When Last We Loved (8 page)

“Hey, Cassie, Mr. Temple has saved us some real good seats so we can watch the rodeo.” Scrappy stood outside the van.

Cassie raised her head from the steering wheel, where she'd laid it while fighting to regain her composure. The first cool breeze of the day caressed her flushed face, and sunset streaked the western sky in a glorious riot of color. How long had she been sitting there?

“Come with me,” Scrappy coaxed. “I haven't seen a good bronc-busting contest in a dog's age. Besides, there's an old friend of Allen's in the stands and he wants to meet us.” He opened the door and tugged gently at her arm. “Believe it or not, the guy is a record promoter. Maybe this is the break we've all been waiting for.”

Cassie let herself be helped out of the van.

“What's the matter with you, girl? You look like your last friend just kicked you in the teeth.”

A ghost of a smile played around Cassie's lips. How could Hoyt even suggest that she dump Allen and the Twisters? They were her family, her best friends. No amount of money could buy that kind of loyalty.

“I think I'm about ready for a nice long vacation, anything that doesn't involve music,” she said as she strolled with Scrappy toward the stands. “This has been the hardest ten months of my life. What do you say? Let's lay low for a while, find some sun on a quiet beach and rest.” Her lips still tasted of Hoyt's kiss and she rubbed them with the back of her hand. “I'm tired of this hectic pace. Allen's customers and the rest of Dallas can dance to a jukebox for a while.”

“We'd better see what this promoter has up his sleeve first,” Scrappy said. “If this doesn't work out, then we'll talk about a break.”

“Do you ever wonder where all of this chaotic rushing around that we do is finally going to lead, and whether it's worth the toll we're paying?” Cassie hoped he didn't misunderstand her reason for asking, but she had to talk about her feelings, try to get some perspective on her problems. “Sometimes I think it would be easier to settle for a vine-covered cottage out on the prairie and call it quits.”

He nodded slowly, as in tune with her now as he was onstage. “I know what you mean, Cass. This whole scene gets to me every now and then, too.”

“How have you stood it for so long? What is it that makes you want to get up on that stage every night and put your ego at the crowd's mercy? How do you stay so calm and— and sane?”

“It wasn't always that way, babe, believe me. Remind me sometime when we've got a couple of hours and I'll tell you how looks can deceive.” Scrappy kicked a pebble along the ground with the scuffed toe of his plainer-than-mud boots. “I've been on the outside looking in for so long that I get lower than a snake's belly just thinking about it.”

Scrappy scratched his bearded chin. “I never have figured out what it is that drives me, whether I'm just a show-off or whether I actually have something worthwhile to contribute to the music business.” He shrugged. “Who knows? I think this business must get into your bloodstream, like an incurable disease of some sort.”

“We've got a disease, all right,” she agreed wryly. “Don't tell anyone else, but I think they build padded cells for people like us.”

“Maybe so. But I know one thing for sure. I wouldn't trade the applause and the satisfaction of pleasing a crowd for all of the beer in the Lone Star Brewery.” He shot her a sideways glance. “I don't think you would, either.”

They laughed together and Cassie was cheered by the fact that there was someone else who understood her blues. “Let's stick that song I wrote into the second set,” she suggested. Her enthusiasm was coming back and she was ready to lick the world, an audience at a time. “We've rehearsed it enough and I'm comfortable with your arrangement now.”

“If that promoter friend of Allen's is legitimate, that song could just be our ticket to Nashville.” Scrappy grabbed her hand. “Pick up your feet, girl. I don't want to miss the action.” They broke into a jog and headed for the arena.

Hoyt's name was announced over the loudspeaker as Cassie crawled past a row of knees and found her seat in the bleachers. His chap-covered legs straddled the heaving sides of a bad medicine mustang, and he held one hand high above his Stetson in arrogant compliance with the strict rules of bronc busting.

“Oooooh!” The crowd gasped in admiration as Hoyt absorbed a particularly brutal jolt. Sunlight glinted off the silver belt buckle he'd won as champion of the Grand National Finals last year in San Francisco.

The horse hung narrow for what seemed like an eternity. Its sharp hooves pummeled the ground, spraying sawdust and dirt every which way. Hoyt pitted himself against the bone-jarring action, making the contest look as easy as riding a mechanical carnival pony.

