Back to the country, p.1
Back to the Country, page 1
MANDY MAGRO lives in Cairns, Far North Queensland, with her daughter, Chloe Rose, and their adorable toy poodle, Sophie. With pristine aqua-blue coastline in one direction and sweeping rural landscapes in the other, she describes her home as heaven on earth. A passionate woman and a romantic at heart, Mandy loves writing about soul-deep love, the Australian rural way of life, and the wonderful characters who call the country home.
Also by Mandy Magro
Rosalee Station
Jacaranda
Flame Tree Hill
Driftwood
Country at Heart
The Wildwood Sisters
Bluegrass Bend
Walking the Line
Along Country Roads
Moment of Truth
A Country Mile
Return to Rosalee Station
Secrets of Silvergum
Riverstone Ridge
The Stockman’s Secret
Home Sweet Home
Savannah’s Secret
Road to Rosalee
romance.com.au
For my amazing gentleman, Des, who has proven how love conquers all.
I love the way you love me, unconditionally, patiently, kindly, with wit and optimism.
Mine and Chloe’s world is now so much brighter. 143, and all, my forevermore. xx
Bright lights and fame will spark the inner fire for only so long, before the dying embers need more than shallow kindling to remain alight …
CONTENTS
Also by Mandy Magro
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Acknowledgments
PROLOGUE
Overwhelming exhaustion wrapped around Indigo Nash like a heavy cloak. What she’d give to be able to close her eyes and sleep for days, but just like every other day, she couldn’t afford to be weary. No rest for the wicked, her actually wicked father would say, if they were on speaking terms. All work and no play is bad for the soul, her late mother would have said if Indigo’s prayers were answered, and she got to hear her sweet voice once more.
Feeling way older than her twenty-seven years, she popped the last two NoDoz capsules from the blister pack and tossed the tablets into her mouth with a swig of coconut water. Her vivid green eyes glued to the glamorous woman in mirror, she stared at her reflection as if really seeing herself for the very first time since being discovered by the Capitol Records talent scout at a Nashville honky-tonk five years ago. Although she was the spitting image of her mother, it was as if she were eyeing a stranger. Just as the effervescent young woman she’d once been had disappeared, the freckles that normally dusted her cheeks were nowhere to be seen. But thankfully, neither were the dark circles that had become a permanent part of her gruelling reality.
Two hours before every one of her sellout shows was spent grooming herself into a picture of flawlessness – her fans and record label expected her to shine bright and she painstakingly strived to meet their expectations. And she liked to do this herself; the thought of other people plucking and preening her was very uninviting. Touching was for people she was close to, and they were few and far between. At first, it had been exciting to get all dolled up to maintain the Country Music’s Sweetheart title she’d attained very early on in America, but now, it was downright exhausting.
With her make-up finally done, and her usually wild auburn locks styled to within an inch of their life, she placed her blusher down and stared in the mirror with a sigh. Her throat tightened – where had the wild-haired tomboy of her youth gone, the one who lived to ride a horse like she stole it, who ended each day covered in dirt with leaves and god only knew what tangled up in her knotty hair? Somewhere between her mother’s untimely death, her older brother’s disappearance, and this long, steep road to fame, she’d gone and lost herself. Completely. Something she always swore she’d never do.
She blinked past the unexpected surge of emotion – tears would ruin her mascara and she didn’t have the time to fix it. She’d been so desperate to prove herself, to make a mark in this cutthroat world so she never had to return to the life, and man, she loathed. She could still hear her father’s drunken voice loud and clear, on the morning she’d finally had enough of his cruelty: ‘You are your father’s daughter, Indigo Nash. You’re never going to amount to nothing.’
Well, she’d gone and showed him, hadn’t she? Not that he cared. But a Grammy would fix that.
Desperate for air, she shot to her feet, grabbed her coat and dashed out of her dressing room. Her bodyguard, and childhood friend, had lectured her again and again to never go anywhere alone, but she just needed a few minutes to gather her wits before going on stage. The back door of the tavern was almost as stubborn as she was, and she had to give it a firm shove before slipping out of the noisy bustle and into the snowflake-dusted night. Her breath escaping her in little white puffs, she tugged her sheepskin-lined R.M. Williams jacket in tighter as darkness engulfed her.
Closing her eyes, she drew in a slow, deep breath and, counting to six, blew it away. The sharp blow to her head came out of nowhere. With no time to react or call for help, she was pinned between a mammoth man and the wall of the alleyway. His hand, pressing painfully hard against her mouth, tasted like sweat and filth. His other hand gripped her wrists and twisted them painfully up behind her. He snarled into her ear, ordering her not to cry, and she bit back sobs. His chin dug into her shoulder, and his laboured breath was rife with the putrid stench of alcohol. Then, to her horror, she heard his zipper going down. Her blood froze solid in her veins. Even though this sick bastard was almost twice her size, she had to do something, anything. Now.
Gritting her teeth, she lifted her left leg, hard and fast. Her knee hit the mark and with a cry, he buckled. It gave her a moment to retaliate, to fight for her life.
