Whispered Melodies: A Small Town Romance
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Synopsis
A man emotionally closed off from the world. A woman starting a new life . Two individuals who have suffered tragedies— and now have a second chance at love…
Country songwriter Tucker Young lost his pregnant wife to a drunk driver. He’s retreated into himself, guilty because he survived the car crash. His ability to write a pretty melody and pen its lyrics has dried up. He winds up in Lost Creek, a small town in the Texas Hill Country where he spent summers with his cousin Ry Blackwood. Tucker hopes to recover from his devastation and find both solace and inspiration.
Two years ago, Reagan Bradley’s fiancé was killed a week before their wedding, and she buries herself in work to overcome her grief. Tired of her empty, lonely life in Manhattan and suddenly yearning for her home state again, she abruptly resigns from her job. Reagan travels to her beloved aunt’s bed & breakfast in Lost Creek, with hopes she can heal emotionally and find a new purpose in life.
Neither Tucker nor Reagan is looking for love, but a friendship blossoms between them, and they feel safe sharing their stories of grief and the struggles they’ve faced. Tucker regains his interest in life and songwriting again, while Reagan makes new friends and settles into the Lost Creek community.
Will Tucker and Reagan navigate their complicated feelings for one another and face their fears, even as they learn to trust— and love— again?
Find the answer in bestselling author Alexa Aston’s Whispered Melodies, the final book in Lost Creek: Texas Hill Country. This romance contains no third-act breakup!
Each book in the series is a standalone story that can be enjoyed out of order. The entire series is available in Kindle Unlimited.
Series Order:
Book #1: The Perfect Blend
Book #2: Painted Melodies
Book #3: Script of Love
Book #4: Love in Every Bite
Book #5: Whispered Melodies
Release date: September 17, 2024
Publisher: Oliver Heber Books
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
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Whispered Melodies: A Small Town Romance
Alexa Aston
PROLOGUE
Austin—Two years ago…
Tucker Young pulled his wife into his arms and gave her a tender kiss. Then he rested his hand against her protruding belly. Josie was over six months along now, and they would be having a boy right around Christmastime. He only wished his dad could be here to meet the baby and get to know his first grandchild.
But Travis Young had passed away suddenly two months ago from a heart attack. At least his dad had known they were having a boy. The couple hadn’t settled on a name at that time, but once Tucker lost his dad, Josie had suggested that they name the boy Travis after his father. The suggestion had touched him, and he hoped that a part of his dad would live on in this baby.
“Are you sure you should stay for the show?” he asked. “There’ll be a few people smoking, and I don’t like you to be around that. It’s bad for the baby.”
Josie cupped his face with her hands, kissing him lightly. “If someone is smoking nearby, I’ll simply get up and move, Tucker. I want to be here tonight for you. You’re going to be playing your own songs for this crowd. I want to support you in every way I can. Once the baby comes, I won’t be able to come out and see your shows.”
Tucker was a songwriter. In fact, that’s how he had met Josie. Her older brother had gained a small but loyal following in the country music world, but he hadn’t had a breakout song.
Until Tucker wrote him one.
He had contributed three songs to Matt’s second album, and all three had charted. Two had cracked the top ten, while one had gone to number one for six weeks. Tucker had been writing songs for several years for minor country acts, as well as performing every now and then in small clubs in and around Austin. Josie had encouraged him, though, to strike out on his own as a performer. Tonight, he was playing at a small but popular club on the outskirts of Austin, hoping the songs he would perform would have the crowd itching to dance—or cry in their beer.
She smoothed his hair lovingly. “I know you wish Travis were here tonight. But he is here—in spirit.” Josie rubbed her belly. “And this Travis is going to start moving and grooving when he hears his daddy playing up there.”
He regularly sang to her belly, hoping his son would learn to recognize his dad’s voice. Josie had read a lot about that and believed it would be the case. She also knew their baby would know her voice because she talked a lot each day in her job as a pre-kindergarten teacher in Austin. Josie worked with ESL students and loved what she did. She would take her maternity leave after Travis’ birth and then return to the classroom.
Tucker wondered whether he really wanted to make it in country music or not. At least as a performer. He had grown up around the industry. His dad had managed several music acts. Travis Young was forever on the road. A manager had to be there with his band, stroking egos, heading off trouble, and making sure all musicians and their equipment made it to the next venue in one piece. It was a life spent on the road, away from home, and Tucker wasn’t certain that was what he truly wanted. Maybe he could continue his songwriting and simply play in places in and around Austin. Josie loved her job so much. He couldn’t see asking her to leave it. Besides, being on the road was no life for a kid. He knew that better than most.
His mom had died when Tucker was only five years old. She had been a heavy smoker from the time she was fourteen, and it caught up to her. Gloria Young died of lung cancer at only thirty-five, looking like a shell of herself.
That was when he began traveling full time with his dad. They were gone throughout the school year. His dad supposedly home schooled him, but that was a joke. Fortunately, Tucker was a curious kid about a lot of things. He read widely and was an ace in math. He taught himself Spanish by listening to and then conversing with many of the roadies.
