Книга - Dry Creek Sweethearts

Dry Creek Sweethearts
Janet Tronstad


Back From The Big Time…She could scarcely believe her eyes. An enormous tour bus had arrived in Dry Creek, and from it stepped hometown hero Duane Enger, now a music celebrity. Linda Morgan, owner of the local café, had thought her ex-boyfriend had become too famous for the small-town life she loved. But something had pulled Duane back.Maybe he missed a slower, easier life. Maybe he sought to regain his faith. Or maybe it was the girl he'd left behind. Whatever it was, Duane was now finding life in Dry Creek–and Linda–just as intriguing as life in the fast lane.












“I thought you’d started doing your own cooking,” Linda said as she walked over to his table. “Coffee?”


“Please.” Duane smiled. “I’d be a fool to eat my cooking when you’ve got the café here.”

Linda smiled back.

Duane told himself that smiling was a good beginning for the two of them. That’s where they’d started back in junior high school.

“I’m sorry I’ve been gone.”

Linda looked at him cautiously.

“You needed your friends, and I wasn’t here.”

“It’s okay,” Linda said softly as she pulled out her order pad. “What’ll it be?”

Duane resisted the impulse to throw his heart at her feet. “Scrambled eggs and toast.”




JANET TRONSTAD


grew up on a small farm in central Montana. One of her favorite things to do was to visit her grandfather’s bookshelves, where he had a large collection of Zane Grey novels. She’s always loved a good story. Today Janet lives in Pasadena, California, where she is a full-time writer.




Dry Creek Sweethearts

Janet Tronstad








And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.

—Romans 8:28


This book is dedicated with love to my brother-in-law, Duane Enger. He has graciously allowed me to use his name for the hero in this book with the understanding that I would also include his dog, Boots. Boots plays himself in the book, but the only thing my Duane has in common with his namesake in this book is his love for his high school sweetheart, my sister, Margaret. Well, that and his affection for an old Silverton guitar that he sometimes brings out to play in the evenings.




Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Questions for Discussion




Chapter One


“I don’t care if he did grow up in Dry Creek, he’s still not one of us. Not anymore.” Linda Morgan struggled to keep her voice neutral as she flipped the sign in her café window to Closed and began to stack chairs on tables so she could mop the floor.

A neutral calm was the best she could expect of herself when it came to Duane Enger.

She should have refused to let her younger sister, Lucy, hang his old guitar on the wall of the café when the idea first came up months ago. Then she and her sister wouldn’t even be having this conversation now.

Lucy was too young to know there was no point in building a shrine to someone who had left everything behind so he could go off and chase his dream of becoming a rock star. Every time Linda looked at the guitar she remembered that the old six-string Silvertone hadn’t been good enough for Duane to take with him. The frets were worn down and it needed new strings. So he had left the Silvertone behind, just as he’d eventually left everything and everyone behind, even her.

The small Montana town of Dry Creek had not been big enough for Duane and his dreams.

Of course, Linda couldn’t tell her sister all of this—especially not in the tone of voice she was using in her head as she thought it. Lucy had a tender heart and Linda didn’t want her to worry that anyone around here held anything against the man Lucy had just started to idolize. A teenage girl needed heroes, and Duane was better than most who were out there.

Besides, Linda told herself, the whole thing with Duane shouldn’t bother her anymore. Lots of people were disappointed by their high school sweethearts. She wasn’t the only one. It wasn’t even worth talking about. It had been eight long years since Duane left Dry Creek. That was plenty of time for a broken heart to heal.

Right now, Linda had more important things to worry about anyway, like keeping the floor clean after all the rain they’d had this week. The road into Dry Creek was asphalt, but the parking area in front of her café was pure dirt. That meant mud and lots of it. She’d already mopped the floor twice today and she had to do it again tonight before she and Lucy headed home. A woman who needed to mop a floor that often didn’t have time to be thinking about some man who had left her behind to pursue his fantasy of stardom.

Linda lifted the last chair up. It was half her fault anyway. She never should have trusted a man who couldn’t even stick with the name he was given the day he was born. Duane had traded his name for a stage name before he left Dry Creek. That should have been her first clue about how much commitment the man had in his bones. He eventually started going by Duane again, but lots of people still knew him as the Jazz Man.

Linda set the chair down hard on the table and winced when she heard the soft slam. Okay, so Duane might still bother her a little more than she would like. Which was probably natural; she was only human. She might have grown closer to God since Duane left, but she still had a way to go. Her heart had healed, but her head still hadn’t totally forgiven him or herself for believing in him.

Linda thought Lucy had given up the argument until she saw her sister looking at her with reproach in her eyes.

“But we have to display these things. He’s famous.” Lucy held up the letter she’d framed to hang beside the guitar and gazed at it as if it were written in pure gold. “The Jazz Man is the only famous person to ever come out of Dry Creek—right here—and he remembers us.”

The Jazz Man is what Duane had started calling himself just before he left. All through high school, he’d played and sung his own arrangements, along with songs from the old jazz masters like Duke Ellington. Linda had sung with him, especially on the classics. Back then, Duane had been happy enough with himself and his jazz revival plans.

Then, he set his eyes on Hollywood and nothing was good enough, not his name, not his guitar, not his friends. Not even his hometown.

Still, Linda told herself, none of that was Lucy’s fault. Besides, if Linda let her sister hang the letter on the wall as she’d been requesting, it might actually help them both forget about the piece of paper since it would no longer be in her sister’s pocket where she could pull it out and read it every ten seconds.

“Go ahead and put your letter up there if you want.” Linda tried to sound gracious. “But, just so you know, he’s not that famous. There are lots of places where people haven’t even heard of him.”

Like Timbuktu. And maybe that nursing home in Miles City. The more Linda thought about it the more she knew she was overreacting. Lucy might have been carrying that letter around with her since it came in the mail a week ago. And she might have gone all dewy-eyed every time she read it. But it was the memories that it brought back to Linda that were the problem, not the letter itself.

Linda suspected she’d worn a very similar look on her face when she was four years younger than Lucy and had seen Duane for the first time. At the age of eleven, he had come to Dry Creek to live in the Enger family home on the outskirts of town. Rumor had it that Duane had been arrested trying to steal a car in Chicago and the courts had sent him to Dry Creek to get reformed under the stern guidance of his great-aunt, Cornelia Enger.

To Linda back then, Duane had looked every bit the tough city boy people said he was. He wore ragged black sneakers when the rest of the boys in school were wearing leather cowboy boots. And he had that old Silvertone guitar strapped to his back all the time. It was whispered that he knew how to hot-wire a car, pass a fake twenty-dollar bill and French-kiss a girl. No one was quite sure if the latter knowledge came from experience or observation, but the adults didn’t like it no matter how he’d learned about it.

Linda’s mother asked her not to talk to Duane in school and that had made Linda determined to be his friend. The adults in Dry Creek all eyed the boy cautiously, but Linda decided he just looked lonely. He scowled at everyone, but Linda just kept smiling at him until one day, when they were in the seventh grade, he smiled back.

It wasn’t much of a smile, but the thaw had begun. Eventually, he would play a song on his guitar for her now and then. Over time, he seemed to fall in love with Linda as much as she was with him. She was thrilled when they were freshmen in high school and he said she was his girl, and then when they were sophomores and he called her his sweetheart. When they were eighteen, he secretly asked her to marry him…someday when everything was good…someday when he could support them…someday when his dreams had had a chance to come true.