‘Harley! Help me!’ Her scream echoed.
Her attacker swore viciously as she used every bit of strength to try to break free from his hold – kicking, punching, scratching – but he quickly overpowered her and wrapped his hands around her throat, terrifyingly tight. She gasped for breath, clawing at his fingers, but his grip constricted even more. Her boots lifting from the ground, her vision blurred … until, from the shadows, a fist connected with the side of her attacker’s jaw with a bone-shattering crunch.
Flying backwards, her assailant landed with an almighty thud, sending bins tumbling and rolling, his body limp, motionless.
Her knight in shining armour turned to her. ‘Indy?’
Heaving a breath and shaking like a leaf, Indigo fell into the safe haven of Harley Knight’s arms.
CHAPTER
1
Two months later
Pulling on her favourite Old Gringo turquoise ankle boots, Indigo was relieved to be almost at the end of her tour. She could hear the six thousand–strong mob of country music lovers sardined into Billy Bob’s Texas, chanting her name. The noise vibrated through her chest, giving rise to that awful numbing panic she’d become accustomed to these past few months. The assault had left her with way more than bruises and a heightened sense of caution. Crippling panic attacks had become more and more frequent. Just like the deranged man who’d attacked her, the bouts of anxiety crept up on her, quickening her breaths, clamming her hands, shaking her to her very core, and usually at the most inconvenient of times. It was becoming harder and harder to get through the flight-or-fight sensation, especially when out on stage, under the attentive eyes of her fans. She dreaded news of her condition getting into the hands of the media – they’d twist it, ruin her career in a heartbeat for headline, and foil her ultimate goal of winning a Grammy for the Best Female Country Artist. She’d worked way too hard to lose that now. With a handful of trendy up-and-comers hot on her tail, the slippery slope of a burnt-out artist lingered menacingly. She didn’t need to give the tabloids any ammunition, even if she wasn’t sure how much longer she could teeter on the edge.
Surely she could find light at the end of this horribly dark tunnel? She prayed for it every single day. For now, the anxiety medication eased the severity of a full-blown attack, and the Valium was helping her frayed nerves.
She couldn’t be throwing away a musical career others would kill for because of her damn anxiety, especially before she could plant a Grammy on her shelf. Once she had that Grammy, she might allow herself a reprieve, some time to rest and recoup, to decide her next step.
You are your father’s daughter, Indigo Nash …
Blinking back hot tears, she paced her dressing room. She hated how her father’s nasty words still haunted her. As a seventeen-year-old, she’d run away from home, and him, with nothing but her mum’s guitar, a few hundred dollars in her back pocket and a big dream. She’d never looked back.
And look at her now. Having grown up dirt poor, she now had more money than she knew what to do with. If only she had that someone special to share it all with – not an easy feat when she didn’t have time for a relationship. Spending years living on the road, with no place to put her boot
Then there was the matter of dragging her brother’s best mate from pillar to post. A former boxing pro, Harley Knight was no ordinary guy. Six-foot four, chiselled from head to toe, chocolate-brown hair and striking blue eyes, he could melt a girl’s heart at first sight. The women of Kuranda had been drooling over him since teenage hormones had kicked in, and now even more so – he was one hell of a man, and a total horseman at heart. Surely this showbiz existence wasn’t the life he wanted to lead? Not that he’d ever let on as much. She’d become so close to him over the years, especially the past five on the road, that the very thought of doing all this without him by her side terrified her. Even the idea that he was heading home in between this tour and the next to visit his sister, Amy, made her heart ache.
Neighbours growing up, she and Harley had gone from riding their horses bareback, jumping out of trees into red claw–packed dams, to rubbing shoulders with the high and mighty of the country music scene in Nashville in what felt like the blink of an eye. Back then, she’d been the daredevil tomboy, and he’d been a willing participant on their many adventures, always nearby to make her laugh, or to save her from many a bad decision. And here he was, still doing exactly that, if on a much grander scale. Biggest difference was that now it was for a substantial pay cheque, well-earned by his constant hard work.
If she’d thought she’d had a crush on him way back when, the flames of the fire he’d lit inside her heart as a lanky teenage boy now burnt like wildfire – not that she’d ever tell him so. He’d always seen her like a little sister, and even told her as much, and his little sister was her best mate – a friendship she would never risk by stepping over the line.
With a deep inhalation, Indigo did her best to quieten her racing mind, heart and thoughts. She was tougher than all of this – or so she liked to tell herself. Rising from the ashes had been her life’s motto, which was why she’d called her latest hit album the same. She focused on the lemon myrtle candles flickering dancing shadows over the plush dressing room – Amy had sent them, and the scent made her homesick for Australia, but she wasn’t about to run with it.
With her nerves threatening to get the better of her, she popped two Valium out of the crumpled blister pack with trembling hands, tossed them into her mouth and washed them down with a glug from her water bottle. Nobody needed to know it was filled with vodka – it helped to take the edge off before a show.