A nice chunk of time, though, had been spent in Lost Creek, Texas. His mom’s sister, Shelly, lived in the small Hill Country town with her husband, Shy. They had one boy, Ry, and his cousin was Tucker’s favorite person in the world. They had been more like brothers than cousins, and he looked forward to those summer months each year. Staying in one place. Sleeping in one bed. Having meals at regular times. Just being a typical boy, not one who lived out of a suitcase and had no friends.
Thanks to his outstanding math skills, Tucker won a scholarship to the University of Texas in Austin and earned a business degree. Those four years of college had made him feel like a normal person. When he graduated, he didn’t join his dad on the road again. Instead, he worked a day job at a bank and wrote songs at night. Josie was urging him to give up his loan officer job and take the plunge into music full time because she believed in his talent. He had told her he would consider it. For now, though, he was hanging onto the job to keep his insurance until after the baby was born.
“Go find yourself a seat out front,” he urged his wife. “You know I’ll be singing every song for you.”
“Here’s a kiss for luck,” she said, pulling his mouth down to hers.
Once Josie left the tiny dressing room, Tucker went over his set list again. He would only be playing seven songs. He was the warmup act for the country rock band which would follow him. The owner had told him that if he liked what he heard, he might give Tucker a regular gig at the club.
A knock sounded on the door, and it opened, the owner sticking his head in. “You’re on.”
Picking up his guitar he moved down the narrow hallway and stood to the side of the stage while the owner introduced him.
“You may know the songs, Another Beer, Dear and I Lost My Love Today. Well, the guy who wrote ’em is here tonight, and he’s gonna play you a few songs. Here’s Tucker Young!”
He took the stage to a smattering of applause. He wished he had an entire band backing him up, but there was no money for that at this point in his fledging career. He would need to wow the audience with his voice and guitar alone.
Slipping the guitar strap over his head, he clutched the mike. “How’s everyone doing tonight?” he called.
A few people answered, but most were chowing down on their burgers and sipping beers, conversing with friends or dates. He knew not to let that affect him.
His gaze connected with Josie’s. She nodded encouragingly at him.
Tucker began with an upbeat song, which got the notice of the crowd. By the end of it, many of them were clapping along.
He moved into his second number, another fast song, and by the time the last note sounded, he had the crowd eating out of his hand.
“This next one’s a bit slower, but I wrote it for my wife, Josie. Here’s to you, honey.”
The crowd continued eating, but as he sang and played, looking out over the room, Tucker saw many of them were listening to him. To his lyrics. His music. He felt the power of the connection between him and the people present at the club. Other than Josie, no one had heard this song, and he could see it moved the audience.
Tucker received resounding applause when he finished. He was flush with success now and returned to a fun song with a fast beat about a one-night stand gone wrong. The audience stayed with him for it and the remaining songs.
When he announced his last song, he was pleased to actually hear a few groans. As he finished, the applause was deafening. The sweet rush of adrenaline ran through him as he slipped off the guitar strap, waving to the crowd, saying, “Goodnight!”
The owner was standing just offstage and gave him a pleased smile. “You’re really good, Young,” the older man praised. “The crowd responded well to your songs. If you’re interested, I think we can talk about booking you long-term as a warmup on weekends. Come in early tomorrow night. We can talk terms then.”
“Yes, sir,” Tucker said enthusiastically, heading back to the small dressing room.
Josie joined him moments later, throwing her arms around him, squealing. “You were amazing!”
He gave her a deep kiss. “I couldn’t have done any of this without your support. Your love and encouragement mean the world to me. I love you so much.”
Happiness filled her face. “I love you, too, Tucker.” She paused. “I’ll bet you’ve worked up a thirst.”
“And I’m also starved,” he told her. “I was so nervous, I didn’t eat much today. Now, I think I could eat a whole cow.”
“Let’s get you burger and beer,” she said, taking his hand and leading him back to where several people slapped him on the back as he passed, telling him how good he sounded tonight.
“I’d download anything you put up,” one guy told him.
They took seats in an empty booth. Tucker rested his guitar next to him. The server came by, and they ordered two cheeseburgers with grilled onions and basket of fries to share. Josie requested water, while he ordered a beer.
After the server left, his wife said, “You really should think about putting up your songs online. Think about acts which got started on social media. Ed Sheeran. Justin Bieber. Shawn Mendes. You don’t need a recording contract these days, Tucker. You can make it without the suits.”
He had been toying with that very idea. “We’ll have to think about that. In the meantime, the owner wants me to come in early tomorrow night. He liked the crowd’s response and wants to talk about me playing here regularly. I know this place is on the outskirts of Austin, but I feel like it could really help me get my foot in the door.”
Her eyes lit up. “That’s fantastic! I’m so proud of you.”
He downed his beer and signaled the server for another one. He drank a third when their cheeseburgers arrived.
“Good thing you’re driving us home tonight,” he said.
His car hadn’t started before work that morning, and he’d had it towed to a garage. The mechanic had told him it was a faulty alternator, and they would work on the car today. He’d gotten a message it was ready to be picked up while they were on their way to the venue tonight. He would have Josie drop him off tomorrow since it was Saturday. It was hard to get around anywhere in Texas unless you had a car.
