From this moment on, she was mine.
And I protected what was mine.
Forever.
Natalie
Colt’s family had arrived an hour ago, and after introductions and questions about my family from Colt’s mom, Tricia, we took our seats at a table in the corner of the busy bar.
Pulled pork, chicken, smoked ribs, corn, collard greens, baked beans, and cornbread filled the table. I was too nervy to eat much, but everything smelled heavenly.
Toe-curling insults flew around the table, followed by light-hearted laughter. Colt’s family loved each other dearly, and they showed just how much by making fun of one another. Their bond was one I badly wanted to share.
I sat quietly by Colt’s side, taking it all in. Before my mom died, there had only the three of us at home. Mealtimes were always quiet affairs unless my dad was lecturing my mom or me on what we’d done wrong that day.
Otherwise, we sat in silence, staring at our plates. It was as different as night and day when my dad wasn’t home. My mom and I brainstormed ideas for songs and sang our hearts out to golden oldies. How I wished I could share everything that was happening in my life with her.
“You coming back to the ranch, son?” Colt’s dad, Jonah, asked before licking barbecue sauce off his fingers. “Sure could use your help. These knees of mine ain’t getting any younger. You can hear them creak every time I take a step.”
“You’ve got Beavis and Butthead there to help you out,” Colt replied, draping his arm around the back of my chair. “They’ll lift you on your horse when you can’t get your leg over.”
“That’s what she said,” Brooks, his older brother by fifteen months, said with a waggle of his eyebrows.
“Shut up, dickwad,” Gunner, the baby of the family by five years, said.
“I’m not the one who needs to shut up, asswipe,” Brooks shot back.
Gunner grinned. “I’d slap you stupid, but that would be animal abuse.”
“Children, that’s enough,” Tricia said, rolling her eyes. “Not in front of Natalie. We’ll scare her away.”
“It’s truly fine,” I said with a smile. “I enjoy hearing them torment each other.”
With a glass of wine balanced between her fingers, she gestured toward her three sons. “When they get together, they revert to snot-nosed kids again. Ever since they could talk, they’ve been teasing each other to breaking point, but woe betide anyone else who tried to pick a fight.” She took a sip of wine, then placed her hand on top of mine. “Enough about them. Are we going to hear you sing tonight? I saw the video online. You have a wonderfully unique voice. If I hadn’t seen the words coming out of your mouth, I’d have sworn you were someone older who’d seen the hard side of living.”
“I was a severely colicky baby,” I explained. “My mom said my constant crying left me with an old lady’s voice.”
“Colt was a colicky baby, too. Five o’clock was his witching hour. Jonah would put him in the car and drive around for hours trying to settle him down. Lord knows he didn’t get the ability to sing from all the screaming.”
I glanced at Colt and winked. “He said he named this place The Strangled Cat because of how he sounds when he sings.”
His dad guffawed, and his brothers sniggered.
Tricia smiled like only a mother could and tapped Colt on the cheek. “He couldn’t carry a tune if he had a bucket with a lid on it. He can play the guitar like a fiend, though. Drove us crazy playing I Walk the Line. That boy loves him some Johnny Cash.”
I gave Colt an incredulous look. “You can play? What else don’t I know about you? Do you write, too? Where’s your guitar?”
He shook his head. “I can mimic pretty much every song I hear, and know talent when I hear it, but I’m not a writer. As for my guitar, it’s gathering dust in my office. It’s been a while.”
“We’re going to write a song together, and it’ll sell a million copies.”
“I’ll stick to pouring beers and shots. Thanks all the same.”
“We’ll see about that.”
After dinner, we sat around the table and gabbed, his brothers filling me in on embarrassing stories about Colt’s life growing up and all the mischief they got up to on the ranch. Like how they used to hook up with cute tourists when they turned part of their land into a dude ranch.
Emptiness welled up inside me. I wanted so badly to be part of their lives, to be enveloped in their love and warmth.
I wanted to bring our kids to see Grandma and Grandpa on weekends. I wanted them to ride horses and have Christmas mornings on the ranch.
Colt was in his element having his family sitting by his side. There was a contentment about him I’d never seen before.
He disappeared for a few minutes, and when he reappeared, he handed me my guitar. “Sing for us.”
I handed my guitar back to him. “Only if you play.”
“Like I said, it’s been a while. I’m rusty.”
“I’m sure you’ll do just fine. How about we do something by Montana Chambers? Everyone knows her songs. Let’s do Don’t Get Mad, Get Madder.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed, and his eyes darkened. “Don’t think I know that one. How about Reba or Dolly?”
“Fancy has always been one of my favorites,” I admitted. “My mom could sing the hell out of it. Who doesn’t love a song about a mom turning her daughter into a hooker?”
“Fancy it is,” he said with a laugh.
We both walked up to the stage. Colt sat on a stool while I stood by the mic. When he began playing, my jaw dropped. My mom’s six-string never sounded
