A Montana Christmas Reunion

“Monday I have a four-day gig in Nashville, then head into a month-long tour across the South and Southwest. We end in LA for a benefit where a host of recording stars are raising money to fight against world hunger. Come with me.”

“Wha...hat?” She lifted her head slightly.

“I mean it. I make good money now. And you’re an experienced veterinarian who can hang her shingle anywhere. If you’d prefer, we can give living together a try before doing anything permanent. How does that sound?”

“Like I’m fuzzy headed from too much wine.” Unable to sort out his comments, she yawned bigger and tightened her arm across his chest.

His chuckle was a low rumble in her ear. She nodded when he proposed they sleep on it and talk again in the morning.

Saxon fell asleep almost immediately. But in spite of how tired Jewell was, she lay listening to him breathe, timing the sound to wind that eventually stopped buffeting the coach. She battled still loving him against a sick feeling that while he hadn’t discounted her career like before, he ignored her love for Snowy Owl Crossing. Ignored that she had a life and fulfilling career there. Really, nothing had changed except they were older. He no longer struggled to make ends meet, and she should be happy to tag along.

Very close to crying yet not wanting to wake him, she slid out of bed. Wishing badly that things could be different but knowing it wasn’t possible, she silently gathered her clothes and tiptoed down the hall to dress under the soft living room lighting. She looked around for something on which to scribble him a note. A few business cards sat on the coffee table. Holding one under a sconce, she saw it belonged to Saxon’s agent, Sid Andrews. She stuck one in her purse for Leland. She’d have to trust Donovan would give Saxon his uncle’s letter. But from the way Saxon balked at discussing his uncle, that’d probably be the end of it.

She turned over another card and wrote, “It’s roundup time at home. And I’m scheduled as the vet for the July Fourth rodeo. Sorry.” She scribbled a J. Really, what else could she say? Surely he’d see it was the storm, the wine and memories that got to them. Casting a last look around his chosen home, she slipped out into a predawn that smelled of recent rain.

She ran through the parking lot, and it wasn’t until she reached her rental car that she breathed again.

Sniffling away tears, she listened to the disembodied voice from the GPS. It crossed her mind how much better her life would be if she could stop crying over Saxon Conrad.

Chapter Three (#u11c9daf7-e6be-593f-b325-313a39360242)

Saxon woke up feeling more rested than he had in longer than he could remember. Rested and smiling—a huge deal for someone who wasn’t a morning person. He stretched and suddenly remembered why he was happy. Jewell had come back into his life.

Rolling over, he reached for her, but his arm swept cool, empty space.

Assuming she was in the kitchen, he swung out of bed. And dang it all, when he’d drifted off to sleep after their fantastic hour of lovemaking, his plan had been to fix her breakfast.

It wasn’t pitch-black in the bedroom. Enough light filtered through the window blinds that he was able to see the chair where Jewell had stacked her clothes was empty.

Thoughts of the storm that had caused the cancellation of his show and that was responsible for Jewell spending the night flooded back into his foggy morning brain. His feet tangled in his undershorts, which had ended up on the floor. For propriety’s sake, he donned them and even stopped to grab his jeans from the hook on the back of his bathroom door. If he didn’t have a guest, he’d as likely tramp off buck naked to make coffee.

Unless Jewell had totally changed, she was someone who needed caffeine prior to saying good morning.

He came out of the bathroom and sniffed the air. No coffee smell. And the bus seemed too still. Panic gripped him as he sped down the hall. Had he dreamed the whole encounter with Jewell? It wouldn’t be the first time. But never before had holding her, kissing her, loving her seemed so real.

The kitchen was empty. He snapped on the light. Last night had been real. The remains of two dinners were proof.

Stifling a yawn, he noticed a faint light shone from the living room. Maybe Jewell had gone there to keep from waking him.

All wall sconces burned, but the room was empty. From there he could see out through the wide bus windshield. What was visible of the sky was streaked with lavender and pink, a sign the storm had passed. His bus sat behind one used by his band. It would shock him to see any sign of life there this early.

He clutched a railing that separated the bus driver from his living area. He’d had the wall that came with the bus removed because he and the band often jammed on the road or planned concerts. Ducking, he ran his gaze along the street that went behind the theater. The asphalt gleamed with wet puddles, but nothing moved for as far as he could see in any direction.

Jewell had gone. She’d left without a word. Last night he’d invited her to travel with him—again. She’d slunk away in the night like a thief—one who’d made off with his heart. He’d spent years trying to forget her. Last night she’d shown up and suddenly he was back where he’d started—when he’d loved her with every fiber of his being.

He stumbled to the couch, dropped down and buried his head in his hands.

Hours later he remained there when someone rapped on his door. Because Donovan had the code, he waltzed right in. “Hey, what’s up?” He climbed the two steps. “Rough night? You look like hell.” He swiveled his big body around. “Where’s your lady friend? Should I pipe down? Is she still asleep?”

