“We've got to strike while the iron is hot, Cassie.” Bo leaned back on two legs of the kitchen chair that he'd dragged into the bedroom so he could watch the costume fitting. “I figure by the time your segment of Barbara's show is aired, your third song will be climbing the charts. The article that
Billboard
ran on you last month is just the tip of the publicity iceberg. Now
Country Style
wants to get a photo layout of your home— you know, the ‘rising young star’ bit.”
“How about
exhausted
young star?” she asked dryly.
Bo pulled a leather pouch out of his shirt pocket and rolled thin white paper around the loose Bull Durham crumbs that he shook out. When he'd tamped down the tobacco with an expert forefinger, he sealed the cigarette and lit it.
“Don't drop ashes,” Cassie admonished. “With the schedule you've arranged for me, this new carpet may be the only tangible evidence that I'll ever have that I own a home.”
The aromatic smoke smell wafted into her large dressing room. She selected a black, butcher-linen sundress embroidered with multicolored flowers and open-toed sandals from her overflowing walk-in closet.
“When am I supposed to leave for L.A.?” The prospect of crisscrossing the West Coast in a short span of time didn't appeal to her. But she knew how important the exposure was for an artist who was plugging a recent release, and she knew she was going, anyway, whether she liked it or not. Cassie parted her hair and pinned it with the hand-painted butterfly clips that a fan had sent her last week. She didn't need stage makeup for tonight, so she applied only a light coating of the basics.
“You fly out the morning of the tenth, rehearse for two days, and tape the show on the thirteenth.” Bo looked up and nodded his approval when she joined him. “You've come a long way from those ‘farm girl makes good in blue jeans’ days,” he commented.
Underneath his “Aw, shucks!” southern drawl and devil-may-care physical appearance, Bo was a shrewd producer who had negotiated her fees with lightning-quick savvy. The number of requests for bookings into his studio had tripled since Cassie's success, but he was never too busy for his bread-and-butter client.
“You're invited to appear on the ‘Tonight’ show while you're out west. The weekend after that, you're scheduled for the rodeo in Cheyenne, Wyoming. Then there's a three-nighter in Denver.” He trailed after Cassie through the long hallway, reading from the pocket calendar where he kept track of her gigs.
“Keep me in suspense about the rest of it,” she groaned. It made her tired just to think about the hectic pace coming up soon.
“Get out of that potato salad!” Cassie caught Scrappy red-handed. She snatched the bowl away from him and slammed the refrigerator door forcefully. “We have to sing for our supper tonight, remember?” She wrapped foil over the dish that she'd prepared for the celebrity basket-dinner-auction being held to raise money for charity.
“You're just a jackpot of talent, you know that?” Scrappy was trying to get back on her good side with the compliment. He practically drooled as he ogled the hamper that she was packing with crispy fried chicken, the potato salad, and a two-layered devil's food cake that she'd baked and frosted with fudge that morning. “I've got a half-dozen invitations to eat elsewhere,” he added. “But that looks too good to pass up.”
“Is Rose going with us?” Cassie arranged the plates, napkins, and utensils, slapped Scrappy's wandering fingers so she wouldn't close them in the lid, and tied a big red bow on the wicker handle.
“We're supposed to pick her up at the restaurant.” Scrappy shuffled his feet, anxious to get going. “Her mother is sending some of that good corn relish and a couple of loaves of homemade bread for us to include in the basket.”
“I know who's going to be the highest bidder on
this
dinner.” Cassie laughed as she locked the front door. “The only thing I'm wondering is which you love best: Rose, or her mother's home cooking.”
“A little bit of both,” he quipped.
Cassie knew in her heart that it was only a matter of time before her backup buddy announced his retirement from the road and settled down with the shy young waitress. Rose's quiet, steady love had worked miracles on the talented, rough-and-tumble musician. Scrappy hadn't yet fully realized that he'd grown weary of the driving-playing-sleeping routine, but Cassie counted every precious day, preparing herself for the inevitable parting of paths.
* * * *
“Let's try it this way, fellows.” Cassie had spent endless hours mentally arranging the furniture during her western tour, daydreaming in between the time spent meeting celebrities and working to plug her new song.