They asked for the check, but the server told them, “The manager said it’s on the house tonight.”
“Thank him for us,” Tucker said, leaving a generous tip for the server.
He had worked his fair share of jobs during college to supplement his scholarship. Waiting tables had been one of them. He always made sure a server was taken care of.
Once they reached Josie’s car, she climbed behind the wheel as he got into the passenger’s seat, a nice buzz making him feel a little sleepy now.
His wife said, “I’d like to hope there wouldn’t be much traffic on a Friday night at ten o’clock, but it’s Austin. There’s always traffic.”
She maneuvered them through the streets until they hit the two-lane highway leading them back into Austin and headed toward their apartment.
“The girls at school are going to throw me a baby shower next month,” she said, happiness radiating from her. “They asked if you wanted to come. I told them I’d check with you to see if you could take the time off.”
“Just let me know the day and time. I can get someone at the bank to cover for me. My boss likes me. Hell, she likes you more than me, so I’m sure she’ll give me a few hours off so I can attend.”
Suddenly, glaring lights blinded them. Josie screamed and tried to turn the wheel, but something slammed into them with such force that Tucker knew they were going to die.
The car spun and then flipped once. Twice. It came to rest upside down in a gulley beside the road.
He could hardly breathe. Realized the airbag had exploded, pressing against him. Tucker tried to push it away. Somehow, he reached into his pocket and retrieved the pocketknife he always carried with him. He jammed it into the airbag, and it deflated.
“Josie!” he hollered, seeing her face buried in her own opened airbag.
Panicking, he worried about the force of the bag exploding. If it had affected the baby.
Once more, he rammed his knife, seeing the airbag deflate. Josie blinked a few times and weakly asked, “What happened?”
“Someone hit us. Hard.” He ached all over, especially his leg and head. Tucker figured out they were upside down, but he couldn’t think clearly enough to figure out how to right them.
Her eyes fluttered a few times and then shut.
Tucker grabbed her hand. “Josie? Josie? Wake up!”
He could hear people talking outside the car, and a man appeared next to the window.
“We’ve called 911,” the man yelled. “We’ll try to get you out.”
Noise surrounded him as he clutched his wife’s hand, kissing her fingers, urging her to open her eyes.
Tucker must have passed out because the next thing he knew, he was out of the car, being pushed along the ground on a stretcher.
“My wife,” he croaked, trying to sit up.
An EMT nudged him back. “We’ve already gotten her out the vehicle, sir. Just take it easy.”
The ride in the ambulance was a blur, as was everything that happened in the ER. His leg ached something terrible, and heard a doctor say it was broken. He kept asking about Josie and the baby, and one doctor assured him that she was being cared for. That she’d been taken into surgery.
“Put us in a room together,” he begged.
That was the last thing he recalled.
When he awoke, he was in a hospital room. Quickly, he glanced over and saw the other bed unoccupied.
Immediately, Tucker yelled at the top of his lungs. “Josie! Josie! I want Josie!”
A nurse rushed in, saying, “You need to calm yourself, Mr. Young. I know you’re upset, but getting all excited isn’t good for you.”
“Where the hell is my wife?” he demanded, his head aching.
One of the doctors from before appeared at his bedside. One look at the man’s face, and Tucker knew the worst had happened.
“No,” he moaned. “No. No. No. No. No.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Young,” the physician said. “We did everything we could to save your wife and the baby. The trauma from the accident was simply too much for either to survive.”
“I’ll kill the sumbitch who did this,” he growled. “I’ll kill him.”
Tucker tried to climb out of the bed, but the doctor and nurse held him down.
“He did that to himself,” the doctor shared. “The other driver was drunk. He’s dead, Mr. Young.”
Anger swelled within Tucker. He screamed then, the pain of losing his beloved Josie and little Travis more than he could take.
As they gave him an injection, he felt himself drifted off to sleep. Tucker wished he would have died with them.
Without Josie and their baby, his life was over.
CHAPTER 1
Manhattan— October
Reagan Bradley closed her eyes, breathing deeply in and out.
She was bored. Tired. And unhappy. The trifecta. But mostly unhappy.
At thirty, she was a success on paper. Finance degree from Harvard Business School. Master’s degree from Wharton. She’d worked as a Wall Street trader now for almost seven years, known for her ability to spot trends and take calculated risks that paid off. She put in eighty-hour weeks and had zero personal life.
Once, she had been in love. Was set to marry. But Archibald Coleridge the Fourth had died in a mugging a week before their wedding. Gone was his wallet. His Philippe Patek watch. And his life. Knowing Arch, he had argued with his assailant, especially over the watch. It had belonged to his grandfather and was his most prized possession. The police had found the pawnshop where the watch landed and soon after, the man who had stolen it. Stolen a watch—and a life.
Actually, two lives. She counted hers just as gone as Arch’s was.
Reagan hadn’t taken off any time from work, despite her sympathetic boss begging her to do so. She knew if she had time alone, she might go crazy. So, work had become a balm. A place to lose herself. Then an addiction, as powerful as any drug. Now, it was an anathema. She hated what she did for a living. The frenetic pace. The drive for more and more money. The superficiality of it all.
