In Emmylou's Hands

Ramona jerked her phone out of her back pocket. “I oughta call him back here right now and let him whip both your asses. Get out of here before I decide to do just that.”

“But Joey needs his phone and his keys.” If the woman had any affection for her brother, maybe this technique would work.

Ramona stomped her foot. “And I need a damn makeover.”

“Come on.” Sol pulled Emmy’s arm, but she stood firm.

“No.” She shook her head with a sigh, accepting what she had to do. “I am really a stylist with my own salon, so if a makeover is what it’s going to take, you’ll get a makeover.” She unzipped the bag and pulled out the box of color she’d picked up for a client yesterday. “The only color I have in my bag is Red Hot Red.”

“That’ll suit me just fine...probably.” Ramona grinned. “Make me happy, and you’ll get what you came for.”

* * *

SOL BREATHED IN a gulp of the afternoon heat, thankful to be leaving the place with all of his teeth intact. It had been touch and go for a while, but Emmy’s plan had worked.

She held up the keys and phone, flashing them in the sunlight. Joey let out a whoop and came running from the cover of the bushes.

“You did it!” He grabbed his sister in a tight hug. “Thank you. Thank you!”

“You know I’m here for you, sugar.” She swatted his backside. “Now go get Patsy. Husband’s due back any minute.”

“Whooeee, yeah! I’m coming for you, Patsy! Daddy’s here.” Joe Wayne darted around the corner of the house as Sol and Emmy headed back toward their cars at the end of the street.

She cast Sol a sidelong glance. “Gonna admit you were wrong? My idea turned out to be a winner.”

“I admit I was wrong.” Sol stopped and, covering his heart with his hand, gave a slight bow. “You’re a wizard. That woman looked like a different person by the time you got finished.”

EmmyLou raised her hands in front of her and flashed him a wicked smile. “Some people say I’ve got magic in these hands.”

His groin clenched with need at her comment, but before he could respond verbally, Joe Wayne tore out of Ramona’s backyard on Patsy, giving a war whoop and a thumbs-up as he passed.

Sol decided to let Emmy’s last comment go unchallenged and changed the subject. “So, did this flash of genius really come to you here? Do you always travel with your tools?” He pointed to the bag slung over her shoulder.

“I keep this one in my trunk because I go to homeless shelters and nursing homes pretty often. Sometimes the school there in town.”

Her kindness touched him, but the warm glow immediately turned to an irritated flare as he realized he seemed to be the only person in the world not on the receiving end of it. She was always bent on knocking him down, no matter the situation. “Playing me as a gay guy to those people was a bit unfair, don’t you think?”

Her laugh held no remorse. “He believed it, didn’t he?” They reached her car and popped the trunk, slinging her bag into it. “And now I’ll be on my way.”

Looking closely at her face, Sol could see the tired lines around her eyes. “You’re not heading home right now, are you? You’re in no shape to drive.”

“Nope. I’m going back to the hotel and sleeping until midnight. That’s a full eight hours, so I’ll be fine.” She pointed to the car parked too close behind her. “Will you watch me out?”

Sol directed her back slowly until she had room to pull forward onto the street. As she gave him a wave of thanks and goodbye, he ignored the fleeting feeling of regret that she wasn’t staying a little longer.

He stalked back to his truck and unlocked his door just as a pickup pulled alongside his.

Ramona’s husband.

“Hey, Demitri.”

Sol’s neck hairs rose with apprehension at the menacing tone. He jerked the driver’s door open but couldn’t get in quick enough.

For such a big guy, Ramona’s husband moved fast. He ran around his vehicle, and his fist connected with Sol’s nose before Sol could pivot out of the way.

Crunch!

Pain and a multitude of colored lights exploded behind Sol’s eyes. He lost his balance and staggered backward, coming up against the side of his truck. The metallic taste of blood coated his tongue, and the hand that he raised to his face soon dripped with red.

“We don’t like your kind around here. Go away and stay away, you hear?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Climbing back in his truck, he roared up the street.

Clenching his teeth shot pain through Sol’s cheekbone that drilled into the sinus cavity straight into the damn-this-is-excruciating center of his brain. He found a sweaty handkerchief in his back pocket and used it to catch the blood that poured from his nose like someone had turned on a faucet. Without a doubt, it was broken. He typed Hospital into his GPS and waited while the routing loaded.

“Thank you, EmmyLou Creighton.” He ground the words out through the pain.

The woman’s name had become synonymous with torture in his private lexicon. He would get even with her if it was the last thing he did.

And between her shenanigans and her brother’s, it very well might be.

* * *

NO MATTER THE story behind it, Sol had taken the punch meant for him, Joe Wayne learned when he stopped back by the beach house late that afternoon. He couldn’t let that pass without showing his gratitude. And so, despite Sol’s pretend anger and mock protestation, Joe Wayne had decided to stay an additional night at the beach house. He’d fixed a nice dinner from the provisions Sol had on hand—steak on the grill, baked potatoes, salad, and fresh fruit for dessert. He’d opened Dad’s wine cabinet and served one of the best reds in the house. And now, as they sat on the deck, he strummed his guitar and serenaded his new friend, who sported a swollen nose and two black eyes on his behalf. In between songs he filled their glasses—the good crystal stuff, not what they left out for renters—with Dad’s cherished Four Roses.

Yessirree, Sol Beecher was a helluva man. He walked taller on one leg than most men did on two. Fact was, he was exactly the kind of man Dad had always wanted EmmyLou to end up with. Too bad there was so much bad blood between them.

“That’s the night... I remember...best of all.” He strummed the final chord of the song and let it drift away on the warm night breeze from the Gulf.

Sol rested on a chaise with his head tilted back. His friend gave a grunt of approval, which Joe Wayne had already learned was about as complimentary as the stubborn mule got. “You ever think of trying to go professional?” Sol asked. “Being from Nashville, don’t you know people who know people?”

Joe Wayne took a sip of the bourbon to ease the tension that popped up in his jaw at the question. “I am a professional. Small-town bars and honky-tonks, mostly. No major gigs in a helluva long time,” he admitted. “But I make enough to eat on and to buy enough gas to move on to the next place.”

“You live out of motels?” Sol lifted his head and eyed him directly, looking like a raccoon with something on his mind.

“Not usually enough money for a motel room.” Joe Wayne shook his head, but he couldn’t hold back the grin. “There’s always a woman wanting to take the star home with her and take care of his needs.”

“Sounds like a lonely life.”

“Something else we have in common.” Joe Wayne strummed another chord, fleshing out a new song with a few plucks and the emotion weighing on his heart. “Lonely men...lonely women...settlin’ down...on Lonely Street. Not an end...not a beginnin’...just a hope...someday they’ll meet.”

“Never heard that one,” Sol said.

“Just made it up.” Joe Wayne fingered the tune playing in his head. It would probably be gone by morning. Alcohol was an effective eraser. He brought the song to a close.

Sol clapped a couple of times—high praise from Mr. Surly. “Ever play in front of a big crowd?”

That one took a swig to answer. “Ever heard of the Grand Ole Opry?”

Sol nodded and then hissed in pain and took another gulp.