Page 1 of Broncos and Ballads (Healing Springs Ranch #2)

“‘Is Brock McQuaid a fraud?’” Harper read the article heading on his tablet. “‘He sings about love, but he’s never been in love.’”

“I can admit I’ve never been in love.” Brock sat on the seat of the Range Rover beside his manager. “But that doesn’t make me a fraud.”

At least, he hoped not.

Brock’s gaze snagged on an enormous billboard off to the side of the Los Angeles highway leading away from the airport, where he’d landed a short while ago in his private jet.

The billboard was of him—deep-brown eyes, square jawline with a permanent layer of scruff, wavy dark-brown hair beneath a cowboy hat, and his trademark crooked grin.

His flannel shirt was unbuttoned, revealing one of his tattoos and his muscular chest. And he was holding his guitar with his sleeves rolled up, showing more tattoos on his forearms.

He’d almost grown immune to seeing himself like that, so much larger than life. The billboard was an advertisement for his world tour, which would conclude near the end of August in about a month—a month too long, if he was honest.

Harper scrolled to the next article. “‘Ainsley Rose breaks the silence about her breakup with country music star Brock McQuaid.’”

“ Her breakup?” Brock scoffed. “I’m the one who ended things.

” He’d done so last week and hadn’t heard from Ainsley since.

He’d hoped that meant she wasn’t too hurt.

But her scathing post about him yesterday on Instagram had dashed that hope.

She’d obviously been more upset than she’d initially let on.

Now every news outlet in the country had decided to report on what a terrible boyfriend he’d been.

His manager glanced up from his tablet, his gaze serious behind his glasses, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes more pronounced than usual. “It doesn’t matter what actually happened, Brock. The point is, she’ll tank your ratings, which have already started sliding into the toilet lately.”

“Aw, c’mon. That’s a little harsh.”

“That’s what you love about me. I never sugarcoat anything.”

For once, Brock half wished Harper weren’t so direct.

But that’s why Brock paid him the big bucks to be his manager.

Because he was good at his job. In his usual dark-blue suit with a starched white dress shirt, Harper was as classy as always, his silvery-black hair clipped short around his bald crown, his beard trimmed neatly, and his accessories—watch, cuff links, and rings—expensive but not gaudy.

“‘Lost in love?’” Harper read. “‘McQuaid isn’t lost in love. He’s lost about love. He clearly has no idea what being in love is all about.’”

“Lost in Love” was the title of one of Brock’s hit songs. Of course the tabloids would play on the words.

“That’s not true,” said Ella Mae from the front seat next to the chauffeur. Brock’s twenty-something assistant tossed him a sympathetic glance. “Brock has plenty of women who will testify about his sweet lovin’.”

Brock offered Ella Mae a grateful nod. With her long brown hair pulled up in a high ponytail and her face devoid of makeup, Ella Mae had a natural aura that made her less intense than Harper, which Brock appreciated, especially at times like this.

“‘Brock McQuaid is falling fast and failing fast at love.’” Harper’s voice was clipped in obvious irritation.

It appeared the media was having fun with their criticism. “Falling Fast” was the name of another top song.

At the ping of an incoming text, Harper turned to his phone, read the message, then frowned. “It’s Steve, and he’s livid at all the bad publicity.”

“Surprise, surprise.” Brock couldn’t keep from being sarcastic.

Steve was always livid, and Brock put up with the label executive because, overall, he’d liked working with BMN—Blue Mountain Nashville.

As one of the largest country music labels, they’d been a good home for him for the past seven years.

Had helped launch him from obscurity into one of America’s hottest stars, turning him into a household name so that now everyone in the world knew about him, even if they weren’t a country music fan.

“He’s flying out here today.” Harper was reading the next text. “He wants to meet with us in order to come up with a damage-control plan.”

“Brock doesn’t have any free time.” Ella Mae consulted the old-fashioned Day Timer she used to keep track of every minute of every day of Brock’s life. He couldn’t chew a piece of gum without having it penciled in.

“We need to make time.” Harper was typing a text—probably one to Steve confirming a meeting.

“Brock has interviews all afternoon until Reed’s party starts.”

“Cancel them.”

