Knox took it, but Rafe pulled him into a hug, his voice a little ragged. “Thank you.”
Knox’s own eyes burned. He leaned back from Rafe, slapped him on the shoulder, took a breath. “She in surgery?”
“They were able to close the wound in the ER. She’s with Katherine, eating a Popsicle.” Rafe turned away, ran a thumb under his eye. Swallowed when he turned back to Knox. “And actually, I’m here for another reason too.” His mouth tightened, and he glanced at Tate, then back to Knox.
And Knox knew it even before Rafe said it. Had the foresight to reach back to the gurney and brace himself even as the solemn words issued from Rafe’s mouth.
“I’m so sorry, Knox, but I got a call from the stock manager at the arena.” He put his hand on Knox’s shoulder. “The explosion…” He shook his head. “Hot Pete is dead.”
5
If Kelsey didn’t go on tonight, she might never take the stage again.
At least that’s what the voices whispered, both in Kelsey’s head and in Glo’s and Dixie’s low tones as they’d stood outside her partially open door to her dressing room in the Rodeo Opry center in Oklahoma City.
The historic building was embedded with the soul sounds of the likes of Reba McEntire and even recently, Josh Turner. Its ornate carvings, the smell of history in the carpets, and even the coziness of the stage, flanked by deep red velour curtains, should have conspired to instill inside her the sense of safety.
Who would bomb the Rodeo Opry?
Kelsey sat at the wooden dressing table, staring at the amount of black she’d circled around her eyes, the way she’d pulled the top half of her hair up into a messy bun, let the rest fall in dark waves. She’d even added extensions for a dramatic effect. She wore a white sleeveless bandeau lace top, a thick leather belt, a flouncy brown skirt, and her favorite turquoise boots.
She picked up the hot rose lipstick, noticed her hand shook, and set it back down.
She glanced at her phone. Ten minutes before showtime.
I know you’re freaking out, and I get it, but…I need you to hold it together…
She didn’t know why she let Knox roam around her head, but somehow his voice inside helped her clamp down, find an anchor.
Mostly.
It would help if the explosion hadn’t followed her from San Antonio. If a group of reporters hadn’t camped out, waiting for her bus to arrive in Oklahoma City with probing questions about how she might be handling yet another tragic event. And was Kelsey feeling that—
That she would never really escape the random terror of life? The fact that at anytime, anywhere, tragedy could hit.
Even onstage.
Um, yes.
She pressed her hand to her mouth, staring into her own blackened eyes as she remembered the catastrophe during today’s rehearsal. When they’d started to work on it before San Antonio, she’d wanted to craft a different number for their finale, something that would let the audience take a small piece of the Yankee Belles home with them. A rousing sing-along, maybe. Kelsey envisioned the lights going down, having them leave the stage in darkness, the way they came on.
Which of course had been exactly the problem. The darkness.
But before the darkness happened, one of the overhead light pots dropped from the rafters onto the stage. Just one pot, but it somehow detached and shattered right behind Kelsey.
She’d been at the mic, sinking into the song, the twang of Dixie’s fiddle, Glo’s banjo brilliance, and was about to lead the would-be crowd in the sing-along portion, her hands clapping over her head, when the explosion sounded behind her.
Glass shattered, the boom shook the stage, and her note morphed into a full-out scream as she dropped to her knees, her hands over her head.
Even Dixie and Glo screamed, but she’d been the one who’d watched, almost numbly, as the road crew cleaned up the mess, as the stage manager checked the rest of the lights.
Just a random fluke. The rest of the pots were fine, and she’d forced herself to run the song again, her gut in knots as she enacted a smile, glancing at Glo, her fingers crazy on the fingerboard.
Kelsey raised her arms, started clapping through the bridge, cast first to Glo, then to Dixie, who lit her fiddle on fire. Then the song swung back to her, and Kelsey dove into the repeated chorus.
* * *
So, when life doesn’t make sense
when you want to run away
When the songs seem over
and you ain’t got nothing to say,
Stick around, boy, and give us a chance.