Of course, someday never came.

“It’s just as well he left Dry Creek,” Linda finally said. “He would never have been happy here.”

She didn’t know what would have made Duane happy. Back then, she had thought it was his music. He’d learned to play the guitar from some man in Chicago and Duane had been fierce about wanting to spark another major jazz revival. Linda believed he could bend the whole music world to his thinking by the sheer force of his wanting to make it happen. As it turned out, her belief lasted longer than his determination. He gave up on jazz and joined a rock band that promised a quicker route to fame. Duane was impatient with everything. He hated lines and contracts and waiting for people to respond to his music.

So, he left jazz and went to where the music beat faster. The rock band he joined toured and recorded and, now and then, even had a song with a few jazz overtones in it. She knew those jazz moments came from Duane.

Not that Linda really listened to the songs from Duane’s band anymore. If she heard something from them come on the radio, she turned it off. She didn’t want to be wondering what the words to these songs meant. Or, if Duane had written them and who he had in mind when he wrote them. Or if he ever sang the songs he had written for her. Or if he even thought about her anymore.

Not that she wanted Duane to think about her now. It was much too late for that. And it was okay. God’s plan had been for her to be in Dry Creek. It was her place; hers and Lucy’s. When their mother died and left them alone, the people of Dry Creek had made a circle around them and became their family. She and her sister wouldn’t have been happy anyplace else. And she was happy here. Really, she was.

Sometimes her memories of Duane seemed like nothing more than a long-ago dream, vaguely sweet but irrelevant to her life today.

“I doubt he even signs those letters himself.” Linda brought herself back to Lucy and the problem at hand. So much had changed. “He probably has someone who does the whole thing for him. You could have been anybody writing to him and you would have gotten the same letter back.”

She hoped she wasn’t being too hard on her sister. She hadn’t known Lucy had sent a letter telling Duane all about the outdoor concert she and the other high school students had given last spring, until Lucy got a letter in response. Linda would have protested if she’d known Lucy had written; her sister didn’t need to waste her time thinking about someone who wasn’t giving anyone in Dry Creek a moment’s thought.

“He signed it ‘Love, Duane.’ That has to mean something.”

Obviously, Linda thought, her skepticism wasn’t making a dent in Lucy’s adoration.

“It means he hopes we buy his new CD.” Linda stepped over so she could take a closer look at the letter her sister held. “I don’t even know if that’s his real signature.”

There was a time when Linda would have definitely recognized Duane’s handwriting, but eight years was a long time and she’d had better things to think about. She had a business to run and, after her mother had died, she had a younger sister to raise. Besides, Duane had probably changed the way he signed his name many times over the years anyway. Change seemed to be his pattern.

“But you two used to be friends,” Lucy protested. “I remember all those times when he snuck out to the farm when Mom was at work. He was your boyfriend. I saw him kiss you dozens of times.”

Linda felt her whole face stiffen. Duane had been more than her boyfriend; she’d said yes when he’d asked her to marry him someday. She’d been foolish enough to think that meant she was his fiancée and she’d waited for him like a woman of her word until she visited him and it became apparent things would never work out. Not that she was going to tell Lucy that. No one needed to know about her empty dreams. “Things change.”

With Duane, things had really changed.

Everything was gone. Duane’s great-aunt had died in her sleep just after he graduated from high school. She’d been ill for some time and the doctor said she’d just hung on until she could see Duane through school. Linda had stood with Duane as they buried his aunt and she’d felt him tremble.

There were no Engers in Dry Creek now, except for Duane’s old dog, Boots. Duane had taken Boots with him when he first left Dry Creek and then, a year or so later, he’d asked Mrs. Hargrove if Boots could live with her for a while. He paid the older woman, of course, but still that didn’t make it right.

A dog should be with its master, especially this dog. Boots would die for Duane.

Every time Linda thought about it she was indignant on Boots’s behalf. Duane couldn’t help it when he lost his great-aunt, but he didn’t need to lose Boots, too. Besides, a man shouldn’t ignore the kind of loyalty Boots had. It should count for something more than just remembering to send a check to cover some dog biscuits. And, if the truth were told, Linda wasn’t even sure Duane sent the checks regularly. Maybe he’d completely forgotten about the dog.

Mrs. Hargrove was too kind to evict Boots even if she never received a dime for his care. Now that she thought of it, Linda wondered if Duane had some purebred show dog in Hollywood that he used for publicity shots. Maybe he’d replaced Boots just the way he’d replaced everyone else.

Linda almost said something, but Lucy clearly wasn’t thinking about the injustice befalling anyone left behind in Dry Creek. She was looking straight at Linda with a hopeful look on her face.

“You went to Hollywood to visit him,” Lucy said softly. “Remember? I stayed with Mrs. Hargrove and you went to see him. That had to mean something.”

“That was a long time ago.”

It was shortly after their mother had died. Their father had been dead for years by then and their mother’s death left Linda broken. It was too much. She had gone to see Duane as instinctively as she’d wept at her mother’s graveside. He’d opened his arms to her, too. She’d been comforted until she realized he had no intention of returning to Dry Creek and she couldn’t go with him on the road chasing his dreams as he’d asked, not when she suddenly had a seven-year-old sister to think about. So she’d left him a note saying things just wouldn’t work out between them and she had come back to Dry Creek.

Duane had brought Boots back shortly after that, but Linda had refused to see Duane then. She needed to get on with her life and she couldn’t do that if Duane kept stopping by. At the time, she hadn’t known it would be Duane’s last visit to the town. His great-aunt had left him her house, and Linda had thought Duane would need to stop by to tend it. It was his duty to take care of that house; she thought he’d be back often. But he wasn’t.

“I still think we should name the café after him. We could be The Jazz Café in memory of him,” Lucy said.

“We don’t need a name. We’re the only café in Dry Creek.”

Dry Creek had a hardware store, a café, and a part-time bakery. That and a dozen or so houses were all that was around, except for the church, of course. The church was the heart of the community. But the café was central, too. No one even needed directions to the café. It was right there for everyone to see. Linda had never worried about having any signs up except the Open and Closed one in the big front window.

“I bet people will pay more to eat in a place with a name,” Lucy said. “Don’t you think?”

“I’m not going to charge more just because there’s a name over the door. Besides, the food tastes the same whether or not we call ourselves something.”

“Lance says we need a name. That it will increase business.”

Linda sighed at that. Besides her, the only other friend Duane had in high school had been Lance Walker, a boy who was part Sioux and had come off the Pine Ridge reservation in South Dakota with a chip on his shoulder that rivaled Duane’s. The two were competitive with each other about everything, but they had become firm friends.

Lance had been sent to Dry Creek to live with a distant relative, Mr. Higgins, just as Duane had been sent to live with his great-aunt. Lance didn’t have Duane’s wanderlust, though. He’d stayed in the area after high school, and now he rode rodeo in Miles City. After he’d won a couple of events, he’d begun looking for sponsors for the shirt he wore on his back. Linda had offered to sponsor him even if she didn’t have a name to advertise on the shirt, but he refused, saying he was taking advertising not charity.

“Everything isn’t always about dollars and cents,” Linda said. “Lance knows that.”

