A Cowboy For Christmas

At that he flashed a grin. “Just pretend I’m a bear in a cage out there. Throw in some meat once in a while.”

At that she laughed outright. “I think I get it.”

“I may get a little more sociable as time passes, but right now...” He trailed off and his blue eyes stared somewhere beyond the room. “Back in Nashville, getting enough downtime is impossible. So call me the recluse of Conard County.”

His gaze focused on her again. “You must have been a tot when I left twenty years ago.”

“I think I was five or six.”

“Couldn’t wait to shake the dust of this place off my heels,” he admitted. “Look at me now. Like a pig headed back for my wallow.”

She drew a breath and dared to ask, “Why?”

He tilted his head. “Some things can wear out your soul, Abby. Mine is worn to rags. I don’t even enjoy my music anymore. That’s got to change.”

“You think being here can do that?”

“It built me. Maybe it can rebuild me.” He sighed. “Guess I’m going to find out.”

He rose and refilled his mug. “No calls. I have a private line and only three people have the house number. Any other calls, just say I’m unavailable and take a message, okay?”

“I can do that.”

“I’m sure you can.” Then he hesitated. “Guess I should give you my cell number, too, just in case. If you stumble on the stairs and break a leg, it might be a long time before you see me. Do you have a cell that works out here?”

She shook her head.

“Get one next time you’re in town. And use your free time however you want. I don’t expect you to be making busy work to fill the hours, and I don’t expect you to be at my beck and call all the time.”

Finally curiosity overwhelmed caution. “What exactly do you need a full-time housekeeper for?” A dangerous question considering she needed the job.

“For all the stuff I let slide when I’m composing. That’ll be plenty.” He winked. “You get to be my buffer against the real world. I’m hoping to be spending most of my time with my Muse. She’s a demanding mistress.”

He rinsed out his mug at the sink, and put it in the brand-new dishwasher. “This is my hermitage and I’m the monk,” he said, facing her. “Just think of it that way. And right now I’m going to go take a walk and see what the wind whispers to me.”

* * *

His booted feet crunched on the desiccated grass of late summer and early autumn. A dry breeze blew steadily. Nashville was greener and more humid, and certainly warmer right now. As he strode out across fields covered with deep, dying grass and occasional tumbleweed, with nothing to block his view in most directions until his gaze ran up against the nearby mountains, he realized just how much he had missed Conard County.

It didn’t take him long to reconnect with the youth who had felt this place was parching his soul. Well, over the years he’d found other ways to parch it. Maybe worse ways.

Long summer afternoons came back to him, when he’d been done with his chores and had hiked out to a quiet place where he could rest his back against a cottonwood and make up his songs with his battered guitar. Hours spent lying on his back looking up at occasional wisps of cloud against a painfully blue sky, listening for whatever whispered to him.

Long winters, frigid cold, when escape had been impossible unless he sat out in the barn with the horses, freezing his fingers until he couldn’t feel the guitar strings anymore.

Surprisingly, he found himself actually looking forward to the winter that was right around the corner. He doubted his manager or anyone else would try to come out here then. By Christmas, maybe they’d accept that he was determined to stay here as long as he felt he needed it.

The breeze gusted a little, and he clapped his hand to his head to keep his hat from blowing away. The same hat he’d been wearing when he left here. Like some kind of talisman. He wondered if he was becoming superstitious.

Over the years, he’d realized how important it was to have creative friends. They’d spurred him on, creating a synergy that had benefitted them all. So what the hell had convinced him he needed to be all by himself again?

He couldn’t reclaim the freshness and optimism of the kid who had left here. Too much had happened over the years. Yet deep inside he felt there was something buried that couldn’t make its way out unless he provided the utter quiet and solitude it needed to be heard. Listening for voices on the wind seemed like a good enough place to start.

Cowboy boots weren’t made for walking, even well-worn ones, and finally he decided he’d better head back. To what, he still didn’t know.

