Forgiving Jackson Read Free Page A

unlike most country music stars, he never wore a cowboy hat, but it wasn’t exactly the burning question of the moment. Next she’d want to know his favorite color and what kind of jelly he liked on his biscuit.
    “I’m not a cowboy.”
    She glanced at his cap. “You’re not a baseball player either.”
    “No.” He picked up the cap embroidered with
San Antonio Wranglers Super Bowl Champs.
“My brother Gabe gave me this cap. He got it on the field when he was named MVP.”
    “You have a brother who’s a cowboy, too.”
    “I do.” He nodded. “Rafe. He’s a champion bull rider. Maybe if he gives me a cowboy hat I’ll wear it.”
    She swept her hair back and turned to him. “Why me?”
    “Why you?” What did that even mean?
    “Why did you grant me this audience?”
    “You make it sound like I’m royalty. Or the Pope.”
    “Aren’t you?”
    “Not by a long shot.”
    “Still, why me?”
    He shrugged. “Maybe I like that you didn’t call—that I had to call you.”
    “I had no reason to think you’d take my call. You didn’t take my boss’s call, or
her
boss’s. Or anyone’s from
Time
,
Rolling Stone
,
The New York Times
… I could go on.”
    Truth was, he’d known he had to give an interview, that the world wouldn’t rest until he did. Carson was young and new to
Twang.
He figured he could handle her and so far that was proving to be true. Also, he’d heard she had married her college sweetheart just last year so he figured she still had enough stars in her eyes that she wouldn’t try to screw him in the bathroom.
    “I read
Twang
,” he said. “I think you’re a good writer and you seem fair. I could use a little fair these days.” And he pulled out his stage smile, the one that always got them on their feet, the one that made them throw their thongs onstage.
    Carson Hamilton-Knox did not divest herself of her maternity underpants. Thank God. But she did smile back.
    She opened her notebook. “Fires aren’t fair, are they?”
    Given how this was going, he would not have expected that before they were even in the air, but okay. Maybe they could get this over with and take naps. Pregnant women liked to sleep. He’d heard that. And she had been awake for a long time.
    He took a deep breath and began to recite the facts as he had practiced in his head. “A deranged man threw a firebomb onstage and another into the audience. Forty-three people were killed, including my rhythm guitarist, my drummer, three of my road crew, my manager, and thirty-seven audience members. Their names are—”
    Carson put up a hand. “Mr. Beauford—Jack. May I call you Jack?”
    He nodded, confused. People didn’t usually interrupt him when he talked. Just then the flight attendant came through, checking tray tables and seat belts with all the sights and sounds of takeoff in the background.
    Though they’d had to pause, Carson took right up where she left off.
    “Jack, I know the names of those killed, all forty-three. I know Mason Patrick started the fire and we’ll probably never know why because he ran to the roof of the arena and threw himself off. Those are the facts, as reported by the authorities. They have been recorded in every newspaper and magazine in the country.”
    True enough, so what did she want?
    Apparently, she was about to tell him. “Your assistant, Ginger Marsden, was injured trying to protect you, wasn’t she?”
    “Yes,” he said tightly. If Ginger had left him alone, had not run onstage and tackled him, he could have gotten to Trace, maybe saved him. Jackson closed his eyes and saw himself rushing toward Trace and then being knocked into some equipment by Ginger and her falling off the stage. And, worst of all, the security guys hauling him away while he fought them, fought them so hard, to try and save the people he was responsible for. Ironic that he had broken Jimbo’s jaw and dislocated Martin’s shoulder, but he’d escaped with only a few stitches in his arm. He