* * * *
“I'm sorry, Cassie, but until he sobers up and can make some rational decisions, the ‘Dallas Hayride’ is going to have to go on without you.” The television producer nodded in Allen's direction. “I don't know what brand of bull he's been feeding you, but there's no way we can meet the price he's demanding. We've got a budget and the station won't let us go over it by one penny.”
Cassie glared at her glassy-eyed manager. Allen weaved around a camera and stumbled toward the exit door.
“I'll see what I can do to straighten this out,” she assured the producer. “The ‘Hayride’ has been good exposure for us. Half of our bookings tell us they saw us here first.”
“You're a fine drawing card, Cassie. I'd be tickled pink to have you back in the lineup. See if you can talk some sense into him and give me a call next week.”
“It won't do any good to lash into him tonight.” Scrappy laid his fiddle in the instrument case and snapped it shut.
“He's been messing up our bookings something awful,” Cassie muttered. “He
promised
he was going to be more careful.”
“He does a good job when he's sober; even you have to admit that.” Scrappy was always willing to give people the benefit of the doubt. “After all, it can't be easy to run a restaurant and bar, and keep our gigs straight, too.”
"I
run the restaurant and
he's
the bar's best customer.” Cassie was tired of the apologies and excuses. “Don't you realize that sooner or later his reputation is going to rub off on us?”
“For better or worse, he's the only manager we've got.”
Scrappy took her arm and led her out of the studio. “We never even would have had a crack at the ‘Hayride’ if it hadn't been for Allen.”
“We never would have been fired, either, if it hadn't been for Allen,” she reminded him.
“Just call it one of those dues-paying days and forget about it.” Scrappy helped her into the van.
“At least he didn't punch anybody this time.” Cassie shook her head, remembering the night she'd spent trying to scrape up enough cash to bail Allen out of trouble. “Next time I'll just let him rot in jail.”
“When you've kicked around as long as I have, you'll learn to expect things like this once in a while.” Scrappy started the van and backed out of the parking space.
Cassie rubbed her temples in frustration. No matter how many times it happened, she would never get used to the idea that this was the normal way to get ahead in the music business.
* * * *
“I'm cutting your hours in the restaurant.” Allen sipped his drink the next morning as he flipped through the time cards he used to write the weekly payroll.
“You need more rest.” His frog-in-the-throat growl cut her off before she could voice her protest. “I've booked a barbecue for Saturday night— a real society gig— and we're scheduled solid for the next three weekends. Besides, I think it's time for us to drop the ‘singing waitress’ gimmick and develop your professional identity.” He nodded at the sepia-toned photographs splattered on the poster that he'd taken out of the picture window.
“Allen, we've got to have a serious talk.” Cassie knew this was the best time to approach him, while he was still relatively sober.
“All right, spit it out.” He drained his glass and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“We can't go on like this, with the drinking and the messed-up bookings. Allen, people are starting to talk— ”
“Who?” His dark eyes were hooded with suspicion.
“Just... people.” She wasn't about to endanger anyone by revealing names.
“If you don't trust me, Cassie, say so now. It will save everybody a lot of time and trouble.” He scowled. “Nobody's going to hand you the brass ring. Hell, there are plenty of singers who'd slit their own mothers’ throats for the kind of opportunities you've had.”
“I know that, and I appreciate everything you've done for me. But we're on the verge of something good, and I just want all of us to remember it as— ”
“You handle your end of things, and I'll take care of my end.” Allen tipped the “emergency” bottle he'd pulled out of the bottom drawer of his desk and refreshed his drink.
“Allen, I'm worried about you.”
“I've gotten along a hell of a lot of years without your concern, Cassie. And I'll get along a good many more without it, too. If you don't like the job I'm doing, you're free to take a walk” He turned his attention back to the checkbook and Cassie knew she was dismissed.
Something— or someone— had to give. Cassie hoped it wasn't her.
* * * *
“How do I look?” Cassie had splurged on a pair of hand-tooled Luchesse boots that she'd spied some weeks ago at Shepler's. She twirled to appreciative whistles, showing off her soft black cotton skirt and smile-pocket shirt, both of which were appliquéd with satin roses. She wanted to look perfect for the gig tonight at the north Dallas society barbecue and rodeo.