Lance had his pride, and Linda had begun to wonder if he was serious when he kept asking her to close the café early some Saturday night so she could go to dinner with him in Miles City. At first, she thought he was asking her out because of old times, but she was no longer sure. She wished she could feel half the emotions about Lance as she did about Duane’s old dog, Boots.

Linda told herself she didn’t want to wind up some disappointed old woman who was still bitter because her first love had left her a million years ago and she’d never moved on. Anyway, it would be good to date again. She could hardly use the excuse of raising Lucy much longer, especially now that her sister was a sophomore in high school.

Linda used to love to date. When she was Lucy’s age, she had her hair streaked with red and her mascara loaded with glitter. She and Duane used to drive into Miles City every Saturday night just to go line dancing. Sometimes Lance would go along with them and the three of them bumped shoulders with strangers and gave wild coyote yells when the line broke apart. It was more aerobic exercise than dancing really, but they liked the feet-stomping excitement of it. They’d wind down with a soda or malt at a late-night diner. Duane liked strawberry. She chose vanilla.

Those days seemed like an eternity ago. Linda couldn’t recall when she had first started feeling like such an old woman. She was only twenty-seven years old and some days she’d rather spend the evening with her feet propped up than go anywhere. Maybe she needed some new vitamins.

Of course, she had plenty of energy during the day; it was just when she thought of dating that she got tired and wanted to stay home in her old bathrobe and watch television.

“Mama always told us to let our light shine,” Lucy said softly. “I think she’d want you to give the café a nice name.”

Linda’s eyes softened as she looked over at her sister. Lucy was carefully marking a place on the wall to put a nail so she could hang her framed letter. Lucy didn’t really remember their mother saying that about their light; she remembered Linda telling her that their mother had said something like that.

Their mother hadn’t said much about love or happiness or anything that a young girl could hold on to so Linda added a few quotes of her own to the stories she told Lucy on the theory that their mother might have said something like that if she’d given her and Lucy more than a passing thought. Her mother had been so caught up in mourning the death of their father years ago that she hadn’t paid much attention to either of her two daughters. The admonition to stay away from Duane Enger was the only advice her mother had ever given her about men.

Linda knew a young girl needed more than that. She needed to feel loved. She also needed to have some words to guide her. And someone to listen to her and understand what she was saying.

“Maybe you’re right,” Linda finally said. “A name for the café couldn’t hurt us.”

Lucy smiled up at her. “You won’t be sorry.”

“Just think of something without Jazz in it. All we need is a simple name. Something like the Morgan Café or the Sunshine or—”

“Definitely not the Sunshine Café,” Lucy said. “Not in this mud.”

The rain was a blessing in this part of Southern Montana. For years, there hadn’t been enough of it and the ranchers had been worried about drought. Now the skies were being overly generous with moisture, which made a lot of people, and their cattle, happy even if it didn’t do much for the floor of Linda’s café.

Still, Linda knew that happy ranchers made good customers, so she thanked God for the rain.

“We’ll think of a name on the way home, after I finish mopping.” Linda congratulated herself on moving Lucy’s attention away from the letter. Hopefully, once it was hanging on the wall, Lucy would forget about it.

Linda pulled her mop out of the bucket. The lemon smell of her cleaning solution cut through the old coffee smell. Linda prided herself on her black-and-white floor. That, along with the gray Formica-topped tables, gave the whole place a fifties look. And it was neat and orderly, just the way she liked. She had an old malt machine on the counter and two-dozen malt glasses hanging from a rack above it. She was also saving up for a genuine ruby-red jukebox to put next to the door of the kitchen. When that happened, everything would be perfect.

And, if the decor wasn’t enough to inspire a name, the café itself should be. She made an honest cup of coffee and charged fair prices. She ran a working person’s café that offered good value. There should be a name in all of that somewhere.

“The name shouldn’t be too froufrou, though,” Linda told her sister. “Remember who most of our customers are. Ranching families. We could just call ourselves the Dry Creek Café and everyone would be happy.”

Lucy wasn’t listening. “I should write and tell the Jazz Man about his guitar hanging on our wall.” Lucy adjusted the framed letter she’d just hung. “I think he’d want to know, especially if we have a name.”

Linda sighed. Maybe she’d made a mistake in letting Lucy think life was filled with more love floating around than it really was. “He gets lots of letters, honey. Tons of them probably.”

“But not letters from Dry Creek,” Lucy said confidently. “This is his home. He wants to hear from us.”

Linda didn’t answer. What could she say? So she just pushed her mop across the floor. The rain was coming down steady still. She’d just seen a flash of lightning and she wanted to get the floor mopped quickly so they could get back to the farm before the roads got any worse. She didn’t want to get stuck in the mud.

“I think he might want to know about all the rain we’ve had this spring,” Lucy continued. “He knows how dry it usually is so he’ll be happy. His great-aunt’s lilac bushes are going to be in full bloom pretty soon if the rain ever stops.”

A person had to drive past the Enger driveway in order to take the road out to the Morgan farm. It always made Linda sad to see the old Enger house standing there without anyone living in it, so she tried not to look in that direction as she passed.

It was time to stop avoiding things, she decided. She needed to put the past to rest.

She might just stop someday soon at the wide place where the Enger driveway met the main road and that old bent stop sign stood. The lilac bushes lined the driveway to the house and the fragrance of those blossoms would be worth taking a few minutes to stop and admire. She and Duane had shared a kiss or two, parked in the driveway and smelling those lilacs. Maybe it would be therapeutic for her to face those lilacs again by herself and say a final goodbye to her memories of Duane.

After all, the two people who had crashed into that stop sign twenty-some years ago, and bent it to the crooked heart shape it was today, had found peace last year by facing the ghosts of their past. They’d hit the stop sign while trying to elope to Las Vegas and it took them both coming back to the sign to figure out that they still wanted to be together.

Of course, things were different with her and Duane. They wouldn’t come together again. When she smelled those lilac bushes in the Enger driveway, she would be alone. Still, maybe she’d find some peace and be able to move on and love someone else. She sighed; it was time.

“Everybody misses their home,” Lucy said firmly as Linda put her mop in a corner and gathered up their jackets.

“Like I said earlier, Dry Creek isn’t Duane’s home anymore.” Linda gave Lucy her jacket. “He lives in Hollywood. You know that.”

Duane could be living on the moon; he was so distant.

Linda put her jacket on and opened the door going out of the café. A burst of cold, damp air came inside.

“Home is where the heart is,” Lucy said as she stepped out on the porch. She waited under the overhang so she wouldn’t get wet. “Mama used to tell us that. Remember?”

There was another flash of lightning in the distance.

Linda wished she hadn’t relied quite so much on clichés when she was inventing the stories for Lucy about what their mother had said. Linda turned the light off and shut the door behind her as she closed the café for the night.

“That might be a customer coming,” Lucy said as she looked down the road entering Dry Creek and pointed. “There’s a set of headlights.”

The rain was heavy and the night was black, but the lights were visible even though they were blurred.

Linda saw them. “The headlights are high. It’s probably a cattle truck going out to the Elkton Ranch. But don’t worry about it. Those ranch hands always carry a thermos of coffee. Besides, they won’t want to stop for anything at this time of night, especially if they have animals in the back. Once the thunder gets closer, it’ll spook anything in the truck so they want to get home and unloaded as soon as they can.”

Lucy nodded. “Maybe it’s Lance.”

Linda shrugged. “Could be.”

