Page 1 of Forever Country (Forever Bluegrass #24)

K eeneston, eighteen years ago…

Holt Everett tossed the football back to his eight-year-old brother, Knox.

Knox then threw a bomb of a pass to their father, Trey.

Their father grew up playing football and was even a pro running back professionally for the Georgia Vultures.

Knox lived and breathed football because he loved it.

He had an arm that even ten-year-old Holt knew was special.

On the other hand, Holt played because his father and brother loved it, it was fun, and it was his way to stay included.

Holt was a good player, but nothing special. He played flag football with his friends and several of the guys in the Davies family and it was a lot of fun. After games, the whole team would go to the Blossom Café and have a team dinner together.

Holt knew his life was different from most other kids, except for maybe the Rahmi royal family, but they weren’t normally recognized in public in the United States.

Holt had learned that his family was different when he played travel flag football and played a team from Ohio whose players were more interested in getting pictures with Holt’s dad and whose parents were more interested in getting pictures with Holt’s mom, Taylor Jefferies Everett.

Yeah, Holt knew she was famous and had been in a lot of movies and now she was directing them, but just like his dad, that hadn’t been a big deal growing up in Keeneston.

They had royalty in their town. Something Holt also hadn’t realized until recently.

No one treated them differently in Keeneston.

They were just part of the small town that cared a little too much for high school football and who rode on the floats for the Independence Day parade and who got really invested in the Derby every May.

“Holt!” his mother called from the wrap-around porch of their home.

“Go ahead,” his father said, turning to toss the ball with Knox as Holt jogged to see what his mother needed.

“Yes, Mom?”

“I just got an email from your teacher.”

Holt paused as he replayed the school day in his mind. He got an A+ on his poetry assignment and he didn’t think he had gotten into trouble. Although, he did run down the hall to try to get to the cafeteria first because they had that good pizza today.

“I know. I ran in the hall, but Colton was going to beat me and I didn’t want them to run out of pizza. Colton eats like three slices.” Holt said earnestly, hoping he wasn’t in trouble.

His mother chuckled and shook her head. “No, this isn’t about running in the hall. It’s about your poetry assignment.”

Holt frowned. Why was he in trouble for that? “But I got an A+.”

“I know. That’s why the teacher emailed. She sent me a copy of your assignment. Holt, it’s really good. She wants permission to enter it in a state poetry competition.”

“Really? But isn’t poetry kinda... lame? Won’t the guys tease me about it? It’s not like it’s a sport or anything.” All his friends had groaned about the poetry assignment. They’d for sure tease him about this.

His mother put her arm around his shoulder and sat him down on the swinging chair.

“I know football isn’t really your thing.

Did you ever think maybe poetry is your thing?

And if it’s something you care about and enjoy, do you think your friends would tease you about it or maybe they’d be impressed that you can do something they can’t? ”

“Samson would make fun of me.”

“Samson is a jerk,” his mother stated in a way that made Holt grin.

“Yeah, he is. I guess Colton, Landon, Porter, and Parker wouldn’t make fun of me.” Then he blushed a little at the way he remembered Cassidy telling him good job when she’d heard about his grade. “And Cassidy wouldn’t either.”

“And they matter a lot more than Samson.”

Holt nodded. “You’re right. Let’s enter it in the competition. What do I get if I win?”

“You get a five-hundred-dollar scholarship for first place. A guitar signed by Harlan for second place. And a movie pass for third place.”

“Cool. I hope I get the movie pass.”

Holt bounded back to the football game to tell his dad and brother about the contest and didn’t think about it until they were notified four months later to go to Frankfort for the presentation.

“It’s a guitar. Who is Harlan?” Holt frowned as he looked at the guitar with a signature on it.

This time both of his parents grinned as if he had said something funny.

“Harlan is the best songwriter from Kentucky. He’s written hit country songs for the past twenty years.

Not only did you win the guitar, but you won a meeting with him where he’ll show you how music and poetry go hand in hand,” Holt’s father explained.

“He’s going to meet you next Saturday,” his mother told him.

That so did not sound like fun to Holt. He was planning to ride horses with Parker and Porter on Saturday and now he won’t be able to. What would he want with a stupid guitar anyway?

