A limo rolled beside a curb, and its driver assured he'd be waiting at the same spot upon his passenger's return. She bunched her jacket's ends within her hand and pottered through the autumn winds. A bar's heating system kissed the native's cool skin as she admired the business's intimate touches, running her glistening nails across the dented countertop the owner never bothered to fix. He did repair the hot-blue neon sign 'Where the Real Cowboys Live', which blinked over twenty times a night during her last visit.

"Johanna? Johanna Beckett?" A silver-bearded man beamed. "What'chu doing here, girl?" He wrapped the young woman in a tight bear-hug and laughs swept the room.

"I took a plane. The mayor wants me to sing for the county fair. "

"Wow. I remember back when you were a little girl—coming in with your mama to sing here on the weekends." A slight pout crossed his mouth. "I'm really sorry about Marcy, darling. How's everybody doing?"

Johanna swallowed a sore lump within her throat. It had been six months.

"We're getting along, Dale. Thanks."

"How 'bout a drink? Hey, Lane. We've got a customer. Take a load off, darling. It's on the house."

A young man emerged through the kitchen's door. "Johanna?"

"Hi, Lane."

"We've missed you, Jo-jo." He hugged his childhood friend and positioned himself at the counter while she selected a stool. "What can I get you?"

"Hm. Could I get an apple cider mojito?"

"Still your favorite?" Johanna nodded, and Lane grabbed a cider bottle. "So, what's new?"

"Besides singing for the county fair?"

"I heard on the news. Congratulations."

"Thanks."

Lane's smile dimmed as he garnished the singer's cooler. "Have you heard from him yet?"

Johanna picked at her skirt. "Why should I?"

"We all make mistakes."

"Would you leave your daughter for a pipe-dream?"

The prepared cooler bumped her side of the counter. "I wouldn't, but it couldn't be that big of a pipe-dream if his daughter's living it now." Johanna folded her lips. "I'm not defending him, but you have done alright for yourself."

She preferred the bar's jukebox over Lane's counsel and sipped her drink as the music played. Her silence could project a clear response.

"They say you moved into your mom's house."

"Yeah. There's no need to buy a new place whenever I come to town." Johanna sighed, completed her cider, and placed a generous tip beside the empty glass. "Thanks, Lane." Her cowgirl boots scraped the floorboards.

"Jo? We're here for you." His brows knitted. "You know that?"

She nodded, her voice growing thick. "I know."

The singer left the bar before her clouding tears could escape.

***

Johanna slid the kitchen door, revealing the stars. She settled onto the patio's top stair and relied on her mother's sweater to keep her warm from the night's draft. The young woman cradled her most prized possession in her lap, given to her on her eighteenth birthday: an acoustic guitar, black and lacquered, with a honey-warm sunburst surrounding the instrument's soundhole. Pressing her calloused fingers along the guitar's wire strings, her mother's face came like the wind into her mind.

Her fingers tirelessly crafted. The memory of her mother being sick motioned within her like a slowed movie. Back-length brunette hair, streaked with silver, vanished, after one month of chemotherapy. Rosy plump cheeks, equaling the summer sun's warmth and comfort, faded to winter. The sharp bones defined beneath her hero's hoary skin pained Johanna's core.

Her mother was a fighter and courageous. The traits mingled a fire that burned in the woman's hazel eyes until they closed for the last time. Johanna's notes curled into a soft melody. She envisioned her mother's brunette hair, returned, and the woman's rosy cheeks, restored with undying youth. Tears tickled the grooves forming on the singer's lips as she began to sing with her instrument's music. The guitar's notes reflected Johanna's pain, sorrow, happiness, and relief, relief that her mother was now at peace.

She lowered her head at her guitar when the song's final note reverberated into the night's gentle winds. Claps resonated at her mother's fence, striking Johanna to turn. A rust-haired man stood at the backyard's gate. His additional features were faint beneath the moon, outlining a milky glow upon the listener's telling wrinkles and sturdy nose. The singer scowled as he made his identity clearer, unlocking the gate in a pitched creak.

The home's golden lights, peering from the kitchen, colored the man's pink skin.

Sapphire-blue eyes stared upon her. "I'm glad one of us put that thing to good use."

The uncanny night's air flashed cooler against Johanna's neck.

"What are you doing here?" The daughter leered and draped an arm over her guitar.

"Lane." Her father's dusty boots clumped to her place on the stairs. "Real shame." He sat, blues crossing blues. "When he called, I thought he was offering a free drink."

"No." Johanna stood from her step. "Just me."

She vowed to never speak to her father again once her mother was buried. He moved out of the house after the funeral.

"You put your mama in a nice house these last couple of years—a second thing I couldn't do—despite the twenty-year headstart. You should be proud you were the better Beckett."

"Did you come to see me only to sit and feel sorry for yourself?"

He ignored her retort. "I've never heard that song before. Is it new?"

"I've been working on it for a month. It's...therapy." The backyard's crickets swallowed the patio's emptiness. "Why are you here?" Her heel clacked against the wooden surface as she leaned against a rail.

