Книга - Amazing Love

Amazing Love
Mae Nunn


Texas beauty Claire Savage learned a hard lesson the day her father left to pursue his selfish dreams. Trust no one.Now in possession of an MBA, and the owner of her own business, she felt in control. A woman like her had no use for church newcomer and former rocker Luke Dawson. What kind of a man had nothing better to do than produce music for her church's youth band? The kind of man she needed to keep an eye on.She never expected Luke's noble spirit to soothe her, yet could even his gentle touch curb her mistrust when his past resurfaced to threaten them both?









“I didn’t get asked out a single time in high school.”


“Oh, please. A girl as beautiful as you didn’t date?”

“My looks were just one more strike against me. The girls were jealous, so they never included me, and the boys figured they wouldn’t have a chance, so they didn’t bother asking.”

Luke stopped walking and stared down into her questioning eyes. “Well, this boy’s gonna bother. Claire Savage, will you have dinner with me?”

“Are you asking me on a date?”

“Well, no—you don’t have to sound so shocked by the possibility. Friends do occasionally spend time together, you know.”

She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “Thanks for asking. Sure, I’ll go to dinner with you…friend.”

But before her heels could even touch the ground, he brought his lips down to meet hers….




MAE NUNN


grew up in Houston and graduated from the University of Texas with a degree in communications. When she fell for a transplanted Englishman who lived in Atlanta, Mae hung up her spurs to become a Southern belle. Today, she and her husband, Michael, and their two children make their home in Georgia. Mae has been with a global air express company for twenty-seven years, currently serving as a Director of Specialty Services. She began writing four years ago. When asked how she felt about being part of the Steeple Hill family, Mae summed her response up with one word—“Yeeeeeha!”




Amazing Love

Mae Nunn








Dedication

This book is for Sunny.

7/28/49–1/1/05


Blessed is he whose transgressions are forgiven, whose sins are covered. Blessed is the man whose sin the Lord does not count against him and in whose spirit is no deceit.

—Psalms 32:1–2




Acknowledgments


I owe my gratitude to so many who impacted this project, whether they knew it or not.

To my Crossroads Church family in Newnan, Georgia, (especially the Williams/Worhola/Zauner Community Group) where “Being and Building Disciples of Christ” is a way of life.

To the readers who gave me so much positive feedback on Hearts in Bloom and encouraged me to take the faith in my writing to a deeper level.

To my daughter, Maegan, my sunshine.

To my son, Paul, for planting a seed that grew into the character of Luke Dawson.

To my darlin’ Michael—you make it all worthwhile.

And to three incredible women who prove it’s never too late to become biker babes. My amazing sister Pam Hruza has never let me down, not even once. My gifted critique partner, Silhouette author Dianna Love Snell, makes me a better writer. And my precious friend Sunny Rigsby inspired me with her “Ride it like you stole it!” enthusiasm for life.




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

Chapter Sixteen

Letter to Reader




Chapter One


Claire Savage gripped the wooden knob of the stick shift and dropped the limited-edition pink pony into low gear for the steep climb up the bridge that spanned the Houston ship channel. On a Saturday morning when the worst driving hazard should have been glare from the relentless Texas summer sun, something just beyond the crest of the high, arching bridge interrupted the progress of weekend traffic.

As a chain reaction of red taillights flashed, she jammed a foot on the brake of her 1967 coupe. Her gaze flew to the rearview mirror and she pleaded aloud with the truck on her tail not to collide with the recently rechromed bumper. The driver struggled but managed to control his heavy-duty pickup and the fully rigged boat that fishtailed behind him. Within moments, everything ground to a standstill.

Claire switched off the finicky air conditioner and cranked the window down. She pumped the clutch with her left foot and accelerated with her right as the traffic crept forward, inching up the sharp incline along with the other vehicles. Rubberneckers turned their heads to catch a glimpse of the nuisance that dared to delay their interstate progress.

Curious like everybody else, she sat tall in the seat and craned her neck to see beyond the sedan in front. When a long-legged, yellow Lab pup lumbered between the cars up ahead, her hand flew to her face to cover the gasp that escaped her mouth.

Horns blared and the bewildered animal darted in one direction, then another. Panic ballooned in Claire’s chest for the poor dog that was surely moments from tragedy. She punched the emergency flashers, shifted the manual transmission into neutral and pulled the hand brake. As she reached for the door handle, another flash of movement caught her eye.

A male figure in faded jeans and a black T-shirt wove between the vehicles, alternately appealing to the dog and then waving thanks to the drivers for their patience. The scene was as charming and heroic as it was dangerous and foolhardy.

Who was she calling foolhardy?

Her hand was still poised to push the door open so she could call the dog to safety herself. Beaten to the punch, she breathed a sigh of relief.

Three foster pets at one time were enough. She needed to find permanent homes for Buck, Tripod and R.C. before she took in any more animals.

God’s grace was clearly with the Good Samaritan as the otherwise aggressive Houston drivers became amazingly cooperative with the rescue attempt. Claire’s heart melted over the loving way he coaxed the terrified Lab, now paralyzed with fear.

“Come here, buddy,” the man urged, as he crept closer. “It’s okay, Luke’s gonna take good care of you.”

Shuddering from head to tail, the pup cowered on the hot pavement and hung his chin. He flinched the moment a gentle hand made contact with his dirty coat, but then lifted huge, pleading eyes in gratitude. The man squatted, scooped the dog into his long arms and held it securely to his chest.

Claire swallowed the lump in her throat, thinking of the lost sheep parable. But the thought was immediately erased when the man turned about-face to carry the dog away from the traffic. She was glad for the dark shades over her wide eyes as she studied him.

Where his face was Bruce Willis attractive, the flesh on the left side of his neck, from his jawbone to the collar of his shirt, bore an angry scar.

She sucked in her breath, ashamed to be staring.

“Thanks, everybody,” he called but seemed to avoid any particular eye contact.

“God bless you for what you just did,” she said aloud, though he was out of earshot.

As traffic began to inch forward, she kept an eye on his progress until he made it to the side of the bridge, where she lost sight of him.

Savage Cycles was only minutes away as the crow flies, but the drive seemed much longer with the memory of the rescue scene on constant replay. Claire viewed the mental picture of the man in black from every angle. The close-cropped dark hair and clean-shaven jaw packed a masculine punch. The muscular arms that embraced the pup belied the gentle nature of the stranger. The long legs encased in denim gave him a casual air. The ruddy scar tissue.

An unforgettable image.

Arriving at her destination, she found the parking lot of Savage Cycles already a hub of activity. It was no surprise since most serious bikers were gearing up for the annual Black Hills Rally. The regulars lived for these weekend get-togethers at her dealership, giving it a constant party atmosphere.

That was just one of the reasons she had been determined to become a partner, after observing the thrilling and unfamiliar sport of motorcycling as Sam Kennesaw’s business manager. When the former owner married and moved back to East Texas to resume his teaching career, Sam sold his pride and joy to Claire. She’d come to love this wild business, as he had. Now the hectic job was her sanctuary from the painful nightmare that couldn’t be counseled away, the memory of the abuse that couldn’t be buried deeply enough.

She thrived on the fact that every chopper sale was a new challenge, each customer a unique discovery about human nature. The sport offered a never-ending supply of interesting characters who were more concerned with her knowledge of product and finance than her personal history, physical features or local celebrity.

“Good morning, Claire,” Justin called from behind the counter.

She waved a greeting to her parts manager and the leather-clad customer being assisted. En route to her office she stopped to survey the showroom with a critical glance. A half-dozen new bikes were angled before the windows, beckoning to passersby.

