Page 41 of My UnTrue Love
“He’s got no aptitude for driving a chuck-wagon, either.” Clem turned her tablet so he could read the headline. “The Section 37 Bakery was just stampeded by rabid bison.”
“That so?”
“Yes! It’s completely destroyed.” Clementine flipped the screen to face her again, scanning the article with a teeny bit of unGood satisfaction. That chef had really hurt her feelings with his mockery. “I had no idea bison could evengetrabid. How in the world did Hot Biscuit Slim find a whole herd of them?”
“Oh, they’re around. Tracking them down just takes some… high-effort.”
Clem sent him a vaguely suspicious glance.
Bill ate a bite of cereal. “You look real comely this morning, darlin’. Have I told you that?”
Clementine beamed. Her feminine wiles must be working!
“You have mentioned it. Twice.” Bill looked comely, too. Just gazing at him made her insides fluttery. Clem forgotabout Hot Biscuit Slim, because they had much more important business to discuss. “Do you want to talk about tonight?”
“Tonight?”
“Your performance.” She prompted.
Bill frowned a bit. “What’s there to talk about?”
He debuted at the Lone Prairie in less than twelve hours and he seemed very calm about it. That was unusual, considering he was about to perform for a crowd, and he was always so sensitive about appearing vulnerable. Maybe he was having second thoughts.
“You know you don’thaveto perform, right? Sometimes artists aren’t comfortable bringing their work to the public. They’re satisfied exploring their creative energies, all by themselves. If that’s where you are, I totally support you.”
“You’ll stay with me, even if I don’t play?”
Clementine leaned forward on the counter. “Yes. I’ll stay your best, best friend no matter what. Our connection has nothing to do with your job. This is aboutyouand what makesyouhappy.I’llbe happy with whatever you choose, just so you’re artistically fulfilled.”
“But if I don’t play, I’m not an artist.”
“You were born an artist. Nothing you do could change that. It’s hardwired into your soul. Without an outlet for your creativity, though, you’ll be stifled. Music is where you feel free.”
He didn’t argue, which meant she was right.
“But that doesn’t mean you have to be on stage.”
“I like playing guitar.”
“I know you do.”
“I like it more than anything else I could do.”
“But you can do it in a variety of ways. Do you want to postpone your show and consider your options? That would be fine. If a career in music is your goal, I will push for you to get it, though. If I’m beingtoopushy about it, please say so.”
“No.” He shook his head, almost to himself. “I’m gonna play tonight.” He went back to eating his breakfast.
Clem wasn’t surprised by his choice. She’d just needed him to acknowledge that itwashis choice. “Great! So onto the song you decided….”
“If you don’t favor it, I can pick something else.” He inserted quickly.
“The song is fine, so long as you’re happy with it.”
“I’m happy with it.” He ate another spoonful of Gala-Ohs! cereal. It was multicolored, and incredibly sweet, and featured a collectable plastic knight toy in every box. Ninety percent of Bill’s diet was sugar. “But I can play anything.”
Wild Horses Runwas a country-western classic. Everyone knew it and everyone enjoyed it. And the song was about horses. Bill seemed like a guy who appreciated horses. The cowboy hat was kind of a clue.
Speaking of which… “What are you wearing on stage tonight?”