Take my hands…and let’s just dance!
* * *
She sang the chorus once, twice—then, just like that, the lights cut off, leaving only the starlight of a giant disco ball twirling overhead and at the very last moment, an explosion of silvery confetti.
They were supposed to sneak off stage, leaving the band playing, then quieting as the crowd took over. End the night hearing their own voices, letting the dance fill their souls.
She wanted them to remember the Yankee Belles, a band who reached into the dark places and eased the pain, at least for the space of a set.
But it hadn’t quite happened as she’d scripted.
The lights flashed, died.
At once, the darkness poured over her like thick tar. Seeping into her pores. Choking, hot, and paralyzing.
She stood, gripping the mic, unable to move.
“Kelsey!” Glo’s voice had hissed behind her, but it faded, and only Kelsey’s cascading breaths filled her ears, looping over each other, faster and faster—
Her legs collapsed.
“Kelsey!”
The lights burst back on, turning the world a bright red through her closed eyes. Then an arm went around her back, another tucked under her legs, and she fell against a thick, warm, broad chest.
Knox.
No, not Knox—and silly her to even let that thought find her—because as she reached out and fisted her hand in her rescuer’s shirt, she opened her eyes to find their new security lead, Tate, cradling her to his chest.
She wanted to close her eyes, grit her teeth, to muster something from deep within that might make her push him away. Not cover her face with her hands, not start to shake.
Not fall apart as Tate had carried her all the way to her dressing room.
He’d settled her on the worn red sofa in the room, crouching in front of her. He wore a black Yankee Belles T-shirt, a pair of jeans, and spoke into his mouth piece. “We’re in the dressing room.”
Not that he needed to alert anyone, really, because seconds later Glo appeared, her short blonde hair under a baseball cap, dressed in a pair of black jeans and a sleeveless shirt with the Belle’s pink logo on the front.
“Thanks, Tate.” She glanced at him, and he moved back, a solid presence, his arms folded across his muscled chest.
Not that Kelsey had noticed, but the man reminded her of his brother Knox, a problem she didn’t foresee when Glo had talked Carter into hiring him for their road security.
She briefly wondered what else Glo had been thinking with her recommendation, but that thought left her as Glo joined her on the sofa. “What’s going on, Kels?”
Her hands shook, and she folded them together. “Nothing. Just…I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” Tate had said, almost under his breath, and Glo shot him a glare.
Then Dixie strode into the room. Stopped in front of Kelsey, such an enigmatic look on her face Kelsey had to ask. “What—?”
She shook her head. “We should be canceling.”
“This is Rodeo Opry! This chance isn’t going to come around again. We can’t cancel—”
Dixie held up her hand. “Fine. But we go back to our regular finale. All the lights on—no theatrics. No confetti—”
“No. I am not…” Kelsey held up her hands, closed them into fists. “I’m not going to…let him win.”
And oh, she didn’t want to bring her past into
this moment, but…yeah. It was right there, hovering like a shadow ever since the explosion had freed him to roam her brain.
“Let who win?” Tate said. “Because they think the bomber is dead, Kelsey.”
She didn’t look at him, just closed her eyes.
Glo got up. “C’mon, Superman. We need to give her some air.”
Kelsey opened her eyes to watch Tate frown, then follow Glo from the room. Dixie stayed standing nearby. Took a breath.
“We could cancel, Kelsey. The chance will come again.”
“I’m fine—”
“You’re not sleeping, you’re wired—even I can see that. And yeah, the stage is your preferred addiction, but it could destroy you.”
She met Dixie’s eyes. “It’s all I have, Dixie, and you know it. It’s my safe place. Or it was… I just need to keep moving, figuring it out. I’ll be fine tonight.”
Dixie’s mouth made a tight line.
A knock came at the door, and Kelsey tore her gaze from Dixie to see Carter standing in the threshold. “Can I talk to Kelsey for a minute?”