Angled the wrong way.

She ground her teeth.

The employees had followed her instructions without question when she’d managed the business for Sam. After signing the papers and taking control, she’d overlooked the occasional incident when someone would “do it the old way” in spite of her instructions.

Sam had warned her there would come a time when she’d have to put her foot down and make it clear who ran the show.

Claire crossed to the display, muscled the first chopper into the correct position, tilted the handle-bars just so, then stepped back to admire the effect.

“You need help, ma’am?” Justin joined her.

“As a matter of fact, I do.” She smiled patiently. “I left specific instructions for all the bikes in this display to have the front wheels point west. Why didn’t that happen?”

Justin crossed his arms and tilted his head as he studied the bikes. “Well, I reminded Don of that this morning but he seemed to think Sam’s old way was better.”

“Last time I noticed, I was signing the checks around here now. So, which way do you think we should set these bikes?” Claire widened her eyes expectantly, sure Justin could deduce the correct answer.

The corner of his mouth twitched as he held back a grin. “I think they’re gonna look real fine set up the way you want them.”

She motioned with a crook of her finger for him to follow her across the room. She placed her back to the window. Justin mimicked her position, now standing where he could view the display as a customer would. The morning sunlight flashed on the spokes of the wheels like thousands of finely cut diamonds.

“There’s more chrome on the carburetor side. That’s what catches the customer’s eye when they walk through the door, don’t you think?” She watched for his reaction, wanting him to see the reason behind her request, but she’d have it her way whether he did or not.

He bobbed his head and gave her a two-fingered salute of understanding and approval.

“Consider it done,” he confirmed.

“Thanks.” She nodded, then continued down the narrow hallway to her office.

Claire dropped into the comfortable leather chair behind her desk for a quiet moment. Touching the ever-present cross at her throat, she reflected on the drama of her morning commute and the face she could not purge from her thoughts. Neither could she shake off the despair and terror of the innocent puppy.

Refusing to give in to the somber mood that threatened to settle over her heart, she swiveled to the credenza behind her desk and flipped the percolator’s “on” switch, and began poring over Sam’s computer programs. For the umpteenth time she marveled at the simplicity of what he had created when he’d turned his hobby into a thriving business.

“There’s a visitor for you at the front counter,” Justin’s low Texas twang rumbled through the intercom speaker.

“I’m on my way.”

She rolled the chair back as she stood, smoothed her hands down the front of her crisp, linen slacks and tugged the hem of her jacket. Her heels clicked a staccato beat on the terra cotta tiles of the showroom floor as she crossed the room. She paused to refold a T-shirt and position it directly atop the stack, then straighten the hangers on a display rack.

Justin acknowledged her approach with a nod of his head and the man before the counter turned her way.

A polite smile curved his mouth and then the look of recognition she’d come to know spread to his eyes. The year of public display as Miss Texas and ensuing product endorsements would always be a business asset, even if the road to the title had been paved with her innocence.

“Claire Savage, I’d know you anywhere.” His smile broadened. “It’s great to finally meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine, sir.” She accepted the stranger’s outstretched hand. “Are you interested in a chopper? We’re accepting deposits for the Southern Savage,” she said, always promoting her dealership’s soon-to-be-released signature bike.

“Actually, I’m interested in you.” He released her from his grip to fish a business card from the coat pocket of his expensive designer suit. “The name’s Arthur O’Malley—” he paused, seemingly for a reaction “—of Today’s Times magazine.” He emphasized the New York publication’s name as he handed her the card.

Claire gave the response he obviously expected.

“The Arthur O’Malley? What an honor to have you pay my little store a visit.”

His gaze swept the spacious area that warehoused several million dollars worth of dealer and aftermarket products, covering any biker’s need.

He chuckled appreciation for her understatement.

“Could I interest you in dinner this evening to discuss how you came to be the proprietor of this little store?”

“Thanks for the invitation, but I have music rehearsal at my church tonight,” she declined politely, having no intention of spending the evening deflecting the charm of a man old enough to be her father.

“And the name of that church would be…?” he probed like any good reporter should.

“My private business, if you don’t mind.” Claire refused his request. “What brings you to Houston?”

He got straight to the point. “I’m here doing some preliminary work for next month’s international trade summit.”

“At Savage Cycles we sell only American-made products, so I’m not certain we’d be of interest to you.”

“Hmm, I was not aware of your policy, but it certainly lends a unique appeal to your philosophy of doing business, and might actually have more relevance than you know.” He graced her with a practiced smile. “For my purposes anyway.”

“Well, Mr. O’Malley, what are your purposes?”

“Please, call me Art,” he requested, with a modest tilt of his head. “I’d like to interview you for an upcoming issue. Our ‘Out of the Spotlight’ editor is interested in doing a piece on the beauty queen turned motorcycle entrepreneur. You have to admit it’s quite an unusual story.”

Claire mentally flinched. That particular feature was usually reserved for has-been celebrities who’d dropped off the face of the earth after their fifteen minutes of fame. The final cut was often unflattering, turning up the heat on subjects to see what dirty secrets boiled to the surface.

Other than one piece of closely guarded information, there was no skeleton to rattle out of her closet. The name Claire Savage was synonymous with a squeaky clean reputation.

Still, the offer held appeal. Forced for most of her life to carefully manage every expense against her mother’s small income, Claire’s affinity for numbers kicked in to high gear. She considered the enormity of her professional debt.

Why not take advantage of the free publicity she could never afford otherwise?

“I can’t deny the diversity of my accomplishments.” She offered him the Mona Lisa smile and soft laugh that had charmed many a judge.

“Then you’ll agree to the interview?” He seemed determined to close the deal.

“I’m afraid I’m not in a position to answer you today, but if you’ll give me until Monday I’ll consider it.”

“Monday will be fine. I’m in town for a few days and then I’ll be back next month for the summit. My private cell phone number is on the back of my card. You can reach me anytime, day or night.”

She made a show of glancing at his number, then tucked the small card into her jacket pocket.

“And if you get hungry tonight after rehearsal…”

“I’ll call you during business hours on Monday.”

“I look forward to hearing from you, Claire.”

He seemed to accept that their conversation had ended.

Through the showroom window she watched his rental car leave the lot and pull onto the interstate access road.

The advertised release date for her signature line was less than a month away. The timing of the Today’s Times article couldn’t be better. The prototype was complete and if all went according to plan, the release of the Southern Savage would secure her future in the custom design business. The opportunity seemed heaven-sent. How could she afford to pass?



Other than the canine rescue effort on the interstate that had delayed Luke Dawson’s arrival at Abundant Harvest Church, the day was going according to plan. He drew a customized contract from his battered backpack and slid it across the low table that separated him from Pastor Ken Allen.

“Praise Productions will meet your expectations and those of your youth band or my services are free,” Luke explained. “Our project will be considered complete when I’ve recorded your group, delivered your master CD and y’all are one hundred percent satisfied with the content and quality.”

The senior pastor accepted the document and flipped slowly through the pages. As Ken made his initial scan of the contract, Luke studied the welcoming church leader, finding it easy to imagine why someone would pour his heart out to this charismatic man.

An act Luke was not tempted in the least to do.

“The conditions I mentioned are all spelled out in the agreement. My work history is attached, and I’m happy to answer any questions.” He paused again to give the pastor time to read.