When the buzzer sounded, signaling the end of his ride, he slid off the bronc's back and slapped its gleaming rump, then saluted the cheering crowd. Cassie relaxed her tightly clenched muscles and drew an easy breath. She'd unconsciously tensed during those long eight seconds. It infuriated her to know that she still cared so much.

Would she always be haunted by the memory of his lean, golden body taking her higher than she'd ever dreamed possible?

“Mr. Purdy, this is the young lady we've been talking about.” Allen drew her attention when he leaned across her, and she wrinkled her nose as she caught the sour smell of the beers he'd been soaking his throat with all afternoon. “This is Harlan Purdy, Cassie. He's an old buddy of mine and we just happened to bump into each other a little while ago. Harlan is a promoter from Nashville and he caught your show and was impressed enough to ask about meeting you.”

Allen slurred the last part of his introduction as he threw a possessive arm around her shoulders. Cassie was perturbed that he was mixing business with imbibing again. She wanted to duck and let him lose his balance, but she smiled warmly, instead, savoring the promise of a private moment with Allen later. The first chance she got, she was going to read him the riot act

“If I were a canary, Miss Creighton, I'd throw myself out of the nearest tree.” Harlan Purdy wiped his palm on a spotless handkerchief he'd pulled from the lapel pocket of his white Kentucky Colonel suit The promoter grinned like a Cheshire cat and mopped his brow.

“Yes, sir, reminds me of the night I signed Little Joey Ballard smack in the middle of a medicine show back in Fayetteville, Arkansas.” He chewed his cigar and it rolled to the side of his mouth. “Did you ever hear of Little Joey by any chance?”

Cassie shook her head brusquely. She rarely judged people on first impression, but the promoter's polished, down-home charm made her skin crawl.

“Yes, sir,” he drawled, oblivious to the fact that she refused to offer him any encouragement, “this is your lucky day, little lady, because I just happen to have a contract with me.” He chuckled and waved a legal-sized document in her face like a carrot-stick bribe from a mule skinner. “Never do know when I'm going to run into the kind of talent that I'm searching for, so I just keep a few of these handy.” He patted his pocket.

Cassie sat as still as a statue. If Allen thought that she was going to rush into anything this important while he was three sheets to the wind, he was dead wrong.

“Yes, sir, we're always in the market for new talent. Plenty of room at the top if you're willing to work.” Purdy wiped his brow again as he rattled on. When he whipped out a pen and tried to present it to her, Cassie stared straight ahead and kept her hands folded in her lap. “And something tells me you've got staying power, too. That's a mighty important quality in a performer.” He puffed his stogie to emphasize his point. “A leg up, that's all you need. And I think I'm the one who can do it for you, too, young lady. Yes, sir,” he chuckled.

“She writes her own material, too.” Allen shouted to be heard over the din. A defeated rider was being dragged across the arena by his horse. The garishly painted, baggy-panted rodeo clowns shooed the rogue toward a gate where several men scrambled to rescue the cowboy, whose hand was trapped in the rope bridle.

“Little Joey, now, sometimes I worry about his staying power,” Purdy droned. “He's got a weakness for the sauce and— ”

Cassie wanted to stand up and scream. Instead, she flashed violet-eyed distress to Scrappy. The stifling heat, combined with Allen's one-hundred-proof breath and the promoter's acrid cigar smoke, was gagging her.

“We've got to run through that new number a couple of times before we go on again.” Scrappy grabbed her hand and she jumped up, knocking over a can of beer that someone had stashed under the bleachers. A foamy lake spread a dark stain under her boots and then dribbled onto the leather-jacketed shoulders of a startled spectator in the next row down.

“One night Little Joey tied one on so tight that I didn't think we were ever going to get him shaped up in time for the show. Damned if he didn't wind up swinging from the chandelier before his first set was over.” Harlan Purdy seemed determined to finish his story and Cassie ground her teeth in frustration. “We finally wound up propping him on a stool. You know, I don't think the audience ever did figure out— ”

“Mr. Purdy, I can't tell you what a pleasure it's been to meet you. Why don't you drop by the Stardust some night so we can visit?” Cassie began edging away from her seat.

“Let's iron it out now,” Allen rebuked in drunken belligerence. “I've read the contract and it's as fair a shake as you're ever going to get.” His eyes crossed and Cassie shook her head in disgust.