A firm rap at the door had her turning to see her bodyguard – slash manager, slash best friend’s older brother, slash girlhood crush, slash ex-band member when they were teenagers – glide into the room. He looked as handsome as ever in his new Akubra, with chiselled jaw and kissable lips – that one time when she was fifteen and a little drunk from the beers they’d stolen from her father’s fridge still lingered, as did his shocked response reminding her she was like a little sister to him and that kissing each other was off-limits.
‘You good to go, Indy?’ Harley thumbed over his incredibly broad shoulders. ‘The crowd is pumping out there.’
‘Yeah, I can hear that.’ She hoped to god he wouldn’t smell the alcohol on her breath. ‘Just a few minutes and I’ll be ready to rock it.’
Closing the distance, he regarded her with expressive blue eyes. ‘You don’t look so good.’ He felt her forehead, the tenderness palpable in his touch. ‘You feel a little hot, are you coming down with something?’
Vodka always heated her up. ‘No, I don’t think so.’ Staring at the place she ached to rest her cheek, where his strapping chest poked out of his button-up black shirt, she blinked back another onslaught of tears, her breath seizing. ‘It’s my anxiety rearing its ugly head again. I don’t think I can do it tonight, Harley.’ Her thoughts scattered like a tumbleweed in the wind. She sucked in a desperate, wheezing breath, followed by another.
Harley’s deep gaze filled with compassion. ‘Yes, you can, Indigo Nash, and you will, just like all the other nights. You thought your nerves would get the better of you, but then you pushed through the fear and blew the socks off your fans.’ He rubbed her back, soothingly, reassuringly. ‘Not much longer, and you can put your boots up for a few weeks and take some much-needed time to rest.’
Remaining bent at the hips, her hands resting on her denim-clad knees, she nodded as she tried to slow her breathing. She had decided to not tell Harley she’d be in the recording studio by mid-next week. Idle time would lead to idle thoughts – she was afraid to stay still for too long.
‘That’s it, take long, slow breaths.’ Harley’s comforting voice helped to soothe the panic. ‘You got this, Indy. You’re way stronger than you give yourself credit for.’
After a few lengthy moments, she straightened but, woozy from the amount of liquor she’d thrown back, now coupled with the Valium, she found it hard to look him in the eyes. She hated herself for resorting to alcohol, just like her father had when her mother had died. Like father, like daughter. Surely she was better than this?
Harley framed her face with his hands, forcing her to look at him. ‘Nothing bad is going to happen to you. I won’t let it.’ His eyes searched hers. ‘You believe me, right?’
‘Uh-huh.’ And she did, wholeheartedly.
Biting her quivering lip, she gave in to her desperate need to be close to him, resting her forehead against his chest. ‘Thank you for looking after me like you do,’ she whispered. ‘I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you.’
‘No need to thank me, you crazy, beautiful woman.’ His deep chuckles lightened the sombre mood of the dressing room. ‘Now, come on, Miss Nash, let’s get this show on the road before your fans barge their way into your dressing room.’ He grimaced. ‘Because that could get real messy.’
‘Ha ha. In that case, I suppose I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.’ She took one last look in the mirror, deciding to powder her cheeks to counteract the cold sweat that had broken out. Closing the lid on the concealer, she leant in closer, sighing at the hint of the dark rings beneath her eyes. Then, tossing the long locks of auburn hair over her shoulder, she squared them as she spun to face the only man she’d ever been able to trust with all of her heart. ‘Thank god for make-up, otherwise I’d look like absolute crap.’
Harley looked her up and down in his slow and easy style. ‘You look amazing, as always, Indy.’ He gestured over his shoulder with a tip of his head. ‘Now come on, your fans want you out yonder.’
With her heart in her throat, Indigo followed Harley out the door and up to the back of the stage. The hustle and bustle of the tech team rattled her a little more, but the protective presence of Harley allowed her to take one step after the other. He had her back. He made her feel safe. If it weren’t for him …
As if reading her mind, he offered her one last meaningful look, giving her the kick she needed to step through the velvet curtains. Her band was right on cue as she drew in a deep breath and strode on stage. Momentarily blinded by the spotlight, she raised her arms to the deafening roar of the crowd, her distinctive showstopping smile something she’d learnt to master in all her years on the stage. The fog machines whirred to life, creating an amazing visual effect along with the colourful strobe lighting. Staring into the sea of eager faces and wide-brimmed hats, she pushed through her fear, grabbed the microphone from the stand and broke into the lyrics of her number-one hit, ‘Gotta Give’.
‘You gotta give a lot to get a little, in this hard-hitting world, and you’ve gotta give a lot to get a little from this hard-hitting country girl … cause she ain’t no pushover, and she ain’t no saint, but she ain’t no sinner until you make her heart break … yeah, yeah, yeah.’ Her backup singers harmonised with her, all four of them perfectly in tune. And the crowd sang along too, way out of tune, but with so much passion and gusto, it gave rise to a flood of goosebumps on her arms.
