Sing You Home by Ava Hunter

Seth sighs as Luke fumbles the lyric and hits the wrong string.

Lowering his fiddle, he locks worried eyes with Jace. They’ve been at this for the last two hours. For the last two hours Luke’s had his head in the goddamn clouds. Frazzled as hell when he’d thundered into the basement recording studio, pissed as fuck about Clive Jasper cornering Sal outside of therapy.

Seth gets it. He’s pissed too. Pissed at this whole goddamn situation Mort’s gotten them into.

Because as much as Seth hates to admit it—Luke fuckin’ sucks.

He’s giving practice his best shot, but he ain’t anywhere near where he used to be.

“Shit,” Luke swears, taking a wary step away from the microphone.

After getting a brow raise from Jace, Seth swirls a finger. The action feels strange. He’s unused to being in charge. Luke’s the frontman. But until his brother can do it, Seth will.

Hell, he thought Luke was nearly there. Since Sal’s been home, Luke’s gone from walking around in a drunken stupor every day to looking like he’ll conquer the world for Sal.

“Let’s pick it up again,” Seth says.

Only Luke doesn’t.

Looking awkward and unhappy holding his guitar, he leans it against the wall. Seth reckons it’s probably the first time he’s touched the busted instrument in the last year. While Emmy Lou was cleaning the house for Sal’s arrival, she found the guitar buried in the garage and then gently rehomed it in the baby’s room.

Two things lost, confined to one sad, lonely place.

“Sorry, boys,” Luke says, scrubbing a hand down his face. “My head ain’t in this.”

Jace stills his bass. “You’re tryin’ to break your string in half, man.”

“I know.” Luke paces around the studio. “We gotta play one song and play it right. How hard can it fuckin’ be?”

“Apparently pretty goddamn hard because you’re playin’ like shit,” Seth mutters.

Luke tosses Seth a dry look.

Jace shakes his head, ignoring Seth. “We ain’t gotta do this, Luke.”

Seth leans back against the wall. “You like career suicide, Jace? Because I sure as hell don’t.”

“Seth’s right,” Luke says to Jace. “It’s the Opry. We can’t back out.”

They’d never play again if they backed out. Not with all the strings Mort pulled. Their shaky nine-month hiatus would be permanent. The Opry would see to it.

“Besides,” Luke says pointedly to Jace, “you need this. We’re doin’ it.”

A guilty look crosses Jace’s face.

Seth nods. “Absolutely, man.”

Jace may grate on his nerves at times, but Seth feels for the guy. No way in hell they’re sending Jace and Emmy Lou down the river. Fourteen years they’ve been playing, and it doesn’t end like this.

To Seth’s surprise, Luke picks up his guitar again. Determined to shake off his blues. Determined not to let his best friend or his band down. Settling himself on the worn leather couch, he strums a clumsy tune that Seth barely recognizes as “Homegrown Heart,” their first single.

Seth holds hope hard in his chest. He can see his brother getting lost in the music. Luke’s brain cranking on as his mind and fingers work in unison. Mentally flipping through the Brothers Kincaid discography, stopping now and then to play several licks from some of their most popular songs.

“That ain’t it,” Luke murmurs aloud, almost to himself.

He strums another. “Cryin’ Blue.”

Another. “Straight Arrow.”

As he samples songs, his brow furrows deeper and deeper. In concentration. In frustration.

“You sure you don’t want to do ‘Sal’s Song’?” Jace holds up a hand as Luke snaps open his mouth. “Not because it’ll make Mort happy, but maybe it’ll get your head back into it. It’s your heart, ain’t it?”

Luke’s face softens. “Yeah. I don’t know.” His eyes drift upward to the living room, where Sal naps on the couch. “I’ll think about it.”

Seth crosses his arms. He’s gonna have to be the one to knock some sense into his brother. “She’s fine, Luke. She’s sleepin’.”

Seth gives his brother a look. It ain’t Jasper or the music that’s got Luke riled up. It’s Sal. “What’s really going on?”

“I think she remembered something today.”

Jace blinks. “That was fast.”

Seth arches a brow. “In therapy?”

Luke’s mouth twists and he stares down at the guitar in his hands. “No. When we were driving back—after Jasper. ‘One More Night’ came on the radio. That goddamn song came on and Sal just . . .” His hand grips the guitar. Tight. White-knuckled. “She knew somethin’, but I don’t know what.”

“Shit,” Seth says, his gut twisting.

“One More Night” was the song Luke cut with Alabama. You want to talk about a shitty song, that was it. He always understood why Sal pressed Luke not to record it. It was pop-country, bubblegum. But that was Luke. He had promised Mort a song, and instead of letting the Brothers Kincaid record it and ruin their sound, Luke took it on as a solo record. Because that was Luke. Loyal. He had your back. Always.

Luke leans back against the couch. “Sal asked me, point-blank, why we went on the trip.”

Jace exhales. “Oh, man.”

Seth nods in Luke’s direction. “What’d you tell her?”

“I told her the truth.” Luke grimaces. “Some of it. I told her she was in a car accident. That I wanted us to get away, for her to heal.”

