Lost Melody (4 page)

He had never had any trouble
convincing a woman to stay with him before—well, not since high
school. He should let her go and suffer the consequences. His dad
would be mad for a day or two, but he’d get over it. Either way,
stay or go, Ms. Mel Harper, reporter, spelled nothing but
trouble.

She studied him through narrowed
eyes.

Shit
. He tried again. “Dad wanted you to come tonight, and that’s
good enough for me. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken to you the
way I did.”

Her gaze darted between his face and
the road. She had made up her mind. With a sigh, she shook her head
and slid her right foot beneath the steering wheel.

Suddenly, keeping her here wasn’t
about what his dad wanted. It was about what he wanted. He didn’t
want her to go.

“Stay,” he said, grabbing her arm
through the open window. Electricity shot up his arm and raced
south to his groin. Her eyes went wide, and she jerked her arm out
of his grasp.

“Are you sure you want me here?” she
asked as her right foot rejoined her left on the gravel
drive.

Oh, I’m sure I want you.
Here. There. Damned near anywhere.
“I’m
sure,” he said, stepping back, giving her room to make her
decision.

She nodded. “Okay. Okay.” She hoisted
her purse strap to her shoulder. “Apology accepted. You and I get
along like oil and water, but I like your dad. He’s a good man. And
from what I heard today, your mother was a saint. I’ll reserve
judgment on you tonight, and I’ll stay for dinner.”

The vise squeezing his chest let go
and he took a full breath. She slammed her car door and swept past
him in the direction of his backyard. He’d experienced this feeling
before—usually as a result of conquering stage fright.
Relief.

As he watched her shapely backside
sway across his yard he was pretty sure his relief would be
short-lived.

* * *

Hank took over the grilling duties
from his father and, true to his word, behaved himself for the
remainder of the evening. Henry was an excellent host. He
entertained her with dozens of stories, enough she almost forgot
about her earlier tiff with his son. One thing she would never
forget, though, was the spark of electricity that shot through her
when Hank touched her. She had never felt anything like it before.
She had been a lousy science student, but she’d read her share of
sappy romances—enough to know what the spark meant. Attraction. But
it didn’t mean she needed to act on it. Really, she could hardly
stand the man. Hank Travis was rude, arrogant, overbearing, and
confusing.

A trip to the ladies room gave her a
glimpse inside his home. The back door opened into the spacious
kitchen, which at first glance appeared to be typical 1950s era
construction. Its perfection gave away the secret. Behind the
vintage façade lurked state of the art appliances. She had seen
similar kitchens in home design magazines. The clever disguise
didn’t come cheap. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble and spent a
ton of money on the renovation. She knew virtually nothing about
farming, but she’d been in Willowbrook long enough to figure out it
wasn’t a high-income profession. Her curiosity shifted into high
gear.

The two Henry Travises were a mystery.
Henry dressed in typical Willowbrook fashion—JC Penney all the way.
The solitary department store was as much a staple in town as Judd
Spencer and his haircuts.

Hank, however, was a walking
contradiction. His faded Levi’s appeared to be authentic, worn
threadbare from years of use and abuse in contrast to the holey
jeans city slickers paid hundreds of dollars for. His crisp white
dress shirt came from Brooks Brothers, the nearest store being in
Dallas, several hours away yet he sported a ten-dollar Judd Spencer
haircut. He made no mention of what he’d been doing in the barn
before she arrived, and given their tenuous truce, she wasn’t
inclined to ask.

She had been in Willowbrook
for six months and hadn’t seen Hank Travis until today. It would be
hard to live unnoticed in such a small town, and if she
had
seen Hank Travis, she
wouldn’t have forgotten him. He would stand out in a
crowd.

So, where had he been for six months?
What did he do for a living? He wasn’t a farmer—not the legal kind
anyway.

She returned to their alfresco dinner
with more questions than she had answers.

“Your home is lovely, Hank, what I saw
of it anyway. I would have pegged you as a more modern type,” she
said.

“Really? Why?”

“Nothing specific. It’s just a
feeling.”

“You couldn’t be more wrong, Ms.
Harper. I’m a simple man. I inherited the house and farm from my
grandparents. I haven’t changed much. I like it the way it
is.”

“I loved all the family photos in the
hallway.”

“My favorite is my grandparents’
wedding photo,” he said.

“Why?”

“They were so happy in the photo, but
they still looked happy fifty years later. It’s a reminder that
some things endure. It gives me hope.”

“Hope? For what?”

He shrugged. “You know. That I’ll find
someone, too.”

“It shouldn’t be too difficult,” she
said. “I would think a simple life would appeal to a lot of
women.”

Hank poked a long fork into a steak.
“You’d be surprised.”

She let the comment slide. There was
more to Hank Travis than met the eye. He was hiding something. A
good-looking guy like him living all by himself in a big old
farmhouse? There was money somewhere, but he’d hidden it carefully.
Separately, none of her observations were remarkable. But together?
Well, in Hank’s case, two and two did not make four. Perhaps his
father had been right. Maybe she could get another story after
all.

“The farm has been in my wife’s family
for generations,” Henry said. “The first Chilcote got it in a land
grant for his service in the Army of the Republic.”

As Henry recited the history of the
Chilcote farm and Willowbrook, Mel snuck glances at his son. With
his back mostly turned to them, tending the grill, she had plenty
of opportunities to check him out. He moved with grace, as if some
inner rhythm guided his movements. Music in motion, she thought as
he poked at the steaks with the fork in one hand and using the
tongs with the other, flipped them easily. Flames from the charcoal
licked above the rack, highlighting the roped muscles in his
forearm.