“One on each side of the fireplace.” She directed the barrel-chested deliverymen, who placed the brown velvet sofas on the doeskin carpet
“And these go here.” She indicated the spaces that she'd reserved for the matching club chairs. The solid walnut cocktail table was a serenely simple focal point for the conversational area that she'd planned.
Antique satin draperies reflected the mellow monochromatic warmth of the decorating scheme. Cassie intended to spice it all up with some of the many treasures that she'd been sent by fans, distributors, and promoters who'd heard her joking remarks on the “Tonight” show about needing more time to shop for the final touches that would turn her house into a home.
“I've sent out more thank-you notes than a bride.” She smiled, talking to herself as she smoothed the coral comforter over the oak four-poster bed.
From the amber tones of her elegant bedroom to the porcelain and stainless-steel gleam of her country kitchen, Cassie's home was that rare combination of comfort and beauty. Every stick of furniture was the finest money could buy. From the generous deluge of gifts that she had received, she'd arranged lovely displays on the china cabinet shelves. Plump pillows and soft afghans proved her fans were loyal; and expensive paintings of the Old West said that the music industry wished her continued success.
Why, then, was she unable to relax and enjoy the fruits of her labor? And why had she let Hoyt slip out of her life again without demanding a showdown? Cassie knew the answers, but she hated facing the facts. She still wasn't good enough for him. All her money, all her hard work— they were vain efforts on her part to capture his heart. She wandered the back roads of her memories, painfully aware that she'd been too blind to see that she'd chosen the wrong road home.
* * * *
“I want out of my contract, Hoyt. As soon as our lawyers can get together to work out the financial details, I'll buy it back from you. Just name your price.” Cassie's face felt as though it were carved from granite. She couldn't meet the intense look in his eyes. Let him attribute this sudden demand to artistic temperament or any one of a hundred other reasons. She wouldn't have him anymore, but she
would
have her pride.
“We'll talk about that after you've released the album.” His voice was low. A vibrant energy communicated itself to her. He'd flown in from Dallas that morning on his private jet and they were dining out together to discuss the details of the concept album that Bo wanted her to write and record.
“No,” she said. “I want to settle it now.”
He'd been in and out of her life as if the entrance to it were nothing but a revolving door. His fire-and-ice influence over every facet of her personal and professional affairs was infuriating. She was tempted to fling her salad in his face and walk out of the restaurant. Instead, she folded her hands in her lap and confronted him.
“I want to make my own career decisions from now on.” She kept her tone casual so that he wouldn't guess how deeply wounded she was by his indifference. “We have different goals, Hoyt— we always have had. Your only interest in life is to control as much money and land, to own as many people, as you can.”
Her lips were dry and she moistened them with the tip of her tongue. “I used to believe that money was the most important thing in the world. My fantasy was to rake in the bucks, big bucks. I thought it would make me a better person, that it would make you sit up and really see me for the woman I am.” She smiled ruefully. “It didn't work. As far as you're concerned, I'm just another corporate asset.” She was stiff with remorse. “I want out as soon as possible. I'm willing to meet your price.”
“No court in this land would uphold your jumping ship at this point.” Hoyt's blue eyes bored through her like a diamond-point drill. “I bankrolled an unknown singer who wandered out of west Texas without the foggiest notion of how to get started in the music business. Now that she's got a little success under her belt, she wants to show her appreciation by sticking a knife in my ribs.”
Cassie noticed that he didn't bother to deny that his interest in her was a purely financial one. She wouldn't let herself dwell on that now.
“You're as mistaken about that as you have been about a lot of things.” She spoke calmly. It was good that they were having it out in public like this. Hoyt wouldn't have a chance to work his private magic in an attempt to dissuade her.
“We won't see each other anymore, of course,” she declared gravely. “We've used each other for too long and for all the wrong reasons.” A knot pulsated in the pit of her stomach as she verbally severed their physical ties. She would love this man until the day she died, but she refused to live at his beck and call.
“We've got a contract. It suits me. I don't care whether it suits you.” His flat statement caught her off guard. He leaned across the table and Cassie sat back in her chair, suddenly wary of his hair-trigger temper. She didn't move quickly enough, though, and he caught her wrist in the vise of his fingers. “You're going to fulfill your obligations to that contract if I have to yank you out of bed every morning and kick your tail all the way to the studio.”
