Our Broken Roads: Fortune Creek, #2

By Amanda Davis and Amy Callahan

A Sweet, Clean, Country Music Star Romance

 

Jackson Holt has finally achieved the pinnacle of fame. He just never thought being a platinum country recording artist would leave him feeling so hollow inside. He knows just the woman who could fill his empty void, his assistant Red. But women like Red don't fall for men like him.

 

Audrey Reid, a.k.a. Red, is a single mother of a young son. The last thing she needs is a party guy like Jackson Holt in her life. If only her brain could convince her heart of that.

 

When Audrey is tasked with "babysitting" Jackson during his R&R back in Fortune Creek, she may find it harder than she thought to keep a lid on her feelings for him. Especially since the more she gets to know the real Jackson, the more he's proving he's not the hard-drinking womanizer she thought. Not even close.

 

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This book takes place 5 years after the events of the first book, Mail Order Family.

 

Our Broken Roads is a short, 30,000-word romance. It is a sweet, contemporary romance with inspirational themes of family, faith, and love. As always, it is clean and wholesome with a guaranteed happily ever after ending.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blue Pines Sweet Romance
• Release date: Nov 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215627822

Book preview

1

Jackson Holt slumped down in the back seat of the taxi. He could still hear Heather, Tanner and Chloe hollering and waving their goodbyes from the driveway, and see the other guests ambling across the yard strewn with fairy lights to climb into their pick-up trucks and four-wheel drives. Most of them were families with kids—hyped-up on candy and soda—running and weaving around their parents. Seeing his brother Tanner and Tanner’s tight-knit family always made Jackson feel like he was split in two.

One half of him was happy—thrilled really—warmed by witnessing the love his brother and Heather shared and pleasantly surprised to see how much his niece, Chloe, had grown. Tanner and Heather’s shared intimacy seemed to flow naturally and their relationship was clearly honest and straight-forward.

The other half of him felt sheer misery, like a poison which threatened to seep into all the other good aspects of a visit. The poison of loneliness and longing. Loneliness that was fast becoming bitter. He slipped the small flask of bourbon out of his pocket and took a quick swig. That tasted bitter too. Willing himself to relax as the drink lit a fire in his gut, he watched the sapling cottonwoods grow thicker and more populous, black against the inky dusk sky as the car drove further down the valley of Fortune Creek.

---

No planes flying this time of night, the taxi driver volunteered as the car drove into the parking lot of the airport

Y’all might have to stay over in the guest house, he continued.

Jackson grunted, rubbing stiff fingers over an unshaven jaw to try and wake himself. The empty bottle of bourbon slid about on the seat next to him.

There is for me, he replied dully.

The taxi driver squinted at him in the rear-view mirror.

Is that right?

Jackson gave a non-committal grunt.

Well I’ll be doggone! The taxi driver suddenly exclaimed, slamming his foot down on the brakes as they pulled up beneath one of the lone streetlamps on the lot.

"You’re Jackson Holt! The Jackson Holt! I barely recognized you! Well, I heard you came from these parts—I can’t rightly remember who told me that—but you were a regular down at Jake’s Place. You used to play there every weekend, right?"

Right, Jackson mumbled. But I don’t come from here.

You don’t?

Jackson shook his head, hunting around for his wallet.

Not originally.

Well, where you come from?

Wilkes.

The driver shrugged, unbothered that the world-famous Jackson Holt wasn’t actually born in Fortune Creek. He was here now, and that’s what mattered.

Hey, will you sign that twenty for me? The taxi driver asked as Jackson handed him his tip. "Make it out to Maddie. That’s my wife. We danced to your song at our fiftieth wedding anniversary…Come on home, mend my heart, breathing sighs to clear blue skies…" the old man warbled, mimicking Jackson’s deep, husky rasping voice that had won over the hearts of millions of Americans, and created devoted fans dotted all across the globe.

Jackson quickly signed the bill and added another, over-tipping with the hope the guy would let him get on his way.

You’ve made my night, the taxi driver beamed at him. And I mean that. My wife gets awful romantic when she hears your name. I can’t wait ‘til I hand her your autograph. Tonight’s my lucky night, yesiree!