Lance periodically worked for the Elkton Ranch when they needed extra help or he needed extra income.

The sisters both walked quickly to Linda’s old car. Fortunately, the vehicle started right up. Linda backed the car out of its parking space and drove down the asphalt road to the gravel road leading to the Morgan family farm.

It was too bad she and Lucy were traveling in the same direction as that old cattle truck, Linda thought, because that meant they wouldn’t be passing it. Even if Lance wasn’t in the cab of the truck, the other ranch hands were always good for a big wave, especially on a stormy night like tonight. Linda could use some down-to-earth men to cheer her up. Thankfully, not every man around here needed to be a big star to be happy.

There was really something to be said for a man like Lance, Linda told herself. He was content just pulling a good horse to ride in the annual Bucking Horse Sale, a rodeo in Miles City, and working cattle at the Elkton Ranch. There was nothing in Lance that yearned for something bigger than what he already had. He’d be happy to stay in Dry Creek forever. He’d make someone a good solid husband.

Linda wondered if Duane’s dreams had made him happy over the years. He had loved to play his jazz music for people. Now, instead of an audience of twenty, the size he’d had on a good day in Dry Creek, he played for thousands of fans at the same time. The sound of the music might be different and rock music might not be his first choice, but he was probably very pleased with himself.

After all, he was on the radio, which was more than she could say for anyone else who had grown up around here, including Lance with his local rodeo fame. It was certainly more than she could say for herself.

Yes, she decided, Duane Enger probably was very happy.




Chapter Two


Duane Enger was miserable and sick and tired.

Everything was dark outside the bus except for the shine of the headlights on the wet asphalt as he drove into Dry Creek. He saw the taillights of a car in the distance so he knew he wasn’t the only one unfortunate enough to be driving around in the heavy rain. He figured his manager, Phil, who was sitting in the passenger seat right behind him, had seen the lights, too.

“There were people in that car,” Phil muttered as he leaned forward to complain in Duane’s ear. “And you let them get away.”

Phil had been driving like a maniac on the way up here, refusing to let any cars pass them. Duane had finally concluded the man might be having a midlife crisis even though he was only thirty-six. Of course, it had also occurred to Duane that Phil might have been lying about his age since the day they’d met. No one wanted to be old in the music business, especially in the teenage market.

Phil was short and pudgy so he looked as if he could be any age. He was completely bald so he didn’t even have any hair to turn gray. Not that the man’s age mattered, in Duane’s opinion, unless it affected how he acted behind the wheel.

For most of the trip, Duane had been too sick to pay any attention to what was happening outside the bus. But he had stopped dozing in Idaho when Phil ran a stop sign and, once they hit Miles City, Duane asked to take over the driving. There weren’t enough road signs to clearly mark the way to Dry Creek so Phil reluctantly agreed Duane could drive.

That didn’t stop Phil from scooting forward on the seat behind the driver’s seat and giving Duane his constant opinions on everything, especially the other cars on the road.

Duane hunched over the steering wheel and coughed. “Not—”

His voice cracked.

Phil held out a cup of the coffee they’d bought an hour ago at a gas station in Miles City. “I keep saying you need to be resting your voice. I know the doctor said it was not a virus, but he meant for you to rest your voice.”

“I can talk.” Duane did his best, but the words came out thin as he reached out with one hand and took the cup.

The other man didn’t even answer. The windshield wipers were on full speed and the rain beat on the roof of the bus. Duane took two gulps of the lukewarm coffee and handed the cup back to Phil.

“I thought when you said you wanted to go home that there would at least be a clinic around here. You know, for emergencies. Like pneumonia,” Phil said.

“Don’t have pneumonia,” Duane whispered, almost sure that he was right. He’d had a low-grade fever that seemed to come and go, but that was probably nothing.

“I don’t even see a sign for a veterinarian. Those cows we passed must get sick sometimes.”

“Doc Norris. Edge of town.”

Phil grunted. “At least we could have radioed ahead for a people doctor to meet us in Ensenada if you’d followed the plan and gone on that yacht like you were supposed to. That yacht had everything.”

Phil was big on plans and yachts.

“Reporters—” Duane’s voice went to a high squeak, but he thought he made his point. Just to be sure, he added in a whisper, “With me coughing and sneezing like some typhoid case.”

Phil put his hand on Duane’s shoulder. “Let’s take it easy. I know the doctor in Los Angeles said it was probably just vocal strain and a sinus infection. But what if he’s wrong?”

“Not wrong.” Duane hoped he was right. “Specialist.”

Two days ago, Duane and Phil had been parked at the San Pedro pier south of Los Angeles, all set to join the rest of the band members on a private yacht heading down the Mexican Riviera to Puerto Vallarta. The yacht was supposed to get them some attention in the emerging markets south of the border. No one had seen the sales reports from their last CD yet, but they were likely to be discouraging and Phil’s plan was to get the band solidly in front of the Latin market before the U.S. market started to shrink. The band members were supposed to look like the carefree successful young musicians everyone thought they were as they said “Hola” to their new fans in various ports.

After six straight weeks on the road in this bus, it was going to be hard for any of the guys to look carefree. But for Duane it would have been impossible. The doctor had given him some prescription lozenges for his throat, but he looked too sick to party anywhere except in an isolation ward. He’d taken one look at his face in the mirror on the bus and decided he couldn’t get on that yacht, not if he didn’t want people to start asking why he looked so bad. No one was going to pay any attention to a note from his doctor. The press would have him dead and buried at sea before he knew what happened. Or, worse, just too old to be in the teenage market.

The truth was Duane felt bad, too. He ached all over. He didn’t want to worry about sales figures and what the band should do next. He didn’t even know what the band should do next. All he wanted to do was to go home and crawl into his bed and stay there for a month.

The problem was he didn’t want to go home to his bed in Hollywood. His house there was all starkly modern with red adobe walls and black marble floors. He’d never felt that he belonged there. There wasn’t even any food in the house.

No, when Duane had thought of home, there rose up in his mind the comforting picture of his old bedroom in his great-aunt’s house in Dry Creek. He had come to that house kicking and screaming, but it had been the first home he’d ever really known. His mother, when she had been sober, had rented hotel rooms by the week. When she wasn’t sober, which was most of the time, they lived in her old car.

His great-aunt Cornelia had changed all that. Even though it had been only herself and Duane, she’d insisted on regular meals together, church on Sundays and hair that was combed for school. Even with his great-aunt gone, his old bedroom in that house drew Duane with its memories until he told everyone he was going to drive the tour bus up to Montana so he could spend some time in his old home.

He must have been delusional from the fever when he said that. He’d completely forgotten all of the reasons why it would be a very bad idea to go back to Dry Creek. The house in Dry Creek would be cold and empty. Great-Aunt Cornelia wouldn’t be there to greet him with her stiff little smile. The cupboards wouldn’t have any food, either. The people of Dry Creek still wouldn’t know what to do with him.

And then there was Linda Morgan. Even a cold, empty house would still give him a warmer welcome than Linda would. She was the only woman who had ever rejected him—actually, she was the only woman who’d had the chance to reject him. But a man had to be a fool to go wandering into her territory when any number of other women would be happy to marry him. Assuming, of course, that he had any time to get to know them, which he unfortunately didn’t.

