Page 53 of Country Music Cowboy
“I think it goes something like…” Travis cleared his throat and did his best Hank King impression. “Long before you all were born—” He broke off, smiling at the laughter his not so good impression caused. “Before your mother or my record contract, I was just some kid with a banged-up guitar and a big dream. I spent most weekends playing on that stage right there.” Travis pointed at slightly raised wooden stage on the far side of the wooden-planked dance floor. “Did I cover everything?” Travis asked his father.
His father rolled his eyes and shook his head.
Travis had been teasing, but he knew how much this place meant to his father. There were times he’d still come with his guitar, just to play and sing without all the ruckus that went along with stardom. And since Joseph Schmitt considered Hank near kin, he went out of his way to make sure the Kings were always taken care of. Not just with endless baskets of fried pickles, but privacy. If any patrons started hounding them for autographs or encroaching on their privacy, Joseph had no problems showing folk to the door.
“It had been a long time,” Krystal repeated. “The last few years have been…nonstop.”
“I like it,” Brock said, grabbing the basket of pickles and leaning back in his chair. “Nice to be someplace where you can sit and breathe for a while.”
There were murmurs of agreement and nodding heads around the table.
Brock wasn’t a musician, but he was one of the most recognizable faces in professional football. Ass, too, since he was the spokesperson for an underwear line. Nothing like seeing your future brother-in-law’s ass on a fourteen-by-forty-eight-foot bulletin board along the interstate to make a man proud. Still, endorsements were endorsements and a body couldn’t keep taking that sort of abuse forever. If anything, Travis respected Brock’s decision to have a backup plan. One that paid pretty damn well too.
“You two should think about having your wedding reception out here.” Travis could barely get the words out before he was laughing.
“If you’re going to start to pick, I’m going to dance.” Emmy Lou stood. “Come on, Daddy.” Emmy Lou tugged their father’s hand. “Come dance with me.”
Their father was up and leading his daughter on the dance floor before she asked twice.
On the other side of the table, Jace, Krystal, and Brock were talking—heads bent together and voices too low to hear. Which was fine by him. Outside of music and earth-shattering sex, he and Loretta hadn’t done much to get to know one another. He’d like to change that. Not just because they’d be spending the next couple of months in close quarters but because…he wanted to know her.
Right now, he wanted to know what Loretta was thinking. She sat beside him, her head cocked to one side, watching his father dance with Emmy Lou. There was a ghost of a smile on her lips.
“Are you a daddy’s girl too?” Travis asked, smiling.
Loretta’s smile vanished. “No.” She sat forward, smoothing the red and white checked skirt over her knees before crossing her arms over her chest.
The word was hard and fast. The fidgeting. Her posture. He’d unintentionally hit a nerve and he wasn’t sure how to respond. Emmy Lou was the one that stayed clued in on the tabloids and entertainment news. Maybe he needed to find out a little more about Loretta before he started asking about things that clearly bothered her.
He decided humor was the best way to go. “Me neither.”
Loretta turned to him, frowning. “You neither, what?”
“I’m not a daddy’s girl.” He winked at her.
She tried not to smile—she tried hard—but she wound up smiling anyway. “Ha ha.”
He chuckled.
“Travis.” Joseph Schmitt shuffled toward their table. Travis had no idea how old the man was. From the pictures on the wall—pretty damn old. Mr. Schmitt was mostly bald, stooped over, wore suspenders to keep his pants up, and used a knobby topped cane when he walked. “Pete, here, brought you more of your favorites. Where’s your daddy at?”
Pete Schmitt, Joseph’s son, shook Travis’s hand. “He thought you’d want more of these,” Pete said, putting two baskets of fried pickles on the table.
“He’s a mind reader.” Travis nodded. “Daddy’s out there dancing with Emmy Lou.”
“Course he is.” Mr. Schmitt nodded. “Well you tell him to come round to the bar when he gets a chance. We found a whole trunk of pictures, and there’s one or two he might find interesting.”
“Anything scandalous?” Krystal asked, raising her voice over the music from the jukebox. “Daddy denies it, but I keep thinking there will be something wild from his past.”
Mr. Schmitt chuckled. “I don’t know about wild, but I think there’s one picture in particular he’ll want to see. He and a certain little gal he was sure sweet on. Before your momma, that is.”
Travis and Krystal exchanged a look.
Mr. Schmitt started laughing. “Pete. You go on and get that packet for me, will you? I’ll rest my bones a bit.” Sawyer stood and pulled a chair back for Mr. Schmitt. “Thank you kindly, son,” Mr. Schmitt said, using the chair arms to slowly lower himself into the chair. “It’s hell getting old. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
“This one, Pop?” Pete asked, holding a manila envelope tinged with age.
“That’s the one.” Mr. Schmitt’s knuckles were gnarled with age and his hands shook, but he managed to pull the photos out—even if a couple fell to the floor.