Luke had spent the past hour pitching the services of Praise Productions, his mobile one-man recording company. His offer of a free two-day rehearsal and subsequent audition normally sealed the deal. As a rule, once the pastor and his council checked Luke’s references and observed his work, they were anxious to secure his services. Luke prayed the usual process would work once again, and that he wouldn’t have to reveal his personal reasons for coming to Abundant Harvest.

“I don’t accept deposits or ask for any portion of my fee up front,” he explained. “Full payment will only be expected after you approve of the master. If you have a valid complaint within the first year, I guarantee a full refund. I’m proud to say that’s never been necessary.”

The pastor glanced up and Luke continued.

“There’s a list of duplication houses attached to the contract. I try to include some local referrals, but sometimes you have to go out of state to get the best deal. I always leave that choice up to the decision makers at the church.”

Pastor Allen narrowed his eyes as he fixed Luke with an assessing stare. “I’ve read about production companies in Nashville and Los Angeles. Seems to me, staying in one spot would be simpler for a growing enterprise.” He paused to level Luke with a curious gaze. “Why do you spend your life on the road, son?”

Luke smiled and relaxed in his chair.

“I love the industry, but it’s competitive and cutthroat. I don’t care to live in any of the U.S. production meccas and I don’t want a big company choosing my projects for me. So, I opted to be portable and stay independent. I research and select my own clients, manage the process from start to finish, and when the work is done I move on to new challenges in a new part of the country.”

The trim pastor reached into a large candy dish in the middle of the table and withdrew a bite-size chocolate bar. He offered one to Luke and took two for himself.

“Luke, it’s not my place to question your financial practices, but I’ve already put some research into recording costs and your rates are significantly lower than any I’ve seen. I’d almost feel guilty, like we were taking advantage of you.”

“Sir, I assure you there’s no need to feel that way. Earning a fortune at this isn’t my goal and I have resources that allow me to be flexible.”

Luke referred to his dependency upon the dwindling earnings of the heavy metal band he put together during his boarding school days. As the infamous and outrageous Striker Dark, Luke was the front man on lead guitar and vocals. His out-of-control life as Striker drove the final wedge between Luke and his rigidly conservative parents, who wouldn’t forgive their son’s choices, even today.

In the early years a staggering amount of money had allowed him to make a clean break from his folks and never look back. Before signing with an unscrupulous agent he’d lived like a prince, but Lisa Evans had managed the band out of a fortune that should have lasted a lifetime. The loss of Luke’s income to a money-hungry woman was now at the top of a long list of mistakes he never intended to make again.

Fortunately, all these years later a new generation of rockers found the old albums. The royalties steadily trickled in for the band that had held the attention of the American public and the music industry for six years.

Until tragedy split them up.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry into your private business,” the pastor’s voice interrupted Luke’s thoughts.

“No apology necessary, sir.” Luke unwrapped his candy and popped the sweet confection into his mouth.

“Then that leaves the question of why us? You said you were in California the past year. How did you hear about Abundant Harvest Church?”

“Like I said, I do my research. I’ve been exposed on one level or another to the recording industry since I was a kid. I’ve seen a lot of talent destroyed by the trappings of the business and I believe God’s called me to help young people avoid some of the dangers. I watched this year’s Battle of the Bands review online and came to see if the Harvest Sons are as promising as they seem.”

Absolutely true, but not the whole story.

The real draw was the young man who played lead guitar for the Harvest Sons. A ringer for Luke at that age, obviously filled with startling promise and easy prey for a gold-digging agent. The boy’s image had haunted Luke, who was impressed to the point of distraction during the hours he’d studied the video. He’d been drawn to Houston by a force too big to fight. He was on a mission to satisfy himself that the kid named Eric would not suffer the same fate as Striker Dark.

Pastor Ken looked at his watch, stood and motioned for Luke to follow. “The band uses the main sanctuary to practice before the evening service. Let’s go see if the Sons live up to their reputation.”

“Sir—” Luke paused before standing “—I should warn you about my no-nonsense style. I don’t mince words and I’ve been known to step on more than a few toes. But it works for me and I’ll pit my results against anybody’s any day.”

Ken smiled, grabbed another bite of candy and tossed one to Luke. “As I recall, Jesus was a pretty direct communicator.”

“Yeah, and look how popular He was with the Pharisees,” Luke quipped, and the two men chuckled as they passed through the doorway.



Saturday afternoons were always a time of bustling activity at Abundant Harvest. Claire made a habit of being on-site each week whether or not she’d signed up for volunteer work. By all standards this church had a large congregation with a perpetual need for unscheduled help. Arriving early, she parked at the outer edge of the lot, collected her purse and book bag and began the hike toward the main sanctuary.

She stopped short at the sight of an unmarked black truck and matching gooseneck trailer that stretched across a half-dozen parking spaces. The combo would be commonplace at Savage cycles, however, in the church parking lot it was an unexpected and imposing sight.

Shrieks of obvious delight and the excited yapping of a dog drew her thoughts from the black rig. Claire changed her course and followed the sounds to the temporary classrooms positioned behind the youth center known as the Hangar.

“Hi, Miss Claire!” a gaggle of girls called. Three high school seniors perched with legs swinging on the tailgate of a friend’s muddy pickup. Their attention was immediately diverted by barking and laughter.

“What’s all the fuss?”

“The guys are teaching this puppy to play Frisbee,” one of them explained. “He’s a natural but he doesn’t want to give it back after he catches it. Brian and Eric will be too tired to play for the service tonight if they keep this up.”

Peals of laughter rose from the growing crowd of high schoolers. Claire navigated the parking lot to the edge of the grass, where lively activity was in full swing. At the sight of a yellow Lab pup, a stab of anguish shot through her heart as she remembered the scene only hours earlier. But this well-groomed dog sported a red bandana around his neck, brandished a white Frisbee in his mouth and proudly ran the boys a merry chase.

Brian dived for the animal’s skinny hind legs and missed by a long shot. The dog whirled about, trotted back to where Brian lay facedown in the grass, dropped the Frisbee on the boy’s head and woofed in chorus with the kids’ laughter.

Claire took in the relaxed scene, wondering if these youngsters had any idea how fortunate they were to be so carefree. At their age she’d had precious little time for weekend afternoons of games and laughter. There were voice lessons and costume fittings, rehearsals and rounds of competition.

Even in the quiet of her room at night she never forgot that one small mistake could cost her everything. After her father left to chase his dreams, the life she and her mother salvaged depended upon vigilance and dedication. To secure her tuition at the acclaimed private school she had to have scholarships. She had to win pageants.

She had to look and sound perfect.

Light glinted through the trees as the sun dipped toward the western skyline, reminding her the afternoon was winding down. Her chance to practice in the sanctuary was slipping away. Tomorrow morning’s solo would challenge her vocal range and she wanted one final sound check, so she headed toward the main auditorium.

By design, every aspect of Abundant Harvest Church was contemporary. Shunning the traditional redbrick chapel with a long center aisle, the church founders had opted to invest their building funds in an economical and practical 70,000 square foot warehouse-style structure.

The facility known as the worship center served as a sanctuary for weekend services. When the hundreds of folding chairs were stored away, the expansive room became a double-sized gymnasium for after-school activities. Each week visitors made notes on their welcome cards expressing approval of the spacious accommodations, including a stage with state-of-the-art audio/visual equipment.

Familiar with the Saturday evening sound crew, Claire waved to the figures, barely visible through the darkened window of the control booth, and climbed six steps that led up the right side of the stage.

“Good afternoon, Claire,” the pastor’s voice boomed from the speakers.

She raised her hand, palm outward, against the glare of lights being set for the evening service.