No one had told him that being a rock star would ruin any life he’d planned to have. Although, the thought had been coming to him lately, that maybe he didn’t really want a life after all. That maybe the idea of having a real life scared him to death. That when he asked Linda to marry him someday, he’d never really expected someday to come. A man like him had no business getting married anyway. He’d never even seen a marriage up close. He wouldn’t even know how to fake being a good husband.

All of which made him wonder why he was back here in Dry Creek.

“Yeah, it was the fever,” Duane muttered to himself, which only set Phil off again.

Phil had refused to let Duane go off alone when he was sick and Duane didn’t have the energy to fight him on it. Phil had his career invested in Duane’s voice and Duane respected that. The rest of the band had started muttering about needing a new manager, but Duane held fast to Phil. The man had been with the band longer than the people who were now in the band. Phil had been the one constant when old band members left and new ones came in. He’d helped build their sales with his crazy promotional schemes; he deserved to be there more than any of the current band members. It was only fair.

“Forget about maybe having a medical clinic to preserve people’s lives,” Phil muttered quietly. “There’s nothing else in this place, either. It’s spooky. I thought when you said you were going home, there’d at least be—things.”

Duane took a moment to swallow. If he went slowly, he could manage a sentence. “I told you Dry Creek was small.”

Duane reminded himself that his decision to keep Phil was a good one. Although he might mention to the man that sometimes he talked a little too much. That conversation would have to wait until a time when Duane could also talk.

“Small is Boise. Or, at worst, Butte,” Phil continued. “I didn’t think a place could be this small and still be a town. There isn’t even a Starbucks here.”

“Coffee at café,” Duane rasped. Maybe he could write out a note to Phil about the talking thing. Yes, that’s what he’d do—when he had a pencil. And a piece of paper. And the heart to do it.

Phil peered out into the blackness. “I don’t see any café. What’s the name of the place? There should be a big neon sign on top of it.”

“No name.”

“Everything has a name.” Phil turned to Duane in astonishment. “How do they get any business if they don’t even have a name?”

Duane almost didn’t speak, but he had to defend the café. “Business good.”

He knew that for a fact because his old Sunday school teacher, Mrs. Hargrove, wrote him letters now and then and told him what was happening in Dry Creek. He had asked her to keep him informed about his great-aunt’s house and Boots, but the letters tended to ramble until they included the whole town. The older woman was sensitive enough not to write about Linda, but she always said how the café was doing. Apparently, the café served a homemade blackberry pie these days that rivaled the pies his great-aunt used to bake. He’d been homesick ever since he heard that, remembering his great-aunt and the blackberry pies she used to serve.

Maybe all he’d come back here for was a piece of pie.

Phil was leaning closer to the tinted windows on the right side of the bus. “I can’t see anything else, either. And there’s only one streetlight. How does anyone see anything in this place?”

Duane followed the direction of Phil’s eyes. “One light’s…enough.”

Duane didn’t have enough voice to explain that the residents of Dry Creek wanted to see the stars at night and too many streetlights would interfere with that. His great-aunt had carefully explained it to him. The town actually voted not to have the county put in more lights. He’d thought, at the time, that the town was voting itself back to the Dark Ages. In contrast, the Chicago he remembered had been lit up like a torch. He couldn’t believe the people in Dry Creek weren’t worried about crime.

Phil shook his head. “I’ve never seen this kind of darkness. And emptiness. What do people do with all this space? They should build a couple of skyscrapers. Or at least those big storage places. Even if people didn’t want to be here, they could ship their stuff up and store it here. I wonder if they know how much money they could make with storage. Maybe then they could afford to put up some streetlights.”

Duane cleared his throat so he could defend his town. “Good place.” Duane swallowed. It had taken him years to make his peace with his feelings about the town, but he had. “They have stars—and national park for Custer’s Last Stand.”

“And they have you,” Phil said with a touch of enthusiasm as he turned to look fully at Duane. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier. You grew up in Dry Creek. People always love it when their celebrities have humble roots. The one thing I’ll say for this place is that its roots couldn’t be more humble if someone planned it that way.”

Duane tried to speak, but nothing came out. He wasn’t sure the people of Dry Creek would want to claim him the way they did General Custer even though the good general had lost his battle and Duane hadn’t lost any of his fights in Dry Creek. Well, except maybe for the last one when he’d refused to meet Lance behind the old barn at his great-aunt’s place the day he was leaving for the last time. Even General Custer insisted on knowing why he was going to battle and Lance had refused to talk about what was wrong, so Duane refused to fight him. The people of Dry Creek all probably thought he was a coward by now.

Phil continued thoughtfully. “That’s right. Small-town boy makes good. People love that kind of stuff. We might even be able to tie it in to the Custer thing. You don’t have any Native American blood in you, do you? This might even be better than the yacht. We can do a press conference right here in Dry Creek, childhood home of music legend Duane Enger. People would love it.”

Duane shook his head. “My voice—”

Phil wasn’t listening. He had a faraway look on his face. “I knew if I just kept thinking, something would come to me. It’s been a while since I’ve had a brainstorm like this one. But I’m back in the game.”

Phil turned to look at Duane and grinned. “We can do this. This could be our turnaround press conference. It could put us right back on top.”

“But—”

Duane wasn’t sure what the people of Dry Creek would think if he tried to use their town to promote himself. Everyone had been polite to him while he lived here, but it still wasn’t the same as being one of them. On the streets of Chicago, he’d had no problem being himself. Of course, in Chicago no one cared who he was anyway, so it was easy. In Dry Creek, people hugged each other and had expectations of closeness. And niceness. And all of those things that made Duane nervous. He didn’t know how he would have adjusted at all if he hadn’t brought that guitar with him to hide behind.

“Don’t thank me,” Phil said. “It’s the least I can do for you. I know you stood up for me with the rest of the band. But, don’t worry. I won’t let you down.”

Duane opened his mouth and nothing came out. It might not be his vocal cords this time, though. He hadn’t known Phil had found out about the secret meeting the band had held.

“Who told?”

Phil wasn’t paying any attention. “Don’t worry. You’ll be better in no time. We’ll keep the hot fluids coming. It will take a day or two to arrange things anyway. I’ll need to think of an angle to give to the reporters. They’re not all in Puerto Vallarta covering the rest of the band. But we still need an angle. It’s not enough that you came home. You need a reason.”

“I’m sick.”

Phil frowned. “That won’t be enough. You’re not dying. I’d try the adoption angle, but everyone’s done that one to death. I want something fresh. Besides, then you’d really need to adopt a baby and that would be complicated with the bus and all. And, since everybody’s doing it, we’d have to get an unusual baby to make the news anyway.”

“No,” Duane squeaked in alarm as he slowed the bus down. He realized he was stopped in the middle of Dry Creek, but there wasn’t any traffic so it didn’t matter. Surely no one would let him adopt a baby; he’d never even been close to a new baby. He turned around so he could face Phil. He could only mouth the word. “No.”

“That’s what I’m saying. No dying. No baby.” Phil tapped on his knee with his fingers as he thought. “I’ve got it. We’ll say you’re here to visit your old high school sweetheart. Don’t I remember you wrote that one song—”

“No!” Duane half stood up. He even managed more than a squawk.

“You don’t need to get so testy about it,” Phil said. “But we have to say something. Your fans will want to know why you’re here and not with the rest of the band in Mexico, partying your heart out. We need something the fans can grab hold of and feel good about. If your great-aunt was still alive, we could say you came to visit her. Sweet little old lady and all.”