When everything was done, Mel sat
across from Hank at the old wooden picnic table that had seen more
coats of paint than she had seen years. The food was delicious,
steaks and farm fresh vegetables Hank had sliced and cooked on the
grill just before the meat was ready. The simple meal was
accompanied by slices of white bread, fresh from the wrapped loaf
in the center of the table. Not gourmet, but she couldn’t remember
ever having a better meal in her life.

Henry kept her wine glass filled from
a bottle he admitted snatching from his son’s wine cooler. She
couldn’t bring herself to say no to a brownie for dessert,
especially when Henry said he had made them himself.

Chapter Three

Hank watched his dad’s old truck
disappear down the dusty drive. Thankfully, his father’s stories
had been old ones, nothing touching on the present. It was obvious
Mel didn’t know who he was…yet. But it was only a matter of time
before someone in town said something or she figured it out on her
own.

Six months. It must be some
kind of record. Gossip usually spread faster than a prairie fire in
Willowbrook. In all fairness to the gossip grapevine, he
had
been on tour most of
that time. Out of sight, out of mind, they say. He was back, so
tongues would wag. He could take to the bank.

He checked on the grill, making sure
the coals had burned down enough to be safely left alone, and
headed for the house. He needed information and that meant tapping
into his own personal branch of the gossip grapevine. It wasn’t
early, but it wasn’t late either, so he made the phone calls. He’d
known Chris and Randy his entire life and he could count on them
for the latest news.

The childhood friends gathered around
the red Formica kitchen table in Hank’s kitchen, sipping coffee and
eating Oreo cookies straight from the bag. Betty Boop sat nearby
using her best begging skills to score an occasional illicit
treat.

“So, tell us, man. Let us old married
guys live vicariously through you for a few minutes,” Chris
said.

“Yeah,” Randy chimed in, “throw us a
few crumbs. How about those French women? Are they as uninhibited
as everyone says they are?”

Hank groaned. “You both know I don’t
hook up with the groupies and I wouldn’t give you details if I
did.”

“Ah, man.” Randy sat back, adjusting
his long legs beneath the table. “We were hoping for some good
stories tonight.”

Hank raised an eyebrow. “Have I ever
told you a good story from one of our tours?”

“Now that I think about it…no.” Chris
frowned. “So what are we here for?”

“Hey, it’s good to see you, too,” Hank
groused, tossing a sliver of cookie at his lifelong
friend.

“Just kidding,” Chris said. He licked
his index finger and pressed it onto the cookie crumb that had
bounced off his chest and landed on the table. He ate the crumb off
his fingertip. “But you got to give us something, man. We left our
wives and screaming kids at home tonight to come all the way out
here.”

“Yeah, we made sacrifices,” Randy
agreed. He popped a whole cookie in his mouth and chewed. How he
ate the way he did and remained stick thin, Hank would never
know.

“You were both dying for an excuse to
get out the house and you know it. But hey, I’m a nice guy, so I’ll
give you the inside scoop. This hasn’t been released to the public
yet so don’t go spreading it around town. The band’s going to do a
RavensBlood cover album. If everything goes right, we’ll start in a
few weeks.”

Randy whistled and slapped the
table.

Chris let out a whoop. “That’s great,
man! You’ve wanted to do one for a long time, haven’t you?” He
grinned from ear to ear.

He could always count on Chris’
support, and as Hank’s personal attorney, the new album meant more
work for Randy, but his enthusiasm was personal rather than
professional. Hank had made no secret about his desire to do the
RavensBlood cover album.

“Yeah. The cover album is my project.
The others are onboard, too, but you know how I am about
RavensBlood. We’ve been working on the arrangements for months. It
should be finalized soon.”

“So, everyone will invade the farm
again in a few weeks?” Randy asked.

“Yep. At least, I hope so. Summer is
the best time for the guys and their families. If we don’t get it
done this summer, it may have to wait ‘till next year.”

Randy grabbed another cookie. “What
are you going to do if it doesn’t work out?”

“Watch the cotton grow, I guess. I
don’t have any other plans.”

“You’ve got a good crop this year if
that’s what you’re worried about,” Chris was quick to assure
him.

“No,” Hank said. “I’m sure you have it
under control, as always. I don’t know what I would do without you
to run the farm for me. If it wasn’t for you, the place would be
grown up in sunflowers and crab grass.”

Chris had “done his time”, as he
referred to it, at Texas A&M and had come back home as soon as
he could to manage his family’s farm. Hank had turned his own
acreage over to his friend and hadn’t regretted it for a
moment.

“So, why did you get us out here
tonight? Do you need legal advice? The catching up could have
waited until the weekend.”

Leave it to Randy voice the question
they’d been dancing around from the start. Hank shook his head.
“No. I don’t need my lawyer, I need information.” He slouched in
his chair. “There’s a new reporter at the Gazette. What do you know
about her?”

Chris whistled low. “She’s a looker, I
know that.”

Hank scowled. “You’re a married man.
Should you be noticing other women?”

“Hell, Hank, I’m married, not
dead.”

Randy laughed. “He’s right. She’s
beautiful. Classy sort, big city girl, I think. Uncle Ralph hired
her away from some magazine in Los Angeles. Or maybe it was San
Francisco.” He ran his fingers through his perpetually disheveled
hair. “I don’t know for sure, but she’s from out there somewhere.
He did say she went to college in Virginia. I can’t remember the
name of it right off hand. I could ask him for you.”

“No. Don’t bother. She’s from L.A.?
Are you sure?”

“I’m sure she’s from California,
beyond that, I couldn’t say for sure. The word around town is she
paid cash for her bungalow over on Sycamore Street. You know, the
one old lady Williams used to live in?”

“Yeah, I know the one. I used to mow
Mrs. Williams yard.”