It hit her that she finally wanted to go home. To Texas. A place she’d run from so many years ago.
She had grown up in Dickinson, a small town southeast of Houston and northwest of Galveston, which was on the Gulf of Mexico. Her father had been an attorney and mayor of the town. Her mother dabbled in charity work and drank. They were snobs, holding themselves above the average Texan. Reagan had been a daddy’s girl— even after his death. He’d wanted her to go into law or finance, and so she’d majored in finance more to please him than herself. Her parents had been killed in a small plane crash while on their way to New Orleans, brought down in a heavy rainstorm. Reagan had just graduated from high school the week before their deaths. Her father’s law partner had helped her sue the aircraft maker, settling for a high six-figure number which had paid for her two college degrees, with a little change to spare.
Having spent the last twelve years in the Northeast, she was tired of the long winters and strangers who avoided eye contact on the streets. Suddenly, she yearned for the friendly faces and warmer climate of Texas.
Glancing around, she saw two dozen other fellow employees at work, staring at their computer screens. Searching for the next trend. Ready to make the next sale. Reel in the next commission.
Reagan was tired of her world revolving around money every waking moment. Especially today. The second anniversary of when she’d gotten the call that changed her life.
She stood. Pierce Bradshaw glanced up at her, bringing his chopsticks to his mouth and taking a bite of moo goo gai pan.
Frowning, he asked, “Are you going somewhere?”
“Home.”
He laughed. “Home? What’s that? Oh, yeah. It’s the miniscule apartment I pay an arm and leg for and never see. I stumble in. Go to bed. The only time I’m awake is for a quick shower and shave before heading out the door again.”
“Don’t you get tired of not having a life?” she asked.
Pierce shrugged. “This is what we signed up for. I plan to retire by the time I’m fifty. Sooner, if my old man kicks the bucket and I inherit.”
Frustrated, Reagan said, “But don’t you want more?”
He looked at her sympathetically. “Damn,” he said softly. “I’d forgotten. Today’s the day Arch died. I’m sorry, Reagan. Go home. Have a drink. Have a few of them,” he advised.
She didn’t want a drink. She didn’t want this life anymore. Reagan might not know exactly what she wanted.
But it wasn’t this.
Impulsively, she sat again, typing at her computer for a minute. Then she printed out the page and scrawled her signature on it.
Pierce viewed her with curiosity. “What’s that?”
“My resignation letter.”
Marching to their boss’ office, Reagan opened the door and placed the letter on top of the desk. It would be the first thing her boss would see the next morning.
She returned to her desk, opening drawers, rummaging around, and couldn’t find a single thing she wanted to keep.
Standing, she slipped into her trench coat and slung her purse over her shoulder. “Bye, Pierce.”
“You can’t leave,” he said, a little too loudly, causing others to glance in her direction.
“Watch me.”
Reagan headed toward the door, knowing she was committing professional suicide.
And didn’t care.
Punching the elevator button, she waited. Pierce appeared, looking panicked.
“Come on, Reagan. You’re just depressed about Arch. Ask for a few days off. Go see a therapist. Get some meds. For depression. Or anti-anxiety. You don’t want to do this.”
She studied him a long moment. “Actually, I have wanted to for a long time, Pierce. I just didn’t know I wanted to.”
“No one will hire you if you walk out like this,” he warned. “No notice. You’re throwing years of work down the drain. You won’t get any kind of severance package. Certainly, none of the higher ups will ever write you a recommendation. In fact, they’ll run your name through the mud. Please, Reagan. Stop and think.”
The elevator chimed, and she entered it. Turning to face him, she said, “You’ve been a good friend to me, Pierce. You were a good friend to Arch, too.”
Pierce had introduced her to her fiancé. He had been almost as torn up as she had after Arch’s death since he and Arch had known each other for so long, even rooming together at Yale.
Reagan pushed the button. As the doors began to close, she whispered, “Goodbye.”
Then Pierce was gone.
For the last time, she rode sixty-eight floors down, saying goodnight to the guy at the security desk. She walked two blocks to the subway station and moved swiftly down the stairs, passing through the turnstile. Her train came two minutes later, and she boarded it, finding a seat.
Deliberately, she kept her mind a blank. She couldn’t afford to think now on what she had done. Instead, she observed her fellow passengers. A teenager moving his head to the beat of the music he listened to. A mom with a baby stroller. A man in a suit, scrolling through his cell phone. An elderly gentleman with a rolling cart, a loaf of bread sticking out of a sack.
When her stop came, she got up, noticing her legs were a little shaky. She left the station and walked a block to her favorite pizza place, asking for two slices of pepperoni to go. Once in her apartment, she turned on the lights. Poured herself a glass of wine. Sat on the couch. Ate her pizza.
And cried.
Reagan couldn’t have identified what she was crying for because it was for so many things. Losing Arch and the life they had planned together. Her parents being gone. Her twenties, too. She felt she had nothing to show for her life. She was too busy to have friends or hobbies. Had no time for volunteer work. Couldn’t think of the last time she’d sat down to read a book or watch something on TV. She hadn’t gone to a movie in over a year. Life had been wake up, work, come home, go to bed. Rinse and repeat.
