Page 28 of Rope Me In

The sounds of “Man of Constant Sorrow” covered by Alison Kraus & Union Station fill my car from some random radio station I found. I can’t help my smile at how appropriate it is for my current situation. But that’s one of the things I love most about music. Somehow, the songs I hear always seem to be the soundtrack to whatever is going on in my life.

I glance in the rearview mirror at the case of my Antonio Strad Heritage violin. It’s my single prized possession in my pathetic existence, and it stares at me from the backseat as if it has eyes. Very judgy eyes. Eyes that say,Why did you run, Presley? You gave up the opportunity of a lifetime, Presley.Or maybe that’s just the echo of Derek’s incessant texts that haven’t stopped since the moment I left.

I nibble on the inside of my cheek, focusing back on the gravel road. My violin is a physical representation of my life story. Of me. I worked my ass off in high school to buy it since my parents wouldn’t, and it’s my heart and soul. It represents my dreams, fears, and failures. Which is why I haven’t taken it out of itscase since I ran away last week after our meeting with the record label. When I blew up my life.

It’s the longest I’ve gone without playing since I was five years old. I can’t deny that I’ve been itching to play—it’s probably why I’ve been so grumpy. Added to that, my whole interaction with Kade on Sunday night keeps popping up in my mind.

After he was overtly rude, I took the drink he made to Cricket, but I didn’t tell her that he named it “The Cheater.” Gavin was still at the table, talking to her in hushed tones while her friend looked on. I set it down and then hightailed it to the other tables. Eventually the band played, and I let the man’s decent fiddle playing get me into a rhythm of serving, pretending like my interactions with Kade hadn’t gotten under my skin.

Since then, I’ve tried to ignore him, only speaking to him when necessary. The space has given me time to observe him, to see what kind of person he is. What I’ve found is that while my experience of him has been hot and cold, he’s well-loved by the locals and customers. He and Jake are also very close, always laughing and talking together when the place isn’t swimming with people.

But one thing that’s really stood out to me is his frequent drinking. Not just from the flask he carries—he never turns down a free drink from a customer, either. I’ve also heard a lot more chatter about his accident and overheard locals asking him how he was doing and if he was okay.

While I still don’t know what happened to him, I can’t help but be curious. Maybe my short time in a small town has already rubbed off on me. Soon, I’ll be asking people for the latest gossip. That thought makes me chuckle, because it’s so not like me. But neither is agreeing to work as a ranch hand.

I grip the steering wheel as I pass under a peeling wooden sign that says “Montgomery Family Ranch,” the top of a modest white house coming into view. Lyla wasn’t kidding when she said this place is huge. I’d think this land belongs to multiplehouses, not just one, but I don’t see another home around for miles, just gently rolling plains, cows, and corn. A true Texas setting.

I can’t believe I’m even considering this. I’ve never even picked up a shovel. But it’s too late to turn back now.

When I pull up to the house that sits on a small hill, I see a curly-haired woman standing near a black truck. She waves, pointing to the open space next to the vehicle on the wide gravel driveway. I park where she indicated, smiling at her through my windshield.

Not wanting to mess this first impression up, I give myself a quick pep talk before getting out of the car, pulling at the hem of my simple black T-Shirt and tugging up my black jeans. It’s the best I could do for now since I don’t have a lot of ranch-friendly work clothes. Most of what I have in my suitcase are a few casual outfits and my favorite stage clothes in a style my bandmates say reminds them of a more conservative Cher fromClueless. That was one of the nicest things they ever said about me since it’s one of my favorite movies. And my personal style is more ‘90s grunge, or at least it was before last week. Now I’ve been living in jeans, T-shirts, and my pajamas.

“You must be Presley! I’m Blake,” she says cheerfully, holding out her hand.

“That’s me,” I say, subtly wiping my hand against my jeans, not wanting it to be sweaty. Then, I once again find myself partaking in this stupid human custom. I think I hate it because not only do I have to touch someone I don’t know, but I also never know if I’m going to get a firm handshake or a soft one. It’s so weird to go in strong and then their hand is like a wet noodle. Thankfully, Blake’s is firm and short, matching mine perfectly.

She tucks a curl of chocolate-brown hair behind her ear then places her hands on her round hips, ones that rival mine. “It’s nice to finally meet you. Lyla’s been texting me a bunch, tellingme how great you are and reiterating how upset she was to kick you out. She wanted me to tell you she’s sorry again.”

I let out a sigh. “She’s sweet, but there’s no reason for her to feel bad. And I think she’s told me she’s sorry at least a million times by now. Among other things,” I add, thinking of the tangents that girl can go on.

Blake laughs, the sound light and almost comforting. “Lyla is a total chatterbox.”

“That’s an understatement,” I say dryly. My eyes widen when I realize I’ve said that out loud.

But before I can get too embarrassed, Blake chuckles again. “I like you already, Presley. It’s nice when people say what they’re thinking.”

I stick my hands in my pockets and smile at her. I want to say I normally don’t, but maybe my earlier observation was right, and this town has rubbed off on me. Or maybe the change is because I’ve completely uprooted my life and now I’m a bartender and soon-to-be ranch hand instead of an up-and-coming star fiddle player.

That same feeling of an anxiety attack coils in me, like a jack-in-the-box ready to pop open. Since I’m not going to pull my calming inhaler out in front of Blake, I list off random items in my head.Happy days, birds, teddy bear, fan, fork—such a funny word,fork.

“You okay?” Blake asks.

I look into her brown eyes, ones that remind me of light roast coffee, and thankfully find no judgment in them. Gosh, I can’t believe I did the quiet staring thingagain. I wonder if Lyla warned her about me being so awkward.

“Yeah, I was just wondering why you’d want to hire someone with no ranch experience.” My statement is partially true, because even with what Lyla told me, it doesn’t make any sense.

Blake’s round face is sunny as she says, “As long as you don’t mind working hard and getting your hands dirty, you can do this work. The only thing I’m concerned about”—she looks atmy feet—“are those tennis shoes. We’ll need to get you boots for working, especially around the animals.”

I look at my feet then back up to her eyes. Despite what my shitty ex-boyfriend would say, I don’t mind working hard. And I can handle being dirty, even if it’s not my favorite. That’s why hot showers exist.

“I’m not afraid of hard work,” I voice to Blake. “And I can get new shoes.”

She grins. “I’m sure we can find you a pair of boots around here, and I didn’t think the work would phase you. Gavin said from what he’s seen at Night Hawk, you’ll be just fine here. It might even be easier since you don’t have to deal with town gossip or people who drink too much.”

My stomach churns a bit at the mention of Gavin. I knew this town would talk about me, but it’s one thing to think it and another to hear they actually are. “You know Gavin?”

Surprise colors her features for a second, like I should know that. “You could say that.” She smirks. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”

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