Ella Mae was still bent over the schedule. “Can’t. Do you know how hard it was to get L.A. Style to fit him in today? And it took weeks to get the Entertainment Tonight spot.”

Brock didn’t mind the interviews. He liked talking with people and usually had no trouble just being himself.

“Tell Steve I’ll stop over in Nashville on my way back to Europe.

” He had a concert in Oslo, Norway, in a few days and from there was headed to Stockholm.

But he could make the time to stop in Nashville before leaving, and while he was there, he could stay a night at the ranch he’d purchased last year.

Maybe doing so would give him the boost he needed to finish the tour strong.

“Steve wants to meet today.” Harper’s tone said it was already a done deal. Ella Mae opened her mouth to protest again, but Harper cut her off. “We don’t want Brock interacting with any press until we get a plan of action in place.”

Ella Mae nodded. “We can let the reporters know the topic of Ainsley Rose is off-limits.”

Brock was used to people talking about him in the third person as if he weren’t in the room—or in this case the SUV.

He was also used to his team making decisions for him.

But sometimes all the talking made him feel like a child who couldn’t think for himself instead of a twenty-nine-year-old adult.

And sometimes he wished he could take back a little control of his life.

But the truth was, he had very little control. He’d learned from the start that if he wanted to be a star, he had to trust the people in the industry to use their expertise to make the stardom happen. They had, and now he had to trust them again to get him out of his current predicament.

“Brock can lie low for a few hours.” Harper sent a text and then began reading another. “Reed did say that there won’t be any press or paparazzi at the resort, right?”

Ella Mae flipped through her notes, then ran her finger down a list of items, probably related to the party. “Only the photographer he hired for the evening.”

Reed Sawyer was another country music singer Brock had met early in his career. They’d both been signed on at about the same time by different labels. They’d performed at many of the same venues, had done similar opening acts, and had mingled at parties.

Reed had risen to stardom too—though maybe not quite as high or bright as Brock.

But he was a good guy and had become a good friend.

When he’d called and personally invited Brock to a party in Bel Air at a posh resort, Brock hadn’t been able to turn him down, especially because Reed had sounded excited.

Brock suspected his friend was throwing the party in order to propose to his new girlfriend, Lexi King. He didn’t know for certain if that’s what was happening tonight, but Reed had been insistent that Brock be at the party, that he couldn’t miss it.

Thankfully, Ella Mae had squeezed the visit into his schedule after a few days in Colorado at his family’s ranch for his dad’s birthday.

Everyone on his team had agreed Reed’s party would give him the opportunity to make connections with Los Angeles media, which was something he didn’t do often enough.

Now, with Ainsley Rose’s critical Instagram post casting him in such a negative light, he would have to figure out a way to repair his image and make his fans remember why they loved him.

“Think you can lie low for the afternoon, Brock?” Harper glanced at him, his eyes keen behind his glasses. It wasn’t so much of a question as it was a command.

Brock gave his manager a thumbs-up. “Course I can.”

***

Brock lasted only an hour in his suite at the San Vicente Inn before going stir-crazy.

With Harper and Ella Mae both busy, he put on his baseball cap and sunglasses, the usual disguise for going out when he didn’t want to be recognized.

The cover rarely worked. Maybe he was too recognizable.

Or maybe so many celebrities used the hat-and-glasses disguise that it was no longer effective.

Besides, all it took was one person to shout out his name for everyone to realize who he was.

He honestly didn’t care if people recognized him and came up to him. He never minded talking to fans. But he had promised Harper he’d lie low, and so exploring incognito was his best option.

The place was stunning. Obviously it couldn’t compare with Healing Springs Ranch, his family’s upscale resort in Colorado, but it was still luxurious with a beautiful pool, a private golf course, expansive gardens, a large spa, a rooftop lounge, and a five-star restaurant.

As he climbed the stairs to reach the lounge, he paused and took in the view of the Santa Monica range with its jagged, rocky hillsides. It wasn’t as stunning as the Rocky Mountains that had been his backyard while growing up. But it gave him a taste of home.

He pulled in a breath of fresh air before hiking the last few stairs.

As he rounded to the spacious flat rooftop of the inn, he halted abruptly at the sight that greeted him.

Directly ahead, a woman was climbing one of the trellises full of ivy and attempting to peer over the top at the lounge area on the other side.