That was done. She was ready to flip everything on its head.
She finished one piece of pizza and wrapped the other in foil, placing it in the empty fridge. The pizza would most likely be breakfast tomorrow morning. Draining the wine, she went to her bedroom, stripping off her clothes and for once, leaving everything on the floor. Once she had on pajamas, she returned to the couch and picked up her cell phone.
It was time to call Aunt Jean.
Jean Bradley was what Reagan’s mother called a spinster. Reagan preferred to think of her aunt as simply being too independent to be tied permanently to any man. Aunt Jean had been fifteen when her mother died giving birth to Reagan’s father after numerous miscarriages, and Jean had raised her brother. She’d worked all kinds of odd jobs once their father passed in order to support them. Managing a bowling alley. Working at a florist shop. Acting as an elementary school secretary. When her little brother graduated from law school, Jean was almost forty and said she longed for a quiet life.
That had led her to Lost Creek, Texas, where she bought a large, rambling house and turned it into a bed and breakfast. The Hill Country was a popular destination for weekend getaways, and Jean Bradley was consistently booked up. She had even added two separate bungalows near the main house and did quite well. Her aunt was Reagan’s only living relative, and they had remained close over the years. Her family had visited Lost Creek every summer when school was out, until Aunt Jean and Reagan’s mom had some falling out which neither of them elaborated on. The breach had ended summer visits, but Aunt Jean had encouraged Reagan to text her frequently.
She had been too busy to get to Texas while in college and grad school because she went year-round, graduating early from both programs. Her investment firm strongly discouraged taking more than a day or two in a row for vacation, and so Reagan had remained in New York. Aunt Jean had flown up several times to play tourist, with Reagan taking off two days each time, and Jean had also come for Arch’s funeral. If there were anyone she wanted to talk to more about what she had just done, it was Jean Bradley.
Touching her aunt’s name on her cell, she listened to the phone ringing.
“Hello, Reagan. How are you? I know today is a hard day for you.”
Leave it to Aunt Jean to remember Arch died today.
“It’s hard,” she admitted, tears suddenly streaming down her cheeks. “I loved Arch. I thought we would have a lifetime together.”
“On days like today, I understand it’s like ripping a bandage off a wound which hasn’t fully healed. The anniversary of Arch’s death will always hurt, honey. And I know it doesn’t feel like it right now because you’re in a world of pain, but time will heal you. You won’t be as you were before. You’ll always bear a scar. But one day it won’t hurt as much. You’ll remember more of the good than the bad. I believe you’ll even find someone else to love, Reagan.”
She brushed away the tears. “I don’t know if I can open my heart again,” she admitted. “I never loved a man before Arch. It seems impossible I could love anyone but him.”
“Part of that is because you’ve buried yourself in your work,” Aunt Jean said. “I didn’t chastise you for that. I knew you needed a refuge. Work has kept you busy. Filled your time. But it can’t completely fill the hole in your heart. You need to get back out there. I’m not saying start dating. Just see friends. Meet someone for coffee and go walk in that beautiful Central Park. Take in a play. Meet a friend for lunch or go to a museum. You need to start doing things away from work, Reagan.”
She laughed, trying to keep the hysteria from her voice. “Well, I don’t have to worry about work as of today. I quit.”
Aunt Jean was silent. Then she spoke. “I know you didn’t do this lightly. I understand how much your career has meant to you.”
“I walked away on the spur of the moment,” she revealed. “Typed out a resignation letter an hour ago and set it on my boss’ desk. He’ll see it first thing tomorrow—and will be shocked.”
“Why did you do it?” her aunt pressed gently.
“Because I’m so tired,” she acknowledged. “You’re right. I don’t do anything but work. After Arch’s death, work sheltered me from all the ugliness. It kept me sane. Then somehow, it took over. I’d always put in a lot of hours, but I found I was devoting every waking minute to it. Suddenly, it no longer brought me comfort. It had absorbed me. Engulfed me until nothing of me was left.”
Reagan began crying, and her aunt murmured comforting words.
“I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” she apologized. “I’m just so unhappy.” She hesitated. “And I miss Texas.”
“Saints be praised!” Aunt Jean declared. “I never thought my sweet girl would admit that. Why don’t you come visit me, Reagan? You’re welcome to stay as long as you wish. We can talk over what you want to do in the future. Or we don’t have to talk about that at all. Just come to Lost Creek. Give yourself time to heal. Then you can decide what you want to do with your life.”
“Thank you,” she said fervently. “That’s exactly what I need. You. And Texas.”
“Let me know when you’re coming. I’ll have a room ready for you.”
“I will. It’ll be a couple of days. I have a few things I should do here.”
She didn’t say what, but Reagan planned to shutter her life in New York. When she left for Lost Creek, all loose ends in the city would be tied up.
Because she was never going to live and work in Manhattan again.
She would investigate Houston. Dallas. San Antonio. Those larger cities would provide more opportunities for her career. Then again, she might be done with finance. It might be time to step away and find something entirely new to do. Thanks to investing wisely, she had a decent-sized nest egg and wouldn’t need to work right away. She would have to time explore her options.