“Hi, Pastor Ken.” She waved a response into the darkness.

The band’s self-appointed stage manager, Dana Stabler, positioned a microphone before Claire. The petite brunette was a quirky teen who tried on personalities like other girls experimented with nail color. Today she was hip-hop, all decked out in baggy jeans and a football jersey.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Give me a minute, Dana.” Claire turned her back to the mic. After practicing some warm-up scales, she dropped her chin and offered up a silent prayer. Then she turned toward the light and removed the microphone from its stand.

She inhaled through her nose and opened her mouth to begin. Before the first note rushed across her vocal chords, a voice intruded.

“One moment, miss.” A polite command, not a suggestion.

With her mouth gaping open in surprise she felt and probably looked like a hungry guppy. Her lips clamped together with a small “umph” as she waited for some cue to continue.

“Go ahead, please,” the voice instructed.

Claire closed her eyes to concentrate and recall the note to be sung a cappella, without accompaniment. Once again she filled her lungs, parted her lips and began to breathe the high C. The note started softly, low in her chest, then crescendoed over the course of several seconds into a force of sound that filled her head and resonated in the open hall.

She’d tilted her head back from the mic allowing the sound to float heavenward. A high-pitched squeal pierced the moment. Her head and eyes snapped toward the source of the disturbance.

“Sorry about that,” was the curt response from the booth.

“Is there a problem?” Claire asked, knowing her voice held a hint of the annoyance she was feeling after the back-to-back interruptions.

“There’s a new guy in the sound booth.” Dana’s pierced eyebrows drew together apologetically.

“I noticed.” Claire curved her lips into a wry smile.

“Take it from the top,” the male voice suggested.

“If you’re sure.” She squinted against the lights.

“I’m sure.” There was amusement in his otherwise brusque tone. “I’m also sure less vibrato will make your intro more powerful.”

“Excuse me?” No one had criticized her skills since she’d fired her last vocal coach.

“Control the vibrato, if you can,” the man challenged.

Five seconds into the opening note the voice once again interrupted, “Cutting that high C off sooner will give you more breath for the next measure. Would you like to practice off mic before we begin again?”

Claire jammed a fist on each hip as she glared into the darkness. The huge room fell silent awaiting her response.

“Are you just gonna stand there in a double huff?” he asked.

She was positive she heard the guy snicker.

“Pastor Ken, may I speak with you for a moment?” Claire planted the mic back into the stand and headed down the steps. She took several unsure paces up the aisle, as she waited for her pupils to make the switch from white-hot spotlights to the dimly lit auditorium.

A side door opened, allowing slanting rays of afternoon sun to pour inside. She was distracted from her mission as all heads turned to follow the progress of a runaway pup, barking with obvious pleasure and loping up the aisle toward Claire with a half-dozen teens in hot pursuit.




Chapter Two


Her agitation forgotten, Claire gave in to the force of a smile as it spread across her face at the unusual sight. This particular animal was so energized and jubilant that, for a few seconds anyway, nobody seemed anxious to curtail the pup’s activity.

On stage, where Dana continued to set up the band for the evening service, she crossed one mic path over another and a screech of feedback blared.

The dog darted beneath a row of seats, crouched in the darkness and whined in puppy terror.

A male figure left the sound booth, navigating the darkened aisle in long, determined strides.

“My apologies, folks. I’ll take care of this.”

The voice was soft and humble, but definitely the same one that recently questioned her skills.

“Hang on, Freeway. I’ve got you, buddy.” He held up a hand to ward off the approaching teens, a quiet signal the situation was under control.

Dropping to one knee, he extended his arm, palm to the floor and allowed the dog to sniff cautiously. The sniffing soon turned to contented licking and happy tail thumping. The puppy crept from beneath the seat and into the waiting arms of a master who cradled the pet in a gentle embrace. “Freeway trusts me,” he said simply.

Claire’s breath caught in her throat at the overwhelming sense of familiarity.

“Sorry about that, Pastor Ken,” Brian apologized for the group, then herded everyone toward the door.

“No harm done,” the pastor assured them. “Give us fifteen and we’ll be ready for you guys.”

“I’ll put Freeway on a lead and find him a shady spot for a nap.”

“Great idea, Luke. That’ll give Claire time to finish her sound check.”

Claire was positioned in the aisle between the open door and the stranger in the shadows. She stepped aside to allow him to pass. Each step brought him closer to her.

Closer to the light.

“Oh, forgive my lack of manners.” Pastor Ken hurried to Claire’s side. “Hit the house lights, please,” he called to a volunteer and the florescent bulbs overhead blazed to life.

“Claire Savage, I’d like to introduce Luke Dawson. Luke, Claire is the young woman with the incredible voice I was telling you about.”

She reached to steady herself on the back of a nearby folding chair. Standing before her was the Good Samaritan who had monopolized her thoughts for the better part of the day.

Luke clenched his teeth and waited for the response that almost always accompanied an introduction. People never said anything out loud, not in front of him anyway. But unspoken pity for his permanent disfigurement was there. Loud and clear.

If they only knew he’d been through fourteen grueling procedures to get to this point. Skin grafts were amazing, not magical, and there was a limit to what reconstructive surgery could accomplish. The remaining scar on his neck was the last remnant of the fire and a constant reminder of the all-consuming demon that was only a snort away. He’d long ago accepted the ugly scar on his neck. And in an oddly comforting way, facing the vestige of his freebasing accident in the mirror every day kept him from slipping back into the pit of his destructive past.

He shifted Freeway’s lanky frame and extended a hand. She hesitated before dropping her purse onto the seat of the nearest chair and accepting his grasp.

“Pleased to meet you,” she said, and for once a greeting surprised him.

Sincere interest flickered through the molasses-brown eyes fringed with thick lashes. It usually took a few minutes of polite conversation and the mention of his profession to solicit that wide-eyed, raised-eyebrow look. Was she going to run right past sympathy and slide into open and outright curiosity? This was a first.

Most folks seemed eager to keep the contact brief, as if the disfigurement on his neck was transmissible. This woman held on, prolonging the grip, all the while her eyes fixed on his. She appeared to size him up through the touch. He had to admit it was an appealing change, and the closest thing to intimate contact he’d allowed in years.

Her blunt cut hair had glistened under the stage lights with too many shades of blond to be anything but natural. It hung straight, just past her shoulders, with bangs that could use a trim. She was tall. The kind of tall that had probably cost her a date to the prom because high school boys were too cowardly to dance with her. Shoulders back, chin high, she looked him eyeball to eyeball with no apology for her height.

Something about the almost overconfident gleam in her dark eyes caused him a moment of discomfort. Of déjà vu.

He shifted his attention to her dress. She’d opted for trousers and a jacket on a day of record Houston heat. He was certainly in no position to judge since he stood there in his perpetual “uniform,” consisting of jeans and a long sleeved black T-shirt with Praise Productions printed in script across the back.

“Claire Savage,” he slowly repeated her name as he released her hand.

She trailed her fingers lightly over Freeway’s head and paused at his long nose allowing the pup to take in her scent and taste. The sure sign of an animal lover.

“If her name rings a bell it’s because a few years back Claire was Miss Texas and first runner-up for Miss America. She did a bunch of those milk commercials.” Pastor Ken offered the information over one shoulder as he returned to his evening duties.

“No, I couldn’t possibly know you from that. I’ve never been subjected to a beauty pageant and hopefully never will. Sorry.” Luke shook his head.