“Cornelia?”

Great-Aunt Cornelia had been a drill sergeant. That was the only thing that had saved them. He never could have stayed if she’d been sweet. He would have had to hitchhike back to Chicago. Great-Aunt Cornelia knew just how much softness he could handle and she never smothered him with sentimental stuff. He still missed her.

Phil didn’t even stop. “But that’s out. Visiting her grave is too morbid. And, we certainly can’t say you’re here to go hunting for wild game or anything because that’s a big no-no with some groups. And there’s no water around for fishing. There’s really no reason for you to be in Dry Creek.”

Duane’s head hurt. For years he would have agreed with Phil; there really was no reason for him to be in Dry Creek. But lately he’d started to miss the place although he couldn’t quite say why. He looked out the bus window at the buildings just in case someone had added an opera house or something since he’d been here last. Of course, no one had. There were still only the usual places. The hardware store, the houses, the church—Duane stopped. “Say I came to visit the church.”

Duane had gone to church when he lived with his great-aunt. It had been one of her rules. He hadn’t paid much attention while he was in church, but he’d learned enough to know that churches were supposed to help people who were in need and he was definitely in need. Besides, he’d much rather go to a church service than have to explain to Linda why the papers all said he had come back to visit her. At least God wasn’t likely to spit in his eye the way Linda would. He hoped not anyway. After all, Great-Aunt Cornelia had always said God was good at forgiving people.

Phil was nodding. “Church might work. It’s a nice sentimental touch. It goes with the humble roots. And it would work in the Latin market.”

Duane nodded as he turned around and switched on the ignition again. He was glad that was settled.

The band hovered on the precipice and Duane wanted to do what he could to help. The band had already fallen apart once several years ago and reorganized with different people. He’d been the new one in the old band and now he was the oldest in the new band. And he felt it.

He missed the old band members; the ones who’d left so they could have normal lives.

The new members were trying louder and more aggressive sounds in their songs and Duane couldn’t seem to get his voice right to make it happen. That’s probably why his voice was strained. Sometimes the sheer noise of the new songs they played made him want to cover his ears. What if the others sensed that in him? In the old band, he had always been the one who was out there, ready to take the next step forward. Now, he was the one who was holding everything back.

Maybe that’s why he was drawn to Dry Creek. He’d known what he wanted from his music when he was here.

“We’ll say it’s a pilgrimage thing,” Phil said. “People like that kind of thing. A spiritual quest in the church of your childhood. This might work.”

Duane passed the last house in Dry Creek and then saw the driveway to his great-aunt’s house. There were no lights in the house, of course, because no one was living there now. Still, Duane felt satisfaction when he drove past the bent stop sign and turned the bus onto the driveway. He was back on Enger land at last. His grandfather had farmed this land. Coming to this place had made him feel, for the first time as a boy, that he wasn’t just drifting through life. Granted, at the moment, it was muddy Enger land, but Duane’s roots were here even if they were buried deep.

The bus was about halfway down the driveway when Duane felt the tires start to spin. He pressed on the gas and the tires spun some more. After the third time on the gas pedal, he was well and truly stuck in the mud. He didn’t think Phil even realized what had gone wrong and Duane didn’t have the voice to explain it all to him so he just said it was time to rest.

Phil was so involved in making notes in his planner that he didn’t pay any attention to where they were anyway. Which was fine with Duane. He turned the ignition off and stretched a minute. Then he stood up and took one of the blankets draped over one of the seats and walked toward the bed area they had in the back of the bus. He was going to get some sleep. If Phil wanted to stay up all night and plan the church visit, that was fine. Let the man have his fun.

Duane lay down in the back of the bus and wrapped the blanket around him. Sleep never sounded so good.

Ten hours later, Duane heard a horn honking. He turned over and squinted at the soft light coming in the windows of the bus. It wasn’t even full day yet. And his throat was on fire. So, he pulled the blanket over his head to block the emerging sun and hoped that Phil would go talk to whoever was outside. Phil was good at reasoning with people who were annoyed and that honking sounded as if someone was upset about something.



Linda stared at the big bus stuck in the middle of the Enger driveway. There were enough tinted windows in the thing to make it look like a caricature of a Mafia car. Only twenty times as big, of course. She wondered if a gamblers’ tour to Las Vegas had gotten blown off course in the storm last night. There was no sane reason she could think of for a bus like this to be parked in a Dry Creek driveway. So much mud was spattered along the side of the bus that she couldn’t read the name of the tour company. Sometimes tour buses came through here on the way to the park where Custer’s Last Stand happened and this could be one of them.

Of course, there would be dozens of people milling around outside if that were the case. Once in a while, a tour bus would stop at the café and she knew tourists were never quiet. No, it couldn’t be a tour bus.

Maybe Lucy was right about everything needing a name, after all. There was something unsettling about seeing things and not knowing their name. She didn’t have a clue about where the bus came from or what it was or why it was here. That’s why she’d pulled off the road and come in to check it out. Maybe Duane had decided to repair the old homestead and had sent a bus up filled with supplies. No, that didn’t make any sense, either.

Linda’s heart sank. Maybe Duane had sold the place. He certainly hadn’t advertised for a buyer around this part of the country so that meant the new owners were probably from Hollywood. They’d probably tear the old house down and build some ugly mansion. Boots would be totally lost if they did that. He still walked over to the old house every day just to smell the familiar things. Not that Duane had probably bothered to find that out.

It was just like Duane to sell the house without checking with anyone in Dry Creek. But that must be what happened. This bus surely made it look that way. That bus was even big enough to serve as temporary lodging for workmen while the mansion was being built.

There was one of the workers now. Linda saw a man open the door of the bus and step down. He didn’t look very strong, but she supposed Hollywood builders might have enough sophisticated tools that they didn’t need to be strong to do their jobs.

“Can I help you?” the man said as he closed the door to the bus and stepped closer to her. “We’re not blocking anything, are we?”

“No, not a problem,” Linda said as she tried to give the man a cheerful smile. “Sorry if I woke you up. I suppose you’re with the new owners?”

The man blinked at her. “Maybe.”

“Oh.” Linda swallowed. That was a clear “none of your business” answer. “Well, if there’s anything I can do to help you, let me know. And welcome to Dry Creek.”

“I could use some help finding the church.”

“Oh, well, that’s easy.” Linda turned to point. “It’s the white building on the other side of town. You see the cross?”

The man nodded.

“You can usually find Pastor Curtis at the hardware store during the mornings. He works there some. If you need to talk to him, that is.”

“Oh, we’ll need to talk to him,” the man said. “The Jazz Man is on a pilgrimage.”

“Jazz—you mean?” Linda looked frantically at the bus. She wished she could see in those tinted windows. Or wipe the mud off the side of the bus and read what it said.

The man nodded proudly. “He’s going to meet God, right here in Dry Creek, his childhood home.”

“He’s here?” Linda asked. She took a step forward involuntarily and then took two steps back. “Here himself.”

She wondered if there was another Jazz Man who had grown up around here.

The man continued to beam and nod. “Isn’t it great?”

Linda swallowed. Great wasn’t the word she would use to describe it. Astonishing, maybe. But great, no.

“We’ll have to start making arrangements, of course. Are there any hotels around? We’ll need to reserve some rooms.”

“Mrs. Hargrove has a room she rents out sometimes. It’s over her garage.”

