Page 128 of One Last Shot

I'll keep searchin’ for her, though she’s not around.

Maybe fate will lead her back to me.

Until then, I’ll live in this bittersweet melody.”

“Wow,” her father said. “Left an impression, huh, Brontë?”

She gave her father a look.

He glanced at Doyle, then her mother. “It’s about time a man figured out what he lost.” He reached for a muffin. “Although, I would think a decent guy would talk to her father about his intentions before singing her love songs on national television.”

Oh brother.

Oaken finished the chorus again, and now Katie walked over to him, along with Mike, applauding. “When will the series air, Oaken?”

“I think it comes out in a couple weeks. And the movie—it’s filming this summer, in Montana.”

“What’s next for you?” Mike said.

Oaken looked at the camera. Smiled. “As Mike Grizz would say, the best is yet to come.”

Please.

She reached for the remote and turned it off.

Silence filled the kitchen.

“It’s just for show,” she said. “Really.”

“Hmm,” her mother said and grabbed hot pads to open the oven.

From the table in the kitchen, a phone rang.

Oh great. Now it would be Oaken. Ormaybe London. Or...

She stared at the screen, her heart in her throat.Blake?

“It’s raining men,” Doyle said, walking past her as she hung up.

Oaken blamed his producer for why he’d ended up on a horse in the middle of a spring-swept prairie, the sun high, the air smelling of fescue and bluegrass, the prairie rolling as far as his eye could see.

In the distance, nestled into a valley, sat the Fox Ranch two-story homestead house, the big white barn, and the pens for cattle.

His father’s house, a smaller version of his grandparents’ home, sat on a hill less than a half mile away.

“How you doing, Oak?” His father sat on Scout, a quarter horse, and turned in the saddle.

“Sore.”

“Figured. A couple more days and you’ll be as broke in as Rio there.”

Oaken shifted in the saddle, his legs and back burning. So maybe he’d idealized his childhood on the ranch a little, following cattle around as they drove them to a new pasture. Or rode fence.

His father rode back to him. Arie Fox had John Dutton written all over him—strong, quiet, thinking. He wore jeans, a canvas jacket, a black Stetson, and boots, and sat in the saddle as if he’d been born there. “Stick around a few more days and you can help with branding.”

“I dunno, Pop,” Oaken said, laughing. “I just needed to air out my brain. Not get kicked in the head.”

His dad nodded, smiling. “Well, I’m just glad to see you, son. The land gets lonely out here sometimes.”