Dixie nodded but walked over to Kelsey and pressed a kiss on the top of her head. “No one thinks you’re weak,” she said quietly. “But no one would blame you, either, if you wanted to hit pause.”
Kelsey touched Dixie’s hand but let her go.
Carter walked into the room. Leaned against the counter. Folded his arms over his dress shirt. Concerned Clooney. “So, at what point are we going to talk about it?”
She stiffened. Met his gray eyes. Tried an easy tone. “Talk about what? The explosion?”
His mouth made a tight line. Then he shook his head. “You know I care about you, Kelsey. When Dennis asked me to be your manager, I knew he was really asking that I watch over you girls. You’re like daughters to me. Okay, more like kid sisters.” He smiled, but it quickly faded. “When are we going to talk about the letter you got from the New York Department of Corrections?”
Her breath caught. Oh. “You saw that?”
“I get all the mail. Yes.” He took a breath. “So, did they parole Russell?”
Her throat thickened with the question, and she found herself nodding. “Good behavior.”
He let the silence stretch out, then took a breath. “It wasn’t him, at the stadium in Texas. You know that, right?”
She nodded, drew up her knees.
“Vince Russell won’t get to you. And more importantly, he won’t hurt you. We won’t let him.”
She nodded, her eyes turning scratchy. She couldn’t look at Carter.
“Okay.” He leaned up. “You’re not going onstage tonight.”
“What—?”
He held up his hand. “You heard me. Listen, one night for you to get it together. I got this. Just…enjoy the show.”
“Carter—”
But he was already walking out the door.
And she had let him go, weighing his words for the next three hours.
Except, if she didn’t lead the group, who would? Not that Glo or Dixie couldn’t handle the crowd, but…okay, she wanted to be the headliner.
It’s all I have, Dixie. It’s my safe place.
The words found soil, dug in.
She was going onstage, so help her.
Vince Russell and his gang of thugs weren’t going to make her break her promises to herself.
She added lipstick, stood, and gave herself a once-over in the mirror. She was tough enough to keep the nightmares quiet for an hour, at least.
The Opry had booked a local band to open, and as she walked backstage, she heard their final song fading, the audience robust as they finished. She spotted Carter standing in the wings. He was talking with another man, his back to Kelsey. Glo and Dixie looked up from where they were fine-tuning their instruments.
Something about Glo’s glance at Carter put a fist in her gut.
Aw, what sort of wannabe newcomer did Carter get to fill in for her tonight?
Sorry, but this was her band, her spotlight. She walked up to the duo, not a little hot.
“Carter, I’m not sure who—”
And then she simply stopped talking as country superstar Benjamin King, recent Entertainer of the Year, platinum artist, and all-around icon, turned and smiled down at her.
“Hey,” he said. “How are you doing, Kelsey?”
She’d met Benjamin King once, about a year ago at an awards show. Carter had scored them tickets, and somehow she ended up in the bathroom with Ben’s wife, Kacey. Who’d actually heard of her and their one star-studded song, “One True Heart.” Practically grabbed her and forced her to meet Ben.
Handsome, broad-shouldered, with a smile that could make a girl forget her name—which Kelsey nearly did when he shook her hand, when he told her that if she ever needed anything, to give him a shout.
Apparently, Carter had shouted.
She stared up at him, then at Carter, back to Ben. “What…what are you doing here?”
Ben’s mouth tightened, and he glanced at Carter, raised an eyebrow. “Um—”
“He’s in town for a concert tomorrow night at the Chesapeake Arena, and I told him a bit about our situation…”
Their situation? She might be ill, right here, backstage—
“Everybody is glad you and the Yankee Belles are okay, Kelsey. And frankly, the fact you have a show tonight is pretty gutsy. So, yeah, when Carter called and said your voice was shot, I thought…maybe I could help.”
She wanted to kiss Carter. Okay, right after she slugged him, but she smiled at Ben. “Our fans are going to go crazy for you.”
He bent and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Kacey will be jealous. She likes you. Come to Montana sometime and see us.”
