fresh, she’d left with a new commitment to her songs. And an offer to teach a class one semester each year.

  Before she decided to do something that passive with her career, she needed to get active. That evening, she called the organizer of the songwriter showcase open mic nights and scheduled herself for the next Wednesday, three song maximum. She immediately listed the date on her website, announced it on social media, and blogged about it on the local songwriters’ website.

  Hopefully, she would attract a few interested industry professionals, but even if she didn’t, it would give her some time away from her apartment. Every night after sunset, her partial view of the “big, long white monument” she’d joked about with Ryder, made her hunger for him, for his smile, his wicked sense of humor, his physical touch.

  That night, forcing back the tears that usually appeared when she let herself dwell on Ryder, she warmed herself a frozen meal and sat in front of her computer, checking emails. The first few days after she’d left Ryder in Montana, she’d searched on his name, her name, the song title, the fundraising concert, hoping to see what he was doing, where he was. Everything centered on the revelation of Ryder and Steele’s relationship, but she found very few recent pictures of either of them. Ryder must be hiding out at his ranch.

  Or his new family’s ranch. She’d love to hear the story behind that.

  Her parents had given her a copy of the concert DVD that morning, and she played it on her laptop. She watched it once all the way through, then again, fast-forwarding to when Ryder took the stage. He had such an exciting presence, strolling across the stage in front of his band, with his big, strong body, his sure, masculine movements, that smile that lit up brighter than any spotlight ever could.

  And when he took off his hat, those dreamworthy green eyes that haunted her sleep and distracted her days appeared. Was her mom right? Was she in love but just didn’t recognize it? A fresh swell of tears made the screen blur and she stopped the playback and switched to her search engine.

  She reposted reminders about the next night’s showcase on her media sites. She’d have to choose three songs, maybe start out with Lasting Goodbye as an intro to who she was, talk about the importance of copyrighting songs, then jump into a more up-tempo number to show her versatility.

  It almost made her nervous, performing live that way, but she’d done these showcases before, and the crowds usually numbered around fifteen people. Just in case, though, she practiced her songs with and without her guitar, recording them to play back and hear how she sounded. “Not half-bad.”

  The next night, she left her hair long and straight, patted on minimal makeup, and dressed in jeans and boots, a red T-shirt, and a black sweater. A girl never knew if it would be hot or cold on that stage, literally and figuratively.

  She was the third to play, but she arrived early and sat at a small table in the front of the room along with the other artists taking the stage tonight. The first songwriter looked to be about fif
ty, a handsome man who wrote bluesy songs about rather sad subjects. The second guy was around Brooke’s age. He specialized in folk songs and was very good.

  Brooke took the stage to a little applause and a loud whistle from the back of the room. She had a fan? After she sat on the stool, she adjusted the mic down to her level. “Thanks for coming tonight. I’m Brooke Davidson from right here in DC, and I’m going to start out with a song that I’ve already sold. Twice.” She smiled, shrugged, then began Lasting Goodbye.

  The audience stayed quiet for a few minutes, then applause and hoots rolled toward her. Someone recognized the song. With a smile, she nodded her thanks, and continued to sing, playing it the way she’d originally written it, which really wasn’t as good as Ryder’s version, but it felt more genuine for her.

  She finished the song, and the applause sounded much louder. She talked a moment about the importance of securing songs, registering them, and having contracts with anyone who had input in the lyrics or the music. “The old ‘A word for a third’ cautionary tale.” An old songwriter’s saying, that warned not to let people give you suggestions on a song you were writing, or they could come back to you later and claim they’d helped write the lyrics.

  After she did a quick tune on her guitar, she broke into a faster song, and the audience actually clapped along to the beat. “Thank you.” She strummed the last chord. “You’re really good for a songwriter’s ego.”

  More clapping.

  Her third song was more folksy, and she sang each word from the heart. Toward the end, noise came from the back of the room. She just kept going. Then something big and white caught her eye.

  Someone held a sign over their head, but it was lit…

  By flashlights.

  Her voicebox froze, along with the rest of her body.

  This could not be happening.

  The sign came closer, and she read it: “Brooke Davidson stole my heart.”

  She stood so quickly, her stool toppled over and her mic stand did a circular dance before regaining its footing. “Ryder?”

  He walked up to the front of the low stage, no cowboy hat, but a huge grin on his face. “You stole it, Brooke. But I don’t want it back.”

  She looked at the audience then bent low to whisper, “People might take pictures.” Why on Earth that was the first thing to pop into her mind, she didn’t know.

  He dropped the sign, put one foot up on the low stage, and hefted himself up next to her.

  She jumped back but he grabbed her hand, turning them both to face the audience.

  “Ryder Landry!” someone shouted.

  Camera flashes started going off.

  He flung his arm across her shoulders and looked out over the crowd. “Sorry to interrupt, folks, but I just came to my senses, and need to talk to this talented…” He gazed down at her. “Lovely, kind, smart, impossibly idealistic, sexy woman.”

  Her whole body vibrated with shock or excitement or both. “Me?”

  He turned her toward him, unhooked her guitar strap, and held it to the side while he pulled her flush against him and kissed her like that was his only goal in life.

  Lights flashed wildly against her closed eyes. Was it just the cameras in the audience, or was her brain blinking happily in her head?

  His lips pressed firmly, his tongue sought hers, and then it was over, and he moved back just an inch. “Come away with me?”

  Swept off her feet by the man she might love? “Of course, Ryder. I’d love to.”

  He held her guitar above his head and looked at the crowd. “She said yes!”

  They went ballistic, louder than she ever thought this small number of people could get.

  Ryder led her offstage and tucked her guitar into its case as the bar manager tried to talk Ryder into performing one song.