Holt hadn’t even met Harlan yet and he was annoyed with this day.

Harlan’s manager was more interested in Holt’s mom than in him.

Holt sat with his guitar leaning against his legs as they waited for Harlan to arrive while Harlan’s manager flirted with his mom.

Holt sighed. He should be used to it, but it was just another way for him to feel invisible in his family.

Today was about him, but all the adults cared about was his famous mom.

Not that his mom was trying to take the limelight from him.

In fact, she was deflecting every attempt at flirting and trying to focus the day back on Holt.

“When will Harlan be getting here?” his mother asked, stepping back from the manager again after he’d taken a step closer to her.

Holt might only be eleven, but he was ready to step between this sleazy guy and his mom if he took another step toward her.

Maybe the guitar would come in handy after all. Holt could swing it at him.

“Right now,” a man said as he strode into the studio with a guitar in his hand. “Thank you, Rick. You can go now. I’m sorry for keeping you waiting.”

“I need to stay to get some pictures for PR,” Rick argued.

“Nah, man. I got it. Or perhaps Mrs . Everett can take the pictures. I think Holt and I want some privacy and not have to worry about a camera.”

“Perfect,” his mother answered for him. “I can sit here and snap a couple of pictures and you won’t even see the camera.”

Rick saw that he’d lost the battle. “Let me give you my number—”

“That won’t be necessary,” his mom said in the tone that she reserved for when she was really mad.

Rick shrugged and left the room. Finally, Harlan turned to Holt.

“Hey. I’m Harlan.” The man was a little older than his parents, maybe the age of Miles Davies, who was a family friend.

His brown hair had just a smidge of gray in it and his face had some wrinkles, but otherwise he looked just like the dads of his friends.

Holt held out his hand. “Holt.”

“This poem you wrote is fantastic.”

Holt smiled and thanked him. “What does this guitar have to do with anything?”

“Why don’t I show you?” Harlan smiled at him and then motioned for him to enter the inside of the recording booth.

Harlan picked up his guitar and Holt looked through the glass to where his mom and another woman sat behind a huge board of knobs and stuff. Music filled the room and then Harlan began to sing.

It took a second, but then Holt’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “That’s my poem!” he said, interrupting the song.

“It sure is. And that’s what the guitar has to do with your poem.

Songs are made from poetry and music. That’s what I do.

I write stories and poems, then put them to music.

When I get a story or poem that I really love, I put it to music and sell it to famous singers and they sing them.

Or sometimes I work with the singers and we write a song together. Want to give it a try?”

Holt nodded his head enthusiastically, but then he frowned. “But I don’t know how to play the guitar.”

“Good thing I can teach you then, isn’t it?” Harlan winked at Holt, who grinned back at him.

It was the last day of Holt’s senior year of high school and the bell was ticking down.

In five minutes, he’d be free to go to Nashville for the summer.

He was going to intern with Harlan and see how the music industry worked.

He’d promised his mom he’d come back next weekend for graduation, but he couldn’t wait to get on the road to Nashville.

The bell rang and Holt flew from the school.

He headed home and burst through the front door only to slide to a stop.

His mother was there with Morgan Davies and Henry and Neeley Grace Rooney.

Morgan ran a consulting company. She helped businesses thrive, but had also started doing public relations.

She also represented some people as a business manager.

His mom used Morgan to help with her brand.

She also did some work for the new pro football team in Lexington where his father was now the head coach.

Henry and Neeley Grace were a mystery though.

They were attorneys and Holt had no idea why they were here.

“Hi, Mrs. Davies. Mrs. Rooney, Mr. Rooney. How are y’all doing?”

“I’m well. Thank you, Holt. And congratulations on your graduation,” Morgan said to him. “We won’t keep you long, but your mother wanted us to come talk to you.”

“To me?”

His mother nodded and placed her hand on his arm to get his full attention.

“Look, I was young and dumb when I entered show business. But business is the key word here. I know you’re just interning, but one open mic and things can change.

You haven’t wanted my help in the past because you wanted to make it on your own as a singer-songwriter, but I’m insisting on it now. ”

“Mom,” Holt said, suddenly feeling nervous, “please tell me you didn’t call someone and ask for an audition?”