Page 44 of My Cowboy Freedom
Maybe I thought because he smiled a lot he hadn’t really lived...
Just then I glanced up and through the window, I saw Elena dancing in slow, small circles with her arms around Foster Splint. He’s a good dancer. She rested her head on his shoulder. They talked while they turned, and when he laughed, Elena joined him, tilting her head back, showing off the long column of her throat.
“Looky there.” I motioned for Rock to look behind him. He stopped playing to turn around, but I waved my hands, “No, don’t stop.”
He picked up the tune again, without singing. Despite the interruption, I don’t think Elena and Foster missed a step.
“That’s sweet,” I turned my attention back to Rock because I didn’t suppose I’d like it if someone peeped into a window at me.
He lifted his shoulder. “I guess.”
“I think it is. How old do you suppose Foster is?”
“What’s it matter?” His chin jerked up. “Nina’s older than him. So what?”
“Whoa.” I left the shadows. “I didn’t mean anything by asking. She doesn’t look older than him, and anyway, they’re great together.”
As soon as I was under the porch light I knew I’d made a mistake. Rock’s gaze raked over me from head to toe and his interest wasn’t casual. I started to step back, but he spoke.
“Don’t run away.”
“I’m not. I’m”—I glanced toward the bunkhouse but stepped onto the porch and leaned back against a post.“—all keyed up, I guess.”
“Can’t sleep?”
“It’s early yet.” I shrugged. “The guys are still having fun.”
“You’re bothered by the night sounds?”
“Funny thing is I am, although believe me when I tell you I’m used to all kinds of noise.”
He changed up his style of playing but not the song itself. The result was a lot more like jazz than country. I don’t know how long I stood there listening. How many tunes he played or moods he explored.
There was only the guitar, and Rock’s voice, and the breeze playing over us. Then the chirps of cicadas and the sudden flapping of an owl’s wings as it captured its prey.
It’s strange to listen to the night. Sounds carry.
Rock changed gears again, shifting into a song so hollow with yearning, so transparently lonely, it was hard to watch him perform it. I listened with gooseflesh on my arms. When he finished, I bobbed my head to thank him as I went backwards down each step.
“You know what? You always look just a little bit guilty.” He eyed me as he played three off-key chords in quick succession. His gaze slid lower, dropping to the top of my jeans where it stayed too long before traveling slowly back up again. “Turn around and let me see your back.”
“Seriously?”
“I watchInk Master. I want to see.”
I obliged him by turning around, hands on my head—more out of habit than anything. When he didn’t respond, I glanced over my shoulder and asked, “Seen enough?”
“Hm...” He narrowed one eye. “Good money says the ladies around here are going to develop a sudden appreciation for ink.”
“Oh Christ, no.” I turned back to face him. I wished to God I had a shirt to pull over my head just then. “Imagine that.”
“I’m trying not to. Turn around again?”
I did.
“Do they tell your story?” he asked.
“Some do.”
