Texas Outlaw (Rory Yates #2)(9)

“Oh, shit,” I say aloud.

I turn up the radio to listen. It’s the first time I’ve ever dreaded hearing Willow sing.





Chapter 10



WILLOW CAN WRITE slow ballads that will break your heart, and she can write fast-paced barn burners that get people up on the dance floor. This is the latter. The song starts with the sound of boots stomping on floorboards in rhythm with hands clapping, followed by a quick, heavy guitar riff. The beat is catchy. No wonder they wanted to release this right away.

My dread is momentarily washed away by pride and admiration at Willow’s talent. Willow starts singing and I’m even more in awe—that voice!



He’s a tall drink of water with a sexy Southern drawl.

Your knees will go weak when you hear him say “y’all.”



With a cowboy hat, big boots, and a gun, Does he look like trouble or does he look like fun?

Tall, dark, and handsome, he don’t have much to say, But he’ll arrest your heart and lock it right away.



I’m feeling relieved. It doesn’t sound too bad. Just good fun, as Willow said on the radio.



Whatever you do, don’t kiss his lips,

Don’t slow dance with his hands on your hips.



If he asks you to dinner, you better say no.

He’ll only break your heart somewhere down the road.



Then the chorus starts.



You’ll be dying to flirt,

But don’t even start.

Watch him ride off into the sunset.

Don’t let him steal your heart.

Take it from me, ladies,

I should know.

If you don’t want to end up living with a stranger, Don’t date a Texas Ranger.



She draws out the words in that last line. There’s a nice guitar solo, then she starts in with another verse.



He’s gone for weeks while you’re all alone.

He’s hunting bad guys and you’re waitin’ by the phone.



Trust me, ladies, he’s too good to be true.

He’ll be married to his job, not married to you.



Willow sings through the chorus a few more times, and then she’s back in the studio, laughing and basking in the admiration of Bobby Bones.

But my mind is elsewhere.

The comment about waiting by the phone isn’t fair. She’s gone more than I am—I could write a song called “Don’t Date a Country Singer.”

Really, though, it’s the last line: He’ll be married to his job, not married to you. That’s the one that stings. Not because it’s true in the case of Willow and me. Neither of us works nine-to-five, so we’ve had an unconventional relationship from the start. What hurts about the line is that it’s true of my previous relationship.

With Anne.

Willow probably didn’t think anything of that line when she wrote it, just looking for something that rhymed with true, but Anne could have written that autobiographically. In fact, she said as much in her diary, which her mother let me read after Anne died, hoping I’d find some clues to her murder.

Ever since then, I’ve tried not to be that guy. I’ve tried not to be the guy married to his job who lets a good woman slip through his fingers. For the first time since Willow brought up the detective opening at the Nashville Police Department, I think that I should apply.

Five minutes after Willow completes the interview on The Bobby Bones Show, my phone buzzes with an incoming call from her.

“Are you mad?” she says. Despite the good humor in her voice, I can tell she’s anxious to hear what I have to say.

“No,” I say. “I loved it.”

Honestly, the song is harmless enough. But here I was keeping a low profile, and now there’s a song inspired by me that a million people just heard on the radio. I can already hear the other Rangers giving me a hard time about it. And the last thing I need is some perp jawing at me during an arrest about how I need to take better care of my woman.

Willow explains that she had just been messing around during sound check one day, making up lyrics as she went along. Her producer heard it and wanted her to finish the song.

“I didn’t think we’d end up putting it on the album,” she says, “but once we finished, I knew it was going to be my first single.”

“It’s going to be a hit,” I say, and I mean it.

We talk for a while longer. I hadn’t told her yet about my reassignment to Rio Lobo, so I explain that I’m driving across Texas as we speak.

“They shouldn’t have you back on duty this fast,” she says.

I don’t tell her that Kyle is punishing me.

“It will be fine,” I say. “Besides, I need to get out of town for a while before everyone I know gives me shit about being in your song.”

“I’m serious, Rory. Do you think you’re ready to be back on duty?”

“It’s a little town in the middle of nowhere,” I say. “How dangerous could it be?”





Chapter 11



I FIND MYSELF driving on back roads that twist through the rolling hills. I go for miles without seeing another car—just sagebrush and the occasional fenced-off pump jack levering up and down, pulling oil out of the earth. Off to my left is a narrow oasis dotted with big cottonwood trees and shrubs. That’s the route of the namesake of the town, the Rio Lobo, I assume. I can’t see the river, but in these parts, a waterway would be the only explanation for a meandering ribbon of lush vegetation.