Free Country Heaven by Ava Miles

clearly something wrong with him. He looked more sad than sick to her. And his comment about not wanting to think? Well…
    Tory had potatoes and cored apples boiling in separate pots when Clayton and Georgia emerged and walked past the kitchen.
    “Do you think we should cancel Detroit?” Clayton asked.
    “No, it would be devastating to the tour, especially since we couldn’t release the reason. If you have to get him drunk to get him onstage, do it.” Georgia walked past the kitchen. Her snakeskin boots seemed an appropriate choice after that comment.
    They were going to liquor him up to perform? It seemed cruel. Well, she’d try to get some food into him first.
    She checked the apples with a fork to see if they were soft. Yep. All ready. She drained them, reserving a few tablespoons of the liquid. After dumping the mix into the blender, she added nutmeg and honey, pressed down on the lid, and hit the On button.
    She looked back when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Clayton was standing behind her. She turned the blender off. “Yes?”
    He cleared his throat. “I understand you aren’t feeling too friendly toward any of us, so I’m grateful you called me.”
    “I’m not inhuman. He’s not feeling well.” She popped the lid and poured the mixture into a bowl. “Would you let me try and get some food in him before…?”
    “I get him drunk? I know our measures seem harsh to you, but it’s all for his benefit.” He slapped his hat against his knee. “Yes, please give him some food. It won’t stop the reason he’s upset, but maybe it will help a little.”
    So, it was as she’d thought. He was sad.
    “Thanks, Tory.” He strode out the kitchen, boots clicking like a metronome, and the bus started moving again some moments later.
    She blended the steaming potatoes next, adding butter, heavy cream, sour cream, and salt. When she tasted them, she smiled. Was there anything better than mashed potatoes? She dished up both concoctions and headed to Rye’s room.
    He was lying on his back with the blanket tucked around his waist. He rolled his head, saw her, and grunted. “Go away.”
    She placed a napkin and the bowl of mashed potatoes on his chest. “Why don’t you try this? You’ll feel better if you get something substantial in your stomach.”
    He sniffed and then reached for the spoon. “Smells good.” When he took a bite, his eyelids fluttered closed.
    It was impossible to be angry with him when he was like this. The energy that usually poured from him had all been leached out. He ate with slow determination at first, but by the time he finished the potatoes and she handed him the applesauce, his pace picked up. She sat in silence, cross legged on the floor by the sofa. Somehow she knew he didn’t want to be alone.
    “Tastes good,” he murmured.
    When he handed her the empty dishes, their eyes met. She didn’t look away. She couldn’t say why.
    “My Daddy had a heart attack,” he whispered.
    She gripped the bowls. Oh goodness, no wonder he was so upset.
    “I’m so sorry. When are you going home to see him?” She pushed off the floor, balancing the bowls, and nearly tripped. She looked down. Leaves of Grass lay at an angle. Rye Crenshaw read Walt Whitman?
    “I can’t go home. Gonna rest now. Have to sing…later.” His eyes closed, and he slipped into sleep.
    He couldn’t go home? The thought was abhorrent to her. Her family had been everything to her.
    She tucked the blanket up to his neck and left the room.
    ***
    The sound of someone stomping down the hall woke Tory up. She gazed at the green glow of the clock. 12:47. Rye must be coming back from the concert. She was glad he’d been able to sing.
    She tunneled her head into the pillow, but when a loud curse punctuated the silence of the tour bus, she decided to check on Rye. She pulled on her lavender silk robe, wishing she had something less revealing, and hurried out. When she entered the kitchen, he was bent over at the waist,