Country Heaven (9 page)

All this talk did was churn up more hurt inside him.

His past needed to stay buried where he’d left it.

***

Tory was humming and removing cornbread from the oven when Rye walked into the kitchen. She had on a plain white apron over jeans and a green T–shirt.

He studied her, still shocked by the thought that she’d probably sold him out. But what did he really know about her? While he was getting dressed, he’d come to the conclusion that she’d intentionally made those ribs Texas–scorching hot. Wasn’t that additional evidence that he’d pissed her off with his little speech in Minneapolis? Talking to the tabloids might have been another form of revenge, and Clayton was right. She did need the money.

But it still didn’t fit with what he knew of her, with the way she’d treated him when he was feeling poorly. She’d been nice. She
was
nice. But still, he didn’t trust anyone except a handful of people who’d proven themselves to him time and again, and other than Georgia and Amelia Ann, there wasn’t a single woman in the mix. All the other women he’d known had tried to use him at some point.

“Looks like you’ve made yourself at home, darlin’.”

She turned to face him. “Don’t call me ‘darlin’,” she said, scrunching up her nose like she smelled something bad.

“Honey, I’m from the South. I call every woman I meet darlin’. It’s not personal.” He waited a beat. “But it seems you might have something personal against me.”

“Like what?” she asked, planting her hands on her hips.

“I’m gonna ask you straight out, and I want the truth. Did you tell the tabloids that I was upset over a family matter on the day of the charity event?”

Her mouth parted. “Of course not! I would
never
do that.”

“Then do you want to tell me how they got wind of it? How an article saying that very thing was printed right after I pissed you off by using you for good PR?”

“No, because I don’t know anything about it,” she said, eyes narrowed. “And I can’t believe you’re accusing me. I’ve been nicer to you than you deserve after everything you’ve done to me.”

Studying her, he couldn’t detect a trace of deceit, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. “But you need the money, and when I told you that in the diner, it was the only time…” And then he trailed off. That waitress had been there too. Myra.

“Don’t you even think it,” Tory said, making a chopping gesture with her hand. “Myra would never do that. She loves you.”

He sighed deeply. “Well, Myra didn’t know to keep it secret, did she?” Rye mused. “You didn’t until I had you sign that confidentiality agreement.”

Her hand trembled when she pushed her bangs to the side. “Listen, if Myra said anything—”

“She wouldn’t have done it on purpose,” he said, coming to the same conclusion. “Call her, will you? See if she remembers anything.” His mind started playing out scenarios. “Once we told the press about you, the tenacious ones might have cosied up to her at the diner to see if they could find out more. She might not have known she was talking to a reporter. The good ones blend in.”

When she crossed to the counter and picked up her phone, Rye shook his head. What a mess. He listened as Tory spoke with Myra on speaker phone—and hadn’t she given him an indignant look when she punched the button? Sure enough, Myra said a nice young college student, a huge fan of Rye’s, had come into the diner. They’d gotten to talking about
The Incident
, and she’d stood up for Rye, telling the kid he’d been upset over a family matter. When Tory explained who the kid really was, the woman started crying and apologizing. Rye wanted to flee the kitchen, but he stayed while Tory calmed her down. He said nothing because what could he say?

Tory looked like she wanted to bean him with a rolling pin when she finished the call. “Satisfied?” she hissed.

“I didn’t like your friend getting upset, but I’m glad we discovered it was an innocent mistake.”

“Upset? She adores you and thinks she’s betrayed you. Is all this really worth it?” Her hand swept across the bus.

If she’d known what he’d sacrificed to get where he was, she wouldn’t ask. “My private life is mine, and it’s not for public consumption. Ever. Anyone who wants to be around me for any period of time understands that.”

“Fine,” she said. “It’s understood. Why don’t you eat some breakfast?”

Was Ms. Simmons simmering? Yes, it seemed she was, and who could blame her? He edged closer to the cornbread, his appetite restored.

She swatted his hand from touching the steaming pan. “Don’t touch that. It’s still hot.”

He sniffed. “I have a weakness for cornbread.”