“I look forward to seeing you, Reagan,” Aunt Jean said. “Love you.”
“I love you, too,” she replied. “Talk soon.”
Hanging up, Reagan made a list of what she would need to do in order to leave New York permanently.
And return to the nurturing arms of her aunt—and Lost Creek.
CHAPTER 2
Tucker glanced at the city limits sign as they entered Lost Creek. It had been many years since he had visited the town, a refuge to him during his childhood and teenage years.
He had traveled the country in the two years since Josie’s death. At least, after his leg came out of its cast. He’d also received a large settlement from Monroe McLemore’s wealthy family, money he considered a bribe not to take the case to trial. McLemore had been excessively drunk when he had crossed the line, slamming into Tucker and Josie. The police investigation had concluded McLemore had consumed eight beers and four shots in the two hours before the fatal car crash. The twenty-year-old came from oil money, and his family hadn’t wanted Tucker to bring them to trial, especially since their son had been underaged, and they didn’t want any scandal regarding the crash.
His attorney had advised Tucker to accept the money, and he had. But he hadn’t spent a cent of it. He felt it was dirty money. Blood money. Money which was supposed to take the place of Josie and his unborn son.
The hell it did.
After the tragedy, Tucker had left Austin. Left Texas. He constantly was on the move. He hitchhiked. Took Greyhound buses. Went from town to town. City to city. State to state. All trying to forget the horrors, which played out in nightmares every night. He had seen both the good and bad of the U.S. Wonderful people were everywhere, generous souls who gave him a kind word or hired him for a temporary job. He’d also witnessed the seedier side of things in his travels.
Through his travels, he’d tried to write. He had thought the one constant which remained would be continuing to write songs as he roamed the nation. Instead, it was as if the spigot had dried up. Nothing creative came from him. Not a note. Not a line. The harder he’d tried to pen a song, the more discouraged he became. And yet his gut told him he still had plenty of music inside him.
Now, it was time to settle in one place and try to live again.
Josie would have wanted that for him. She would never have wanted to see him lost. Rootless. Hell, Josie was so kind, she would even want him to fall in love and have the family he’d always desired. Tucker wasn’t about to do that. It would feel like a betrayal if he did.
He was painfully lonely, though. Once a month, he pulled up Josie’s Instagram account, scrolling through pictures of their life together in happier times. He knew it was punishing to keep looking at the pictures, but he couldn’t help himself. Too many times to count, Tucker had read and ignored texts his cousin Ry had sent to him. Hearing from Emerson Frost, though, had been a turning point. He had answered her DM, which had put him in touch with Ry. Tucker had responded to Emerson’s message, leaving his cell number and the ball in her court.
Almost immediately, Tucker heard back from Ry and Emerson. They had just gotten married a few hours earlier. The talk had been a good one. Not long, but satisfying. The couple had convinced him to come to see them in Lost Creek. Ry hadn’t pressured him, saying it could be a temporary visit. It would be up to Tucker to decide if he wanted to stay or move on, continuing to be a vagabond.
If he’d ever had a home, it would be Lost Creek. He had spent every summer in the small town from the time he was five until he turned eighteen. Just looking at the passing scenery now caused a lump to form in his throat. He had missed his cousin. His Aunt Shelly and Uncle Shy. If he had to curb his wanderlust and settle down, it might as well be in Lost Creek where he had family.
With the settlement from the McLemores, he wouldn’t have to work right away. As it was, he had been living off previous savings, not just from his loan officer job he’d worked at diligently for years, but the modest royalties he received on the songs he had written before his wife’s death. While on the road those two years, he’d also taken on temporary jobs. Busing tables. Harvesting farm produce. Even being an extra in a movie production.
He couldn’t stomach the idea of going back to an eight-to-five job at a bank. Tucker decided if he could find peace within himself, the music might return to him. He desperately wanted it to because he wanted to try and make it as a songwriter. No desire was left in him to perform, but the last two years had given him a wealth of material to draw from. He was eager unlock those experiences, putting everything he’d been through in a song. If he were able to get something down on paper, he figured a few people in country music might still take his calls.
“Is it Tuesday?” he asked Pete, the elderly gentleman who had stopped and picked him up as he was hitchhiking out of Austin. Pete was headed to Boerne, which was about half an hour south of Lost Creek, and had been happy to give Tucker a ride and have some company for most of his trip.
“Yup, it’s Tuesday,” Pete said, turning onto the town square.
Tucker’s eyes roamed the square, seeing familiar shops. The Bake House. The hardware store. The barbershop. He also saw a few new places, including Java Junction. He could definitely use a cup of coffee.
Pete slowed the truck and pulled into an empty spot by the gazebo.
He offered the older man his hand. “Thanks for taking a chance and picking up a stranger, Pete.”
“I did my fair share of hitchhiking back in my teens.” Pete grinned. “A hundred years ago. Or at least it seems like it after six kids and fourteen grandkids. Good luck to you, Tucker.”
