When Last We Loved

by Fran Baker

  “Not yet— and not ever.” She tried to push past him in the direction of the arena, but he pulled her up short.

  Those ecstasy-washed memories hung in the corners of her mind like old cobwebs. She shivered, remembering the feel of his body against hers, the primitive ache that had swelled inside of her whenever he was near. The shape and texture of Hoyt's lean frame were as familiar to her as her own body. But as real as their passion had been, it wasn't enough to overcome the differences that yawned between them like the canyons that carved the Panhandle.

  “I want to help you, Cassie.” Those astoundingly blue eyes— she'd tried to forget how striking they were— held her spellbound. “I can help you, if you'll let me.”

  “I told you once before that I intended to do this on my own.” Her voice was tight with anger. If she didn't get away from him, the past was going to spill into the present, and she'd be right back where she'd started— trapped. “I'm quite capable of handling my own career. As a matter of fact, I think I've managed to do a pretty good job of it Everything I have, I've earned. And I'm pretty damned proud of that.”

  “Congratulations,” Hoyt drawled. His concentration seemed fixed on adjusting the fit of his cowhide glove, but Cassie knew he was on top of the situation. “Now, if you could only manage to keep quiet long enough for me to get a word in edgewise, I'll tell you how I'm going to help. Are you interested in working the Petroleum Club?”

  If Hoyt had dropped his pants and started whistling “Dixie,” Cassie couldn't have been more stunned. The Petroleum Club was the prime showcase in Dallas!

  “What's the catch?” Caution wagged a finger. She knew he was capable of tying up his offer with a maze of strings that would make a cat's cradle seem uncomplicated.

  “Let's call it a compromise,” he suggested. “I'm in the process of expanding the Diamond T's holdings. If you'll shake Allen Ingram and the Texas Twisters so that I can manage your career, I'll book you into the Petroleum Club.”

  “You must be joking! That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.” She laughed, a short, curt sound. “Allen gave me my first break, and I happen to enjoy working with the Twisters. Forget it.”

  “Your loyalty to those amateurs is admirable but foolish, Cassie,” he warned. His sapphire eyes were as hard as stones, and she realized how seriously he must have considered his offer before he'd made it. “Ingram hasn't drawn a sober breath in years, and he's as crooked as a dog's hind leg. Neither you nor your band is underhanded enough to outsmart him. You're all going to wake up in the gutter some morning wondering what it was that hit you the night before.”

  “Tell me, Hoyt, what's prompted this generous offer that you're making? Just what is it that you'd expect as a return on your— your investment?” Something about his intensity had triggered off an alarm in the back of her mind.

  “I'd take the standard fifteen percent, of course.” His insolent gaze slid over her. “Anything else would be optional.”

  “I may not be as well educated as you are, but I'm not exactly dumb.” Her violet eyes shot resentment at him. “I don't need— or want— a sugar daddy to buy my opportunities. I know you well enough by now to understand that you aren't satisfied until you own whatever it is you want.” She was ashamed that she'd ever let him touch her. “I'm not for sale, Hoyt.”

  “And I'm not interested in acquiring anything but the right to manage your career.” His snapping retort made her flinch. “I wouldn't be buying your opportunities, baby. You'd have to earn every ounce of recognition that you might receive. I'd simply introduce you to the people that I know in the recording business. If they like you, we go from there.”

  “Is that really all you'd expect from me, Hoyt?” Cassie's voice was plated with steely pride. “It sounds to me like you think you've named my price. How many of those people that you happen to know in the recording business would dare stand up and tell the head of Diamond T enterprises that they didn't like his singer?”

  The announcer's voice boomed over the loudspeaker, introducing the competitors for the fat purse that the best all-around cowboy stood to win.

  “Think it over.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “Your voice and my money would be a hell of a combination.”

  “You've paid me for an afternoon's entertainment, Hoyt, and you aren't getting your money's worth.” She hoped he felt the amethyst daggers she aimed at him. “If you'll kindly move out of my way, I'll go get ready for the second set.”

  “You don't realize what a dog-eat-dog world the music field is, Cassie. Wolves like Allen Ingram will chew you up and spit you out like a wad of bad tobacco before breakfast.” Hoyt drove his point home with sharply pointed accusations. “If he can't get rich quick off you, he'll dump you and latch onto some other performer who's willing to settle for second-rate jobs and sleazy skull orchards like the Stardust.”

  “Stop it!” She tried to clamp her hands over her ears, but he grabbed her wrists and forced her to listen.

  “Before you give me a definite answer, I want you to think a few things over very carefully,” he insisted. “Who keeps the books for your group? I'd bet dollars to doughnuts that you and your band have been so busy trying to get ahead that you haven't even seen a third of the money you've made. If Ingram's such a good manager, why hasn't he been able to book you into the Petroleum Club? I'll tell you why. Because no reputable owner in Dallas wants anything to do with the biggest liar and cheater who ever walked the pike.”

  “Are you quite through?” Cassie was shaking with rage. Allen had his faults, no doubt about it. But he'd broken through some of those seemingly impossible barriers that a beginning singer runs up against, and he'd done it without ever laying a finger on her. “What do you know about having to struggle day in and day out just to put food on the table?” she demanded. “How can you stand there and put Allen down when everything you own has been handed to you on a silver platter? What right— ”

  “I'm not through yet, and you're going to hear me out.” Hoyt kept her handcuffed. “When you take off those rose-colored glasses you insist on wearing, maybe you'll realize that your dear old manager has ruffled more feathers than a fox in a chicken house. And his reputation hangs around your neck and weights you down just as surely as if it belonged to you.”

  “If I'm making a mistake, Hoyt, then I'll pay for it.”

  “You certainly will, little lady. You certainly will.”

  The crowd in the stands whooped in excitement as the first bronc barreled out of the chute. The horse twisted and bucked in a frantic attempt to throw the rider off its arching back.

  Hoyt jerked her forward then, and before she could utter a sound, his mouth came down on hers in a harsh kiss that set her head spinning like a top. Everything about his kiss revived the memories she'd tried over and over again to shake. A languorous warmth curled through her body and she almost— almost let herself drown in a whirlpool of sensations. His hands moved possessively, claiming territory that Cassie had once given him freely.

  “No!” She pushed away and her arm flew up in an automatic rejection. She was through being used. The stinging crack of her palm against his cheek filled her with an intensely savage pleasure that shocked her.

  “The last person who tried that woke up in the hospital.” Anger seeped into Hoyt's eyes, lighting them with a vicious blue warning. He cupped her chin and forced her to meet his gaze. “I'd hate for you to have to explain to an audience where you got a bruised eye.”

  “I hope you break your neck!” She spun and ran for the van, pursued by a stampeding herd of memories. “Damn you, Hoyt Temple, and damn everything you stand for!”

  Chapter 6

  “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 glori
ous 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 n
ew 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.