“How’d she take it?”

“She was confused, but fine.” Disgust lines Luke’s face. Disgust at himself. “She was more worried about me. Asking if I was okay and—” Sorrow briefly flits across his eyes, and Seth knows he’s still blaming himself for Sal running that damned stop sign. “I couldn’t tell her about the baby. It wasn’t the right time.”

“You did the right thing,” Jace says. “You’re goin’ slow. Like the doctor said.”

“I don’t know,” Luke says in a somber voice. “I just don’t know.”

Then he clears his throat and sets his jaw. A look of determination crosses his face as he shifts the guitar in his lap, positioning it to play. “Let’s try ‘Whiskey Row.’”

Fingers flying fast over the strings, Luke sings, “Drinkin’ up your handle, down on whiskey row, all you got to your name is a pistol and a bow . . .”

Seth stares, thankful and awestruck. It’s been so long since he’s heard Luke sing. He never thought he’d get this back.

A chuckle shakes out of Jace, and Seth turns. Jace wears the same stunned expression as Seth.

“Hell, I can’t even remember what album that’s from.”

Seth remembers. It was one of their best. Down-to-earth, in their element, before they started listening to Mort and all his mainstream bullshit. “Porch Songs,” he says with a wistful smile.

The music stops.

Luke glances up sharply. “That’s it.”

“What’s it?” Seth asks.

Without answering, Luke stands, guitar and all, and strides for the door.

“Hey, where the hell you goin’?” Seth hollers.

Luke glances over his shoulder, a grin on his face. “Seth, get your fiddle.”

Luke’s fingers fly across the guitar, so fast they could be on fire. He lets loose a rebel yell and checks his boys.

Seth saws his fiddle. Wild and frantic. Damn near perfect. Jace’s bass thumps from the opposite side of the porch, sending out reverberations over the quiet countryside.

In a clear, steady drawl, his heart pumping double-time, Luke sings out the final lyrics of “Bad Livin’.”

You want me to read your mind

But you can’t be bothered to give me a second of your time

You say stay when you mean go

So come on, mama, let me down easy and slow

Because it’s damn near bad livin’

To be your good lovin’ man.

When they finish the song, Luke lets out a hoot of happiness. “Nice work, boys.”

Seth slaps him on the back. “Damn good idea, Luke.” His brother’s eyes radiate pride and relief. “Goin’ back to the porch.”

The porch started it all for the Brothers Kincaid. It’s where, when they were kids, Luke and Seth first played their songs. Where, after meeting Jace, they became the Brothers Kincaid. Over the years, they got bigger, better, but they always came back to the porch to write their songs. And it always worked. Luke knows there’s something to be said for going home, for going back to the place that made you.

Broad grins have overtaken both Jace and Seth’s faces. Getting out of the cooped studio had done wonders.

Seth saws a frisky jig on his fiddle. “I think Luke’s got it down now, don’t you?”

Jace chuckles. “I think Luke’s had it down since seventh grade.”

Luke laughs out loud.

God, he feels fucking great.

He damn near didn’t think he had it in him anymore. But this—being here—playing with his band—is right. It’s what he needed. The soul of the music, the connection with his boys, the feel of his guitar in his hands.

He hasn’t felt this good in a long time. He was worried he might never get it back.

So were they.

Earlier in the studio—he saw it clear as day. Worry on Jace and Seth’s faces. Waiting on him, thinking he was going off the deep end, when all he needed to do was pick himself up and play.

Luke stoops to dig a beer from the cooler, to rest his guitar against the side of the house. Across the field, the sun sinks into a lavender glow. On the other side of the screen door, a rustle of movement.

Jace’s rust-colored brows raise. “Hey, honey. We wake you up?”

Luke’s heart tumbles when he sees Sal stepping out onto the porch. She’s barefoot, her hair mussed from sleep, pillow lines crisscrossing her cheek. She looks refreshed and happy. Goddamn beautiful.

“No, I’ve been up.” Her eyes brush to Luke. “Decided to come see what all the ruckus was about.”

He arches a brow. “Well, what’s the verdict?”

Bare feet padding soft, Sal sidles across the porch. “You sound pretty good.” She shrugs. Her mouth kicks up in a teasing smile. “I’d toss you a dime.”

Luke laughs. Busting balls as only Sal can do.

“Damn,” Seth says, poking her in the side with the tip of his bow. “You cut deep, Sal.”

Laughing, Sal skirts Seth to join Luke’s side. She’s smiling as she scopes out Jace’s bass, leaning across to plunk a string. She runs a finger along the curve of Luke’s guitar. Takes in her name on the fretboard, the chipped bridge, the scraped-up top. Sal’s utterly fascinated by the instruments, her face aglow with awe.

For a long minute, he takes it all in. Everything he has on his front porch. And he’s damn near toppled by a sudden sense of urgency. Determination. To be the man his band needs. The husband Sal needs. And he wants to tell her that she’s better than anything he deserves.

That this second chance means everything to him.

There’s the swish of her thin cotton dress as Sal sits down. She props her feet up on the cooler, sticks her hands between her knees and leans forward. Her gaze rises to his. “Y’all aren’t packing up, are you?”

