Texas Outlaw (Rory Yates #2)(94)

I push through the crowd as Brandi Carlile begins to play. I consider staying for her set and Dierks Bentley’s. I’m sure they’re great. But I’m emotionally drained.

I climb into my truck and head off into the darkness.

I drive through Albuquerque and travel east for a while, but I suddenly get an urge, and I decide to turn off the highway. I find a dirt road that stretches into the hills, and I park somewhere in the middle of nowhere. I sit on the tailgate and look up at the stars. I take out the guitar Willow gave me and pluck at the strings.

I play “Mammas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys,” singing about how cowboys are never at home and they’re always alone. But as I play under the canopy of stars, without another soul around for miles, I don’t feel sad about being alone, starting over on my own.

I’m alive—that almost wasn’t the case.

And I can’t help but feel that Willow or Ariana—or maybe both of them—will be a part of my life again someday.