Lost and Found (28 page)

“
It was in your heart at
the time.”

“
No, my ego.” He moved in
closer to her, still on his knees. He pulled the ring from his
pocket and looked at it. “I’m lucky I didn’t lose this. My truck is
kind of a mess.”

“
What happened to your
truck?”

He winced. “I wrecked it.”

“
Ed!” She pulled her hands
back and covered her mouth. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

“
Wish I was. Oh, how I wish
I was.” He gripped the ring in his hand. “I couldn’t think. I
wanted to get here so fast. You’re a strong-headed woman. I was
afraid you would be gone before I could get to you.” He looked
around the room. “And from the looks of it, I almost didn’t make
it.”

“
If Regan hadn’t arrived,
you would have been too late.”

“
Thank goodness she ran out
too.” He looked at the ring again. “This belongs to
you.”

“
Maybe we should wait so
that…”

“
I can’t wait. Now that
I’ve calmed down and I see what doors have opened, what good it has
all brought about, I don’t ever want to wait.”

He slid the ring back on her finger.
“We might have to wait on a date. You and your family need to get
to know each other. But, Darcy, you belong with me forever. Our
life, beyond all this, will be a happy one. I promise.”

The tears were in her eyes again,
fresh ones without the pain behind them. “I believe
you.”

“
Good.” He moved up and
kissed her on the lips gently. “Everything which was lost has now
been found.”

She sighed. “I like that.”

“
Maybe that can be
your
family’s
tattoo.”

Darcy laughed. “I think I’d prefer
ones that resemble tiny hands and feet.”

Ed’s body released all the tension
that had built up since the moment he’d first put that ring on her
finger, hours ago.

“
You’ll marry me? You’ll
have babies with me?”

“
I will.” She kissed him,
this time with her newly decorated hand in his hair. Then she
rested her forehead against his. “I think we should keep the Keller
tradition alive, too.”

“
What’s that?”

“
Like you said, what was
lost is now found. Perhaps we can find a lost soul who needs us to
be his, or her, parents.”

His heart swelled so large he thought
it might burst out of his chest. “You do belong in this family. My
grandmother was right.”

I hope you’ve enjoyed Ed and Darcy’s
story.

Enjoy an excerpt from

Love Song

Follow Clara Keller into Happily Ever
After

Could the sun possibly be any hotter,
or brighter, or…

Warner’s brakes screeched as he came
to a stop at the stoplight he’d nearly run though. The glare from
the hood of his Ford was blinding. The sweat on his neck was
annoying. And the fact that he’d just been told he had no
talent—well, that was pissing him off.

He had talent. He had a butt-load of
talent. Warner Wright had performed on every stage in Nashville.
Oh, he’d performed with some of the biggest names when they were
begging for a job, and they’d come to him.

He let out a breath. So why had he
been passed up?

Oh, he knew why!

The reputation of his family came long
before he started trying to sell his songs. One thing about being
the ex-stepson of Patricia Little was that all of Nashville
associated her with trouble. And even if you were a thirty-year-old
man and you hadn’t had the woman in your life since your own father
committed suicide when you were twelve, those kind of things stick
in the minds of some. It didn’t help that after his father’s death,
she had married a little bigger—a little richer—and soon she’d made
it into the bed of the very married The Ox, Harley Oxbury. The only
problem was he was Nashville royalty—and married to Nashville
royalty. The legend was that when Christine Eaden found out about
Harley and Patricia she had put a shotgun to his head and
threatened to dis-“member” him.

Did it matter to the world that his
ex-stepmother took down one of Nashville’s icons? Oh, yeah. The Ox
lost his career. Record companies didn’t want him anymore. The
public didn’t want to see his shows. There wasn’t a product willing
to put his name out front. Patricia Little had ruined the icon, and
her bad reputation, twenty years later, was tarnishing
his.

Perhaps he needed to change his
name.

That was stupid. His name was fine.
The woman was only his stepmother for eight years. By now the town
should have forgotten the men she left in her path. Well, they
probably would have if she hadn’t gone on TV and done one of those
reality shows where his picture was prominently displayed on her
mantel, like some kind of trophy of the husbands and their children
she had left in her wake. And hadn’t he asked the producers to take
that down? Only a million times.

Well, some people were meant to be on
stage and some were destined to be stuck behind the scenes. The
guitar on the passenger seat was a reminder that he was one of
latter.

Although Jordan Farr, the head of
Magnus Records, had told him that if he could get a voice to back
up his music, maybe the world would start to see past his relation
to Patricia Little. That had been the most positive feedback he’d
received yet.

The light turned green, and Warner
eased off the clutch and onto the gas. The truck hiccupped and then
picked up speed.

But in Nashville afternoon traffic, he
didn’t make it far. Warner eased to a stop at the next
light.

He could hear the music that the city
had been built on. It poured out of the stores and the bars. But
this music was closer and the voice wasn’t Carrie Underwood’s or
Miranda Lambert’s. No, this was fresh, sweet, original, and very
close.

Warner turned his head to the right
and spotted a woman in a Jeep, tapping her fingers on the steering
wheel. The song wasn’t one he’d heard on the radio. It wasn’t a
karaoke cut either. No, she was singing to someone’s music, and she
was magnificent.

She turned her head as if she might
have felt his stare. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail.
The aviator glasses shielding her eyes reflected his beat-up blue
pickup truck.

She stopped singing and smiled. And it
wasn’t just any smile. It was the kind that came with a wink, if he
could have seen her eyes.

