by Fran Baker
“I don't want it,” she sobbed. “It would be like— like accepting blood money.”
“You ungrateful little bitch!” Hoyt yanked her into the steel trap of his arms. “Measure this on the applause meter sometime.”
Cassie reacted instinctively. She raised her petal-soft lips to meet his demanding ones. The salty taste of her tears mingled with their kiss. The smell and feel of him flooded her senses. She melted against his hard body and his hands found the pearlized snaps on her shirt
Hoyt's mouth traveled a familiar path to her neck, igniting a brushfire that threatened to rage out of control when he nibbled at the sensitive hollow of her throat.
“No, Hoyt, please!” Her strangled protest was barely audible. He ignored her softly whimpered plea and crushed her body against his. Cassie stopped straining against the prison bars of his hold and clasped her arms around his neck. It felt so right, so good...
Hoyt released her abruptly and she stumbled backward.
“I still don't know what you'll search for in Nashville that I can't put at your disposal right here, but I hope to hell you find it.” His face was void of emotion. He tossed the check onto the kitchen table and it floated across the chipped surface. Its Diamond T symbol was a taunting reminder that she was finally free, that she had nothing further to lose.
A careless word, the wrong look— either would have detonated the charged silence as surely as a match dropped into a powder keg.
Hoyt spun on his heel and left Cassie alone in the old house. She picked up the check and shredded it with trembling hands.
Chapter 3
“GLO-ree HAL-lay-LEW-ya, brothers and sisters!”
Cassie punched the radio dial, cutting off the jake-leg preacher in the middle of his sermon. She tuned in a station playing an Eddie Rabbit hit As she drove toward the better days promised in the pulsating song, a glimmer of excitement began to edge out her sadness.
A dusty pink haze had colored the flat Texas horizon this morning when she'd carried the boxes packed with her belongings out of the dilapidated farmhouse. She'd studiously ignored the deep ruts in the front yard where Hoyt had always parked his Jeep. If she didn't notice them, she rationalized, she wouldn't hurt. Her strategy hadn't worked.
The dark blanks of the shuttered windows reminded Cassie of the way Hoyt's eyes had accused her yesterday. She'd closed the door firmly and gone to the car to arrange the bulging cardboard cartons she'd used because she didn't own a suitcase.
Her thick ebony hair was French braided off her face, trailing down her narrow back like an exaggerated exclamation point She'd pulled on a sleeveless cotton shirt in anticipation of the inevitable noon heat. Yellow streamers of sunshine bounced off the hood of her road-spattered automobile when she pulled onto the four-lane asphalt ribbon and headed east. Cassie rolled down her window and rested her arm on the chrome frame. A hot breeze was better than none, and today promised to be another August scorcher.
Miles of arid prairie gave way to rolling green cattle country that told Cassie she was making excellent time. She pulled off the highway shortly after noon to eat at Bad Boy's Diner. Her father had always sworn by truck stops. Judging from the number of eighteen-wheelers circling the squat adobe building, Cassie decided that Bad Boy's probably rivaled the finest restaurants in Texas.
A dozen pairs of curious male eyes sized up the slight, blue-jean-clad figure that slipped into a red vinyl booth near the picture window. Cassie pushed her oversized sunglasses back to rest on her sleek, ink-black hair and took a long sip of the ice water that the waitress set in front of her.
“Hi. My name's Ruthie. Whatcha gonna have today, honey?”
Cassie watched, fascinated, as Ruthie rounded her painted lips and blew a huge pink bubble. The gummy balloon hung in midair, blocking out the pointed chin and upturned nose of the pert woman's face.
“Red beans with cornbread is the specialty today, honey,” Ruthie offered when she noticed Cassie searching the plastic-coated menu. “It's a dollar forty-nine for all you can eat.” Ruthie snapped her gum as she spoke.
A square giant, his mustachioed face topped by a stiff straw hat, lumbered by and slapped the waitress's bottom. “Road Runner, you cut that out!” she squealed in mock offense.
Road Runner tucked a crisp folded bill into the breast pocket of Ruthie's V-necked uniform and planted a fuzzy kiss on her cheek.