“Understandable.” She chuckled. “Woman parading before judges in beaded evening gowns is not everybody’s cup of tea.” Then, her gaze narrowed slightly, the brown of her eyes deepened as she appeared to study him. “And no need to apologize, Luke…” She hesitated.

“Dawson,” he reminded her.

“Dawson,” she drew his name out slowly. She impaled him with a stare that spoke louder than words and the déjà vu made sense. Lisa Evans. The way this beauty sized him up with her eyes reminded him of the first time he’d met Lisa.

“My fifteen minutes of fame were fairly regional,” Claire continued, “so it’s not like I was ever a famous celebrity or a notorious rock star.”

The threat of trouble bubbled up from his core. He’d built an honorable profession by keeping a low profile. Facial reconstruction had disguised him so thoroughly that retreat had never been necessary. But as the saying went, there was a first time for everything. So he followed his gut and changed the subject.

“The only thing notorious around here will be Freeway if I don’t get him off this floor and out to the grass.”

“Oh, sure,” she agreed. She gave the yellow paw a light squeeze and stepped out of their path.

Claire admired what seemed to be an amazing lack of self-consciousness on his part. The damage to his neck was an obvious sign that he’d been the victim of a fire.

Growing up in a world where every physical imperfection had to be identified, analyzed and corrected, she had a vivid idea of how he must have suffered inside. But there was no sign of residual pain as he left the auditorium and the heavy door closed softly at his back.

“Miss Claire, the mics are all set now. You want to give it one more try?” Dana called.

“Of course. Maybe with our new critic outside I’ll be able to get past my first note.” She poked fun at the earlier annoyance as she climbed the steps to the stage and resumed her effort to perfect her number.



As they rehearsed, Luke assessed the boys who called themselves the Harvest Sons, his eyes trained like lasers on the kid in front. At first glance the four were just a promising cover band, but on closer observation Luke noted ability that went beyond mere talent. These kids were gifted musicians, but they needed professional help.

Houston’s Battle of the Bands festival had gained national attention when the winning group appeared on a network entertainment show. Luke did some homework and found out the Spring Break event offered kids in a dozen states a safe alternative to the temptations of Mexican beaches. The largest high school music competition in the Southwest had become a phenomenon, attracting the attention of music producers and record label executives. The March festival had ended with the Harvest Sons in third place, an incredible showing for a Christian group.

During their meeting Ken had mentioned the boys’ disappointment at their number-three status, and their request for assistance from the church council to cover professional training. So, nobody appeared particularly surprised by the pastor’s statement that night.

“I’m pleased to announce that Mr. Luke Dawson, the owner of Praise Productions, has offered to spend the next two days auditioning with us. Luke’s professional services include coaching, developing and recording youth praise bands. If we can reach a mutual agreement, he’s going to work with our boys to record a CD.”

Beaming their approval, the boys high-fived as the small crowd erupted into applause. Pastor Ken motioned for Luke to join him on the stage. Claire turned along with the others to look in Luke’s direction. He remained in his relaxed position, right shoulder leaning against the wall, not more than ten feet from where she sat. He lifted a hand to wave a brief greeting but shook his head to indicate his refusal to leave his post.

“Well, I see our guest is going to be reluctant to share the spotlight with this talented group of young men.” The pastor turned toward the musicians. “But don’t let that modest response fool you, guys. Luke has given his word that he’ll whip you into tip-top shape or his services are free.”

The adults in the room mouthed collective disbelief and glanced at one another for confirmation of such a commitment. Turn the four high school kids into professionals in a couple of weeks or work for nothing? Quite a gesture from a total stranger.

Claire began her habit of mentally calculating the cost of such an offer. Could this man’s generosity be covering some fine print that could put the church at risk? As head of the finance committee she’d make sure the church was not left holding some financial bag if this guy fell short on his end of the deal. She squinted for a better look at his face, for a clue to his intentions.

He stood with feet planted wide, solid arms folded across his chest, staring forward at some invisible point without making eye contact. While a smile played at his mouth, and his eyes crinkled in conjunction, no spark of joy lit his gaze. He only smiled for the sake of the observers. After all the years of painting that same expression on her face to guard the feelings inside, she recognized the ambivalent stare of a kindred spirit.

A person with something to hide.

She brushed bangs out of her eyes and swept her hand across the gold cross at her throat. If the man had secrets, he was certainly entitled to them, just as she was. As long as they stayed buried too deeply to cause harm to these impressionable boys, who was she to judge? Still, she would be cautious.

Claire would make sure any agreement between Praise Productions and Abundant Harvest was legal and fail-safe for the church that was her family.



Luke worshipped with the congregation that evening from the privacy of the audio/visual booth. During the musical numbers, he observed the equipment and the young female volunteer whose hands moved capably across the dials and levers of the soundboard. The mixing capacity of the Praise Productions mobile unit would more than compensate for any lack of local technology.

He’d gritted his teeth several times during the band’s amateurish performance, but silently applauded the contribution of each member. Shaggy-haired Zach paid too much attention to the girls in the front row. Even so, his drumming was impressive. You could tell he was holding back, itching to liven up the arrangements and break into a rock beat. Given the right musical vehicle he would wow a crowd.

Chad was a prodigy at the keyboard. Luke was certain from the boy’s rigid stance that the teen had been classically trained. With encouragement to loosen up, the bespectacled youth would give any piano man a run for his money.

Brian appeared to be the youngest in the group. Sullen and quiet, his bass was rumbling and low, soulful to the untrained observer. To Luke’s ear it was downright painful. The instrument begged to be tuned to pitch. But the boy had great hands and a keen sense of rhythm. He could be groomed.

Then there was Eric, clearly the leader of the band, and Brian’s older brother. Luke swallowed to ease the tightness in his throat as he watched the boy that the others looked to as their spokesman. Eric lovingly cradled the custom figured Gibson Les Paul guitar like a treasured friend. The long fingers of his left hand wrapped the neck of the instrument while his right hand plucked a sweet melody from the six strings.

Eric closed his eyes, communed with the instrument and seemed to feel the sound to his core. Luke’s heart ached for the enchanted pair as he recognized long buried parts of himself in the boy and the guitar.

A sense of purpose he’d never felt before stole over Luke. As if the Holy Spirit whispered in Luke’s ear, he knew an unusual moment of being at peace.

He’d made the right decision to seek out this kid. He could make a difference here.

The service ended and worshipers streamed from the building as the evening crowd went home to their Saturday night routines. With lights blazing inside the sanctuary, Luke made his way down to the front of the nearly empty auditorium.

Eric looked up from the business of snapping the lid on his guitar case.

“What did you think, Mr. Dawson?”

“Call me Luke, but don’t be so quick to pack up. We have serious work to do.” He glanced around at the others. “Any of you guys working tomorrow or playing for the early service?”

“No, sir,” they chorused.

“Good.” He held a set of church keys aloft and rattled them for emphasis. “We have a lot of ground to cover before we audition on Monday evening and Pastor Ken says we’re free to practice anytime the sanctuary is not reserved. I’m a natural night owl. Think you guys can keep up with me?”

Four pairs of eyes flew wide. The suggestion that they hang around well after normal hours was obviously a novel one. They looked to Eric for a response.

“Sure!” His head wagged agreeably.

“Then y’all call your folks and get permission to stay late.”

Luke would find out fast whether or not they were serious about their craft. If the band was willing to work, and work hard, he could take them to the next level and higher in a couple of intense weeks. When he handed over a master recording there would be no doubt in anyone’s mind that Praise Productions had fulfilled the agreement.