“You ought to fit right in with that fancy crowd tonight.” Scrappy smiled and hiked up the same old blue jeans that he always wore onstage.
“Will success spoil the Twisters?” she teased as she pitched in to help load up the amplifiers and instruments.
The Twisters didn't read music and they'd had no formal training, but they knew their instruments like most people knew the backs of their hands. Cassie's relationship with them was grounded in the mutual respect they had for one another's ability, and she'd adopted them as her talented, substitute family.
“Allen's meeting us at the barbecue.” Scrappy had inherited the driving chores. Cassie, Mike, and Jess passed the time playing cards at the portable table in the back of the van. When they turned off the highway and headed toward the sprawling ranch where they were scheduled to appear, she glanced out the window in idle curiosity.
“Did he tell you who was throwing this gig?” She crawled into the front passenger's seat for a better view of the spread they were approaching. Green grazing land rolled gently to the south, while methodically thumping black rocker arms pumped oil as far north as the eye could see.
“Oh, no!” Cassie whispered in horror when she spotted the Diamond T symbol emblazoned on the arched white entrance gates.
Chapter 5
“What in blue blazes is the matter with you?” Allen growled, hopping into the driver's seat, which Scrappy had just vacated.
“I won't sing for these people.” Cassie crossed her arms over her chest in a stubborn attitude, refusing to budge an inch. “Please, Allen, don't ask me to get up on that stage. Tell them we made a mistake and refund their money. Or let the guys handle this one alone.”
“Have you lost your mind?” he roared. “We've just pocketed our biggest fee to date and you develop cold feet!”
“I've worked for the Temples before.” Something told her not to hand Allen a sword that he could hold over her head in the future, so she gave him only a partial outline of her past relationship with the wealthy family, omitting the more intimate details. “I don't want anything to do with them,” she summed up forcefully. “They've caused me all the grief I need, and I'm sure the feeling is mutual.”
“The only thing you're being paid to do is to entertain them and then go home.” Allen drained the can of beer he clutched in his fist. “The rest of your story is ancient history. You're bought and paid for, baby, whether you like it or not.”
Cassie felt like someone had tightened a noose around her throat. Vivid memories of Hoyt's warm, golden body played in slow motion through her mind.
“I'm going to check out the sound equipment,” Allen said. “Do whatever you want, but stay close in case we hit a snag.”
He obviously considered the matter settled and Cassie couldn't— wouldn't— offer a more personal argument in her own defense. She sat alone in the van, drained of her normal enthusiasm.
“I don't have anyone to blame but myself,” she murmured. “From now on, though,
I'll
have the final say about where I appear.”
The best that she could hope for was that Hoyt was in Coyote Bend or one of his other tenant towns. Cassie slipped out of the warm van for a breath of fresh air and found a secluded spot under a fragrant crepe myrtle tree. The mouth-watering aromas wafting from the chuck-wagon-style buffet couldn't entice her to abandon her position of safety. The rodeo started in less than an hour and she had a standing policy never to feed the butterflies in her stomach before she went onstage.
She would keep a low profile until show time, she decided, then duck out at the first opportunity.
Cassie's gaze wandered idly over the swelling crowd that was gathering near the bronc and bull chutes. When she spotted the broad shoulders and wavy brown hair, a bolt of recognition rippled through her like a knife through hot butter. At that same instant Hoyt turned away from a smug-looking female companion and met Cassie's frozen stare. She jumped to her feet and Hoyt covered the distance between them in quick, spur-jangling strides.
“So, you're the singing waitress who's setting Dallas on its musical ear. Welcome to the Diamond T.” The disquieting glitter in his dark blue eyes told Cassie that he'd known her identity when he'd hired her. The sleeves of Hoyt's open-throated shirt were rolled back off his forearms, and a pair of leather chaps that had seen better days hugged his narrow hips.
“It's a lovely ranch. I can see why it means so much to you.” The months of separation hadn't stilled her longing. Cassie knew that if she could skate over the thin ice of polite conversation with him, anything was possible... even getting through these awkward moments... maybe even forgetting that he owned a piece of her heart.
