Sloane Kent ran hard along the outskirts of Jackson, Wyoming, pushing himself. The sun was going down, and country music blasted through his ears. Ironically, it wasn’t his music. No, he’d been blocked in the creative process for more than half a year. He’d come to Jackson for the express purpose of getting some fresh ideas for his music and laying down an album for Montana Crew.

This was the country mogul’s thing—send his artists to Jackson to get the words out.

Hey, it’d worked for Texas Waters.

Too bad he wasn’t Waters, Sloane thought angrily, thinking how he was supposed to share the stage with him in Vegas in three months. The only problem was that they were supposed to have new albums. Which meant new songs. Most artists shopped around, found songs they liked, and took them into the studio. Not Sloane. He liked to write his own music; he prided himself on it. It just hadn’t been going well lately. Or rather, it hadn’t been going at all.

The pressure to create was about to squelch him! This writing thing had sent him spiraling worse than serving in Iraq for two tours and being under threat of terrorist invasion.

He forced out all those thoughts and focused on the workout at hand. Since he’d taken advice from his brother Walker, and started working out more regularly, he was feeling better. However, the words were still not coming.

Sloane grunted and thought of his five brothers. Between professional football players, movie stars, and firemen, it wasn’t like any of them were slouches. Usually, trying to live up to the family name didn’t matter to him, because they couldn’t carry a tune like he could. Since his little bout of writer’s block, though, it mattered more and more.

Abruptly, he was pulled out of his own thoughts by a scene unfolding in front of him. Two girls—women, really, just on the youngish side—stood outside of a Greyhound bus. The blonde one was flapping her arms emphatically and looked like she was about to cry. “Stop it!” she shouted. “You can’t go with me. You know he’s going to be looking for me! You can’t stay with me!”

Sloane passed them, but his gait slowed to a walk and he slipped one of his earbuds out.

“You have to go to the police,” the brunette said, running a hand over her tear-streaked face.

The blonde pleaded. “It won’t do any good. Go home. He doesn’t want you.” Her tone had dropped to a normal voice, but it still rang with urgency. “He wants me.”

All Sloane’s drive to run had drained away. He stopped and put his hands on his head, listening in.

The brunette shook her head. “Hope, what are you going to do?”

“Gotta shut the door!” the bus driver called out.

The blonde sighed. “I’m not going back. I can’t.” She tugged the brunette in for a hug and then shoved her to the bus door. “Go. Carter will be worried about you; you know he will.”

The brunette began to cry, but hesitantly went for the door. “What are you going to do?” she asked again.

“I’m going to find Gary Wilkes. I’ll find him and then I’ll be in contact, don’t worry.” The blonde gestured toward the bus.

The other girl hesitated.

“Either you’re in or out!” the bus driver said.

“Go!” the blonde called out.

With one last sob, the brunette stepped inside. She’d barely crossed the threshold before the door hissed shut and the bus took off.

Sloane’s mind raced with questions. What had just happened? Who was she running from?

The blonde collapsed, bawling hard enough to send her to her knees. Her backpack swung off her shoulder and thudded against the cement. No other belongings were in sight, and she looked small against the mountain backdrop.

Sloane watched her crying, feeling paralyzed. Part of him wanted to help; part of him shrank away from meddling in someone else’s business.

After she got up, mopped her face, and put on her backpack, she turned. Their eyes met. She was probably in her early twenties, he noticed. Her guarded expression made him feel like a voyeur, and he threw up his hands in an apology. “Sorry.”

Glaring at him, she rushed across the street and into the broken-down-looking gas station.

“Well, shoot.” He turned away, burning with embarrassment. It stung a little, since he’d started to care about her, and that just fueled all his stupid self-doubt and anger. With a huff, he propelled himself into a jog and headed back toward Montana’s house, which was roughly three miles away.

As he went, he tried to mull over his own problems, but his thoughts kept coming back to this girl, this woman. It annoyed him. In some ways, though, it was a nice break from the broken record of his mind he’d been playing for the last couple of months.

By the time he reached Montana’s house, he couldn’t think about anything else. Quickly, he showered, got dressed, and—before he could stop himself—grabbed his wallet. He hopped into his four-wheel-drive truck and took off for the place he’d just been, the old gas station on the west side of town. Yanking out his phone, he pressed the number for his brother, Zane.

“Zane here?”

Sloane grunted. “Yes, this is the way ‘the SEAL’ answers, isn’t it?” Zane had taken military to the next level. All his brothers had served, but Zane had the market on the definition of a soldier.

Zane let out a long breath, reminding Sloane that Zane was the sort of guy who merely tolerated people. “Bro, what’s up? How’s the writer’s block?” he asked in a mocking tone.

“Shut up.”

“Why did you call?”

Sloane sighed. “You know how you say you get this feeling when you’re supposed to help someone?”

Hesitation. “Yes …”

Sloane swore. “Would you be serious, please?”

“Yeah, okay. I think I know what you’re talking about.”

“You said it to me once.” Sloane hated that he sounded like a little kid. “You told me that when it was time to act, you ‘felt’ it. You said it after your first tour, and I took it to heart. I think I felt it when I was in the Army sometimes, but now …”

“Get to the point,” Zane snapped.