Claire couldn’t believe her ears. She’d already hung around hours longer than necessary just to keep an eye on things. She was singing at the early service and needed to go home to feed the animals, review a stack of spreadsheets and get a good night’s rest.

She hurried to the main entrance and pushed the door wide in time to see the taillights of the pastor’s black pickup fade into the trees. He obviously trusted this guy to give him total access to the building. The door fell closed with a thud and five heads turned in her direction.

They were a team. She was an intruder.

“You’re still here.” Luke’s voice was flat, grouchy. He was not pleased.

“Yes.” She searched for a reason to justify her presence. “I overheard you asking the guys to hang around and thought I might stay and offer my help. As Pastor Ken mentioned, I’ve had quite a bit of musical training myself.”

Luke’s expression softened. He actually smiled.

A charming smile. A lazy smile that ignited a spark of mischief in his eyes and caused her to pull in a deep breath to cover the odd beating of her heart.

“Matter of fact, I would appreciate your help.”

As he walked toward her he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a faded brown wallet. He plucked a twenty-dollar bill from the folded leather and held it toward her.

“I saw a taco stand up the road. How about getting us all a hot meal and giving Freeway a quick walk around the parking lot? I can send one of the boys with you if you’re afraid to go alone,” he challenged.

If being the gofer gave her a reason to stick around, so be it.

“Sure, I’ll be glad to do that. But when I get back I thought we might be able to collaborate.”

“Collaborate?” One dark eyebrow arched skeptically.

“You know, offer one another assistance based on our musical backgrounds.”

He cracked that lazy grin again and there was no denying it. Her heart definitely thumped double time.

“I’m glad you brought up the subject of assistance, because you could use some work on that piece you were rehearsing. That arrangement is all wrong for your voice but I can give you some suggestions to get you through it if you want to stick around a while longer.”

She snatched the twenty from his fingers and stuffed it into her purse.

“Thanks, I’ll think about it,” she muttered as she spun about-face and stomped up the aisle. She heard the rumble of his laughter just before she pushed through the security door into the muggy night air.

A Harvard MBA sent to fetch burritos. Miss Texas being asked to walk the dog. A guy she didn’t know from Adam criticizing her musical arrangement. If she weren’t so tired she’d indulge in a self-righteous hissy fit. She settled instead for slamming the door of her coupe a little harder than necessary.

As the pony car approached the late night drive-thru, the mature businesswoman in her toyed with a teenage prank. Claire’s huffy mood evaporated and a grin crept across her face. If the newcomer was going to treat her like one of the kids he’d better be prepared to suffer the consequences.




Chapter Three


“And put extra jalapeños on those two super tacos, please.” Claire smirked at the giant piñata head that returned her grin blindly and bobbed its approval of her diabolical plan.

“I have to warn you, ma’am. The super taco already comes with enough peppers to heat Minnesota in January,” the night manager of the restaurant replied.

“I know, but I’m just relaying the order. The man specifically said he wanted his meal ‘hot.’”

“Okaa-aa-aay, but he’s gonna be miserable tomorrow.”

“That’s the plan,” she muttered under her breath as she eased the car forward to the carry-out window.

With a sack of fragrant Tex-Mex on the bucket seat beside her and the warm evening breeze whipping through the open windows, Claire made the short drive back to the church. Determined to see this guy’s true colors, she crept inside the sanctuary to a seat in the shadows. The less she disturbed the more she could observe. If anyone noticed her arrival they didn’t acknowledge it.

Luke was taking the group through one of the numbers they’d played for the evening service, stopping them frequently as he’d done Claire during her practice run. Like a professional coach who insists a championship team start every drill with the basics, Luke singled out each boy and went over the fundamentals of his instrument. Though they reviewed familiar territory, the newcomer seemed to give each student a fresh sense of timing or tuning or the history of the instrument before moving on.

A series of high-pitched beeps emanated from Eric’s backpack. He cradled his guitar in the upright stand and reached for his cell phone.

“Unless that’s your mother, don’t answer it,” Luke commanded.

“Nobody calls him but his mother,” Zach sniped and the others snickered.

Eric gave a sidelong glance at the caller ID and punched the ignore button. Luke held his hand out and the cell phone was deposited into his open palm.

“Any others?” Luke’s tone left no doubt about what was expected.

Pockets were emptied and four flip phones ended up single file on top of an amplifier. Her Blackberry was set on vibrate but, unwilling to risk being discovered, Claire reached into her purse and silently depressed the “off” key.

“This is as good a time as any to spell out expectations.” Luke lowered his lean frame to the stage floor, folded long legs beneath him and motioned for the guys to do the same. They sat cross-legged in a circle like silent scouts around a campfire.

“Well? Speak up,” Luke snapped, then waited for a response. The boys cast one another unsure glances.

“Shouldn’t you tell us your expectations, sir,” Zach asked, as he nervously rolled a drumstick between his palms.

Luke shook his head. “Let’s get this straight. This isn’t about me or Praise Productions. It’s about the Harvest Sons. If you don’t know what you want, how can we move you to the next level?” Luke waited through several seconds of silence. “Talk to me,” he insisted. “Just share what’s on your minds.”

“The sound is pretty good in here,” Zach said, glancing at the high ceiling, “but I have to hold back. My dream is to rock an outdoor stadium before I’m in my thirties like you and too old to enjoy it.”

Teenage heads nodded agreement and Luke grimaced, “Gee, thanks.”

“You know what I mean.” Zach studied his drumstick, clearly chagrined by his tactless admission.

“Yes, I’m afraid I do,” Luke grumbled, but winked at the others to let Zach see no offense was taken.

Chad spoke up. “Since I was seven I’ve been at the keyboard ten hours a week, twenty in the summer. I can mimic any style, but I wanna be known for a sound of my own. I want the Sons to play more than cover tunes and jazzed up hymns.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.” Luke nodded at Chad, then turned. “How about you, Eric?”

“The only good thing our dad ever did was name me after Eric Clapton. He’s a triple inductee into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.” Eric’s eyes lit as he warmed to the subject of his rock hero. “I learned most of what I know by playing along with his CDs. I’d love to have a reputation like Clapton’s one day,” Eric admitted. “But only on the guitar,” he quickly added. “I’d never be stupid like he was with coke and heroin. Musicians who blow their careers over drugs are so lame.”

Luke brushed his palm across his short-cropped hair, before dropping his hand back into his lap.

“You’d be surprised how easy it is to fall into that trap, Eric.”

Claire caught the slightly defensive note in his voice.

“Are you saying what he did was okay?” Chad asked.

“Absolutely not,” Luke insisted. “But you should have some compassion for what drove Clapton down the road he chose.”

“Nobody deserves compassion for making such stupid choices,” Eric insisted. “His drug abuse will label him for the rest of his life.”

There was an uncomfortable silence for a few moments as Luke seemed to think about the judgmental comment.

“Good point, Eric. All a man really has to call his own is his reputation, and once that’s damaged it’s just about impossible to make repairs.”

Then he moved on. “And what do you want from this experience, Brian?”

The young bass player slumped, exhaled a pent-up breath and fiddled with the plastic guitar pick between his fingers.

“Brian wants to make it in the business so he can get away from our old man,” Eric offered on behalf of his kid brother.

“Forever,” Brian added, not looking up.

Claire noted the way Luke’s gaze darted back and forth between the two brothers, taking in that piece of news. She squirmed in her dark corner of the room, uncomfortable, feeling she was eavesdropping on group therapy. Luke was making a sincere, albeit gruff effort to get to know his protégés. Even grudgingly, she had to admire that in the man.