"You're alone here, and...I don't have much family. Your mom and I only had you..." Johanna blew a breath, biting her tongue. "What I'm saying is, we're all each other's got."

"Oh, please. My album just went double gold, and you think I have money."

"I don't care about your album."

"Then, what? You care about me?" Her eyes billowed with water. "You care about me just like you cared about Mama?"

"I loved your mother." He shouted. "I tried to reach out to you before you left for California, Jo, but you wouldn't see me. Believe it or not, I love you, too." The weakest tear surrendered from her eye. "Johanna."

He took one step toward her.

"I need you to leave." Johanna wrestled with her hands before reclaiming the man's old guitar, propped beside the railing. "Now." Cracks fractured within her throat.

The man sighed, tucked his hands in his jeans, and ambled down the patio's stairs. He exited and locked his only daughter's gate, his form dissipating into the rich-black night. Johanna crossed her shaking arms at her abdomen, the latest chill swiping her skin and spine. She re-entered the kitchen, quivering hands closing the glass door.

***

Country music rang from the bar's jukebox while the late-night customers danced with the song's rhythm. Johanna mused at the countertop, her nails twining repetitively through her dark tangled hair. Who knew the minutes or hours that had passed?

A tumbler coasted beside her elbow: apple cider garnished with mint. One minuscule taste and Johanna declared the icy beverage pure from alcohol. The stool at her side filled, the neighbor holding a twin glass.

"You shouldn't have called."

"I had to." Lane answered. "Jo, look at you." He held Johanna's hand, her other cleaning tears. "You two need to talk."

"He left us, Lane. Dad spent all of my teen years on the road when I needed him. He never went anywhere with his music and came back when Mama got sick last year as if nothing happened." The woman exhaled and clasped her tumbler. "Can't you put something else in this?"

"No. You are going to deal with this head-on."

"How? Dad probably handled seeing me like he always has—by leaving town." Lane placed an envelope in her hand. "What's this?"

"Read it. He left it for you."

Johanna's father had written a letter.

Dear Jo,

I figured you'd accept this from someone with a prettier mug than mine. Hear me out. Your mother and I hid her sickness from you the first time. The cancer was less severe, and we didn't want to worry you. One night after getting home from a gig, your mom and I heard you messing around with my guitar. You sang a song I'd sing for you when you were a baby. I knew then your voice was something that needed to be shared.

Work wasn't taking care of all of the bills or for your mom's treatments. The band and I pulled together to sing full-time, and the biggest gigs kept us out on the road. Johanna, I never meant to hurt by being gone so much. I was trying to provide for you and your mother the only way I knew how. I knew the second you graduated from high school you'd be running head-first to the record labels. They would've been fools if they didn't sign you. No one was a bigger fan of yours than your mom.

Marcy was my biggest fan, too. I loved that woman with my whole heart. I never stepped out on her at the gigs, Johanna. I only continued my music for her and for you. You don't know this, but after your mom died, I quit the band and went back to my job at the car shop. Music had served its purpose for me—to take care of your mama and to make sure you could follow your dreams. I'm proud of you more than you understand, Johanna.

I know you can't forgive me overnight. I'm not asking you to. But I am asking you for a chance.

I'll be at the county fair on Saturday in case you want to talk. I hope you do.

Dad

Johanna rubbed the letter's edges and discovered a second page.

I couldn't get that song you played on the patio off of my mind. It didn't sound finished. I hope these chords will help.

He styled her notes on a composition sheet titled 'Marcy'.

***

Johanna and her band completed their scheduled set on the county fair's stage. The young singer brought the crowd's cheers to silence as she signaled her hands. Her chest raced as she searched for an absent face.

She leaned toward her microphone. "I'd like to play a new song for you if that's alright." The crowd cheered, and the woman had time to calm her nerves. "Some of you know my mom passed away a few months ago." A fan shouted 'I love you, Johanna', giving her strength. "This song's dedicated to her...and my father who helped me complete it. It's called 'Marcy'. I hope you like it."

Johanna cued her drummer with a short glance, and the man struck a beat. She strummed her guitar, adding her father's chords, and her tender voice released into the air. Several listeners formed heart shapes with their hands, cheeks wet with tears. At the song's most difficult lyrics, Johanna peeked to the moon, and she disguised her tears. Silence covered the crowd as the last notes coursed through the night. Applause engulfed the stage, producing a lightness in Johanna's heavy heart.

"Thank you so much." Johanna and her band bowed.

The singer greeted her manager and loved ones near her tent. She held Dale and Lane the longest until a tall shadow moved behind her tent's curtains. A churn jolted through her stomach as she stepped past the entrance.

Her father was waiting with a bouquet of flowers. "I couldn't have played it any better." The daughter flocked into his arms. A tear swiped Johanna's cheek—his. "I know we have a lot to talk about but—"

"It's okay." Johanna tightened her arms around her father's waist. "I'm just happy to be home."