“Y'all come back now, hear?” Ruthie batted an awning of false eyelashes and smiled seductively at the trucker. He tipped his hat and pushed the door open.
“Now, what can I get ya, honey?” The waitress turned her attention back to Cassie, keeping her pencil poised over a small pad of lined tickets.
“Red beans and cornbread sounds fine.” Cassie was curious but she didn't try to second-guess the significance of Ruthie's flirtatious behavior. After her experience with Hoyt, she knew that actions didn't always speak louder than words.
Ruthie ran from table to booth to counter, pouring another cup of coffee here, asking after a trucker's twins there, and satisfying everyone's order with an easy speed and snappy stamina that Cassie found amazing.
“I brought you an extra portion, honey,” Ruthie whispered. “A stiff wind would knock you into the next county. Dig in and put a little meat on them bones.” She set a large white bowl of kidney-shaped beans swimming in a rich, steaming gravy on the table.
Cassie smiled and bit into a thick slab of yellow, skillet-fried cornbread slathered with butter. She ate nonstop until she thought her stomach would burst. In her haste to get on the road this morning, she hadn't bothered with breakfast.
“I don't think we'll sell this last piece of pie. Why don't you see if you can do any damage to it before it spoils?” Ruthie placed a wedge of chocolate pie topped with a fluffy meringue in front of Cassie. The creamy smoothness of the homemade custard melted in her mouth.
Ruthie bantered with two truckers who lingered over a last cup of coffee while Cassie scanned a road map, trying to calculate how far she still had to go before she bypassed Dallas.
“Where ya headed, honey?” The waitress slid into the booth opposite Cassie and leaned against the picture window with her feet propped on the vinyl seat for a well-deserved rest
“See ya on the flip-flop,” the departing teamsters called.
“Bye, hon.” Ruthie wiggled her fingers. She threw her order pad onto the table, then cupped her chin in her hand.
“I'm going to Nashville,” Cassie answered.
“You want to be a singer.” It wasn't a question. Ruthie cast a shrewd glance at Cassie as she read her startled customer's mind. Cassie wondered how Ruthie could have guessed and whether she would make fun of the ambition until the redhead murmured, “Years ago, that's what I wanted to be, too.”
Ruthie stared vacantly out the window, not seeing the cars and trucks speeding past Bad Boy's for parts unknown. “I lit out from El Paso ten years ago this spring, with Grand 0l’ Opry stars shining in my eyes and big dreams about snowballing Nashville. I never did get any farther than this.” Her sigh was tinged with sadness.
Cassie peeked at her watch and hoped Ruthie wasn't going to share her life story. It was nearly one-thirty now. If she didn't hit the road again soon, she was sure to get caught up in the bumper-to-bumper traffic that she'd heard tied up the Dallas freeways until well after sundown.
“What happened?” Cassie asked the expected question, but she wasn't really interested in the details of Ruthie's short-stopped career.
“Oh, a hundred things that don't matter anymore,” Ruthie answered. “The end result was a husband who disappeared when the going got rough and two kids who wouldn't have school shoes without my tips.”
“I'm sorry.” Cassie wasn't certain what else she should add.
“It ain't so bad, honey.” Ruthie's green eyes misted. “Last year my little boy had to have a real serious operation and I didn't have an extra dime to my name, as usual. All my regulars got on their CB's, and before I had any idea o
f what they were up to, they'd raised over five thousand dollars. Why, the only reason my Jim Bob can walk today is because of those big lugs. They act tough, but underneath they're all as soft as a baby burro's nose.”
A diesel horn shattered the intimate silence that had settled over the diner, and Ruthie jumped to her feet with a burst of enthusiasm that surprised Cassie. “I was wonderin’ where Texas Tom was today!” She patted her auburn upsweep and brushed off the front of her clinging, bottle-green uniform.
Cassie dug out her wallet to pay the bill.
“It's on the house, honey.” Ruthie waved away any protests. “I don't know why, but I've got a feeling that you're gonna be one of the lucky ones. You gotta do me a favor, though. Someday when you're up there on that stage and all them people are clappin’ and cheerin', think of ol’ Ruthie slinging hash deep in the heart of Texas and belt one out for me.”