“Believe it or not, guys, I understand. At your age I felt all those things. Thanks for being honest with me.” Luke’s voice was hushed, almost reverent. She had to lean forward and listen closely.

“Now that I know why you’re here we can start plotting some serious progress. If you knuckle down and really work hard for me, what we accomplish in the next two days will blow your minds. But I warn you, I can’t abide slackers. I have to prove myself to your church council, and you guys have to prove yourselves to me. Got that?”

Heads bobbed agreement as he glanced around the circle.

“I never make a promise I can’t keep. So, listen up. When you work with me you’ll stretch your skills and your minds and I promise we’ll produce music that will open doors for you in this business. But when we’re working together you’ve got to give me your undivided attention, and I’ll do the same for you. No exceptions. You got that, too?”

They nodded understanding.

Luke extended his arm into the center of the circle, palm down and asked, “Are we a team?”

Hands stacked on hands as they shared that very male ritual of the pregame huddle followed by high fives.

“Hey, Miss Texas, you got anything to eat back there?”

When Luke called out his question young heads turned her way. Startled to realize he’d known she was there all along, Claire jumped to her feet, grabbed the bag of fast food and hurried down front.

“Thanks, Miss Claire!”

The youngsters took the bag, fished out burritos and napkins and tossed the sack and remaining contents to Luke. He pulled several bills from his wallet and sent them to the soft drink machines in the basement kitchen with stern instructions to hurry back.

“Still sore at me?” His brows arched expectantly over green eyes, his mouth quirked with a hint of humor.

“Why would you ask that?” She played the wide-eyed dumb blonde, and hated herself for it.

“Oh, maybe because I yanked your chain a few times, but just to see if you were a good sport.”

“And?” She waited, for some strange reason hoping she’d overcome the prima donna, first impression she may have given him.

“And you reacted like a professional.”

She could tell he wanted to say more.

“But?” She stuffed her hands in her jacket pockets and waited for the rest.

“But even pros make mistakes. That’s a popular piece of music that everybody will recognize, but it’s all wrong for your voice. If you wanna give your best performance you’ll let me coach you.” He threw down the gauntlet, something he appeared to do frequently.

“Oh, that’s not necessary.” She brushed off his suggestion.

“Trust me. It is.”

“Speaking of trust,” she changed the subject, “I understand why Freeway trusts you. I was there this morning when you rescued him on the bridge. That was a brave thing you did.”

“Bravery had nothin’ to do with it.” He brushed away the compliment like a pesky fly. “I just couldn’t help myself. It makes me so mad to see an animal or a kid mistreated.”

Squeaking sneakers and the muffled voices of four teens signaled they were about to have company. Luke looked down and focused on the meal. He rustled inside the white paper sack and withdrew a taco. He peeled back the wrapper and prepared to take a large bite.

“Wait!” Claire shouted, regretting her juvenile act, making a sudden effort to stop him. But he leaned out of her reach and sunk his teeth into the crisp corn tortilla, loaded with three-alarm salsa and jalapeño peppers.

Luke scrunched his forehead in a scowl as he dodged the woman’s attempt to grab his taco. The salty shell broke in his mouth with a crunch. Tasty meat seasoned with hot sauce filled his senses. As he chewed he became aware of the spicy warmth that quickly morphed into a burning sensation. Within seconds his breath caught in his throat. His mouth and sinuses blazed.

Claire sprinted toward the door where Zach had appeared, an unopened soda in his hand. She scooped it from his grip and tossed it in a high arch directly at Luke. In a fluid movement he caught the can, popped the top, dodged the spray and chugged the soda. He stopped to draw a breath only to ensure his esophagus hadn’t suffered permanent damage.

“I’m so sorry!” Claire stood at his side, her hands clenched together at her heart as if pleading for forgiveness.

Luke continued to let the chilly effervescence of the drink soothe the coals that still smoldered inside his mouth.

Pure mortification in her eyes, Claire held out her hand for the remainder of his meal. Instead Luke plopped the empty can in her palm and took a close look at the offending taco. It was packed with hot peppers, each seed a tiny grenade of heat waiting to explode. He crammed it back into the sack, unwrapped, and examined a second taco that was also crowded with ripe green jalapeños. He turned to the woman who’d literally taken his breath away.

“How thoughtful of you to welcome a newcomer to your church with a meal that’s obviously a special order.” He spoke loud enough for the boys to hear and they naturally drifted toward the couple to find out what effort Claire had gone to for their new mentor.

Her eyes widened as Luke extended his hand, waving the peppery fare beneath her nose. “Care to share with me?”

“No, thanks.” She shook her head, an adamant refusal that brushed a cascade of fine blond hair across her shoulders. “I never eat this late at night.”

“Oh, come on now. How much can one bite hurt?” Luke cajoled, knowing full well how painful one bite would be.

“Yeah, Miss Claire, you’re too skinny,” Zach chimed in. “Eat up.”

The group of boys surrounded her, insisting she share the food Luke continued to offer. She waved Luke away but he caught her wrist, rotated her hand and deposited the taco into her palm. He lifted his eyebrows expectantly, a silent dare only she would understand.

Trepidation written all over her unforgettable face, she licked her lips as if anticipating the fire. The paper wrapper rustled as she squeezed the taco and brought it closer to her face. She eyed the heap of peppers, swallowed what must have been her pride and closed her eyes as if blocking the thought of the approaching inferno.

Luke enjoyed the way her perfect little nose twitched when it caught the vinegary scent of the peppers. He was sure she’d back down, but she resolutely parted her lips and prepared to take the plunge.

He was impressed.

He clapped his hands together loudly to capture everyone’s attention. Claire’s eyes flew wide at the noisy interruption. Her mouth clamped shut narrowly avoiding the peppery snack only moments from her lips.

“Okay, everybody, let’s get busy.” Luke waved them toward the stage.

When the boys had turned their backs she exhaled her relief, dropped the hazardous taco into the open sack and mouthed “I’m sorry.” The sincerity of the silent apology showed in her caramel-brown eyes but the small smirk that wriggled at the corners of her mouth said otherwise. She ducked her head too late to hide the smile.

“I’ll just clean up back here and be on my way.” Claire bent to gather her belongings.

“Not so fast,” he snapped.

Her head popped up at the insistent tone in his voice.

He masked his thoughts with a blank face and inclined his head in the direction the boys were heading.

“It’s time for me to repay your kindness.” He stressed the last word, a warning of what was to come.

Her eyebrows rose in question.

“Chad, go to the booth and cue the lady’s music,” Luke called out.

She glanced at her wristwatch, any excuse to break contact with those demanding green eyes. “It’s getting late and you have other commitments.”

“And miss the opportunity to collaborate? Not on your life.” Refusing to take “no” for an answer, he stepped aside and motioned for her to precede him up the aisle.



Two hours later, Claire sat before the computer in her southwest Houston townhome. Surrounded by her menagerie of foster pets, she arched her back and yawned as she waited for the final search engine to work its powerful magic.

Buck squirmed and buried his nose beneath her arm. She’d long since mastered the art of typing with the abused dachshund in her lap. R.C. perched nearby, dangling his long tail over the arm of Claire’s favorite chair. The red tabby cat would find himself relegated to the garage if he sharpened his claws on the leather recliner again.

Aptly named for his three-legged status, Tripod dozed on the rug beside her, his sides rising and falling in conjunction with his noisy breathing. The Airedale’s costly asthma was the primary reason he was still without a permanent home.

