Page 19 of My UnTrue Love
What hearts could ‘er employ.
Lyrics from the folk song “Crossroads Coyote”
The Lone Prairie hired Bill. Clementine wasn’t surprised. He was by far the most talented performer to ever grace that third-rate establishment and, fortunately, no one had been smoking when Bill auditioned. The Monday night spot he’d been given wasn’t stellar, but it was a start.
“We have some big plans to make.” Clementine plopped chocolate chip cookie dough onto a baking tray. If she ever had extra money, she was going to buy one of those cute cookie scoops they used on cooking shows. Unfortunately, she never had extra money, so she made do with a spoon and her finger.
Bill grunted.
They were in the small kitchen of his apartment. She’d promised to make him his favorite meal to celebrate his new job. She considered cooking to be the one art she excelled at, and she liked to show off sometimes. Clementine had envisioned he’d choose steak or maybe lasagna. Instead, she ended up baking chocolate chip cookies. Bill’s taste ran to the very sweet, it seemed. It was adorable how happy he was with having dessert for dinner.
Clementine moved the mixing bowl, so he couldn’t eat all the cookies before she even baked them. “What song are you going to play on Monday?”
“Whatever you tell me to play.”
She glanced at him over the top of her glasses. “Just so it’s not ‘Crossroads Coyote,’ any song is fine with me.”
“Don’t like that ballad, huh?”
“No, it’s very sad and the rhyming scheme is suspect.”
“My pa used to sing that song a lot.”
“Oh. Well, if it has special meaning for you…”
“It doesn’t.” He somehow sneaked some more cookie dough. “You pick one that you do like, and I’ll play it.”
“Bill,” she chided, “what do youwantto play? You’ll be the one on the stage.”
His brows drew together, like he was uncomfortable. “Don’t matter to me.” He muttered around his spoon. “I can play anything.”
She had no doubt that was true. She’d seen him listen to a song once and then play it back without missing a note. She’d also seen himchangethe notes and make the song better, almost on instinct. That was much more impressive to a muse. That was Bill coming through as an artist.
“Do you ever write songs?”
A pause.“No.”
Something about the way he said it made her keep staring at him.
“I don’t write ‘em down.” He expounded, after a beat. “I just… hear bits and pieces, sometimes. It’s not a big deal.”
Excitement filled her, because she knew itwasa big deal. She knew how special it was when music played in an artist’s mind. Her father had been a songwriter. Not a very successful one, but one who never quit hoping for moments ofka-pow!to strike him. That’s what he called that feeling of true inspiration, when everything became clear in his head and the truth was revealed. When he knew he’d just discovered something remarkable.
Not wanting to scare Bill with her enthusiasm for his talent, she went back to making cookies. “Well, then play something youliketo play. Something familiar to you, so you’ll feel comfortable on stage. We can brainstorm ideas over the weekend. Are you busy tomorrow?”
“Only in the morning.” Bill sat down at the kitchen island. “I gotta lay track.”
She blinked in total incomprehension. “Record tracks?”
His mouth twitched. “Railroad tracks. I’ve been working on the railroad they’re building, up in the mountains. Not many places have a railroad, so it qualifies as ‘skilled labor’, and the money’s good, but I gotta be there at sunrise. We start early to avoid the heat of the desert.” He reached over to try and steal more cookie dough.
Clementine swatted his hand away, trying to think. The Yellow Roses didn’t usually begin work before two in the afternoon, because Johnny was a night owl. Sometimes they went until midnight. She’d had no idea Bill had another job, outside of music, or that he’d had to get up so early to do it.When did the man sleep? What if he got injured, because he was too tired to do physical railroad stuff?
“Is laying railroad track dangerous?” She demanded.
“Not if you’re doin’ it right.”
Her eyes narrowed, hearing the evasion. “Do they use dynamite up there?”