She might turn into a fan puddle on the spot. Until she watched the stage go dark and Glo and Dixie take the stage.
Carter’s hand curled around her arm. “They’ve got this.”
She watched from the sidelines as they raised their voices, just a little empty without her. And then Ben walked out to join them, his smoky tenor filling in her gap.
“How does he know our music?” she said.
“Said he was a fan,” Carter said into her ear. “And we’re playing a few of his hits, too.”
Of course.
The career she’d worked so hard to build, slipping away in the space of an hour.
Yeah, she was going to get herself together. Because she liked Benjamin King.
But this would never happen again.
Again, Knox dove over the edge of the floor, leaping for her.
Again, he caught her wrist.
Again, he heard himself make promises. I got ya. I told you, I’m going to get you out of this.
And then Knox watched as her hand slipped away from his, the grip turning clammy, his strength ebbing. She stared up at him with those big pale blue eyes, her mouth open.
Fell.
Screamed.
Knox sat straight up in his bed, his heart a fist against his ribs, beating to escape. His entire body slicked with sweat, and he ran his hands through his hair, gripped his head.
The moon hung low, the night waning, and beams of soft light glazed his wooden floor, across the rug, and his knotted covers.
He kicked them off, set his feet on the floor, then got up and reached for a pair of faded jeans draped over his nearby easy chair.
Outside, the starlight turned the yard to silver. He leaned on the window frame, his gaze on the barn. Maybe he’d check on Daisy Duke and see if she was near delivery. Hot Pete’s first—and now only—issue. The thought pumped a knot into his throat.
He grabbed a T-shirt and pulled it on, stopped by the bathroom to splash water on his face, chase away the dream, and brush his teeth. Then he headed downstairs. Flicked on the overhead light in his mother’s expansive kitchen. Granite countertops, new stainless steel appliances. The kitchen his father had always wanted to give her. Knox had it remodeled last year for her 59th birthday.
This y
ear, he hoped they could afford a cake.
No, they weren’t that broke, and with the insurance on Hot Pete, he’d be able to buy Calamity Jane, add the pedigreed cow to his stock of breeding cows. But he’d counted on Hot Pete’s ongoing purse, and later his straws, to grow and strengthen their line.
He poured in grounds to make coffee and glanced at the clock. Four a.m.
While the coffee brewed, he wandered into his office, just off the kitchen. No, his father’s office. The family Christmas picture taken the summer of Reuben’s senior year still sat on the worn oak desk. The entire family sat in front of the soaring stone fireplace in the great room—
Everyone smile, when I tell you to—that means you too, Knox. Tate, enough with the bunny ears—Ford, scoot over. I’m going in next to you. Rube! Stop laughing! Oh Wyatt, seriously, you had to show up in your hockey jersey?
Ruby Jane’s bossiness as she set up the timer on her Nikon.
Even now, the motley picture made him laugh—his big brother, Reuben, looking fierce and bold in an ugly Christmas sweater. And yeah, Wyatt, two years younger than Tate and just starting to contend for his place on a serious hockey team, wore his favorite jersey—the Minnesota Blue Ox. Ford and Ruby Jane, fraternal twins who wore the same mischievous smile. He always thought they could read each other’s mind. And right in the middle, Troublemaker Tate. His hand was caught mid-sabotage over Knox’s head.
Flanking them on one side, Gerri and Orrin Marshall. His father always reminded him of Tom Selleck, with a full head of black hair and a mustache. Big hands, a hearty laugh, and the kind of faith that seemed embedded in his bones.
Wow, Knox missed him. Especially when he sat in the faded leather desk chair. Or traced his name written in the top of the desk, an early crime with a pocket knife. Funny that his dad had never sanded it off.
Knox had changed little when he took over the office. Kept the furniture, the Charles Russell print hanging on the far wall, his father’s complete collection of Louis L’Amour in the bookcase. Had even reinforced the note his dad had taped to his desk, handwritten lyrics from his favorite hymn.
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