Brenda Mott - Man From Montana

She’d lost something precious. Something she’d never have again.

The song ended, and the crowd applauded and whistled.

“Thank you,” Derrick said. “This next song is one I wrote myself. It’s called ‘Heaven.’”

Kara watched Derrick’s fingers move across the guitar strings, expecting him to croon a sentimental love song. Instead, he sang something far different.

“As we flew out of Denver

My little boy said to me,

‘Daddy, how high up is heaven?

Are we gonna get to see

Jesus and His angels?

Will they wave at me?’

“I smiled and said ‘son,

We’ll just wait and see,

But I think that Heaven’s higher

Than we’re gonna be.’

“A few years later at the rodeo,

My son was now thirteen,

He sat down in the chute, just like his heroes on TV…”

Kara listened closely to the words…the story of how the father watched his son grow up riding bulls. When the boy—now a young man—was challenged to ride a bull no cowboy had ever been able to ride before, she felt the father’s trepidation.

And her heart broke as Derrick sang about the young cowboy’s fatal injuries, and the father’s grief.

“Days later at his graveside, a memory came to me.

Of my little boy’s first airplane ride,

And what he’d asked of me.

He said, ‘Daddy how high up is heaven?

Will I get to see

Jesus and His angels?

Will they wave at me?’

“And that’s when I knew he’d found his way,

For when I looked on high

There was Jesus and his angels,

And my son stood by his side.

“‘Daddy, how high up is hea—ven?’”

Derrick held the last note on the guitar, and the crowd erupted in whistles and cheers. In the dim light, Kara saw she wasn’t the only one who had to wipe her eyes. It was easy to see where Connor had gotten his singing voice.

She glanced at the boy and wondered if he were the inspiration behind Derrick’s song. Had he come close to death in whatever accident had caused his injuries?

If Derrick wanted her to know his personal business, he’d tell her. Yet she couldn’t help imagining what it would be like to be held by this man. To wake up in his arms, not in an empty bed.

She told herself she ached for Evan, that it was Derrick’s song that brought out her emotions. But deep down, Kara knew it wasn’t just the song. It was Derrick who stirred something in her.

Something that scared her, and made her wish she hadn’t come to the Silver Spur.

CONNOR MUNCHED on the nachos and the women’s conversation faded to so much white noise. He’d always found it easier to talk to adults than kids, but he felt kind of stupid sitting here with four chicks. Especially since they had to be as old as his dad, or older. But then, Kara had been nice to him, and she hadn’t ratted him out for playing his dad’s guitar.

He watched his father up on stage, entertaining the crowd. What would it be like to be up there? To have everyone in the room focused on you? Connor had often wondered. It was exactly why he didn’t want his dad to know he could play. Connor knew he’d fall short of his father’s accomplishments.

After having saved his allowance for what felt like forever, he’d bought a secondhand acoustic guitar from the pawnshop, and sworn his mom to secrecy. Between video tapes, books, and trying things on his own, he’d learned to play a decent tune. He spent a lot of time picking that old guitar, and when he’d gotten the chance to play his dad’s Gibson this afternoon, the temptation was too much to resist.

Playing on the side of the wraparound porch was fun. It felt almost like a stage, and yet he was blocked from anyone’s view by the thick shrubbery that grew along the perimeter of the acre lot the house sat on. Plus the nearby sawmill often created a distant whine, keeping him from drawing anyone’s attention. Of course, Kara had still caught him. He’d have to be more careful about playing when someone might walk up on the porch like that. He didn’t want an audience, not until—and unless—he could pick the way his dad did.

Maybe one day he’d come close to being that good, if he practiced hard enough. But he could never let him know how he felt.

He sure as hell didn’t want to admit how much he wished he could be like his dad. It would be so rad to play in a band and have girls falling all over him. In his daydreams, Connor was the star; the lead singer. Women went wild over him. They swooned, and threw their underwear at the stage, the way he’d heard women often did when things got rowdy at a concert.

But that’s all his thoughts were. Stupid dreams.

Everyone knew women didn’t fall for some guy in a wheelchair.

And if dumb-ass Bart Denson and his loser friends knew he fancied himself a guitar player—a country one at that—he’d never live it down.

Connor recalled how the girls who’d been with ol’ Fart-Bart earlier had stared at him when he’d tipped his chair. God, he’d wanted to die right then and there, humiliated. And that made him furious. It seemed to be the only way girls ever looked at him—with pity or morbid curiosity.

Nope. He’d never be like his dad.

And he’d be damned if he’d ever let anyone know how much that bothered him.

DERRICK FINISHED his first set and announced a break to the audience. He shrugged out of his guitar strap, and carefully leaned the Gibson on a stand. He hadn’t missed the way Kara had focused on him as he sang.

With a cloth, he wiped the sweat from his forehead. Two women were sitting at the table with her and Connor. The blonde looked familiar, and he’d possibly seen the dark-haired one here once or twice as well. Hannah Williamson had arrived earlier but must’ve left already.

Feeling a natural high that stemmed from his music, Derrick headed their way, bottled water in hand. The atmosphere of the Silver Spur surrounded him like an old friend.

“Still here, I see.” He grinned and pulled out a chair between Kara and Connor.

“Of course,” she said. “Your band’s great.”

“So we didn’t run you off, then?”

“Are you kidding?” said the blond woman. “You guys ought to be in Nashville.”

Derrick laughed. “I don’t know about that.” He took a swig of water just as Dr. Williamson rejoined the group, coming from the direction of the ladies room. She was his vet’s partner and sometimes took care of Taz.

“Well, hello, Derrick,” she said.

“How’s it going?”

“Ah, you know Hannah,” Kara said, over the noise of the jukebox. “This is Danita Sanchez and Beth Murphy.”

“Looks like you’re in good company, son,” Derrick said, after nodding a greeting to the others.

Connor blushed.

“I’d say we’re the ones in good company,” Kara said. “As a matter of fact, I was just about to ask Connor to dance.”

“Yeah, right,” the boy muttered.

“Come on. Please?”

Connor started to protest more, but Kara overrode him. “No excuses. I’m dying to take a spin on the floor, but I’m sort of rusty.” She stood and held out her hand. “You’ll have to go slow.”

“Like that’ll be a problem.” Connor wheeled his chair onto the dance floor with as much enthusiasm as an acrophobic who’d been invited to go base jumping.

Fascinated, Derrick kept his gaze locked on Kara. A Lee Ann Womack song about choosing to dance through life played on the jukebox, and Kara leaned over Connor’s wheelchair, one hand on his right shoulder, and whispered in his ear. With the other, she took hold of the chair’s armrest. Looking sheepish, Connor laced one arm through hers in a way that enabled him to still maneuver the wheelchair.