Cassie squirmed in embarrassment. Other diners were beginning to notice their squabble and she hated being the center of this sort of attention.
“You'll get what you paid for— and nothing more,” she finally conceded through clenched teeth.
“That's all I ever wanted, Cassie.” He relaxed his iron-tight grip on her wrist.
“Don't ever threaten me again, Hoyt Temple, or you'll rue the day.” Her voice cracked with tension as she stood and pulled her arms away.
Blue eyes clashed with purple fury, and the deadly silence was more bruising than the angry words that remained unspoken.
“I'm heading back to Dallas in the morning, but I'll be in touch with Bo by telephone.” His eyes were opaque shields of indifference. “When you've finished writing the wrap song for the album, let him know so that he can reserve some studio time.”
Cassie didn't realize how plainly the pain had inscribed itself on her lovely face. She nodded her head, numbed by their conflict.
“Waiter, bring me a shot of bourbon with a water back,” Hoyt ordered, dismissing her. The break was complete, with the minor exception of his holding company control over her career.
One out of every two cabdrivers in Nashville was a songwriter waiting for the big break, and Cassie normally enjoyed talking with them. Tonight, though, she wasn't in the mood for swapping hard-luck stories. Hot tears streamed down her face as she walked the long, lonely mile home.
The following morning a paunchy man clutching what appeared to be a sales receipt in his hand appeared on her front porch. “I'm real sorry we got delayed in delivering this, ma'am,” he apologized, “but we couldn't find the dad-blasted notary until nine this morning.”
“There must be some mistake.” Cassie scanned the piece of paper that the man shoved in her face. Her tear-swollen eyes would hardly focus. “I don't understand. I didn't order— ”
“Is Mr. Temple here yet?” The man had had a frustrating morning and his beefy cheeks were bright red.
“Of course not!” she snapped. “What's going on?”
“The bus that Mr. Temple ordered is here.”
“What?” Hoyt hadn't mentioned anything about this to her last night Of course, she hadn't given him much of a chance to bring up the subject, either.
The man jerked his balding head in the direction of a gleaming silver bus parked in Cassie's driveway.
“I reckon you can sign for it, seeing as how Mr. Temple has already paid us in full.” The man mopped his brow with a wrinkled red bandanna and expertly aimed a stream of tobacco over the side of her porch. “See, it's titled in your name.” He poked a pudgy finger at the notarized certificate of ownership. “Now, if I can just get you to initial the receipt, I'll be on my way.”
Cassie was dumbfounded.
“Don't worry about a thing, ma'am. This is all sewn up tight as a drum.” The man was impatient to leave.
“Would you mind slowing down here for a minute?” Cassie threw her hands up in self-defense. “Take this from the beginning. Are you saying that Hoyt Temple bought this and told you to deliver it to me?”
An eager nod confirmed the fact. “It's our deluxe customized model, too, and we worked like dogs to meet his specs.” He puffed up like a peacock. “It has a kitchen, two bedrooms, a bathroom, living area, built-in stereo and recorder— the works. Why, we haven't filled an order like this in a blue moon. And that's no lie, either.”
Cassie was surprised that the man hadn't popped his buttons before he finished his speech.
“Come on, I'll show you around.” He rattled on like a two-dollar phonograph while escorting her through the motorized home.
“Wow! We could hole up in here for a whole winter of three-dog nights and never want for a thing.” Scrappy found Cassie sitting in a state of shock over her unexpected gift at the fold-out, butcher-block table. He wandered through the bus, admiring the leather upholstery, inspecting the fully stocked shelves, and fiddling with the stereo knobs.
“Hey, this is clever.” He stopped to read the collage of reviews that someone had clipped from newspapers and magazines across the country. They'd been assembled in a gold-edged frame.
“Did you read what this one critic said?” Scrappy slapped his thigh in amusement as he read the critic's remarks: “'If that strong, sparkin’ eyed son-of-a-pancake-maker doesn't wake up and smell Cassie Creighton's coffee pretty soon, I'm going to two-step it to Nashville and tell her there's room for her boots under my bed anytime.'”