She winked, cracked her gum in farewell, then rushed away to greet the bandy-legged trucker who pushed open the glass doors and scooped the bubbly redhead up in a bear hug.
Cassie used the self-service pump outside the diner to fill her car with gas, paid the skinny blond attendant with carefully counted bills, and then guided the vehicle back onto the interstate.
The afternoon sun was high in the western sky when she took the Dallas bypass exit Cassie was so busy watching lanes and road signs that she didn't notice the red light flashing on the dashboard. Curls of smoke and an awful burning smell finally drew her attention, and she nearly crashed into a pickup in her panicky haste to pull off the highway.
The ancient motor coughed, wheezed, and shuddered when Cassie turned off the ignition. Her heart plummeted to the pit of her stomach. She knew next to nothing about servicing automobiles, but she had a gut feeling that whatever was wrong would cost a good deal more to repair than she could afford.
A rotating red, white, and blue sign on the corner of the next exit told her that help was just a short hike away. Cassie climbed out of the car, kicked a tire once for good measure, and started walking.
* * * *
“How long has it been since this old buggy had a complete overhaul?” The squat, balding mechanic stuck his head out from under the raised hood and squinted disapprovingly at Cassie. He knew better than she that the car was long overdue for some expensive repairs.
“What's wrong with it?” She braced herself for the worst. As much as she dreaded exposing her ignorance, she had to know the extent of the damage.
“When Billy had it up on the lift, he said the brake drums and shoes were shot, and the muffler's hanging by a piece of solder. Your radiator is as hot as a sheriff's pistol after a bank robbery, and you haven't got a plug wire that's worth a plugged nickel.” He wiped his greasy hands on an equally greasy rag, and Cassie knew that she could kiss her nest egg good-bye.
“How much will it cost to repair it?”
“How far you planning on driving it?”
“Nashville.” The minute the words left her mouth, Cassie regretted them. She might as well have said that she was headed for the moon.
“Darlin', you couldn't get to Denton in this for less than two hundred and fifty.” The mechanic shook his head slowly, as if amazed that the car hadn't conked out sooner. “I'll be honest with you, young lady. If I was you, I'd get rid of this old clunker first chance I had. It ain't gonna do nothing but cost you your hard-earned money from now on.”
Cassie turned away so the man wouldn't see the tears that glistened in her violet eyes. She'd slit her own throat when she'd torn up Hoyt's check. It would take nearly every cent she had to fix the car. Shimmering waves of heat radiated off the pavement and she felt like she was wilting away with her dreams.
“May I think about it for a while?” She wondered how the man could stand the weight of those gabardine coveralls on such a hot day.
“Take all the time you need,” he assured her breezily. “That car certainly ain't going nowhere.” He chuckled at his own wit and hurried out to service a car that had pulled in next to the gas pumps.
Cassie crossed the sheet and strolled in the shade while she mentally debated her options. Maybe she could sell the car to the mechanic and take the bus to Nashville. The mere thought of lugging her guitar and all those heavy boxes on a bus overwhelmed her, though, and she discarded that idea. Besides, who wanted an old “clunker” that needed over two hundred dollars’ worth of work?
A blast of cool air tickled Cassie's bare arm as two men pushed open a wooden door, and she looked sideways at a large red and black “Waitress Wanted” poster propped up in a picture window. She tilted her head back and saw winking neon lights advertising the Stardust Steakhouse. Suddenly she knew how she could pay her auto-repair bill and quite possibly fatten her pocketbook at the same time.
“Well, if it's good enough for Ruthie... ” Cassie stepped through the door Into a dimly lit bar and restaurant. Stale cigarette smoke, the malty aroma of draft beer, and a honkytonk rhythm grinding from a corner jukebox told her the establishment was open for business.
“If you're looking for your daddy, kid, he just left.” Whiskey and smoke had hoarsened the deep voice that taunted her. A middle-aged man wearing a long white apron and carrying a frosty mug of beer stepped out from behind the bar.