The man frowned, but he took out a notebook from his pocket and opened it up. “I suppose it will have to do. What is the name of her place?”

“Name?” Linda was finally one hundred percent convinced that Lucy was right and that every business needed a name. “I don’t think it has one yet.”

“Oh.”

“But you can find it easy enough. It’s just down the street from my café.”

“You own the café? Are you serving breakfast yet?”

Linda nodded. “As soon as I get there and open up.”

“I’ll be there. I don’t suppose you have soup on the menu?”

She shrugged. “I could heat some up for you. It’s leftover from yesterday, though. Vegetable beef.”

“Perfect. I’ll stop in before I go over to the church. Or should I go to the church first? That sounds more pious, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. The reporters aren’t here yet. Besides, it’s Duane Enger who’s found religion. Not me.”

Linda was speechless. What was the man talking about? She didn’t mean to be skeptical about another person’s faith, but the Duane she knew hadn’t spared a thought for God. Duane had gone to church to please his great-aunt and that was all. “You’re talking about the real God? Not some strange guru cult thing?”

The man drew himself up to his full height. “Of course I’m talking about the real God.”

“Oh, well then—” Linda stammered. She could have asked the man if he used real butter and gotten the same reaction. “Congratulations.”

The man nodded. “I think we’ll have Duane sing a solo for church to celebrate his return to the faith. That should make for some good pictures. You have choir robes, don’t you?”

Linda nodded her head. That settled it for her. The Duane she knew would never wear a choir robe. “Sort of. But they’re old. And faded. They’ve been packed away for a couple of years. No one usually wears them for a solo anyway.”

“What color are they? I hope they’re not a metallic gray. That doesn’t show up so well in pictures.”

“They’re blue with white collars.”

“Good.” The man nodded. “Blue is good for pictures. And it looks so religious, if you know what I mean. You always see it in the old religious paintings. Why do you suppose that is?”

“You really should be talking to Pastor Curtis about this. I think those robes would need to be cleaned if anyone was going to wear one.”

“I’ll do that. Right after breakfast.”

There didn’t seem to be anything else to say so Linda nodded. Maybe the man was crazy. She’d been looking at those tinted windows for five minutes now and she didn’t see any movement inside the bus. Maybe the man was some kind of stalker who went to the childhood homes of celebrities and told everyone the celebrity was inside a bus when it was really empty. It would be kind of creepy, but—

Suddenly, Linda realized she and this man were the only ones standing here in the middle of the Engers’ driveway. “I should get to the café.”

The man smiled. “I’ll be there for breakfast in a few minutes.”

Linda turned. “You might want to stop at the hardware store first.”

She started walking back to her car.

There were always lots of men sitting around the old woodstove in the hardware store early in the morning before the café opened. Charley Nelson and Elmer Maynard particularly made that a habit now that they’d retired from ranching. They sat there and waited for the café to open. Both of them had lived enough years on this earth to be able to spot a crazy person if they talked to him for more than a minute. She’d stop and warn them to be on guard.

And, just to be on the safe side, she’d bring out her heavy metal spatula from the kitchen when she served this man his breakfast. She could slip it into the pocket of her big apron; it wouldn’t look as much out of place as the butcher knife would. Besides, the man didn’t look tall enough to overpower her, so the spatula should keep her safe and secure enough. A solid rap with that should discourage him.

In a way, she told herself as she got in her car and drove the rest of the way to her café, she hoped the man was crazy. That meant Duane Enger wasn’t anywhere near Dry Creek. Even a spatula wouldn’t do much to protect her from Duane.

She’d opened the café door before she remembered she had something even stronger than a kitchen utensil to rely on here. She had the power of prayer. She was still new in her faith and she had to confess she was too used to solving her own problems. She needed to learn to ask God for help more; Mrs. Hargrove and Pastor Curtis had both told her that.

“He wants you to turn to Him, dear,” Mrs. Hargrove was forever saying. “You’re His child now. He cares about you.”

So, after Linda went into the kitchen part of the café to start the coffee, she took her Bible out of her purse and started to read the Psalms. The words did make her feel better.

After all, if God could keep someone safe in the valley of the shadow of death, He could protect her from a man having delusions of grandeur in a mud puddle in the Enger driveway. She’d still carry the spatula for backup insurance, though. The Bible talked about wise and prudent women, too. There was no point in being foolish and going off unprepared for problems.




Chapter Three


Duane woke up several hours later and squinted. Enough light was coming in the tinted windows to let him know it was midmorning. He wished it was still dark. His eyelids felt as though they were coated with sandpaper. Fortunately, the fire in his throat was gone and he could swallow without pain. He tried to say his name and an encouragingly full voice came out briefly before turning to a squeak. If he had some coffee, he might actually be able to talk normally.

Something had pulled Duane out of his sleep and he couldn’t figure out what it was. Phil was obviously not in the bus. The rain must have stopped, because Duane couldn’t hear it. No one was around. He knew the bus was stuck in the mud at his great-aunt’s place. It couldn’t have been the sound of another vehicle coming up to the bus that had awakened him. Nothing but a tow truck could get in and there were no tow trucks in Dry Creek. If anyone was here, they had walked down the driveway.

Then he heard it. A quick, decisive knock on the door of the bus.

Phil wouldn’t ordinarily knock, but maybe he had his hands full with something and couldn’t pull the door open. The thought encouraged Duane since that probably meant his manager was on the other side of the door holding several cups of coffee.

Duane ran his hand through his hair as he walked down the aisle of the bus toward the door. He’d have to find Mrs. Hargrove and ask about getting the key to his great-aunt’s place. Well, it was technically his place now, although he never thought of it that way.

Great-Aunt Cornelia would be the first one to tell him to get his hair combed before he went out and he had a stubborn spot that resisted his finger combing. If he could get inside the house, he could take a shower. The water would be cold, but it would be better than nothing. It should, at least, tame his hair. Maybe he’d be able to turn the utilities on without too much trouble.

Duane stepped down toward the bus door and pushed it open.

“Oh.”

Duane grunted and took another swipe at his hair. The sun was bright outside and it hurt his eyes. He blinked anyway. What was she doing here? He always thought that when he saw her again, he would be looking good. Like maybe coming off a heart-pounding concert where there were screaming fans on the sidelines and reporters taking pictures.

Instead, he suddenly remembered the ketchup stain on his T-shirt from the hamburger he’d eaten outside of Salt Lake yesterday. A T-shirt he’d just slept in. And he hadn’t shaved since he left San Pedro. Or even brushed his teeth last night. There wasn’t a fan in sight. And his hair looked wild.

“You’re really here,” Linda said to him as she narrowed her eyes and examined him suspiciously.

Duane winced. She would have given a warmer welcome to a spider crawling up her arm. And she hated spiders.

“My bus,” Duane croaked out. His voice was not as strong as he had hoped or he would remind her it was also his land. The people in this part of the world might not be impressed by rock stars, but they were big on the rights of someone who owned land to be on that land, even if they were stuck in the mud and looked as if they’d slept on a park bench during a hurricane.

Right now, Duane couldn’t speak all of the words he’d need to explain that he didn’t usually look like this. That he was successful and had money in the bank. In two banks, in fact. He even had gel that would tame his hair if he just had a chance to get to it.

Linda held out a brown bag. “Your friend, Phil, asked me to bring this out to you.”

