by Fran Baker
A diamond pinky ring sparkled on his fat finger as he flicked the extended ash off his cigar. “I don't believe we'll be needing you for a couple of hours, Ingram. Why don't you run down to the stock exchange and check out the price of beef on the hoof or something?”
Allen nodded.
“A couple of hours!” Cassie felt the hair stand up on the back of her neck. Allen hadn't said a word about leaving her alone with this— this imitation wrangler. Besides, how long could it take to sing a few songs? Purdy had heard her at the rodeo, and he either liked her style or he didn't
“I do have some errands I ought to take care of in Fort Worth.” Allen edged toward the door and Cassie threw a murderous glare in his direction. “If you want to wet your whistle, Harlan, Cassie knows where everything is. She'd be glad to pour you one.”
“Don't rush on our account The little lady and I will get along just fine.” The promoter threw a presumptuous arm around Cassie's shoulders and she was surprised that his suit didn't split. She cringed when the unpleasant lime smell of his after-shave assaulted her nostrils.
Allen withered a bit under her steady glower, but he continued his skulking exit
“Shall I put the tapes on now, Mr. Purdy?” Cassie moved away from the portly PR man as soon as the back door banged shut.
“Call me Harlan.” His smile bared his tobacco-stained teeth. Cassie inspected the tape he'd laid next to the machine. She recognized all the instrumentals labeled on the front.
“Is there anything in particular that you want to hear?” The chill that froze her insides crept into her voice.
“Nah, sing anything you like. What suits you suits me fine.” Purdy boosted his unwieldy body onto a barstool. “But I will have that drink that Ingram promised. Scotch and water.”
Cassie mixed a weak drink and placed it in front of him. Then she walked over and inserted the tape. As she sang to the tinny, three-chord arrangement, she ached for the presence of real live musicians harmonizing with her own personal sound. She kept her hands folded in front of her, nakedly aware of how much a microphone had become a natural extension of her body this past year.
The beady eyes that tracked her every move made Cassie feel like the last piece of pie on a boardinghouse dinner table. She couldn't pin it down exactly, but there was something wrong with this whole situation. Why hadn't Purdy invited her to cut a demonstration tape in a studio with all the proper equipment?
“That's enough. I know you can sing.” Purdy interrupted Cassie in the middle of her second stiffly delivered number. He slapped the vinyl-covered seat next to his. “Let's talk.”
Cassie ejected the tape but made no move to come closer. A half a room's distance between herself and this plastic cowpoke was just about enough. She could swear she felt the revoltingly intimate touch of his squinting eyes. Why was she putting herself through this kind of torture?
“We could go a long way together, little lady.” He puffed on that stinky cigar again and she had to cough when the smoke curled around her. “I've got a lot of contacts in the right places, and your voice would almost guarantee a bullet on the charts.”
“Thank you.” She kept her tone polite, formal. For some reason she knew she held the trump card here, but she wasn't sure yet what game they were supposed to be playing. Maybe it was time to plug the Twisters. “I really wasn't at my best today,” she explained. “You know, I'm used to my band and all, and it's a little awkward without them. We've been together nearly a year now and— ”
“If you and I hit it off, you'll have your pick of the best musicians in Nashville.” Purdy tapped his fat fingers on the bar and eyed her with a laser-beam stare.
“I'm afraid I don't get your point, Mr. Purdy. Either you like my singing well enough to sign me to a contract, or you don't.” She shrugged innocently. If this was a proposition, she was going to make him say it out loud. “As far as I'm concerned, you and I hit it off just fine right now.”
“Don't play dumb with me, Cassie,” he barked. “I mean you take care of me and I'll take care of you. It's as simple as shooting fish in a barrel.”
Cold disgust shot through her and she fought the burning nausea clawing at her throat. “I'm afraid this whole idea has been a mistake, Mr. Purdy.” Her words were clipped. “I'm a singer, not a prostitute. And if I can't get where I want to go in Nashville on my talent and hard work instead of on my back, then I'm not interested.” She drew herself up to her full height “It looks like we've wasted each other's time.”