“We’ll let it cool. Now that you’re done accusing me of putting you in the tabloids, we need to talk about
you
putting
me
in them.” She put her hands on her hips. “It won’t come as a surprise, but I don’t like you using me for PR. I read Minneapolis’
Star Tribune
online yesterday. Guess what it said.”

“I can’t imagine,” he said, although he knew darn well what the reporter had written.

“It gave more details about what you said at the concert in Minneapolis. Clayton even gave the journalist a comment about me being a positive influence on you.” She threw up her hands. “Like that’s possible.”

But she
had
been a positive influence. If she hadn’t made him eat that food yesterday, he wasn’t sure he would have been able to sing Detroit. But he couldn’t tell her that, especially not after all of the morning’s miscommunications. “Look, I’m sorry. It’s only business. There’s nothing personal.” What a crock of shit.

“Nothing personal?”

Yeah, that wouldn’t wash with him either. Her voice fairly grated on his ears. “Look at it this way. You’re inspiring thousands of people to help each other.”

“Like that was your motivation.”

He was surprised by how much her words smarted. “Okay, so you think I’m a total fraud. Why don’t we agree to disagree on this one?”

Her gaze fell to the floor. “I wasn’t calling you a fraud. I was only trying to tell you how I feel about being used for PR. Seems to me you should understand, being a private person and all.”

His heart chugged like an old steam engine at that. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

She slipped on a potholder and cut off a big piece of cornbread, serving it to him dotted with butter. Her face was crestfallen. “Here’s your cornbread.”

“Thank you,” he said, unsure of what else to say. He bit into the cornbread and munched a mouthful. Best to find a balance, and with her, that meant food. “You’re going to spoil me. What’s the secret to your cornbread?”

She shoved her hands into her apron and frowned. “It’s maple. I grind up bark from the tree. Be careful not to choke.”

He almost laughed as he popped the last piece in his mouth. Her sass gratified him, even though it had an edge to it this morning. The rest of the cornbread drew his gaze, and he suddenly wanted more.

When he reached for it, she said, “Here, let me. The pan’s still hot.”

“No, I can do it.”

They reached for the cast–iron skillet at the same time, and her finger touched the side.

“Ouch.” She ran to the sink and turned the faucet on, letting the cool water run over her hand.

“Oh Christ, I’m sorry.” Rye yanked the freezer open for some ice and came up behind her. As he leaned over to grab her hand, he noticed that the top of her head only reached his shoulders. “Let me see.”

“It’s fine,” she said, but he ignored her and pressed the ice to her burn. She shuddered.

He turned his head, noticing how her eyelashes fluttered against her cheek from this angle. “Does it hurt?”

She pulled her hand from his and stepped away, reaching for a paper towel and wrapping the ice in it. “It’s okay. It’s only a small burn.”

He stood with his hands dripping, still feeling the impression of her small body pressed against his.

“You’d better get back to rehearsing,” she commented without looking at him. “
Detroit Free Press
said you sounded rusty last night.”

He had, but he’d never admit it. He tapped his Stetson with a wet hand in a salute. “I’m never rusty, darlin’. You must be confusing me with a nail.”

“Too bad I’m without my hammer today.”

Yeah she was still mad at him all right, but the anger was fading. Even he could tell. “Take care of that burn. And don’t worry about cooking lunch. I’ll have someone get me take–out.”

She held her dripping hand over the sink. “I’ll be fine.”

He shook his finger. “No arguing. I’m the boss.” His eyes fell to the paper–towel wrapped hand against her chest. The apron fit her snugly, accentuating the small slope of her breasts. He hadn’t noticed them before. Funny how the plain white apron accentuated Tory’s petite figure in such a sexy way. Something about it was so much more appealing than the obvious flash of his former chef’s pink frilly apron.

Was he crazy or had his mouth gone dry? He’d gone from accusing her of blabbing to the tabloids to finding her attractive. He needed to get out of here.

He was confused enough about his life as it was.

