“They’re happier than pigs in shit,” Creasy says.
“I thought you said you had bad news.”
“I do,” Creasy says. “While everybody’s tickled pink about you, they’re mad as hell at Kyle.”
My stomach sinks.
“He’s napping in the truck while you’re in there taking on two bad guys all by yourself.”
“There’s nothing he could have done,” I say. “No way he could have known.”
What I’m saying is true. But public perception is something else entirely.
Your everyday Ranger can typically fly under the public radar, but once you’re a lieutenant, you’re kind of a public figure.
“What’s the media coverage been like?” I ask.
The way to know if a news story is going to get airplay is if there’s video of it, plain and simple. If someone took a cell-phone video of a firefighter saving a cat from a tree, that story will get a hundred times more airplay than someone saving a school bus full of children if there were no amateur videographers around to witness it.
“That’s the other bit of bad news,” Creasy says. “Somebody leaked the security footage of what happened inside the bank.”
If my stomach sank before, now it plummets.
“It’s gone viral,” Creasy says. “Hell, there’re half a million hits on YouTube already.”
“Jesus,” I mutter. “No one needs to see that.”
Creasy says the news stations are warning viewers about the violent subject matter before they air the video on repeat.
“You’re gonna be a bona fide media hero,” Creasy says. “The switchboard at headquarters can’t handle all the calls. I bet the Today show or Good Morning America tries to get you on there. No way the chief lets that happen, but it’s a shit show down at headquarters, that’s for sure.”
I feel sick. Even more sick than I did before.
I walk back over to the porch and plop down in my chair. On the surface, this shouldn’t seem like such bad news. As long as no one thinks I did anything wrong, I’m not in any danger of being reprimanded. It might be good publicity for the Rangers. But the bottom line is, I just don’t want the attention.
Last year, I was connected to a series of high-profile murders. The first victim was my ex-wife, Anne, who—up until then anyway—was the love of my life. Once the case was solved, my name was all over the papers, and the headlines weren’t always good. I’d earned a reputation for being a hothead willing to bend—or even break—the rules.
Ever since, I’ve been trying to keep my head down, follow the rules, be the best Ranger I can be.
“I hope like hell no one’s shown that video to Willow,” I tell Creasy.
As if the universe could hear our conversation, an incoming call buzzes in my ear.
It’s Willow.
“I gotta go,” I tell Creasy.
When I pick up, Willow is crying on the other end.
Chapter 6
“ARE YOU OKAY?” Willow says, barely able to talk through her sobs.
I admit that I’m shaken up and a bit numb, but I assure her I’m unharmed.
Willow says that when she finished her set in Sacramento, one of the crew said, “Hey, is this your Texas Ranger boyfriend?” and shoved an iPad in her face. Without knowing what she was getting into, she watched the video of me in the standoff.
“That guy shot the hat right off your head,” she says.
I apologize for not calling to tell her. I didn’t want her to be an emotional wreck before she had to perform.
“I have to join Dierks in fifteen minutes for a duet of ‘Long Trip Alone,’” she says. “I don’t know how I’m gonna do it. I’m shaking like a leaf.”
“You can do it,” I say. “You’re a professional.”
The first time I ever saw Willow was when she was onstage. It was in a roadhouse bar, not a big concert venue, but she had a magnetism that was undeniable. She’s a looker, no doubt about it, with blond hair and curves in all the right places. But what I loved about her the most was her voice. She sounds like Carrie Underwood—and can hit the same notes—but there’s also a raspy undertone to her voice that’s sexy as hell.
I think I fell in love with her the first time I saw her perform. Whether it was love at first sight or love at first sound, I can’t be sure.
Willow’s not a fragile person—she’s one of the toughest people I’ve ever met—but she just watched me not only come close to dying but also kill two people.
I can tell she’s starting to pull herself together. I think she just needed to hear my voice.
“How was the show?” I ask, trying to divert the conversation away from death.
She fills me in on the latest in her life. After tonight’s concert, there’s a break in the tour, and she’ll be flying back to Nashville to record the final songs for the album.
“Any chance you can come visit?” she says.
In theory, I could. I’ll be on leave for at least a few days, maybe a few weeks. Any time a Ranger is involved in a shooting, there’s a period of investigation. But I know what will happen if I fly to Nashville. Willow will be so busy we won’t get to spend any quality time together. She’ll have late-night recording sessions or be asked to visit one promotional event after another. With her debut album on the horizon, she pretty much needs to do everything she’s asked these days.
I want to support her, but what I need right now is the comfort of home. I need to heal by helping Dad on the ranch, eating Mom’s home-cooked meals. I’d give just about anything to have Willow fly back to Texas and spend some time here, but getting on a plane and flying to Tennessee is the last thing I want to do right now.
I try to explain this the best I can to Willow, but it turns our conversation melancholy. We talk a little more about trivial matters, but I get the impression we’re both thinking about what’s not being said.
Her career is taking off, and the long-distance thing we’re doing can last only so long. If I’m not willing to take the plunge and move to Tennessee, what are we going to do?
And after today—when I almost died in the line of duty—I imagine Willow is wondering what she’s gotten herself into. Can her heart really handle being in love with a Texas Ranger?
Are our careers compatible?
As great as we are together, are we really compatible?
“I gotta go,” Willow says. “I’m due onstage.”
I tell her I love her and hang up. I stand alone in the darkness, listening to the chirp of the insects and looking up at the stars. They don’t shine quite as bright as they used to with all the light pollution seeping up from the horizon, that’s for sure. I pick up my empty beer bottle and head into the house.
Thinking of Willow performing seventeen hundred miles away, I open my laptop and go to YouTube to find a video of her. I watch the video that made her an internet sensation—just her, sitting onstage on a barstool, with her leg in a cast and a guitar in her hands.
That’s my girlfriend, I think proudly.
I catch myself smiling.
Before closing the computer, I feel a temptation. I search for my name, and sure enough a video pops up showing a grayish image of me in the bank. I press Play. There’s no sound, but I can see myself talking to the robber with a gun to my head. When the one with the machine gun climbs onto the counter, we’re all three in the frame. My heart is pounding as I watch. On the screen, I drop to my knee and a flash of light takes the hat off my head—