  “I promise to come back soon, with Miss Davidson, to perform a duet.”

  “A duet.” Her insides got all woozy and warm. Was she dreaming this?

  He took her hand, picked up her guitar case, and led her out the back door where Schmiddy stood next to a big, black SUV.

  “Hi.” She barely had enough brain power to utter the word, but Schmiddy nodded. And he didn’t growl.

  They slid into the back seat, and Ryder kept her next to him, seatbelted in the middle seat. He kissed her quickly. “I’m glad you came without a fuss.” He wagged his brows at her, but hesitated, as if waiting for her to explain.

  Brooke looked into the green eyes of the man who had probably just broken every dating rule he’d ever made, and done it so publicly that he’d be the subject of every entertainment show, newspaper, and blog for the next few days. If he could take that giant leap, she figured it was time for her to open up as well.

  “Ryder, do you know I’m falling for you?”

  ****

  Ryder looked down at the sweetest face, the most expressive eyes, he’d ever had the privilege to glimpse. How had he talked himself into avoiding this for so long? From the first night they’d spent together, he’d wanted to hang on to her. Had to force himself to let her go each time. So different from all the others, who he couldn’t wait to see leave.

  She’d snuck in under his defenses. Probably because she had no agenda but what she put out there; a hot night in bed, his help with finding her thieving stepbrother. Even the information she’d withheld from him about selling her song to Hope—he could understand why she’d done it, and probably would have done the same thing if he’d been in her position.

  “I’d hoped you were falling for me.”

  “You knew I was.” She cupped his cheek. “I’m like an open book. While you’re like a locked diary.”

  One corner of his mouth quirked up. “Great analogy. No wonder you’re a writer.” Ryder set his hand over hers, turned his face and kissed her palm. He lowered their hands, keeping hers firmly in his. “The way you sang Lasting Goodbye. It was soulful. More so than my version.”

  She nodded. “I lost a grandmother to cancer, and that was my way of voicing my grief.” Tipping her head, she frowned. “Your version is infinitely more commercially vibrant, though.”

  “I don’t know what that means, but thanks.” He quirked his mouth. “I try to stay away from getting too involved in what sells and what doesn’t sell, instead choosing songs I like, and that I think my fans would like.”

  “It means you wrote a great song, Ryder.”

  “Even if it was pre-written?” He glanced out the window. “We have a couple choices here, Brooke. We can go to a hotel and hide out for a few days, or you can come back to the ranch with me for a while.”

  Her brows lifted. “Really? Your ranch? Oh wow, that’s…” She sucked in a breath. “Your ranch, definitely. But I don’t have any clothes. Can we stop by my apartment?”

  “I’m afraid your apartment might be crawling with reporters already, figuring we’d go there. But if I promise to buy you everything you need in Natchitoches, will you fly away with me tonight?”

  “Of course I will.” She took back her hand. “Let me text Mom, just so she won’t worry.” Brooke wiggled in her seat. “She’s going to be so happy that she was right.”

  He lifted a brow. “About me?”

  “About us.” She dug in her big messenger bag for her phone.

  Ryder pressed the switch to lower the dark window between the seats. “Schmiddy, to the airport, please.”

  “Yes, sir. We’re nearly there.” He relayed instructions on where to find Ryder’s jet to the driver as the window ascended, shutting Brooke and Ryder off from the world again.

  While Brooke communicated with her mother, Ryder stared out the window, watching DC pass by. Funny, he never thought he’d be interested in seeing the town, but he’d like to come back with Brooke, let her show him around. Hell, was it the town itself, or the idea of sharing it with Brooke that made it so irresistible?

  In minutes, they arrived at the airport. Schmiddy opened the rear passenger door and they slid out onto the tarmac as
the pilot lowered the steps to Ryder’s jet. The bodyguard opened the rear hatch and grabbed Ryder’s suitcase, Brooke’s guitar, the long black tube, and a red bag he didn’t recognize. Closing the hatch, Schmiddy jerked his head away from Brooke.

  Ryder touched her arm. “Give me a second, cutie?” He paused, frowning. “Brooke.”

  Her gaze shot to his, a furrow forming between her brows. “S…sure.” She went back to typing messages on her phone.

  Somehow, calling her cutie felt too impersonal all of the sudden. He followed Schmiddy toward the plane.

  “Sir, the red bag belongs to Ms. Davidson.”

  “How did you…” Ryder shook his head. “Never mind.” The pilot took the bags from Schmiddy and walked up the steps into the jet. “I’m gonna plan on being on the ranch for a couple weeks, so I hope to hell I won’t need you.”

  The bodyguard inclined his head an inch.

  “Thanks, man.” Ryder held out his hand. “I don’t think I say that enough.”

  Schmiddy frowned but shook Ryder’s hand. “You’re welcome.” He glanced at Brooke. “She’s one of a kind.”

  Ryder’s mouth dropped open. Schmiddy? Saying more than he absolutely had to? “Yeah, it took this ol’ boy a while to figure that out.” Ryder let go of the big man’s hand, and Schmiddy walked back toward the SUV, past Brooke as the pilot told Ryder they were cleared to depart immediately.

  Brooke looked up at Schmiddy as he passed, said something, and the bodyguard actually threw back his head and laughed.

  Ryder had never heard the man laugh. He wandered toward Brooke as she headed his way. “What did you say…?” He thought about it for a second. “No, don’t tell me. Better if I don’t know.”

  She took his hand. “I agree.” They walked up the steps onto the plane.

  The pilot greeted them. “Still on course to Natchitoches?”

  Ryder looked down at her. “Brooke?”

  She swung her gaze to the pilot. “Natchitoches for sure.”