Maybe calling his brother wasn’t helping. Sloane clenched his hand into a fist. “Mom always talked about helping others, too, remember?”

Radio silence. Her passing six months ago had been brutal for all of them.

Sloane ran a hand through his hair. “Never mind.”

“Wait,” Zane said. “It’s fine.”

Sloane turned his car in to the little gas station he’d been at an hour ago, the one where the Greyhound had been.

Zane let out a scoff. “You act, dummy. You just act. Man—” He swore. “Didn’t you ever get that feeling as a soldier?”

Sloane winced and climbed out of his truck. “Hey, I get you’re like a super soldier, dude, but you don’t have to rub it in my face.”

“So, what are you going to do?” Zane demanded.

Sloane looked around and started into the gas station. “I’m going to do something!” He pulled open the door and walked inside.

“Trust yourself, man. I know you’ve been going through crap the past couple of months, but you’ve got this. If this person needs help, find them and trust yourself to do the right thing.”

Trust himself? He let out a skittering laugh. “This is your brilliant advice?” It did make him feel better to have his big brother’s approval, but the suggestion to just “trust himself” was aggravating enough to cancel it out. He scanned the store for the blonde. “I gotta go.” And with the push of a button, the call ended.

Sloane slipped his phone inside his hoodie pocket and looked around, not seeing anyone except an older lady at the register. She had jowls, the kind Walker’s dog had, not like Grant’s movie-star dog. No, that dog was the Taco Bell Chihuahua.

“If you’re in the store, you have to buy something,” the lady growled at him.

“Fine,” he said, glancing around. It’d been a long time since he’d been anywhere that demanded you pay to patronize. He moved to a chip aisle and held up some SmartPop. “Got it.”

The grumpy woman nodded.

Sloane walked up and down the aisles, picking up a couple of candy bars and some gum. Again, that worried feeling pulsed through him, centering in his chest. Something was wrong.

Dang. He hadn’t gotten this feeling in ages. He hadn’t even thought about helping anyone in a long time. Too busy with his tours and music. Since his mother’s funeral almost six months ago, everything had spiraled. His mind flashed to his mother and how she’d always been proud of the fact she’d gone into nursing so she could help people.

“The longer you’re in the store, the more you need to buy,” the jowly woman huffed.

Flustered, Sloane grabbed a bottle of water and a couple of candy bars and walked to the register. Taking a chance as she rang him up, he asked, “Have you seen a woman? Uh, blonde hair, in a simple jacket, a red backpack?”

The woman scowled at him, her jowls getting bigger. “People who come through here usually don’t want to be found.”

He thought of the Greyhound bus and figured she was probably right. “Look, I’m not trying to do anything. I mean, I’m not looking for her.”

She put out her hand after pushing a button on the register. “Fifteen-fifty. You’re not, huh? Seems like you are.”

“I just want to help her.” He handed over his card to her.

She scoffed and pointed to a nearby sign. “Only accept cash.”

It was like she was trying to inconvenience him. He wasn’t used to that. Usually, people more than wanted to help him, talk to him, please him. But this old broad clearly didn’t care about any of that. Luckily, he had a few twenties in his wallet. He took the card back and pulled out one twenty, handing it over.

The woman took it and then squinted at him. “I don’t have change for a twenty.”

He looked at her like she was going to take off into outer space, then leaned over the register. She was right—only twenties and a couple of ones. “How do you expect me to pay? It seems like a gas station that only accepts cash should have more change.” He was annoyed. The woman had clearly wanted him to buy something, but now it felt like she was making it impossible for him to pay for anything.

“I don’t know. Why don’t you figure it out, Sloane Kent?”

Of course she recognized him. She knew exactly who he was, and she was harassing him anyway. He dropped the twenty on the counter and took the bag. “Keep the change.”

Outside, another Greyhound bus pulled up, brakes squealing.

The lady cleared her throat. “You might want to give me another two twenties and buy a ticket for that bus.”

He stopped, turning back to the lady slowly. “Why would I do that?”

Just then, the bathroom door flung open and the blonde girl he’d seen earlier rushed through the store, making a beeline toward the bus.

The lady nodded to the girl. “’Cause she’s getting on it and I figure you’re famous, so you’re probably not some creeper.” The woman gave him an up-and-down sweep with her eyes. “I think maybe you really do want to help her.”

Adrenaline shot through Sloane as he watched the girl walk around the bus. “Who is she?” he asked.

The older lady grinned, and he saw that one of her front teeth was missing. “I don’t know, country star. Someone who needs help. What are you going to do? Take this chance to create a new song and go for it, or are you going to hesitate and stay blocked?”

It stunned him how shrewd the old lady seemed to be. How would she know he was blocked? Well, heck. There was some chitchat on social media about it. He usually produced songs quickly, but he hadn’t been able to the last few months. Barking out a laugh, he found himself pulling out his wallet and handing over two twenties. “Where is the bus going?” Why not take a trip? It wasn’t like he had a social schedule other than sitting in front of the television and watching the next episode of Tiny Houses, which he’d been fascinated with lately while he pretended to tinker with the guitar.

The lady handed him a ticket. “Vegas.” She winked at him. “It’s not going to be easy, but you’ll do good. Go on. Go get on that bus and help her.”

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