Vulnerable (Morgans of Nashville) Read Free

but fisted fingers smashed against her jaw. She crumpled to the dirt, stunned.
    Hoisting her wasn’t so difficult nor was it hard to carry her back through the woods to the entrance of a small cave, which had been their ultimate destination since the first day they met.
    Elisa fell to the cave’s floor with a hard thud. “Please, just let me go. I won’t tell.”
    “I know you won’t tell.”

C HAPTER O NE
    Monday, October 2, 1:05 A.M.
     
    W rapping her hand around the microphone, the musical notes moved inside of Georgia Morgan’s head and heart as she closed her eyes. Her voice caressed the melody of “Blue Velvet” and a hush fell over the thinning crowd in Rudy’s, a honky-tonk on South Broadway. She transfixed them all with the smooth melodic words infused with layers of feelings few saw when she wasn’t on the stage.
    In these moments, Georgia wasn’t simply singing but reaching out to her birth mother, Annie, whose single legacy to her only child was her golden voice. There were a few photographs, but no memories of the blond songstress who vanished thirty-two years ago, leaving behind an estranged husband, a secret lover, and a wailing infant.
    Georgia gripped the microphone, angling her mouth close as moody emotions entwined the words, sculpting fresh angles and adding layers of dimensions. In her mind, the music became vibrant shades of reds, blues, and greens exploding like fireworks.
    Georgia’s salute to Annie in no way diminished her love for the Morgans, the clan she joined when she was five days old when her late father, homicide detective Buddy Morgan, carried her away from Annie’s bloody cinderblock home. Buddy and his wife, Adele, threaded her easily into their family already bustling with three active boys. They never hid her past. Georgia knew about Annie, understood her roots. She and her family considered her a Morgan. Period.
    But when she sang, the music so rooted in her soul took hold, and for a few minutes, Annie came alive, not only for her daughter, but for all those who still remembered her.
    The song slowly wound down and the guitarist played the last delicate chords. The room was silent, still gripped by the music. Georgia waited a few more beats and then she opened her eyes. Her vision focused. And she was back.
    Georgia settled the microphone in its cradle, and rolled her shoulders, breaking the tension. She shouldn’t have stayed so late tonight for the extra set. But the allure of the music had been strong.
    As she stepped back from the microphone, the crowd clapped, whooped, and hollered. A few rose to their feet and applauded. She swept her hand toward the grizzled guitarist behind her and smiled as she said into the microphone, “Y’ all give a big thanks to Freddie for letting me sit in on his set.”
    The audience cheered and both Georgia and Freddie stood side by side as the applause settled.
    “Nice set, Georgia,” Freddie said, as he stuck his pick into the guitar strings. He wore torn jeans, scuffed boots with a hole in the sole, and a faded black T-shirt he’d worn for years. To look at the guy, few would realize he played with some of the best country music artists in Nashville.
    She brushed a long thick lock of red hair away from her forehead and tugged at the edges of a black silk top that hugged full breasts and caressed designer jeans that molded her figure. “Thanks, Freddie.”
    “It’s always fun when you sing. Like having Annie back,” he rasped. “You should stop by more often.”
    “You’re a charmer, Freddie.” She slid her hands into pockets trimmed in rhinestones as she glanced at the metal tip of her red ankle-high cowboy boots. “I could hear the lack of practice in my voice tonight. I was all over the place.”
    He shook his head, the single gold earring in his left ear catching the light. “A few times I closed my eyes and I could hear your mama. Like she was standing right here.”
    She winked at the guitarist whom she suspected