Purdy's mouth settled into a cruel line that failed to intimidate her. She wondered how often he'd wielded his questionable influence to take advantage of young women who were desperate for that one big break. The realization that the numbers were probably great sickened her.
“I won't make the offer twice, little lady.” He drained his glass.
“Good. That will save me the trouble of finding a more definite way to tell you to go to hell.”
Harlan Purdy leaned his bulk on the bar and Cassie realized she would relish a chance to let the wind out of this hot-air balloon of a man.
“Do you know how many singers flock out of the hills every year, ready to kill for the kind of chance you're turning down?” His chipmunk cheeks were flushed with anger. “You may never get another opportunity to make it to the big time. I'd suggest you think it over very carefully.”
“There's nothing to think about.” Cassie was adamant “I'd rather spend my life pitching hay than working for you.”
“Okay, sister. I just hope you remember this the next time you're booked into one of them skull orchards where the customers are so loaded that you could dance naked on a bed of hot coals and still not get their attention.”
Cassie spun and ran toward the stairs to her apartment. Snide laughter dogged her all the way, but she refused the concession of a backward glance.
“To hell with Allen Ingram and his get-rich-quick schemes!” She slammed the door so hard that it rattled the window. The longer she thought about it, the angrier she got. “I'd bet every dime to my name that he set me up with that— that— ooh!” She bolted the door so there would be no surprise interruptions.
“I'm not spending another night in this place.” Cassie tore a blouse off a wire hanger and threw it into a box. Nashville was a two-day drive— and she was leaving as soon as she was packed.
She alternated between cursing Harlan Purdy and gathering up her belongings until the insistent pounding on the other side of the door told her that Allen knew the negative outcome of her so-called audition.
“Open up, Cassie!” Allen's exasperation wasn't muffled by the solid oak door. “I need to talk to you. Open the door.”
“Go away!” she screamed. “I quit! Find another dummy who wants to sleep her way to the top!”
“Cassie, I swear that I didn't know what was on his mind. I just thought it would be a chance for the two of you to become better acquainted, that's all.”
“Oh, he wanted to get acquainted, all right!” she shouted. “The only problem was that I wouldn't let that creep touch me with a ten-foot pole!”
“What about the Twisters?” Allen switched tactics, playing on her feelings for the band. “You can't just abandon them.”
“I've already talked to Scrappy, and we're going to meet in Nashville as soon as he clears up a few matters here.” She snatched up the hand-tooled leather boots she'd bought for Hoyt's barbecue and flung them into a box. Cassie doubted whether she could ever bring herself to wear them again, but she'd be damned if she'd leave them here for Allen to sell.
“Please don't go.” Allen sounded like he was on the verge of panic. “We've worked too hard and come too far to let something this silly spoil it for us. I promise— I swear on a stack of Bibles— I won't ever let anything like this happen again.”
“Go away.” She clamped her hands over her ears. “It's over. Write me a check for what you still owe me and I'll clear out.”
She refused Allen's offer to hel
p as she pushed and dragged the boxes stuffed with her clothes, shoes, and papers downstairs. She threw everything into the trunk and back seat of her old car, ignoring the mess in her haste to get on the road. Allen slumped in the doorway, sipping a glass of bourbon straight. She would never believe for a moment that he hadn't known exactly what Harlan Purdy's intentions were from the start.
“I wish you'd reconsider.” Allen pulled the checkbook out of the top drawer and scribbled in the amount he owed her. “I'd give you cash, but I don't have enough on hand,” he explained.
“I'll stop at the bank on my way out of town.”
“It's after five. The bank's closed.” He glanced at his watch. “I doubt you could get that cashed anywhere else tonight. You're welcome to use the apartment if you want to. It really doesn't make sense to pay a motel bill when you've got free lodging here.”
Cassie toyed with the check, turning it over in her hands, trying to decide whether she could stomach any more contact with the Stardust. “I'll stay,” she conceded. “But I'm not coming down to the restaurant tonight. As soon as the bank opens in the morning, I'm clearing out of here.”