Saxon dragged his hands down his face and felt the prickle of whiskers. “She left.”

“It’s just as well. I’m surprised she joined you. She almost bolted before the concert started and again when it got canceled.” He extracted a folded envelope from the inside pocket of his suit coat. “Who is she? Last night she asked me to give you this. My impression was it’s the only reason your lady came to the show. I forgot her name. I hate to keep calling her your lady friend.”

“Jewell. Her name is Jewell Hyatt. Dr. Jewell Hyatt. She’s a veterinarian from my hometown.” Saxon took the envelope. His name was typed on the front.

“Hell’s bells! Tell me she’s not the Jewell you write all those lovesick songs for but never sing in a show until last night?” The big man clasped his hands between his knees as he leaned forward and stared at Saxon. “Of course she’s one and the same. By the way, the guy who ran the sound booth said that song was the biggest hit with your audience. It sent his meter past the hot-damn zone.”

“Yeah, well, don’t schedule it on the tour. It’s personal.”

“You’ve always been stingy with info about your past.” He gestured toward the envelope Saxon clutched. “The lady said the letter was from your uncle. How come you never mentioned any family? I’m in the dark even though I’ve had your back for five years.” Donovan slapped him on the back. “So what’s in the letter?”

Saxon’s lip curled as he dug a finger under the flap and ripped open the envelope. Taking out the single sheet of paper, he scanned the few lines that only requested him to come to the ranch so they could talk. Crushing it into a ball, he dropped it on the couch. “My past is better left buried.” Rising, he rubbed his bare chest. “I see the storm’s over. I’ll grab a shower and coffee. You roust the band. Tell ’em we’re off to Nashville for the CMA Music Festival. Plan a lunch stop in West Virginia. After we eat, I’ll join the band and we can choose which numbers to do on the tour. I thought we’d mix it up for each venue.”

“Smart. Keep it fresh and you all perform better. Oh, I got word from the benefit promoter in LA. They want two songs. You’ll be live. Something jazzy to start. Get the audience revved up. Follow that with a tearjerker so people open their wallets and shell out for the charity.”

“Okay. Whatever they want.” Saxon sidestepped Donovan and padded barefoot down the hall. “Let yourself out,” he called over his shoulder.

“You’d do well to sing the love song you did last night no matter how private it is. The one where it’s obvious you got your heart broke.”

“No! And that’s final.” Saxon slammed the bathroom door so hard it rocked the bus. Stiff armed, he leaned on the sink, gritting his teeth, telling himself grown men didn’t cry. It wasn’t until he heard the outer door at the front of the bus bang shut that he was able to emerge from his funk to shower.

He felt somewhat refreshed after donning clean clothes. Going into his bedroom, he decided to strip his bed and put the sheets and pillowcases in to wash. He couldn’t bear to sleep there again where Jewell’s signature shampoo had left a flowery scent.

After remaking the bed with fresh linens, he cleaned the kitchen of all signs that he’d hosted a guest last night. But as he started loading the dishwasher, he remembered his uncle’s letter. It wasn’t anything he’d want any band members to see, and they ran in and out of his coach at will.

Hurrying into the living area, he saw that the letter was gone. Obviously Donovan had discarded it for him. Cleaning up after him and the band was a duty of his recording label’s babysitter. Which pretty much explained Donovan’s role. Who else would show up wearing a suit at 7:00 a.m.? Although today he had dispensed with his usual tie.

Saxon sighed and went back to restoring order to his kitchen. Maybe he needed a break from touring more than he thought. He’d requested downtime after LA. His agent hadn’t sounded happy when he said he wanted to hide out and write new songs for a month or two. Granted, he hadn’t expected Sid to be overjoyed, but neither had he figured he’d get flak from the label owner. His band said they could use downtime, too. Harmony Records counted on him. So did Sid. Which was why Saxon thought they should realize no one lasted if they performed stale music. Fans demanded new songs every year.

He was in the process of tying up a bag with last night’s trash to toss out in the theater’s garbage bins when his driver knocked loudly and came in.

“Yo, Saxon, Donovan said we need to pull out. Are you riding with the band?”

“Not until after lunch. Can you give me a minute to throw this away?” He hurried to the front of the coach and held up the bag.

“I’ll get it,” the cheerful young man said. “There are puddles of standing water outside and you don’t have your boots on.”

“Thanks, Dean. I’m running on slow speed today.”

The man grinned. “It’s probably due to last night’s low barometric pressure.”

Saxon doubted that. He thought it was due to Jewell’s abrupt departure, but he didn’t argue. He went back to the bedroom to get his boots, knowing they’d be where he’d toed out of them in his rush to get Jewell into his bed.

Still at loose ends after Dean returned and both buses got under way, Saxon decided he’d be best served to sit with his guitar, keyboard and music pad and maybe get a head start on writing a new song.

But he sat staring at the blank page for a long time.

All at once he felt the bus jerk, slide, then smooth out again.