“Sir.” He pushed his chair back and stood.
His grandpa’s steps were slow, Parkinson’s disease stealing a little more of his freedom every week. A smile lifted his weathered face. “Beautiful morning.”
“Like a painting.” Zack waited.
The porch boards protested with each step. His grandpa reached him and put a shaky hand on his shoulder. The old man had lived in the guest house out by the largest arena before the tornado hit. Now he stayed in the guest room on the main floor. He spent most of his time here, on the porch overlooking the farm, staring out at images from decades gone by.
The old man struggled to his seat, exhaled slowly and leveled his gaze at Zack. “You’re leaving. Is that what I hear?”
“I am. Yes, sir.” Zack leaned closer, took his grandfather’s black cane and rested it against the porch railing. He sat back down. Neither of them said anything for a while, the morning breeze warm and easy between them.
Zack broke the silence first. “How are you?”
“Wonderful. Never better.” The old man’s eyes looked deep and full. “Good Lord gave me another day. Got nothing to complain about.” His look grew serious. “AJ’s coughing more. I’m worried about her.”
“Me, too.” Zack studied his grandfather. Stoic, strong. A throwback from another era. Complaining wasn’t an option. He could be drawing his last breath and he’d be more concerned with those around him.
“I hate when she’s sick. She can’t get on a horse coughing like that.”
Zack patted the man’s leathery hand. “She needs a different doctor, someone from Louisville.”
“Yes.” The old man eyed him, sizing him up for a long moment. “You have some time?”
“Yes, sir.” Zack had expected this. Dreaded it.
His grandfather looked deep into his eyes, right through him. “The audition.
“Yes?”
“You know how I feel about it.”
“I do. Daddy told me.” Zack took a swig of coffee. His father’s words rang in his heart constantly this past week.
Zack forced his dad’s words from his mind. He respected his father, but still he was going to Atlanta. He couldn’t be afraid of success. The idea was ridiculous. He sipped his drink more slowly.
His grandfather gazed back at the front door, his eyes a steely reflection of some yesteryear. Gradually he found Zack again. “Why are you going?”
“What if I’m supposed to go?” Zack felt his heartbeat quicken. He set down his coffee and leaned back in the chair. His words came measured, unrushed. “Maybe God could use me better on a stage somewhere.” He tried to smile. “I could pay off the farm. Daddy wouldn’t have to work so hard.” Zack paused, feeling the weight of the situation. His father had looked older lately, constantly worried. He thought of something else. “We could get better doctors for AJ. Duke could go to college like he wants to.”
“A lot of good men get lost on a stage.”
“Not me.” Zack folded his hands on the table and studied his grandfather’s eyes. “You know me, Grandpa. If I make it . . . I won’t get lost. Not ever. God loves me too much for that.” Nothing stood more certain in Zack’s mind. He watched the Arabians flying across the Kentucky grass. Why was his grandpa so worried? He would go with God’s blessing, sing for His glory, and one audition to the next he would walk only through the doors that the Lord Himself opened. If singing on
It was that simple.
His grandpa watched him. “You’re a Dylan, and you’re a good boy.” The old man searched his eyes, processing. “But if they keep you, it’ll change things, Zack. Fame always does.” He hesitated, his tone kind. “God- fearing men . . . we live a quiet life.”
Zack didn’t argue. He respected his grandfather’s opinion but nothing would change his mind. He had prayed for God’s will and he was going to Atlanta. Besides, was he supposed to go his whole life untested? What good was his faith if it couldn’t see him through whatever lay ahead?
“What troubles me”—the old man drew a shaky breath, and for the first time a flicker of fear showed in the lines on his forehead—“is your motive, son. What do you hope to gain?” He waved his hand around. “Yes, you want to pay off the farm. Rescue your tired father. I admire that, Zack, I do.” He let the moment breathe. “When I was your age I worked two jobs. Three, even. You could do that, son. Why the show?”
“I need an answer.” Zack didn’t blink, didn’t waver. He breathed deep, the certainty of a lifetime filling his heart. “God gave me my voice, Grandpa. I have to at least try.”
“You sing at church.” Sincerity softened his eyes. “With the teens. They love you.”
“Yes.” Zack stared out at the far reaches of the field, at the Arabians standing alert now in a tight herd. “It’s just . . .” He turned to the old man. “What if I could shine brighter for God on a bigger stage? In front of the whole world?” A growing passion filled his tone. “Country music, Grandpa. That’s as big as it gets. People will
His grandfather stayed quiet, his eyes never leaving Zack’s. “God doesn’t measure big the way people measure big. Jesus had just twelve followers.” He blinked a few times. “Fame is a demanding mistress.”
Zack hesitated out of respect. Most people he knew were excited for him, wishing him well. But his family hadn’t gotten behind him. He swallowed his frustration. “I’m twenty-three. I’ve waited a long time to try this.”
“Just remember the Derby days.” His grandpa’s eyes narrowed, more serious. “Some people never find their way back home.”
Zack had heard the story often. One of his great-grandfather’s friends had owned Kentucky Derby winners also. Only the guy had gotten caught up in a party crowd from New Jersey and lost his life to a heroin addiction. It was the only brush with fame Zack’s grandpa knew about and it hadn’t ended well. Which explained his warning. But that didn’t apply to Zack. He patted his grandpa’s hand. “You’re assuming I’ll make it.” A slow, nervous laugh slipped through his lips. “A hundred thousand people will try out for the show.” He paused. “I could be home by Monday. If so, I’ll get another job. I promise.”
His grandpa studied Zack and a certain knowing filled his expression. “You really believe that?”
Zack thought about the hours he’d prayed, the conversations he’d had with Reese and his parents. The people who had heard the EP he made last year and told him he should get a manager or move to Nashville. He was the next Keith Urban, everyone said so. Year after year he had resisted the desire to audition. Now he could almost hear the clock ticking, almost feel his chances slipping away. Here when his family was facing financial ruin, it was as if God Himself were telling him to go for it.
His grandpa was waiting. “You believe you’ll be home by Monday.”
Zack didn’t think he’d win. But he had a chance. He had to believe that. He shook his head. “No, sir. I guess I don’t really believe that.”
“Me either.” The man angled his head slightly. He took his time with the next part. “You’re the best country singer I ever heard.”
Zack felt the compliment to the depths of his heart. “Thank you.” He took another drink of coffee and felt himself relax. His grandpa wasn’t here to talk him out of leaving. “What you said . . . it means a lot.”
“It’s true.” Concern darkened his eyes. “That’s why we’re talking. The family needs you here, son. You make it on that stage and . . .” He looked out across the farm. The Arabians were running again, the sun warming the bluegrass. “You could lose all this.”
Reese’s car appeared on the horizon. Zack weighed his words. “I have to try. It might be the answer for all of us. God’s plan.”
Together they watched her pull in to the long winding drive and head slowly for the house. “Remember this, son.” Grandpa stared at Zack, like he was willing him to understand. “If it gets crazy, come home. While you still can.”
“Yes, sir.” Zack put his hand over Grandpa’s. “Thank you.” His family was worried over nothing. No matter what happened, Zack wasn’t going to change. He had his faith, the promise that God was with him. Jesus was his