With one hand Claire snuggled Buck closer and with the other she reached to trail her fingers across Tripod’s wiry head. He opened adoring eyes, sighed his gratitude and drifted back into doggie dreamland. She understood the contentment these abandoned animals felt in the sanctuary of her home.

Two weeks after Claire’s thirteenth birthday, Dean Savage dealt his family a staggering blow. He was moving to L.A. to pursue his dream of being an actor. Alone.

To Claire’s astonishment Mary Savage didn’t plead with her husband to stay. Instead she sought comfort in her Bible as Claire’s father packed, muttering under his breath about women and their religious nonsense. The next day he was gone, leaving Claire and her mother with nothing more than the roof over their heads.

The computer beeped to signal its work was complete.

She scanned the results of her search on Praise Productions, disappointed to find no home page, odd for a growing business. There were numerous brief blurbs in relation to churches Praise Productions had worked with in the recent past. All glowing reports, nothing of concern. She should be relieved instead of feeling like she’d come up empty-handed, just as she had for the search under Luke’s name, yielding only pages of genealogy listings.

She looped the gold chain around her index finger and cupped the diamond cross in her hand. The grudging respect and strange attraction she felt for the man with the lazy smile conflicted with her need to protect her Abundant Harvest family.

The guy had some unique qualities but he was running stealth for a reason. Tomorrow Claire would go over his contract with a fine-tooth comb. She might even call her Texas Ranger friend, Daniel Stabler, for a background check. If Luke Dawson was hiding something, she’d pull the plug on the deal faster than you could say Savage Cycles of Houston.




Chapter Four


Sunday morning Luke twisted the knob and the door of his furnished efficiency swung open.

Home sweet home.

He surveyed his surroundings, nodding approval at the sparse furnishings that helped hold down costs. As long as the rental was located within five miles of his favorite coffee chain, was spotlessly cleaned and the previous occupants hadn’t smoked, Luke could be quite happy with used accommodations.

The thirty-eight-foot Praise Productions trailer afforded him the space to carry the few items he needed to be self-sufficient and comfortable during the weeks he’d spend at each location. Settling into a kitchen chair, he placed his morning latte on the table and dropped the newspaper beside it.

Four paws thumped the bedroom floor and Freeway lumbered around the corner. He stopped at the sight of his new master, wagged a long tail in a still-sleepy greeting and collapsed on the cool tile. His eyelids immediately sagged and he slipped back into puppy slumber.

Luke smiled at the contented animal and reached for the remote. Needing a quick feel for the local culture, he surfed dozens of Houston channels, pausing over the local television ministries.

Many of the services were in Spanish, leaving no doubt that the Hispanic population had exploded in Texas. A song recorded in Spanish would be a nice touch for the Harvest Sons album.

He reached for his backpack, pulled out a spiral notebook and pencil, and began making plans for the group. Though he wasn’t willing to praise them too soon, last night the Sons had given one of the best first efforts Luke had observed so far. Eric was particularly hungry for success. After the taste Luke would offer the boy, he’d never settle for crumbs again. With youth and talent on his side he had a shot.

And now he had a secret weapon. Luke Dawson.

Seemed like only yesterday that Luke was just as trusting and hopeful. On his own at nineteen with enough money to do a world of good or a lot of damage, he lacked the maturity or the guidance to handle his fame. He’d naively signed over the management of his finances to entertainment lawyer Lisa Evans, never knowing he’d signed over full control as well. When a thick layer of dust settled on his career, she was a wealthy woman and he was lucky she’d left him the rights to his own music.

What different turns life might have taken if someone had stood in the gap for Luke Dawson before he became consumed by Striker Dark. He was committed to being that someone for Eric.

Since Luke had buried his anger along with Striker, he shook free of the memories and rattled open the Sunday paper.

The Southern Savage requires a Master. Do you have what it takes to dominate this machine?

The advertisement dared the reader. The rest of the full page ad listed the specs of the soon-to-be-released custom chopper, the signature bike of Savage Cycles of Houston.

Luke scanned the page for any mention of the owner. Finding none, he laid the paper on the table, folded his arms across his chest and squinted in concentration. Though he’d known her less than twenty-four hours, Claire Savage was possibly the most interesting woman he’d ever met. There was something apart from her physical beauty that demanded appreciation.

He found the self-confidence that bordered on arrogance appealing, and the matter-of-fact way she spoke of her accomplishments very attractive. Instead of the smug “I’m all that” kind of pride, she displayed a satisfied sureness that said she was capable and knew it.

There was no doubt she had a brilliant mind—the most worrisome part. After she’d left for the evening, Brian had offered a few unsolicited bits on her background. Seemed the mixture of pageant queen and Ivy League grad uniquely qualified her to serve as role model and femme fatale for the teens at Abundant Harvest. According to the boy, who was clearly smitten with her, the cool part was Claire didn’t let all her achievements go to her head.

Luke recalled having the same foolish thoughts about Lisa when they’d first met. But something about this Miss Texas was different from the financial shark who had bled Striker Dark dry.

The way Claire held her head—chin just a bit high—was definitely practiced. But when he’d stared into her eyes he’d caught a glimmer of what lay beneath the public veneer. He wasn’t sure it was confidence at all. He’d seen part bravado, part suspicion and something else. Fear maybe. Now what would a woman with the world by the tail have to fear?

She was a celebrity in this community, in this state actually. She had roots, an enviable past and was busy orchestrating a very public future. But he had a hunch she was afraid of something.

“Lord,” Luke spoke aloud, “do me a favor, will Ya? Keep that woman busy with her own life and out of my hair?”



Claire closed her Bible and stood for the final prayer that would dismiss the worship service. She waited for the busy aisle to clear, and then made her way toward the exit. As she inched closer to the door she stopped to accept praise for her solo.

The arrangement was not one she’d personally have chosen but the song had complimented the series Pastor Ken was teaching on forgiveness. She’d agreed to sing the popular tune, hoping she wouldn’t be compared unfavorably to the artist who’d won a Dove Award for the song. Though it bugged her to admit the truth, every suggestion Luke Dawson had imposed upon her last night had been right on target.

After following the instructions of a man who claimed he personally had the voice of a bullfrog, she’d found the comfort level that had been lacking when she’d practiced on her own. The guy was like that famous gymnastics coach who took the American women to the Olympics. He couldn’t do a double back flip off the balance beam if his life depended on it, but the girls he trained never failed to bring home the gold.

Luke was nowhere to be found this morning, his rig no longer a conspicuous sight in the parking lot. A small sigh escaped as she realized she’d expected him to be there. She’d actually wanted the man’s approval. She dropped her chin and trudged up the aisle.

“You were incredible this morning. Quite a moving performance.”

Claire’s head popped up as she recognized the male voice.

Arthur O’Malley stood just inside the exit door. In a lightweight summer suit, with his hands folded before him, he resembled a groom waiting for his bride.

Trained to accept a compliment graciously, this time she went with her gut instinct instead.

“Are you following me?” she demanded. “Because if you are you can kiss that interview goodbye.”

His eyes flew wide, and a smile creased his face.

“Whoa, cowgirl,” he chuckled. “I understand your stalker worries but this is just a coincidence. I’m staying right over there.” He pointed to the luxury hotel across the interstate.

Her mother would have been appalled by the rude reaction. Good thing she was on an Alaskan cruise instead of standing beside her daughter. Still, something niggled at Claire, telling her to be cautious.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. O’Malley.”

“It’s Art.” He waved away her formal address. “I’m on my way to Sunday brunch. Join me? We can take separate cars and even go Dutch treat if you’d prefer.” He poked fun at her suspicious nature.





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