“Thanks. Same to you.” He handed Pete some folded bills and said, “Gas money.”
Pete waved it away. “Nah. I was headed this way anyway to see the newest grandbaby. Keep your money.”
“Take it,” he urged. “Even if you pay it forward. Pay for someone’s order in a fast-food line or for someone’s coffee behind you. I appreciated spending time with you, Pete. Maybe I’ll even write a song about you,” he joked.
The old man cackled. “I’ll be listening for it on the radio, Tucker. Might even ask you for a piece of the pie if it’s a hit.”
“You got it,” he said, opening the passenger door.
Tucker removed his things from the floorboard, slinging his backpack over one shoulder while lifting his duffel bag from the floorboard. “You take care, Pete.”
“You, too.”
Shutting the door, he gave a wave, and Pete backed from the parking place and drove away.
The clock above the gazebo said it was a quarter till ten. Too early for lunch, but Tucker was starved. He decided to make his way to The Bake House, which had all kinds of sweet delights. He knew from texting with Emerson that she now owned the place but had someone else manage it for her. She mentioned that she baked cakes for some big place where weddings were held. Ry also catered some of those wedding receptions.
It didn’t surprise him that his cousin had come home from the army and was cooking. The Blackwood family had owned a barbeque joint on Main Street for a few generations now, and Tucker assumed Ry had come back to work for his dad. He definitely had a lot of catching up to do with his cousin, who had served in the military overseas for a dozen years, ever since he was a teen. Tucker looked forward to reconnecting with Ry and getting to know Emerson.
He’d actually texted with Emerson more than Ry in the past couple of weeks since that fateful phone call. He could tell she was a genuine person. Nothing artificial about her. They had even spoken on the phone twice without Ry as Tucker had traveled closer and closer to Texas. Emerson had extended the offer for him to stay with them once he arrived in Lost Creek, but they were newlyweds. Tucker recalled how he and Josie behaved in those early months. Couldn’t keep their hands off one another. Made love in every room and in every position.
No, Tucker wouldn’t infringe upon the privacy the couple needed as they started their marriage. That meant finding a place to stay was his top priority.
He entered The Bake Shop and glanced around, not seeing Emerson. Looking in the display case, he ordered an apple Danish and sausage kolache to go and decided to check out the new Java Junction.
As he entered the coffeehouse, a warm feeling enveloped him as he glanced around. This would be a good place to come to. To sit and relax and let his thoughts meander.
After he stepped up to the counter, the barista asked what he wanted.
“Coffee black,” he replied. “I don’t go in for the fancy stuff.” Holding up his bakery sack, he asked, “Is it okay to eat something from The Bake House while I’m here?”
“It certainly is,” the woman replied. “Go have a seat. We’ll get your coffee right out to you.”
Tucker moved through the large space, seeing a group of older men holding court at a table in the corner, and he supposed they were retired and came to Java Junction each morning to shoot the breeze. Several moms in athleisure wear were saying goodbye to one another and leaving. The only other person at a table was a man close to Tucker’s age, wearing wire-frame glasses, typing furiously on his laptop.
He took a seat a couple of tables away from the guy, figuring he might be a writer from his looks. Slipping the backpack from his shoulder, he set it atop the duffel bag at his feet.
A different barista brought his coffee to him, not in a paper cup, but an actual mug. The mug was huge. He set it on the table and with a friendly smile asked, “Passing through?”
“No. I believe I’ll be staying.”
The man looked puzzled a moment and then his eyes lit up. “You wouldn’t happen to be Tucker Young?”
Guardedly, Tucker asked, “Who’s asking?”
The man offered his hand. “I’m Dax Tennyson. Ry and Emerson are friends of mine. I’m married to Ivy Hart. I think you know her.”
He relaxed, shaking Dax’s hand. “Ivy and Harper were like cousins to me. I came to Lost Creek every summer to stay with Aunt Shelly and Uncle Shy. Ry and Todd were thick as thieves, and the three of us had many adventures together. If I didn’t have dinner with my aunt and uncle, Ry and I were at the Harts. Ivy and Harper were great girls. Lots of fun.”
“Then you must know Ivy is an artist,” Dax said, a proud smile on his face. “She just had a big exhibit in New York City last month. She’s focusing on painting the landscape of the Hill Country, and New York is gobbling up her paintings like hotcakes.” Dax paused. “We’re also going to have a baby come March.”
By now, Dax had taken a seat across from Tucker.
“Congratulations,” Tucker said. “Ivy was always so sweet. She’ll make a great mother.”
“She’s my everything,” Dax said fervently.
Tucker’s throat constricted. He understands exactly what Dax Tennyson meant.
Clearing his throat, he asked, “What about Harper? She was a real pistol. I definitely could see her going places.”
“She’s actually returned to Lost Creek after being an event planner in Austin for several years,” Dax revealed. “She spearheaded a big project at Lost Creek Vineyards. Built an event center on the property. She now operates Weddings with Hart. Brides are rushing to be married at the winery.”
What he had learned from Ry and Emerson now began to fall into place. They hadn’t mentioned Harper by name, but it had to be her place where they were catering weddings.