The housekeeper, Abby, had sure caught his attention. He wondered when was the last time he’d seen a woman her age without a smidgen of makeup. Not that she needed any. Cute figure, too, from what he could tell under that loose work shirt she wore. A little plumper than he was used to from a town where everyone seemed to be trying to lose another ten pounds to compensate for the camera. He liked that plumpness. A man could cuddle up to those curves. He liked her long naturally brown hair, too, so carelessly caught up in a clip on the back of her head. It looked silky, begging for a touch. And her golden eyes reminded him of amber.

What he hadn’t liked was the weariness he saw in her. A sorrow that touched her golden eyes and full lips. The way her smile and her laughter didn’t come easily. Seemed as if they both needed some time to cure themselves.

He was curious about her, but stepped down on it. He hadn’t come out here to make new friends or get tangled up in anything. No, he’d come to find his own footing and get his own head and heart sorted out.

Sometimes he felt as if he was dancing all the time to some insane piper. He needed a breather, some downtime, an escape from a pace that never really flagged. Oh, he could get some time by himself, but never enough of it. There was always something he needed to do, friends who wanted to get together...in short a full life. Too full. With one great big gaping hole in it, dug by his ex-wife Stella and her winning custody of their daughter, Regina.

He guessed he had some holes to patch, too. Being shed of Stella was a relief. He just wished the courts hadn’t sided with her when she insisted a young girl needed her mother, not her father. He hadn’t expected that, and regret still dogged him. That was killing him.

So maybe Brian, his manager, was right when he said Rory was running away. But running away had served him once before, and it might again. If it didn’t, he could head back to Nashville in a few months and pick up the rat race again.

But the hollowness had been filling him for a while, and going through the motions wasn’t the kind of life he wanted. He needed to find his music again, the music that had given him meaning and purpose. If he didn’t, then he was nothing but a sham any longer.

He paused, listening to the wind. It had a music of its own, and once it had filled him with creative impulses. But after a few minutes, he gave up. He heard nothing in its sigh, not yet. Maybe he’d lost the ears to hear.

* * *

Abby watched his return, and wondered what to do. She’d made a lasagna that morning, figuring she could heat it whenever he was ready to eat, but Rory McLane had told her he’d eat whenever he felt like it. So what was she supposed to do?

He’d basically left her free to do as she liked, but maybe he didn’t realize how difficult that might be for her. She was acutely aware that she was being paid generously, and felt as if she ought to be earning that check. Part of her job was feeding the man. A man who apparently didn’t want to be fed, at least not on any kind of routine.

Awkward, that’s what it was. Finally, deciding that she needed her supper even if he didn’t, she popped the lasagna in the oven. She was going to take a small portion for herself, then section it up into individual servings either one of them could heat easily. It was the only way she could think to handle it.

She knew she had to try this his way, but she wondered if sooner or later they were going to need to have a more detailed talk about her role. Winging it might work for him, but already she had a million questions about how to best handle things for him.

She heard him come through the front door, and managed to put a note of cheer in her voice. “I just put a lasagna in the oven. Ready in about an hour if you decide you want to eat.”

She heard his steps stop in the hallway and tensed, wondering if he’d remind her yet again that he didn’t want to be bothered with anything.

Then she heard his approach. He stopped in the kitchen doorway. Easy to see how this man had become a heartthrob for millions. Her heart accelerated of its own accord, and she felt the first stirring of long-absent desire. Not good.

“Lasagna?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Sounds good. I may...”

She heard a phone beep and he fell silent as he pulled a cell from his pocket. “Stella,” he said with distaste. “Sorry. Give me a minute.”

He walked out, leaving her alone in the kitchen again. For a guy who didn’t want to be bothered, he was being bothered rather soon. She seemed to recall from her brief research on him that Stella was his ex. She still called him? Her own ex, Porter, hadn’t spared a word for her since the divorce.

Fifteen minutes passed. She considered bringing out the salad she had prepared earlier, then decided it was too soon. Should she set places for both of them in here? Or maybe he’d want to eat alone in his fancy dining room.