“I'm afraid you'll have to excuse us now, Mr. Purdy.” Cassie shook the promoter's damp hand. His beet-red scalp glowed like a cherry on top of his vanilla-sundae body, and she forced herself to swallow the laughter bubbling up inside her. “If you're planning to stick around for the second half of the show, we've got a new number that we're going to do. I wrote it and I think you might enjoy it.”

“I keep a pretty tight schedule, young lady. It's kind of hard to tell ahead of time when I'm going to be available to audition new talent.” Harlan Purdy obviously didn't like delays, no matter how valid the reasons for them might be.

“Hell, I've got managers from Muscle Shoals, Alabama, to Cut and Shoot, Texas, ragging me to come hear their new singers,” he rasped. “It's a tough old business you're trying to break into.” He jammed the butt end of his stogie between his small, sharp teeth and clamped his jowls shut. “A little girl like you needs a hand if she wants to be taken seriously. Otherwise... ” His beady eyes warned her of the dangers awaiting vulnerable hopefuls.

“I understand,” she said, ignoring Allen's glassy-eyed glower. “If you do ever find the time to drop by the Stardust, though, we'll see if we can't work out some sort of deal that suits us all.” Right now, she really didn't care whether she fit into his schedule or not. “I appreciate your interest in me, I really do.” Cassie's nerves were at the breaking point, and if she didn't get a moment's peace before she went back onstage, she was liable to fall completely to pieces.

“What if they don't like the song?” She was beside herself with a case of the jitters.

“You'll never know until you try,” Scrappy assured her.

“Why am I doing this to myself?” she groaned. “Why didn't I just stay put in Coyote Bend and run the cash register at Ray's drugstore or something? Who needs this kind of agony? I must be nuts!”

“Remember those padded cells we were talking about earlier?” He grinned and strummed a chord on his banjo. “This will put you another step closer to claiming what's rightfully yours.”

“Thanks. I needed that.” Cassie's voice was shaking almost as much as her hands were.

“Hey, it's a good song. Quit worrying.” Scrappy threw an encouraging arm around her shoulders.

“You're just saying that because you wrote the music.” She still wasn't convinced.

“Have I ever lied to you?”

''Yes.'’

“When?” His eyes were widely innocent.

“The day you told me that you and Kris Kristofferson were fraternal twins.”

“Oh, that.” He shrugged, dismissing the whole matter. “I wasn't lying. I was hallucinating.”

Their laughter broke the tension and they took their places among the familiar instrumental props on the flatbed stage.

Cassie's professional training arrested her emotional turmoil when the announcer introduced them at intermission. She didn't tell the audience that she'd written the song she would sing because she wanted it judged on merit alone. The simple story line was aimed directly at women everywhere who were attracted to men they shouldn't want and couldn't have, and Cassie was vulnerable to the core. She'd written it with her own situation in mind, and she sang it with deep emotional feeling:

"I've told you before

I'll say it again

Don't want what you've got

Don't now, didn't then.

“Don't bother coming ‘round

You're wasting your time.

Find yourself another lady,

I'm doing just fine.

“I wish you'd receive

This message I'm sending,

I want someone who's giving

Instead of just lending.

“So take off, big man

I'm not for you.

Here it is for the last time,

Baby, we're through.”

As the final strains of the music faded away, the audience whistled and stomped its resounding approval. Cassie hugged herself in delighted relief before moving on to the next number.

“I told you so,” Scrappy mouthed over the raucous cheering that accompanied their exit from the arena after the performance.

“I hope to hell you didn't blow your chance with Purdy.” Allen had weaved his way over to the van and was doing his sullen best to end the day on a sour note. Cassie's self-control was strained to the snapping point, but she didn't argue with him.

“Harlan's a busy man. I don't know if he'll take the time to see you again or not,” Allen groused.

“If he's serious about wanting to help us, then wild horses couldn't keep him away,” Cassie retorted. She bit her tongue. This wasn't the time or the place for a lecture. Tomorrow morning, though, she sure intended to talk him up one side and down the other. Cassie hoped Allen's head would pound like a parade was marching through it in the morning, but she said no more than a curt good night before she hopped into the passenger's seat and slammed the door.