They passed several displays before Ash stopped. “Here we are.”

Jesse didn’t see anything familiar behind the glass. The collection included a pair of colorful cowboy boots that had obviously belonged to a woman, a manual typewriter decorated in a feminine flower motif, and endless sheets of handwritten song lyrics. In the front was a handwritten copy of the classic song “You Don’t Know Me.”

“Who is this?”

“Her name is Cindy Walker.”

Above the collection hung a black and white photo of a beautiful young woman in a cowboy hat. “Was she a songwriter?”

Ash sighed as if disappointed by the question. “Yes, she wrote ‘You Don’t Know Me’ and about a hundred others.”

Jesse knew the tune. “I thought that was an Eddy Arnold song.”

“Arnold gets a co-writing credit, but legend says he only gave her the title. She came up with the rest.”

“Really?” She studied the treasures before her. “Why have I never heard of her?”

“That’s a good question, and the reason we’re here. The first step in making this record is plugging the holes in your musical education.”

She didn’t appreciate the comment, but she couldn’t argue either. She knew the main classics—hits by Cash, Jones, and Reba—but about this really old stuff, she was clueless.

“I admit, I haven’t done my homework. But how are songs from the forties and fifties going to help me now?”

“A song is a song, Jesse. And a great song is still great in any era.”

Again, she couldn’t argue. But what worked in the past wouldn’t necessarily work in the modern era. “Again, how does this help me pick songs that will get radio play today?”

Ash ran a hand through his hair and practically growled. “You’re missing the point. The goal isn’t to guess what some radio programmer will play. The goal is to make songs so good that they won’t be able to not play them.”

If only it was that easy. “You know as well as I do that there are countless talented artists writing good songs up and down Music Row, and they’re getting zero attention or airplay. Good is subjective.”

He crossed his arms. “If you’re looking for guarantees, you’re in the wrong business. Even if we spend three months piecing together the most formulaic, radio-friendly album we can, by the time the album gets released, radio will have found a new trend and passed you by.”

“I don’t think so,” she said, convinced that recording the album without an eye to radio would be equivalent to putting the nail in her own musical coffin. “I’m competing here, remember? Not only do I need to get a single out as soon as possible to beat Taylor to the punch, I need that single to take off and prove that I’m not a talentless hack who spent two years riding the Blonde Wonder’s coattails.”

As soon as the words were out, Jesse realized she’d admitted too much. Again. What was it about Ash that compelled her to air every last flipping insecurity?

In a low voice, Ash said, “No one in their right mind would see you as a talentless hack. Look around this building. The people honored in these hallowed halls were talented and passionate and put their hearts into everything that they did.” She glanced to the young girl smiling back from the black and white photo. “You have that same talent and passion, Jesse. Add your heart to the mix, and there’s no limit to where you can go.”

Her heart was in the project. That’s why she was pushing so hard to get it right.

“How can you not see how invested I am in this album? Why else would I be trying to twist myself into a pretzel to be the artist that fans want?”

Ash grasped her upper arms and leaned down until they were nose to nose. “Stop twisting. The artist you are is better than any imaginary character you could ever become.” He gave her a gentle shake. “Give them the fire and intensity that I know is in there. Don’t bury it. Bring it out.”

Could she do that? Better yet, could she do that and not fall on her face?

“What if I do what you say, and the album goes down in flames?”

“What if it doesn’t?” Ash dropped his hands. “There’s no point in making an album if the music on it doesn’t mean something to you. Put yourself into the music. You won’t regret it.”

Doubts raced through her brain, but she held Ash’s gaze in the dim light. He believed in her, just as he always had.

“You’re sure that this will work?”

“As sure as I am that doing it any other way definitely won’t.”

Wanting to trust him, she shoved the doubts away. “Okay, then.” She glanced around. “Other than Cindy here, who else should I know about?”

Ash grinned. “Have you heard of Marijohn Wilkin?”

Jesse felt the chasm in her education widen. “No.”

“Then that’s where we go next.”

Jesse was like a sponge as they strolled through more exhibits, discussing artists like Hank Sr., Kitty Wells, and Billy Sherrill—arguably one of the greatest producer songwriters to have ever worked in country music. She was attentive, asked questions, and made connections between the individuals honored and the classic works of which she had peripheral knowledge.

But after an hour of exploring, Ash remembered that he’d have to cut the day short. If they were going to accomplish more than a museum tour, they needed to get moving.

