Read Online A Real Cowboy Never Walks Away (Wyoming Rebels Book 4) by Stephanie Rowe - Free Book Online

sharp knife. "I'm a machine in the kitchen. Everything will be chopped by the time you get back."
    Lissa hesitated, then threw her arms around Martha. "Thank you," she whispered. "I could never have done this without you." Somehow, in the eight years she'd been in Rogue Valley, Martha had become the mother she'd never had, the grandmother she'd lost too young. "Thank you."
    Martha hugged her back. "Love you, girlie. Now go play with your daughter."
    "I will." Her heart a thousand times lighter, Lissa grabbed her daughter's hand. "Let's go, squirt. It's fair time!"

Chapter 7
    " S o , tell us, Travis, why exactly did you fire your lead guitarist and your agent?" The reporter in the third row asked.
    Travis ground his jaw, shifting restlessly in the chair. Between radio interviews and the press conference he was currently enduring, it was the seventeenth time he'd been asked that question this morning, and he was getting damned tired of it. "It was the right move for all of us."
    "But the quality of your shows has gone down now. Why would you make a decision that would adversely affect your career? Plus, you and Mariel wrote some of your best songs together."
    Travis's head was pounding, and he just wanted out, but he fought for composure. "Why don't we talk about the fair? That's why I'm in town."
    Another reporter raised his hand, and Travis nodded. "Rumors are that you have an alcohol problem. That you got drunk and knocked Mariel around. Malcolm rescued her, they threatened to sue you, and you paid them off to keep quiet. Is this true?"
    Anger flooded Travis at the accusation. He leaned forward, gripping the microphone, unable to keep the fury out of his voice, even though he kept his voice clipped. "Everyone in this fucking room knows I've never touched a drink in my entire life—"
    "Rumors say that's a lie," the reporter persisted. "Rumors are that behind closed doors you're an angry drunk, and the reason you don't have a new album out is because you're too much of a mess to write anything."
    "This is over." Travis stood up abruptly, barely able to contain his anger. What the fuck right did people have to say shit like that to him? He ignored the questions and strode off the stage and through his security team, slamming the curtains aside as he went backstage.
    "Travis. What are you doing?" His tour manager, Jason, caught up to him. "You can't lose your shit like that—"
    Travis spun toward him. "No more interviews. Cancel them."
    Jason's eyes widened. "Cancel them? You can't—"
    "I'm not dealing with this shit anymore."
    "Hey!" Jason caught his arm, and jerked him back to face him. "Listen to me, Travis. I don't know what the hell went down with Mariel and Malcolm, but you can't keep going on without an agent or a lead guitarist, and you're a fucking piece of work in interviews. Your career isn't untouchable, you know. It will crash and burn, and all you'll have left is ashes to pick through. Is that what you want?"
    "Fine with me." He tried to turn away, but Jason's grip on his arm tightened.
    "Travis—"
    "Don't make a fucking scene," Travis muttered under his breath. "Get your hand off me, or I will get it off."
    Jason dropped his hand immediately, wariness flickering in his eyes. "Listen, Travis, I'm your tour manager, not your agent. I can't keep trying to pick up the slack from what Malcolm was doing. You have to pull your shit together."
    Travis closed his eyes, his hands balled into fists as he took a deep breath. "No more interviews," he said again. If they left him alone, maybe he could get through this week. He wanted to make this week work. This fair was where he'd gotten his break, the one that had gotten him out of this hellhole. He wanted to pay it back, but he couldn't take much more of this shit.
    "Impossible. You're the local boy come home. They need to hear from you, and you need to come across as someone they can root for." Jason shoved an index card at him. "Here's your schedule for the rest of the