Page 8 of Protected By The Ranger
“I can’t believe it. Look at you,” she says, taking a step back but keeping her hand on my shoulders.
“Hi, Mrs. H. I was in town and I wanted to say hi.”
“I’ve been following your career, you know. That review of your first CD, in Rolling Stone, made me cry. They called you ‘a voice that carries the weight of every broken heart and the hope of every mended soul.’”
Heat rises in my cheeks. “You’ve followed my career?”
“Of course I did. You were always special, Isabelle. Even when you were sixteen and convinced you’d never be good enough. It is such a joy to see your star rising like I always hoped it would.” She studies my face with the same intensity she always reserved for particularly difficult passages of music. “What brings you home?”
“Just needed a break from LA. My brother is back from the Army, so I came to visit for a while,” I say, not wanting to burden her with my problems. I came here to get away from them. “Actually, I wanted to see how the program is doing. The music department.”
Her expression shifts, and something that looks like defeat settles over her features. “Oh, Isabelle. I’m afraid it’s not good news.”
“What do you mean?”
“Budget cuts. We’re losing funding across the board, and the school board is talking about eliminating the music program entirely next year.” She gestures around the room at the ancient piano, the outdated sound system, the music stands held together with duct tape. “They say it’s not essential education. It’s all STEM this and STEM that, and people treat the arts like they’re worthless.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. This room saved my life when I was a teenager, drowning in my insecurity and family drama. Music gave me a purpose when nothing else made sense.
“How much do you need to keep the program running?”
“Forty thousand dollars to keep the program running for another year. At the bare minimum. Maybe buy some new instruments, fix the piano.” She shakes her head. “It might aswell be a million. The community doesn’t have that kind of money, and the school board has already made their priorities clear.”
Forty thousand dollars. I know singers who’ve spent more than that on stage costumes for a single tour. The disparity between my world and this one hits me with uncomfortable clarity.
“What if we did a fundraiser? A benefit concert. How much could we realistically raise with a community event?”
Mrs. Henderson’s eyes widen. “Well, the auditorium holds about three hundred people. If we charged twenty dollars a ticket...that’s only six thousand dollars, assuming we sold out.”
“Then we’ll make it bigger. More significant.” I pace to the window, looking out at the empty courtyard where students used to gather during lunch. “Music saved my life in this room, Mrs. H. Let me help it save someone else’s.”
Her eyes fill with tears. “You’d really do that?”
“I want to give back to the program that gave me everything. Let me figure something out.”
Jake suddenly appears in the doorway, his face flushed like he’s been running. For a split second, relief flickers across his features, quickly replaced by something that looks like barely controlled fury.
“We need to go. Now.”
“Jake, I’m in the middle of—”
“Now, Izzy.”
Something in his tone, the way his green eyes have gone hard and dangerous, makes the protest die in my throat.Theauthority in his voice sends an unexpected thrill through me that I definitely shouldn’t be feeling right now.
Mrs. Henderson takes one look at his expression and steps in front of me. “Now listen here, young man,” she says, grabbing her phone like she’s about to call 9-1-1.
“I know him, Mrs. H. It’s okay,” I say. I sigh, frustrated that my little bubble of normalcy was burst so quickly.
“Can we continue this discussion later?” she asks quietly.
“Absolutely.” I give her a quick hug.
As soon as I pick up my purse, Jake’s hand settles on my lower back, guiding me toward the door with gentle but unyielding pressure.The heat of his palm burns through the thin fabric of my dress, and I stifle a gasp at the contact.
“You have to take this seriously, Izzy.” His voice is low. “I can’t protect you if I have to track down where you are. If we can track your phone and location as easily as we did, so can your stalker.”
The word “protect” hits me wrong, like a note played off-key. “I don’t need protection. I need my life back.”