Jace’s eyes flick to Luke, then back to Sal. “What do you got in mind?”

“Play me something.” Her eyes grow heavy-lidded as she stares Luke down. The look she’s giving him—stone-cold adoration. And her words ring out, straight to Luke’s heart. “Please. Sing me a song?”

Sal shivers in delight as the Brothers Kincaid raise their voices to sing like a heavenly gospel choir. They sound beautiful. Like ragtag honkytonk angels. The crumbling porch their stage, they sing about bartenders and fistfights and good-loving women.

She’s captivated by them. The way they play with such ease, how in sync they are. Picking each other up, following each other’s lead. Seth’s a maniac on the fiddle, Jace calm and cool with his upright bass.

And Luke. Sal knows she’s staring, maybe gawking, but she can’t help it. He’s beautiful. So in his element. A force of nature. Luke’s lightning hands, the way his fingers move across the guitar strings. The veins in his arms, the ropey muscles in his forearms flexing and bending as he plays.

He’s a changed man. His body loose and limber. No worries, no weight on his shoulders. Playful and energetic. He loves that guitar and his friends and the music. He plays with guts, with love, and Sal finally sees what she’s been missing. Or, better yet, what she’s had all along.

She hasn’t felt this content in ages. Each day she spends on this farm, with Luke and their friends and family, she’s convinced she’s where she needs to be. Everyone has been so patient, standing by her as she acclimates to her new life. She’s so damn grateful for their support.

The song ends on the low, weltering warble of Seth’s fiddle. Laughter and commotion as the boys pound each other on the back. Sal claps, smiling right along with them.

For a second, though, her happiness is sideswiped by sadness. She can’t help but think about her own job as a paramedic and the training she can’t remember. She doesn’t have something like this anymore. A career. An escape. She knew helping people was important to her. She had a life with Luke, but she also had her life.

The squeak of the screen door calls Sal back to the present. Lacey, her brow furrowed, steps onto the porch. “What’re you doing?”

“Listening.” She elbows her sister in the side. “So were you.”

Minutes ago, she had seen Lacey hovering behind the screen door as the Brothers Kincaid played, her face frozen in a kind of regretful awe.

Lacey scoffs as if any enjoyment were beneath her. “Let’s go back inside.” Lacey tugs at Sal’s arm. “I found the photos of Great-Grandma Nance.”

Sal bugs her eyes at Jace, who dips his head to stifle a laugh.

She can’t look at another photo. Ever since she got back from therapy, Lacey’s been following her around, fussing, wondering where she is, where she’s going, if she needs help. Her sister’s sweet, but she can only take so much coddling before she feels like an escaped mental patient.

While Lacey only wants to help, and while it’s all interesting, it’s not the present.

Sal’s gaze lands on Luke.

It’s not her present.

Another tug on Sal’s arm. “We’ll finish out the photos. Then make dinner or do face masks.”

Stone-cold terror slices through Sal.

Dear God, no.

Sal shoots Seth an SOS signal. Help. Me. Please.

Seth raises a brow and instantly, a silent conversation passes between them. He gives a small nod, then snaps shut the latches on his case. “I don’t know ’bout any of y’all, but I could use a drink.”

“We got beers right here,” Luke says easily.

“Not me,” Jace says. “I gotta get—”

“Yeah, yeah, home to Emmy Lou, we got it.” Seth eyes Lacey. “What about you?”

She draws back, glancing around her like she’s searching for an emergency exit. “What about me?”

“A drink at Tonk’s?”

“With you?”

Seth rolls his eyes. “No, with Jack the Ripper. Yeah, with me.”

Beside him, Jace’s shoulders rack with silent laughter.

Lacey’s mouth twists up in disgust.

Luke cuts Seth an incredulous look.

“You should go,” Sal says, looping her arm around Lacey’s waist.

In one smooth movement, she pulls her stunned sister in for a hug, tugging her out of the doorway, then twirls her into Seth.

Before Lacey can protest, Seth drapes an arm around her shoulder, anchoring her to the spot. “Let’s go, princess. We’re drinkin’ whiskey tonight.”

“Ugh. Fine.”

Lacey whirls on her heel and stalks off down the porch steps. Seth and Jace follow her at a slow, keep-their-distance lope.

Seth turns around to walk backward, giving Sal an eyebrow wiggle and a salute.

She flashes Seth a grateful smile.

“Have fun,” she calls out, striding to the porch railing.

Her breath catches as she takes in the countryside. Rolling hills. Sweetgrass sways in the light breeze, the last sunset of May disappearing in a gorgeous orangesicle glow.

Sal’s suddenly aware of Luke beside her, slipping an arm around her waist. No hesitation, all confidence. With a content sigh, Sal presses into his warmth, his strength.

“They’re gonna eat each other alive,” Sal murmurs, watching as Seth peels his Bronco out of the drive extra fast.

There’s a smile in Luke’s voice. “One can only hope.” He drops a kiss on top of her head.

“You hear that?”

“What?”

Sal grins up at him. “Sweet silence.”