Allen's eyes were glassy from his daylong drinking spree in Fort Worth. His stash bottle was empty so he yanked the flask out of his pocket and pulled on it. Cassie shook her head in disgust and left the office.
It was still early when she arranged her sofa bed, but Cassie was bone tired. She hadn't slept well since her run-in with Hoyt, and she had a grueling two days’ worth of driving ahead of her. The feather pillow she pulled over her head almost blocked out the laughter and jukebox music that floated through her open window, and she dropped off to sleep the minute she closed her eyes.
Because she had already packed her electric alarm clock, Cassie had no idea of the time when the intense heat and thick, drugging smoke first woke her.
“I wish somebody would teach that fool how to cook.” She groaned and rolled away from the source of the smoke as visions of scorched food danced in her head. The street outside her screened window was dark, but the normal night silence was shattered by the ear-piercing screams of emergency vehicles racing through the sleeping city.
Cassie sat up on the edge of her bed. She struggled for a breath of fresh air in the inferno that her apartment had become.
“Oh, my God!” Wispy curls of smoke slipped under the door to poke her eyes with mean, slinging fingers. Her head throbbed as she fought the inclination to fall back onto the mattress and close her burning, watering eyes for a moment. Yellow, red, and blue flames licked the wooden exterior of the building and leaped up to caress the window, casting eerie shadows on the walls. Cassie pushed herself off the bed and dashed across the room. When she grabbed the doorknob, she felt the palm of her hand fuse to the brass.
“I'm trapped!” She opened her mouth to scream for help. The black smoke parched her throat, clogged her lungs. Only a whimper of terror escaped as she slumped to the floor in momentary defeat.
The empty street below her apartment suddenly came alive with flashing red lights and the hissing of water streams sizzling in the flames. Voices issuing curt orders competed with the metal ladders scraping against the sides of the building. Cassie knew that no one would search for occupants in the deserted steakhouse and that her only chance for survival was to attract attention to her presence.
She grabbed the corner of her dining room table for support and hauled herself to a standing position, ignoring the hellish vise that clamped her nose, lungs, and throat. As she groped around in the dark, her hands found the lamp that sat in the middle of the Formica table. Mustering every ounce of angry strength left in her, she picked up the ceramic object and stumbled across the room to beat the wire mesh out of its aluminum frame and fling the lamp into the night.
The last sound that Cassie heard before she slipped to the floor and succumbed to the smoke and heat was the surprised cry of the fireman whose helmet had borne the brunt of her desperation.
“There's somebody up there! Quick, bring the ladder over here!”
Chapter 8
Hushed voices and the silken swish of white nylon against starched cotton invaded the terrifying nothingness that was Cassie's nightmare. She struggled to open her eyes, but the effort required more energy than she could muster. A pitiful moan ripped her smoke-violated throat, and her right hand refused to cooperate when she tried to make a fist of defense against the waves of pain.
“Cassie, can you hear me? Cassie, it's time to wake up. Open your eyes, Cassie. It's over and you're safe.” A soft female voice crooned the reassurance that Cassie unconsciously sought. She peeked out from under her lids and a white uniform swam into focus.
A pair of hazel eyes framed by iron-gray hair willed Cassie to open her eyes completely, and she complied. A plastic badge pinned to the breast pocket of the nurse's uniform introduced her as Dixie Young.
“Where— where am I?” As much as it hurt to talk, Cassie wanted to get her bearings.
“Don't talk now, honey. You need to give your vocal cords time to heal.” The kind eyes crinkled when Cassie nodded in understanding. A gentle hand stroked her shoulder, inverted bottles of clear liquid suspended from chrome frames dripped their vital fluids through long, clear tubes that needled Cassie's veins. Recessed lighting glared from the ceiling, accenting the ugly, iridescent green walls that imprisoned her.
Cassie raised her head partway off the hospital pillow and peered around the nurse. Her gaze was drawn instinctively to a pair of cobalt eyes and shoulders wide enough to share this burden. Her heart did a curious flip and she realized she was truly safe.