“I've read the reviews about your act in the newspaper, and I caught you once on local television.” His smile and words were courteous, but his blue eyes raked her over the coals of yesterday's desire. “Sounds like you're making a steady climb to the top, just like you said you wanted to do.”
“We're doing our best.” Cassie kept her tone bantering as she fought the compulsion to step into his arms. “Our manager has booked us into every club and function he can. He thinks it's just a matter of time now until he can get us a contract with a recording company.”
“I always knew that there was a beautiful woman under that prairie dirt.” Hoyt reached over and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. When his fingers traced the delicate curve of her cheek, liquid fire ran through her veins.
Cassie tried to pretend that it was just another compliment, that Hoyt's rugged virility had nothing whatsoever to do with the crazy way her pulse was racing. But she knew that he knew exactly where she was most vulnerable.
“You look good, Cassie. The entertainment business must agree with you.” Even in the wide-open outdoors, Hoyt took up more than his fair share of space. Cobalt eyes competed with the blue awning of sky as he studied her face in the sun-dappled shade.
“I thought you promised to show me the bronc you're going to ride, honey.” The voluptuous blonde that Hoyt had deserted earlier sauntered over and linked her arm through his. Her possessive gesture announced that she was woman enough for this cowboy. The blonde's glued-on jumpsuit scarcely contained her affection, and her honeyed skin and spindrift hair bespoke a gilded indifference to everything but her man.
“Dee Dee Hamilton, I want you to meet Cassie Creighton.” A hint of mischief sparkled in Hoyt's handsome face. “Cassie and I are old friends. As a matter of fact, she used to work for me in Coyote Bend. We hired her back to perform today during the rodeo.”
“Well, well, it's like old home week, then, isn't it? I just love reunions. Don't you?” Dee Dee's voice was an F-flat whine that grated like chalk on a blackboard. “I swear, Hoyt's got such a knack for running smack-dab into the past. It's too bad you two don't have time to visit.”
“Yes, well, I do have to get ready for the show.” Cassie was determined not to let Hoyt see how much it mattered that he'd replaced her with so little effort. Dee Dee was apparently content to take a back seat to the Diamond T, as long as Hoyt was the driver. “It was nice to meet you.” Her words were stiff.
“Likewise, I'm sure.” The blonde's charcoal-defined eyes glittered as she patted the back of Hoyt's work-roughened hand with her manicured one. “Let's go see that bronc now, honey.”
Cassie spun on her heel and escaped to the van. Allen was right on target this time. She and Hoyt were nothing more than ancient history. She brushed out ebony tangles until her hair tumbled over her shoulders in a thick mass of black confusion. Her stage makeup was applied with automatic motions.
“Time,” she assured her reflection. “Just a little more time and I'll forget him.” But Cassie knew that an eternity wasn't long enough to wipe out the memories.
* * * *
“Okay, let's roll it!” Scrappy waved to the driver and the buckboard-stage lurched forward and creaked through the sawdust and dirt mixture until it reached the middle of the arena.
Cassie took her place in front of her band on the flatbed stage, resigned to salvage what she could of an unnerving day.
“I made my decision and I'm proud of it. He'll forget all about me once the check's returned canceled,” she'd told herself as she'd climbed on board to perform.
The Twisters’ sturdy, driving foundation of harmony reminded Cassie of the task at hand. Using her velvet-smooth voice to advantage, she invited the audience into her musical world. They'd chosen their material in anticipation of the crowd's mood following an afternoon of fine food and free-flowing beer, and Cassie knew from the enthusiastic reaction that they'd chosen well.
When the audience started clapping along with the catchy, familiar tunes, Cassie hopped off the stage with a remote mike in one hand and a tambourine in the other, to strut and kick to the rhythm. Scrappy joined her on the floor of their theater-in-the-round to wind up the set with a rousing, old-time gospel finale that brought the audience to its feet.
“You're a genuine Texas songbird if I ever heard one.” A gray-haired, bowlegged bull of a man stood near the exit gate, cautiously balancing his weight on a silver-handled cane. “That show reminded me of the whippoorwill lullabies we used to listen to out on the range.”