Heartland

Cover Copy

Sex, drugs, and country music. That was the lifestyle for Emily Kendall, a Texas girl who hit it big on the country music charts—until she found herself pregnant and battling addiction. Now out of rehab and seeking a new life for herself and her unborn child, Emily returns to her hometown of McAllister. The last thing she’s looking for is trouble, no matter how good it looks in uniform…

A widower, single father, and former Army Ranger struggling with PTSD, Sheriff EJ Cowley has his own demons to battle while keeping folks safe. The last thing he needs is a troubled celebrity speeding through town in her bright red Mazerati. But when someone from Emily’s past threatens her safety and the peace of McAllister, EJ has no choice but to protect her. And soon both will learn there’s more to the other than meets the eye. And that wounded hearts can love again…

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Books by Sara Walter Ellwood

Colton Gamblers Series

Gambling On A Secret, Book One

Gambling On A Heart, Book Two

Gambling On A Dream, Book Three

Singing to the Heart

Heartstrings

Heartsong

Heartland

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

Heartland

A Singing to the Heart Novel

Sara Walter Ellwood

LYRICAL PRESS

Kensington Publishing Corp.

www.kensingtonbooks.com

Copyright

Lyrical Press books are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018

Copyright © 2016 by Sara Walter Ellwood

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First Electronic Edition: June 2016

eISBN-13: 978-1-60183-490-4

eISBN-10: 1-60183-490-X

First Print Edition: June 2016

ISBN-13: 978-1-60183-491-1

ISBN-10: 1-60183-491-8

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

To my family.
  Thank you for being there for me…

Chapter 1

Emily Kendall was tired of life-changing events. She’d had enough. But God or whatever fate controlled the universe wasn’t done fucking with her life. “Are you sure? Hell, it’s been weeks since I’ve even seen my husband, let alone had sex. Maybe the test was wrong.”

She’d heard many life-changing words in her twenty-two years. The first had come when she was fourteen and discovered superstar country singer Seth Kendall was her biological father. A few weeks after that revelation, the man she’d grown up loving as her father had shot her real dad and planned to kidnap her to sell into sex slavery. She shuddered and rubbed her hands over the pricking of goose bumps on her bare arms.

Since then, a lot had happened. She’d become a famous country music star. Most people would even argue that she was more famous than her dad, who helped her get her first record deal when she was barely fifteen. She broke sales records set by some of the best singers in the business, won countless awards, and sponsored everything from acne creams to jeans.

When she was three months shy of turning twenty, she’d met the British pop star Fabian McPhee. They’d collaborated on a TV special for the CMT network. He was fifteen years older than her, mega famous, and super sexy. A month later while she was on tour in Australia, he’d asked her out to a nightclub.

That night had been full of firsts. Fabian introduced her to what would become her drugs of choice--cocaine and gin. Then, she’d lost her virginity to him. She’d thought she was in love. He was like no one she’d ever known. Despite her parents’ outrage over their tabloid-crazed, whirlwind relationship, two months after their first date they were married by Fabian’s drummer, who happened to be an ordained minister from some online course he’d taken.

The medical director of the facility sitting across the wide, gleaming oak desk leaned forward and clasped his hands. “Your blood test isn’t wrong. You are pregnant.”

“Fuck.” She was on a birth control shot, but she’d forgotten to get it. The last time she’d seen Fabian had been about six weeks ago. They’d had sex, but she thought he’d used a condom. She couldn’t remember much of the event, like most of their two years of married life together. They’d split up ten months ago, but neither of them had gotten around to filing for divorce or could resist an occasional tumble in the sack or getting high together.

Not able to sit still any longer, she stood to pace the length of the posh office and folded her arms tightly around herself to stave off the shivering. At the same time sweat ran along her hairline and down the side of her face. She’d been here for three days and already wanted to get the hell out of the medical facility. “How far along am I?”

Dr. Barton slid his finger over the screen of the computer tablet on his desk. “According to the history you gave the nurse who checked you in and your hCG level…” When she furrowed her brows trying to remember what the letters stood for, he clarified, “Pregnancy hormone. You would have to be six weeks.”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Her skin was too tight and hot. A coating of sweat caused her fingers to stick together, and she wiped her shaky hands on her jeans. Turning toward the window, she stared out at the woodland park surrounding the Fernwood Rehabilitation Center. In the past three years, she’d checked into the facility’s drug and alcohol program to sober up three times, and each admission had been against her will. She didn’t belong here because she wasn’t an addict. Whose business was it if she went a little too far this last time and was booed off stage? The venue, if a college auditorium could justify that name, sucked anyway.

This news was the last thing she needed to hear. She turned and vigorously rubbed her arms, needing a hit right now. The desire for a line of coke brought to mind another issue. She remembered when her mother had been pregnant with her brother five years ago she wouldn’t even take Tylenol for her headaches. Did she honestly want to know the answer to what all the coke she’d snorted could have done to her baby if her mother had been afraid to take something as harmless as over-the-counter pain pills? But she had to know if she’d harmed her child. “Do you know if the baby is okay?”

Dr. Barton stood to come around his desk. He leaned his backside on the heavy oak edge and folded his hands before him. “I don’t know. Emily, there is a chance your baby will be born with problems. You are an addict.” He held up his hand when she started to protest. “No, I’m not listening to your rationalizations. You’ve got to stop the drugs.”

“I can quit. I have before.”

He took a deep breath that made his shoulders rise, then fall. “And yet here you are again. Why were you admitted this time?”

She needed to get the hell away. “My manager has gotten a little too big for her pants.” Maybe she should fire Trish Russell for talking her into even thinking about this place again. Trish had been her manager for three years, ever since she was promoted by her father-in-law and took Emily on as one of her first clients. She considered Trish one of her few true friends, but, sometimes, the older woman was a pain in the ass.

With a huff of derision, she spun on her heels, which made her lose her balance as dizziness whipped her world out of control. Grabbing the back of the chair to keep from falling over, she tossed over her shoulder, “I think we’re done here.”

“Emily, I’ll let you go as soon as you tell me why you are here.”

She stopped halfway to the door. If she didn’t answer him, he’d only follow her. Letting out a long breath, she stared at the white-painted ceiling. “I’m here because I was too high to sing.”

The past five shows were a blur. Nothing fun or amazing about any of them. No fans waiting for her to autograph their T-shirts. But then again, when had she last taken the time to talk to her fans after a show? How long had it been since she did anything special for them? Once upon a time, she’d put on massive productions in front of stadiums full to bursting with screaming, adoring fans.

Her last tour hadn’t even sold out to rundown opera houses and college auditoriums. In the early days, she’d arrange spontaneous private showings for more fans than had showed up for her current tour. She’d simply leave a date, time, and place on Twitter and a hundred or more of her fans would come for a show. When had she last sent one of her own Tweets? She knew Kelly, her assistant, did all of her social media crap for her these days.

“I’m here because my record label said if I don’t sober up, they’re cutting me.”

“They aren’t happy with you?”

She shrugged and started pacing again. The temperature of the room seemed to increase with each pass across the shrinking floor space. “No. My last album is six months past due its production deadline. But I can’t help that all the songs suck.”

“Why do they suck?”

Turning, she met the doctor’s steady gaze. She wanted to tell Dr. Barton her label and her manager had sabotaged her by giving her shit songs, but she couldn’t. Were the songs bad? Her father’s old friend, pop superstar Amanda Lang, had written four of them and had given them to Emily as a gift, despite three other singers wanting them. The other two songs she’d recorded were from an award-winning songwriter, and they, too, had been sought after by the best in the business.