Dixie Young turned her head, following the direction of Cassie's beeline stare. “Mr. Temple has been waiting for you to regain consciousness since the ambulance brought you here. Are you up to seeing him for a moment?”
Cassie nodded slowly, trying to shake off the fog of confusion that enveloped her. She dropped her head back onto the hard pillow and closed her eyes. An image of yellow, blue, and red flames revived the horror of that night. How long had she been here?
The greyhound-lean frame cast a protective shadow over the white cocoon of her hospital bed.
“Some entertainers will go to almost any length for a little free publicity.” Raspy fatigue belied the irony of Hoyt's words. Cassie opened her eyes and noticed the sunken smudges that ringed his blue eyes. She wanted to reach out and touch him, reassure herself that he was really there, but she couldn't— she simply didn't have the strength.
“Don't stay too long, Mr. Temple. She needs all the rest she can get to help her recuperate.” The swinging door creaked shut as Dixie Young placed a discreet wood and glass barrier between herself and the somewhat self-conscious couple.
“Do you remember anything that happened to you, Cassie?” He leaned over her and spoke in a gentle voice.
“Fire.” She shook her head, unable to comprehend the complete chain of events that had nearly succeeded in snuffing out her life.
“You were lucky. The firemen said they weren't even looking for occupants. They were just trying to prevent the blaze from spreading to the other buildings.” Hoyt's mouth was a twisted, bitter line and she worried that his anger was directed at her.
“How long have I been here? How did you know where to find me?” There were so many unanswered questions nagging at her. She ignored the searing pain that talking caused.
“I was finishing up some paper work in my office at the ranch. They had a news bulletin on the radio station I was listening to.” Hoyt glanced at the gold watch that encircled his tanned wrist and Cassie saw the fine lines of tension etched into his lean, handsome face. “You've been out a little over twenty-four hours.”
“What happened?” She croaked like a frog, but she had to arm herself against the hideous ghost of dancing flames that clawed at her dreams. Tears crept down her cheeks. Would she ever be able to sing again?
“The fire department hasn't completed its Investigation yet. According to Ingram
, though, the fire probably started in the office wastebasket. He said a man named Harlan Purdy visited him a little after closing time that night, and that Purdy threw a cigar butt into the basket. Evidently it smoldered for a while, and a couple of hours later the whole place went up like a damned tinderbox.”
“Why did Purdy come back? I'd already told him to forget it.” Now she was really confused. Maybe she'd better tell Hoyt the whole story and let him see if he could get to the bottom of it. “Hoyt, are you positive Allen said it was Harlan Purdy?”
He nodded. “I'll try to get a handle on everything before they release you. Until then— ”
“I'm sorry, Mr. Temple, but you'll have to leave. Doctor's orders.” Dixie Young held the door open for him. Her firm tone left no room for argument
Hoyt nodded curtly and spun on his heel without so much as a fare-thee-well. Cassie's gaze remained riveted on the broad shoulders and slim hips until the door closed. She waited in vain for Hoyt to resume his vigil behind the glass partition.
“Now that you're awake, I expect they'll want to transfer you out of intensive care and into a private room.” Dixie plumped the pillow. Cassie was grateful that the busy nurse didn't appear to notice her patient's distress.
The new-old pain in her heart said she'd been mistaken to assume she'd jumped all of her fences when she left Coyote Bend. Unbidden tears trickled from her violet eyes and trailed down the sides of her face toward the black tangle of her hair. She wasn't free yet— maybe she never would be. “I'll bet I look like something the cat dragged in and didn't want,” Cassie finally said.
“Hush up,” Dixie admonished. “Considering what you've been through, you look pretty darned good. Besides, you ought to see some of the patients they bring in here.” She busied herself tucking in the corners of Cassie's thermal blanket. The soft white gauze that bound Cassie's right hand prevented her from performing even the simple task of brushing her hair away from her eyes, so Dixie smoothed the black veil off her forehead.