That moment nearly stopped his heart,
just as her voice had. If he had her by his side then the doors of
this town would open up to him.

The woman eased through the
intersection and turned right at the next light.

He had to follow.

Warner checked his mirrors and quickly
changed lanes. It was a close call with a Mustang, of all things,
and the driver flipped him the middle finger. But he had to keep
her in his sight.

He made a right, but her Jeep wasn’t
on the street.

“Damn!” He smacked the steering
wheel.

But just then he saw the Jeep. The
woman was climbing out of it.

Warner made a U-turn, again causing a
car to blare its horn at him and a driver to flip him off. The heat
must be getting to everyone. They were all in such a nasty
mood.

She’d parked in front of a theater and
was jogging up the steps.

Warner screeched to a halt in the
middle of the street and pulled his brake. The woman turned around
on the steps of the theater and stopped.

He climbed across the bench seat to
the passenger door and hung his head out the window.

“Hey,” he yelled like some backwoods
yokel.

“Hey, yourself.” She had an accent.
She was native, and that might be iffy. If she grew up in Nashville
then she knew all about the shame of his family. But he’d let that
find its own moment. This one was his.

“I’m not stalking you. I
swear.”

“If you say so,” she said slowly, but
she didn’t make a move toward the street and he didn’t blame
her.

“I heard you singing. You’re freaking
amazing.”

She laughed, and her ponytail waved
behind her. “I appreciate that.”

“No, really. I know what I’m talking
about.” He tried to open the door, but it wasn’t going so
well.

She’d taken another step toward the
door. He was losing her.

“Wait. I want to talk to you.” Finally
he managed the handle and nearly fell out of the truck, which he’d
left running

The woman had made it to the top of
the steps and gripped the knob on the front door of the
theater.

“I’m not crazy. Please hear me out.”
He was begging, but at least common sense had kicked in enough that
he stopped moving toward her. “I’m a songwriter. I’m looking for a
voice.”

The woman nodded slowly, but she
didn’t make any more moves to run away. That was a positive sign,
wasn’t it?

“What’s your name?” she called down to
him.

“Warner. Warner Wright.”

“Warner Wright, the songwriter?
Cute.”

“No, that’s really my name.” He took
one step further toward the curb. “You have an amazing
voice.”

She looked at the watch on her wrist
then back up at him. “You gathered that from hearing me in my
truck?”

“Yes.”

Again, she nodded slowly. “Listen, I’m
going to be late. If you want to come in and sit, that’s fine. But
I’m out of time for talking on the street.”

She opened the door to the theater and
walked inside.

Warner started for the door and then
the grumbling of his truck caught his attention. God, was he this
desperate?

He hurried back to the truck, climbed
in, and parked it down the street.

Clara locked her purse up in her
aunt’s office and headed for rehearsal. The man in the street had
scared the hell out of her at first, but she’d lived in Nashville
her whole life. Every songwriter thought they had what it took to
make it big. Some of them got desperate enough to hunt down talent.
But she’d never heard of this approach.

He hadn’t come inside. Perhaps he’d
given up. All the same, she had her cell phone in her pocket. The
theater had once been gutted by fire because of a psycho man. She
didn’t care to see that repeated.

On the stage was a small ensemble
waiting for her arrival. Behind them, the set to West Side Story
was being repositioned for the weekend’s production.

“Thought you gave up on us,” Duke
shouted from the piano. “You only have four shows left. Don’t give
up now,” he laughed.

“The only reason I wouldn’t show up is
because it’s too damn hot in here,” she said as she made it to the
side of the stage. She walked up the stairs and joined the
others.

Duke gave her a nod. “Let’s just take
it from the top and work the songs. Arianna wants these last four
shows to be sharp.”

They had only started the first song
when the door opened and Warner walked into the theater. Why she
had thought he might be a threat she didn’t know because, looking
at him now, she thought he looked like the biggest nerd she’d ever
seen.

His jeans were worn, his shirt was
untucked, and his thick, blond hair was messed up something awful.
More than likely, he’d been driving all day with his windows
down.

He helped himself to a seat in the
back and just listened as they practiced. Well, she thought, if he
liked what he heard in the car, wait till he heard her sing as
Maria.

Warner wondered how long
he’d sat in that theater, alone. He was familiar with the
musical—very familiar. They’d just finished the number
Somewhere.
Damn, he’d
listened to nearly the entire musical. But that voice. She had the
goods!

“She’s something, huh?”

Warner jumped in his seat and looked
at the man next to him. Quickly, he jumped to his feet. “Um, yes.
She’s amazing.”

“That’s my niece.”

“She has a fantastic voice.” Warner
turned to the man and held out his hand. He didn’t want this man to
think he was crazy. “I’m Warner Wright. I’m a songwriter. I heard
her sing in the street and wanted to talk to her.”

The man nodded. “John Forrester.” He
turned and looked at the woman he’d followed into the theater. “She
doesn’t know you?”

“No, sir. But I’m not stalking her. I
just wanted to talk to her about singing.”

John nodded slowly again and pulled
his hand back. “She’s trained with a gun.”

Warner swallowed hard. “Most women in
Tennessee are, sir.”

That made John laugh. “True enough.”
He patted Warner on the shoulder. “She’s almost
through.”

He gave him a smile and then looked
toward the stage and gave his niece a glance. A million words were
said between them in that moment. He wondered what they
were.