Jackson nodded, slamming the passenger door behind him. He hadn’t brought any luggage with him to Fortune Creek. The visit was a fly-by-night one, as they all were now. Get in, say hellos and be smothered by Chloe and Heather’s love—a love he was entirely undeserving of—then get on his way.

Here’s my card, the taxi driver handed him a business card from the open window. You fly into these parts again, let me know ahead of time and I’ll come pick you up in something real fancy.

Thanks, Jackson muttered. The last thing he wanted was to be conspicuous. Especially in Fortune Creek. He wore his oldest, most beat up leather jacket and ten year old jeans. The only nod to the occasion tonight had been a white, ironed shirt that his assistant had threatened to throttle him with if he didn’t wear. It was creased and rumpled now, hanging off a frame that was growing steadily gaunter as the tours wore on, and the demanding schedule took its toll on him.

He made his way to the entrance of Fortune Creek Airport. It’s timber roof-top and frame work made it look more like a quaint country restaurant than anything else. The doors opened automatically, and Jackson made his way into the ghost-town of an empty airport. The Hertz and Avis kiosks were shuttered, and Jennies Café was in complete darkness. To his right, there was a giant stag carved out of oak standing in front of the empty check-in rows.

Jackson Holt? A voice called out from the opposite end of the building.

Yep, he confirmed.

The man made his way briskly toward him, dressed in the crisp, dark pilot’s uniform. His footsteps squeaked and echoed in the silence.

Pleased to meet you sir, I’m James O’Leary and I’m your captain this evening. If you’ll follow me right this way. He ushered Jackson towards the exit, and back out into the balmy night.

The engines of the small, two-seater plane were already running.

We’re a bit behind schedule, O’Leary yelled to be heard over the jets.

My fault.

We’ll be there in just under two hours.

He would arrive at his concert just in the nick of time, if the traffic was manageable. Jackson tried to relax. This was so often the way, in his new life. Other people being responsible for his movements, telling him where to be, when to be there, ushering him from car, to plane, to boat, and once, on a world tour in Vietnam, a bicycle. It made him feel entirely powerless. Every last bit of control he had over his own life ran continually through his fingers like grains of sand.

As the ground dropped away beneath them, Fortune Creek became nothing more than yellowing lights floating on a black mass of forest. Jackson strummed his fingers idly on his jeans, missing his guitar.

Do you have any idea what the time it is?

Jared Coll stood outside the stage door, his face white with panic.

About five minutes before I need to go on, drawled Jackson. I got this. We knew it would be tight. Where’s my baby?

She’s in there. Jared indicated a small room off the hallway. I could murder you, Holt.

Yeah, yeah. Jackson waved his manager away. He’d heard it all before. He pushed the door, opening it up to a dingy room with a lone light in the corner. On a leather sofa, almost as battered as his own jacket, the light of his life sat upright and gleaming with polished wood and chrome.

Jackson picked her up by the neck, lightly brushing the fretboard. He strummed a couple of notes, intuitively re-pitching the instrument, knowing its voice better than his own. He hummed quietly, entirely absorbed in his task.

You drunk, Holt? Jared asked.

Not drunk enough.

Fantastic! Jared said sarcastically. He threw his hands in the air and shook his head mouthing words to the ceiling before pushing the door back open and hollering out into the hallway, Red! Get a coffee in here pronto!

Already here.

Jackson looked up from his task and smiled. Audrey, aka Red, his long-suffering assistant, stood framed in the doorway next to Jared, frowning at him. She did not look pleased.

Aw, Red. Not you too?

I’m not saying a thing, she snapped back. She held out the coffee, her lips pursed in displeasure. Let’s see if you can walk a straight-line to come and get it.

Jackson ambled over with ease. They always thought he was drunker than he actually was. No matter how much he consumed, nor how much weight he lost, neither ever seemed to make a difference in the way he could hold his liquor. And the liquor never seemed to fill the void.

Slick, Holt. Jared muttered, still sounding perturbed but Jackson could see the relief in his eyes.

"Alright. You’re