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.”
Hoyt's father offered an arthritic hand in congratulations.
“Thank you, Mr. Temple.” Cassie shook his hand. The older man's heart attack had diminished his physical strength, but he still wore that aura of power he'd used so often and well in Coyote Bend. She met his friendly but unyielding gaze as an equal, determined to find as much success in her chosen field as he'd found in his.
Still wrapped in the warm afterglow of the audience's approval, Cassie was pleased to discover that she wasn't the least bit intimidated by this self-made cattle baron who'd ruled his widespread domain with an iron fist before relinquishing the responsibility to Hoyt.
“Haven't we met somewhere before?” A lacy network of crow's-feet deepened in the weather-beaten face. “Maybe you just remind me of someone I used to know.” He shrugged but his age-dimmed blue eyes continued to study her face.
“You haven't forgotten Will Creighton's daughter, have you, Dad?” Hoyt sauntered around the corner.
Cassie's glance darted from father to son, and she held her breath, preparing for the older man's certain snub when he placed her.
Hoyt's father had carved a notorious reputation in his day for enjoying aged bourbon, pliable women, and fast horses, both before and after the death of his Southern Belle wife. Hoyt seemed to be a chip off the old block, especially when it came to women. Suppose he'd
“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.”
Hoyt's father offered an arthritic hand in congratulations.
“Thank you, Mr. Temple.” Cassie shook his hand. The older man's heart attack had diminished his physical strength, but he still wore that aura of power he'd used so often and well in Coyote Bend. She met his friendly but unyielding gaze as an equal, determined to find as much success in her chosen field as he'd found in his.
Still wrapped in the warm afterglow of the audience's approval, Cassie was pleased to discover that she wasn't the least bit intimidated by this self-made cattle baron who'd ruled his widespread domain with an iron fist before relinquishing the responsibility to Hoyt.
“Haven't we met somewhere before?” A lacy network of crow's-feet deepened in the weather-beaten face. “Maybe you just remind me of someone I used to know.” He shrugged but his age-dimmed blue eyes continued to study her face.
“You haven't forgotten Will Creighton's daughter, have you, Dad?” Hoyt sauntered around the corner.
Cassie's glance darted from father to son, and she held her breath, preparing for the older man's certain snub when he placed her.
Hoyt's father had carved a notorious reputation in his day for enjoying aged bourbon, pliable women, and fast horses, both before and after the death of his Southern Belle wife. Hoyt seemed to be a chip off the old block, especially when it came to women. Suppose he'd
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