“I'd like to speak to the manager, please.” Cassie looked into bloodshot eyes that bore a strong resemblance to the map she had tucked into her purse.
“I'm the owner. Does that suit you?”
“Of course. How do you do?” Cassie extended her hand.
The man ignored her gesture, but she didn't let that stop her.
After that scene with Hoyt yesterday, she could tame wild horses. “I'm Cassie Creighton and I'd like to apply for the job.”
She nodded in the direction of the poster.
“I don't hire minors.” He turned and walked back toward the bar.
“Wait. please.” She wasn't about to let this opportunity slip through her hands. She almost tripped in her haste to catch up with the man. “I'm not a minor. I just look young.”
“How old are you?” Bushy black eyebrows arched In amused speculation. The man tapped his foot, impatient to get back to the card game she'd interrupted.
“I'll be twenty-one next month. Why? How old are you?”
“I don't hire smart alecks, either.” He resumed his walk toward the bar.
“Come on, Ingram, give the kid a break,” a customer chided, whirling around on his barstool.
“Yeah,” another customer joined in. “Maybe she'd class the place up a little bit.” Someone snickered.
“If you don't like it here, Rogers, you know where you can go.” The owner turned a hooded eye on Cassie. “Twenty-one next month, huh? Have you ever waitressed before?”
Rather than lie or admit she hadn't, Cassie borrowed from the woman she'd met earlier in the day and sashayed over to a man sitting alone at a table for two.
“Whatcha gonna have today, honey?” She pulled an imaginary pencil out from behind her ear and held it over a make-believe order pad. If it hadn't been for the noise, everybody in the bar could have heard her heart hammering in her rib cage. The customer's eyes bulged and he stared dumbly at the unexpected bit of attention.
“Red beans with cornbread is the specialty today,” she drawled on, ignoring the peals of laughter ringing around her. “It's a dollar forty-nine for all you can eat.”
Cassie propped her hand on her hip and batted her eyelashes, imitating Ruthie as faithfully as she could remember.
“You're promising a hell of a lot more than my grill can deliver,” the owner grumbled. “Are you as good a waitress as you are an actress?”
She nodded her head, then held her breath while he drained his glass and made his decision.
“When can you start?”
“If you'll tell me where I can find a cheap room within walking distance, I'll clean up and be back in time for the dinner crowd.” Chalk one up for me! she thought
Her ne
w boss tapped another mug, swung it up, and took several long swallows while Cassie sketched the details of her predicament.
“Jim Davis is the best mechanic in Dallas. His prices are a little steep, but when he's done that car will hum like a Singer sewing machine fresh off the assembly line.”
The problem of finding a place for Cassie to stay was easily resolved, because her boss owned the building, and the partially furnished apartment over the restaurant was vacant
“Might as well get a gander at your new home.” He led her up a dark stairwell and unlocked a door that creaked open into the one-bedroom apartment
Cassie walked across the dusty apartment and raised a yellowed shade on the window that overlooked a steady stream of traffic in the street below. The bare wooden floors sloped a good fifteen degrees, the furniture was thrift-shop vintage, and the kitchen consisted of a hot plate and a metal teakettle that had surely boiled dry more than once.
“Beggars can't be choosers.” His remark was right on target, and she was ashamed of her unspoken observations.
“I really appreciate this, Mr.— ”
“Call me Allen.” He waved away formalities.
Cassie made a quick inspection of her employer. He was in his early fifties, she decided. His dark hair was liberally salted with silver, and his face was ten miles of bad road. She couldn't put her finger on it, but something told her that he had a temper that she'd hate to tangle with.
“I've got to go down and give the cook a swift kick,” Allen announced to his startled employee. “He burned a whole bushel of potatoes last night and smoked the damned place out. It smelled like somebody singed a skunk down there.” He drained the glass he'd carried upstairs with him. “When you're cleaned up, come on down and see if one of those uniforms hanging in the kitchen fits you.”
Cassie nodded. Allen's glance lingered too long on the outline of her high, firm breasts under the thin material of her shirt, and she took a step backward.