Some men have fancy offices.
Well, I have my truck.
I don’t want no corporate digs.
My truck’s souped up,
Jacked up,
With wheels the size of an old tree trunk.
It spews mud.
Makes bunnies run.
And my smokin’ women clutch,
The dashboard of my dreams.
So, hold on, sweet thing.
Let me show you how it’s done.
I’ll take you for a ride, all right.
In my truck.

Rye Crenshaw’s Top Ten Hit, “My Truck”

Chapter 5

A
week later, Rye still felt guilty about what had happened with Tory. A two–day break between concerts was coming up, so he decided to take her off–roading with him as something of an apology.

They were somewhere in New York on the way to Boston after playing the Big Apple last night. His fingers itched to get behind the wheel of a vehicle, and part of him wanted to race out all the worry and anguish he felt over not knowing how his daddy was doing. Was he out of danger? Out of the hospital? There was no way of knowing.

Thoughts of home plagued him, and all he wanted to do was forget. Eating Tory’s food and bantering with her seemed to be the only thing besides music that helped him do that.

After finishing up some business calls after breakfast, he knocked on her door and entered when she bade him. He’d been seeking her out frequently for conversation, and she never disappointed. Today, she was sitting on her bunk, reading in silver–rimmed glasses he’d never seen before, which were appealing in an odd way. When had he ever thought studious was sexy before? He’d run from smart girls in college. He felt off balance, so he hooked his fingers in his belt loops.

Her mouth slowly dropped open, and her book tumbled to the floor. He had a feeling his state of dress bothered her. He’d left his shirt off to rile her—and clearly it had.

“Put a shirt on,” she said sounding all prim and bookish.

“I conduct business better while shirtless.” Her reaction only made him want to poke at her more. He leaned down to pick the book up. “Well, doesn’t this look like a page turner.
Cultural Messages of The Maasai People.
” Bor–ing.

She reached over and wrenched the book from his hand. “You should try it some time.”

He sat down on the bunk’s end, enjoying her warning glare, feeling the sudden urge to really throw her off balance by tickling her stockinged feet. “What?”

She scooted back and pulled her knees up. “Reading. It might improve your Neanderthal disposition.”

Their banter was like diving into a cool lake on a hot, muggy day. He’d come to rely on it. “Ah darlin’, but the women I know like that whole caveman routine.” He pounded his chest playfully.

“Are you auditioning for a Hanes commercial? If not, I’d appreciate it if you’d put on a shirt.”

“You are
such
a liar.” He fought a grin as her eyes shot fire at him.

“The whole ‘Me, Tarzan, You, Jane’ routine is tedious.” Not to him. That persona had shot him straight to the top of the charts.

And while she sounded bored, her voice was breathy.

Tory set the book aside and studied him intently. “Wait a minute. I seem to remember seeing
Leaves of Grass
in your room.”

There was no way he was confirming that. It didn’t suit his image. “I seduced it off a librarian outside Mobile, Alabama, and kept it as a reminder of a lovely night. She was just as prim as you are.”

“Hmmm…” she responded, like she thought he was full of it, but wasn’t completely sure. After all, if he did read Walt Whitman, she’d have to see him differently, and he knew she wasn’t ready for that. Neither was he.

“So why are you here in my room without a shirt on?”

“Georgia’s scheduled a break at this campground for everyone to blow off some steam. A few people are going hiking and canoeing, and another group is going to play horseshoes and drink beer. I want to take you off–roading. I think you’d like it.”

There was this desire inside him to hear her laugh and watch her clutch the dashboard as the truck Georgia had rented for him hit the deep crevices. Together they could race away from everything that was bothering him, at least for a day.

“You’re crazy.” Exasperation was becoming her normal tone of voice when he was around. She blinked up at him through the sexy frames. “You want me to go off–roading?”

“You know, for someone who’s smart, you repeat what I say an awful lot. There’s a great off–roading site not far from the campground. Come on.” He forcibly pulled her off the bed. She resisted, but he was stronger.

“That’s because most of what comes out of your mouth
defies
rationality.” She tore off her glasses and looked down her nose at him—even though he was a foot taller. “No thank you. Unlike you, I do not possess a death wish.”