“Harper’s married to the chief winemaker at Lost Creek Vineyards,” Dax continued. “She and Braden will have their first baby next month. You need to meet Holden.”
Dax turned and looked over at his shoulder at the man whose fingers still flew fast over his keyboard. He turned back. “I hate to interrupt Holden when he’s on a creative tear. That’s Holden Scott. Another friend of ours. He’s married to the former Finley Farrow.”
“Hmm. The name sounds familiar.”
“She’s a little younger than Ivy and Harper. You probably met her in passing over the years. Finley and Emerson are close friends. They used to teach together at Lost Creek Elementary. Nowadays, Finley is a photographer. She works a lot of the weddings at the winery, but she’s also branched out and is doing individual photography. Family and senior portraits. She’s also hooked up with some movie people, thanks to Holden.”
“Wait. Holden Scott. He’s a famous author. I’ve seen a movie based on one of his books.” As he’d crisscrossed the country, Tucker had frequented movie theaters, losing himself in the stories of other people.
Dax glanced over his shoulder again, and Tucker saw that the writer had now stopped and was closing his laptop.
“Hey, Holden. Come over here. Got someone for you to meet,” Dax said.
The writer came and joined them. “Holden Scott.” He offered his hand.
“I’m Tucker Young. Ry Blackwood’s cousin.”
The two men shook, and Holden smiled. “Ry mentioned to us that you were coming to town soon. It’s nice to meet you.” He glanced to Dax. “Have you invited Tucker to dinner tomorrow night?”
“I hadn’t gotten that far yet,” Dax said. Looking at Tucker, he said, “Ry and Emerson would’ve invited you anyway. A group of us meet every Wednesday night for dinner. We’re all pretty busy, and it’s a time for friends to catch our breath. Enjoy a home-cooked meal. Be a little bit social. It’s always held at Harper and Braden’s house. A few of us take turns cooking.” He chuckled. “Ivy can barely boil water, but she is good about bringing along different wines from Lost Creek Vineyards for our dinners.”
“I hope you’ll be able to join us,” Holden said. “Tomorrow night, Braden is making jambalaya and dirty rice.”
He hated to commit to anything. He hadn’t carried on long conversations with anyone, much less large groups of people, ever since he’d hit the road. Just random ones with an individual stranger here and there. Still, Tucker knew he needed to get back to what would be his new normal. Living in one place. Making friends. Trying to contribute to a community.
“I’d be happy to come if you have room for me,” he told the pair.
“When did you get here?” Holden asked.
Chuckling, Tucker said, “About fifteen minutes ago. I saw The Bake House and couldn’t pass by it. And what goes better with a sweet than a cup of coffee? I decided to check out Java Junction.”
“So, Ry and Emerson don’t even know you’re in town yet,” Dax said.
“No. I was going to text them once I finished my coffee.”
“Then I’ll let you do that in peace,” Dax said. “I’m off the clock for a few hours and have some things to do. I’ll see you tomorrow night, Tucker. Great having you in Lost Creek.”
Dax left, and Holden said, “We have something in common. I heard from Ry and Emerson that you’re a songwriter. I write novels and am venturing into screenplays, as well. While I love writing at home, Java Junction is a nice change of scenery, especially if you get stuck. It’s super busy in the morning. They have a bit of lunch crowd. Then after school, the place is hopping. Coffee is the new addiction of the teenagers in Lost Creek. But if you get tired of where you are and want to write, I suggest coming here during one of those quiet times.”
“Thanks for the tip, Holden.”
“I need to head home, but it was a pleasure meeting you, Tucker. I look forward to visiting with you more tomorrow night.”
Tucker sipped his coffee after Holden left and tackled the kolache first. The sweetness of the roll balanced perfectly with the spicy sausage nestled inside. He finished it and then savored the Danish. He felt good. Really good. Dax and Holden had been open and friendly. They hadn’t pressed him about his past, which he appreciated. He looked forward to catching up with Ivy and Harper again after so many years.
The last time he’d visited Lost Creek had been for Todd Hart’s funeral. Todd had been Ry’s best friend and was killed during his military service. The body had been brought home for burial. Ivy and Harper had probably been twenty or so at the time. Tucker knew just how fleeting life could be and how death affected a person and a family. Now that he’d committed to returning to Lost Creek, he was eager to renew his friendship with the two women, as well as others here in town.
Anticipation filled him as he texted his cousin and Emerson.
Made it to Lost Creek. Sitting in Java Junction. Met Dax and Holden. Eager to see you both.
He sent the message and waited. Almost immediately, his phone chimed.
Just stopped at The Bake House to check on orders. I’m coming your way now.
That came from Emerson. Moments later, his phone dinged again.
Have Emerson bring you to the truck. Can’t wait to see you!
Ry’s message puzzled him. He thought they would have met up at Blackwood BBQ or Aunt Shelly’s diner. Tucker wasn’t going to worry about it, though. He had made it to Lost Creek. Already met two people whom he hoped would become friends. It would be hard, starting over without Josie, but it was time to put an end to his nomadic lifestyle and make a life for himself.
And if songwriting didn’t work out, maybe he could learn the barbeque business.
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