He saw the forced smile Linda gave him. Her face was thinner than he remembered and her hair was definitely more subdued. She’d let it go back to her natural brown color and it looked good, all sleek and shapely. She was wearing jeans and an oversize chef’s apron that covered a white T-shirt. Of course, there were no ketchup stains on her T-shirt. No hair problems, either. She could have stepped off the cover of a gourmet food magazine.

Duane needed coffee. There were two containers in the bag and as long as one of them was coffee he was okay. He’d drink almost anything if it’d give him his voice back so he could talk to Linda. “Thanks.”

Linda stiffened. “No need to thank me. There’s some hot soup there, too.”

Duane reached out and took the bag while he had the chance. “How much?”

“It’s already been paid for.”

“Oh.” Duane looked at the clutter tray he kept near the driver’s seat. He pulled out a twenty-dollar bill that was curled up there between several singles.

He offered the twenty to Linda. “Tip.”

Linda’s eyes snapped as if he’d insulted her. “You don’t need to give me that kind of money.”

Okay, so Linda was finally talking to him.

Duane’s head hurt. Giving someone a generous tip was supposed to be a good thing and, when he got his voice back, he intended to tell Linda that. He would try to tell her now, but the sun was shining down on her and he just wanted to take another minute to look at her.

“Your hair—” Duane said. The sun was turning strands of her brown hair into gold. It was beautiful. She should have let it go natural years ago.

Linda flushed. “I know it’s nothing like it used to be. I don’t take time to streak it anymore. I have to get Lucy off to school before I get to the café and—well, you don’t want to know all about that. You probably don’t have to worry about getting anyone anywhere, not even a dog.”

“But—”

“Sorry, it’s none of my business who you live with, dog or otherwise,” Linda interrupted, looking determined to be polite. “So, Phil tells me you’ve come back here to sing a big, dramatic solo in our church.”

“What?” The word started with a squeak and ended with a whisper.

“I hope it’s not supposed to be a secret. He’s back at the café now using my phone to make some calls. Cell phone reception isn’t very good here. People don’t usually have a press conference after singing in church, but I’m sure you know what you’re doing. After all, it’s your show.”

Duane shook his head. His voice might be gone, but he didn’t want Linda to believe what Phil said about him giving a show. The agreement last night was that Duane would visit the church—visit the church—as in going to a church service and putting a big donation in the offering plate. He hadn’t agreed to call the kind of attention to himself Linda was talking about. Duane knew that people around here took their church seriously. He didn’t want to come in looking like some big shot throwing his weight around and demanding to do a solo in front of reporters.

He’d been nearly invisible when he’d been here as a teenager; the cowboys, like his friend Lance, had overshadowed everyone else. Duane hadn’t expected any big attention from the church back then and he certainly didn’t expect it now. He’d played guitar for people in the café and that was it. He’d always wanted to keep a low profile in Dry Creek anyway. He wasn’t really accepted here and he knew it. He saw no reason to remind everyone else of the fact. Besides, they all knew he hated church; that much had been obvious.

Linda moved slightly. “Well, I need to get back to the café.”

The one person who had seemed to really accept him in Dry Creek had been Linda. She’d opened her heart to him when he’d been a lonely boy and never turned it away from him. He’d later thought she was like sunshine after a long Chicago winter.

And then he’d made the mistake of asking her to marry him. He never should have done that. He was in some dreamlike fog when he asked, but he should have known better. A man like him had no business thinking of having a wife or a family. Especially not a sweet wife like Linda. He’d grown up in a car, for pity’s sake. A car that reeked of alcohol. His only friend back in Chicago had been a homeless man named Pete who had taught him to play jazz songs on the guitar. Duane figured he had nothing to offer a family.

Still, seeing Linda here today in the sunshine made him long for a future with her anyway, even if he couldn’t have it.

“Don’t go,” Duane tried to say, but he couldn’t make any sound and Linda just turned to walk away.

Duane looked down at the coffee he held in his hands. He hoped it gave him his voice back because he needed to speak to Phil. And then he needed to talk to Linda.



Linda looked back at the bus when she reached the main road. She’d walked over to the bus instead of driving and she was glad she had. It gave her a few minutes to pull herself together before she got back to the café.

She stood a moment at the bent-heart stop sign that marked the gravel road crossing by the Enger driveway. There were several plastic red flowers planted in the dirt at the bottom of that sign as a reminder of the love of the eloping couple from twenty-six years ago.

Linda had to blink to stop from crying. One miracle in the love department was probably all that would happen in Dry Creek for a while. Besides, she couldn’t stand here all day. Even if Doris June Hargrove and Curtis Nelson had their happily-ever-after, that didn’t mean God was going to give one to her and Duane. Linda didn’t even have the hope needed to pray for one.

The day was still overcast and the ground was damp as she kept walking back to the café. Everything smelled musty, like wet earth. She hadn’t worn a jacket and she crossed her arms to warm herself. The day had turned chilly. Or maybe it was just her. There had been nothing in the day when she got up to warn her that her worst nightmare was coming true.

Apparently Phil wasn’t crazy after all. Duane was back there in his black tour bus, looking very much like the rock star he was. She wished she had believed he was really in the bus, because then she would have used the walk over here to think of something clever to say to him.

Instead, she’d sounded like what she was—a delivery person from the local café. And, a bit of a shrew. She couldn’t believe she’d practically asked if he was living with someone. His private life was certainly none of her business. Technically, it wasn’t even any of her concern if he had gotten a dog to replace Boots.

Thinking of Boots reminded her that she’d have to give Mrs. Hargrove a call and warn her that Duane was back in town. She hoped Boots wouldn’t be as shocked to see Duane as she had been. Then she’d have to call Lucy. It was Saturday and her sister was at home, but she’d never forgive Linda if she missed a chance to see the Jazz Man up close and in person.

She wondered how long Duane would be here.

Linda shook her head. She had always thought that, if she saw Duane again, she would say something to make him regret leaving Dry Creek. Make him regret leaving her. She certainly didn’t think she’d be taking a righteous stand about some mammoth tip he wanted to give her. Now that she had a moment to think about it, she decided her reaction had made her sound as if she had needed the twenty dollars and had been too embarrassed to accept it.

Linda knew God didn’t care more about some people than others because they had larger bank accounts. And, truthfully, she was happy with the money she made in her café, especially now that they’d started setting the pie money aside for Lucy’s college fund so that worry was covered.

It’s just that Linda didn’t like the feeling that Duane might look at her and be glad he wasn’t married to her. Of course, if he did it probably would have nothing to do with money. Cold hard cash was only the beginning of the differences in their lives now. Duane was probably relieved not to be with her because she’d grown old and boring while he’d turned into a glamorous rock star without a care in the world. He probably knew without asking that she didn’t own one designer pair of jeans, but had three old fuzzy bathrobes instead.

Linda had known since her visit to Hollywood that she wouldn’t fit in with Duane’s road trip life, but she hadn’t known until this morning that she’d turned into the same kind of disapproving adult she and Duane had complained about all those years ago. She probably would never have to admit it to him, but she didn’t even like the rock music he played anymore. It was too loud and it made her want to turn the volume down.

She shook her head. She had indeed turned into her mother. It wasn’t a happy thought.

There were several people on the porch of the café when Linda walked up and she doubted it was because she was serving Irish oatmeal for breakfast this week.





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