Page 70 of Playing With My Heart Strings

“I’m quite relieved that didn’t happen.” He chuckles as he dismounts from his horse then struts over to me. “Other than fearing for your life, how’s my girl?”

I dip my head in amusement before tilting it back up to look at him. “I’m not too bad. Better now, for sure.” I wink.

He takes the sides of my face in his hands and leans down to plant a kiss on my lips. “Good. I’m better now, too.” Neither of us make any effort to break apart, not until the camera crew slowly trudges through the trees where Dusty entered the clearing. It was naive of me to think there wouldn’t beanycameras today. For all I know, the production company has invested in drones and they’re getting footage from above us.

“So, is this my horse?” I point toward the bay horse standing next toPetunia.

He nods. “That’s Biscuit.”

“Uh-huh. Who named these horses?” My shoulders shake slightly as I eye the horses in amusement.

Dusty just shrugs as he tosses the reins over my horse’s head. “I’m not sure. Some young kids, probably. Want help?” He offers a hand as I slip a foot into the stirrups. I wave him off as I grab hold of the saddle horn and swing my leg on the ground over Biscuit’s back. “You’re a pro. You ride a lot?”

“As a kid,” I tell him as he mounts his horse. “I didn’t live on a ranch or farm by any means, but my parents put me in horseback lessons when I was young. I don’t ride much now, but it comes back like muscle memory when I do. And you?”

“I try to go as much as I can, but my schedule is pretty demanding. I also don’t have my own horses here, so that makes it difficult, too,” he explains as we head toward the woods, the camera crew following.

“What do you do to destress besides music?”

His head tilts to the side at the question. Then further. “I… You know, that’s a good question. Music has always been the thing to calm me down. And even though I’m in themusicindustry, it’s hardly ever the music itself that’s causing me stress. If that makes sense.”

I nod. “There’s a lot of external pressure that comes from being a public figure. You see it a lot with social media. There’s pressure from fans to be genuine, there’s pressure from your label or agency to look and act a certain way, and sometimes you just want tobe.”

He looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. “You get it. I don’t know that I’ve ever met another person who gets it. Most people would tell me to be grateful for my success.”

A laugh slips from my lips. “As if you aren’t grateful.” Then, under my breath, I say, “I’d like to see some of those people in your shoes and see how they handle it.”

“I guess it just comes with the territory.” He shrugs. “If it was easy, everyone would do it.”

As we continue riding side by side, sunlight streams through the treetops, speckling the ground with pale, buttery light and the shadows of leaves. A gentle breeze blows through my hair, cooling the nape of my neck.

“That’s true. Guess that just makes us a special breed, huh?” I joke.

“Exactly. We should probably stick together in that case. Makes it less lonely.”

“Do you?”

His brow quirks up.

“Get lonely, I mean.” Maybe it was a stupid question. Everyone gets lonely now and then. But Dusty always seems to have people around him. I mean, he’s got the other artists at his label and Brooklyn James, and?—

“Sometimes, yeah. It’s odd.” He pauses. “A profession where you’re constantly surrounded by people who ‘love’ you is sometimes the loneliest one.” When I don’t respond, he continues. “Everyone thinks they know who I am. That they’re entitled to every aspect of my life because they know my entire discography or have been a fan since the beginning. Sometimes, I just…” he trails off.

“Sometimes, you just…” I parrot his words back at him.

“Sometimes I just want to show them the true side of me. Who I really am, where I grew up. But I’m afraid they won’t love this Dusty as much as they love the Dusty they think they know.”

We’ve talked about this before, briefly. But it was a conversation behind closed doors, not in front of the cameras.

“If they don’t love the real Dusty as much as the country singer Dusty, then maybe they’re not real fans,” I suggest but then wince, because I don’t think that’s any more reassuring than not having fans at all.

“What’s the point, then?” He looks at me with curious eyes. “If the only version of me they love is the idea they have of me, why continue?”

“Do you love it? Singing. Performing,” I elaborate.

He nods. “I do. I love performing, and I know I’m here for a reason.”

“Then that’s the only thing that matters in the end. It shouldn’t matter what other people think, because there’s nothing more important than doing what you love.”

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