“Are you ready to get back to work?” he asked.

Jesse nodded while admiring a Gibson acoustic on display in the Emmylou Harris exhibit. “I am, but do we have to go back to that stuffy conference room? Other than to get my Jeep, that is.”

Ash agreed that the small space didn’t foster much creativity. “We can go somewhere else. How about my place?”

“Your place?” she asked, turning narrowed-eyes his way.

“Sure. I have a small studio so if we come up with something good, we can cut a quick demo and see how it sounds.”

Jesse’s jaw twitched as she considered the idea. “We can do that. Do you think Clay will mind?”

“We’ll let Belinda know where we’re going, and if they need us, they have our numbers.”

She didn’t look convinced. “You don’t think that would be strange? Us being alone at your house?”

Ignoring the real question, he said, “We were alone in the conference room.”

Eyes snapping, she stared him down. “You know what I mean.”

Yes, he did. There had been others at the office, and more to the point, there were no bedrooms. Not that they’d needed a bedroom back in the day.

“We’re adults, Jesse, not randy teenagers anymore.”

Lowering her voice, she looked away. “So that’s all that was. Raging hormones and a lack of supervision?”

Ash pulled her away from a passing group. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. We aren’t those kids anymore. If we’re going to do this, we need to let the past go. At least that part of it.”

Tugging her arm away, she straightened her jacket. “I let it go. I had to after you left.”

Ash absorbed the words, not letting the hit show on his face. “Then we’re on the same page.”

They exited the museum in silence and made their way back to the garage. When they reached the truck, Ash started the engine and was surprised to hear a familiar tune on the radio.

“That’s my song,” he said, increasing the volume.

“You wrote it?”

Ash shook his head. “No, I produced it. They didn’t tell me this would be the next single.”

Jesse cranked the volume even more as Chance sang about a man meeting his match. “This is really good.” She raised her voice to be heard over the song. “Was it your idea to lay in the steel like that?”

Whether or not to add the steel had been a major debate. “It was. Chance had his doubts, but he trusted my instincts.”

Flashing a genuine smile, she nodded. “Then I guess I should trust you too, huh?”

Changing lanes, he shot her a grin. “Yes, you should.”

Jesse ran into the office to tell Belinda where they were going while Ash waited in his truck so she could follow him.

“You guys taking a break?” Naomi asked as she set a stack of folders on Belinda’s desk.

She turned back a few steps from the exit. “We went to the Hall of Fame.”

“You left?” Naomi laughed. “Goes to show how much we pay attention around here. Did you find inspiration among the exhibits?”

“I did. It’s encouraging to know that so many legends started with just a guitar and a dream.”

With a tilt of her head, the publicist grinned. “That’s still how most artists start out, isn’t it? Chance. Dylan. You.”

Being lumped together with two such established performers felt both flattering and terrifying. Chance had platinum records on his walls and top honors in his trophy case. Dylan’s debut had taken off the year before, and he was still sitting high on the charts. That the label expected the same from Jesse was a boost to her confidence, and an added weight on her already stressed shoulders.

Not that she’d let Naomi see as much.

“That’s a good point,” she said, pretending they weren’t having a casual discussion about Jesse’s entire future. “We’re heading over to Ash’s house to work on some songs. He says he has a studio, so we can lay down a demo if we get that far. I’m going to follow him in my Jeep.”

Great. Now she was babbling as if she needed to justify skipping class to the principal.

“By all means. Go make beautiful music together.” Switching her attention to the receptionist, the publicist said, “I’ve marked up these graphics with several changes. Make sure Daphne gets them and let her know that we need them turned around as soon as possible.”

Jesse used her butt to open the door and spun herself into the morning sun. Ash’s truck idled behind her Jeep, and he waved through the open window as she approached.

“What took so long?”

“I was talking to Naomi,” she replied, climbing behind the wheel.

“Stay close and we’ll be there in about ten minutes.”

Jesse nodded as she turned the key. Before putting the Jeep in gear, she dialed Ryan’s number and slid the phone between her ear and shoulder. Two rings in, the call went to voice mail, and she tossed the cell onto the passenger seat with a sigh. After the cleaning ladies incident on Friday, Jesse felt a pressing need to check in more often. The band was in Charlotte tonight, too far away for a quick visit, but next week they’d be in Memphis, and Jesse had every intention of being there.

Only this time, there would be no warning call to give Ryan the chance to talk her out of coming. It was time to remind him of what he had waiting at home.