Free When Last We Loved by Fran Baker Page A
Authors: Fran Baker
long that I get lower than a snake's belly just thinking about it.”
Scrappy scratched his bearded chin. “I never have figured out what it is that drives me, whether I'm just a show-off or whether I actually have something worthwhile to contribute to the music business.” He shrugged. “Who knows? I think this business must get into your bloodstream, like an incurable disease of some sort.”
“We've got a disease, all right,” she agreed wryly. “Don't tell anyone else, but I think they build padded cells for people like us.”
“Maybe so. But I know one thing for sure. I wouldn't trade the applause and the satisfaction of pleasing a crowd for all of the beer in the Lone Star Brewery.” He shot her a sideways glance. “I don't think you would, either.”
They laughed together and Cassie was cheered by the fact that there was someone else who understood her blues. “Let's stick that song I wrote into the second set,” she suggested. Her enthusiasm was coming back and she was ready to lick the world, an audience at a time. “We've rehearsed it enough and I'm comfortable with your arrangement now.”
“If that promoter friend of Allen's is legitimate, that song could just be our ticket to Nashville.” Scrappy grabbed her hand. “Pick up your feet, girl. I don't want to miss the action.” They broke into a jog and headed for the arena.
Hoyt's name was announced over the loudspeaker as Cassie crawled past a row of knees and found her seat in the bleachers. His chap-covered legs straddled the heaving sides of a bad medicine mustang, and he held one hand high above his Stetson in arrogant compliance with the strict rules of bronc busting.
“Oooooh!” The crowd gasped in admiration as Hoyt absorbed a particularly brutal jolt. Sunlight glinted off the silver belt buckle he'd won as champion of the Grand National Finals last year in San Francisco.
The horse hung narrow for what seemed like an eternity. Its sharp hooves pummeled the ground, spraying sawdust and dirt every which way. Hoyt pitted himself against the bone-jarring action, making the contest look as easy as riding a mechanical carnival pony.
When the buzzer sounded, signaling the end of his ride, he slid off the bronc's back and slapped its gleaming rump, then saluted the cheering crowd. Cassie relaxed her tightly clenched muscles and drew an easy breath. She'd unconsciously tensed during those long eight seconds. It infuriated her to know that she still cared so much.
Would she always be haunted by the memory of his lean, golden body taking her higher than she'd ever dreamed possible?
“Mr. Purdy, this is the young lady we've been talking about.” Allen drew her attention when he leaned across her, and she wrinkled her nose as she caught the sour smell of the beers he'd been soaking his throat with all afternoon. “This is Harlan Purdy, Cassie. He's an old buddy of mine and we just happened to bump into each other a little while ago. Harlan is a promoter from Nashville and he caught your show and was impressed enough to ask about meeting you.”
Allen slurred the last part of his introduction as he threw a possessive arm around her shoulders. Cassie was perturbed that he was mixing business with imbibing again. She wanted to duck and let him lose his balance, but she smiled warmly, instead, savoring the promise of a private moment with Allen later. The first chance she got, she was going to read him the riot act
“If I were a canary, Miss Creighton, I'd throw myself out of the nearest tree.” Harlan Purdy wiped his palm on a spotless handkerchief he'd pulled from the lapel pocket of his white Kentucky Colonel suit The promoter grinned like a Cheshire cat and mopped his brow.
“Yes, sir, reminds me of the night I signed Little Joey Ballard smack in the middle of a medicine show back in Fayetteville, Arkansas.” He chewed his cigar and it rolled to the side of his mouth. “Did you ever hear of Little Joey by any chance?”
Cassie
Scrappy scratched his bearded chin. “I never have figured out what it is that drives me, whether I'm just a show-off or whether I actually have something worthwhile to contribute to the music business.” He shrugged. “Who knows? I think this business must get into your bloodstream, like an incurable disease of some sort.”
“We've got a disease, all right,” she agreed wryly. “Don't tell anyone else, but I think they build padded cells for people like us.”
“Maybe so. But I know one thing for sure. I wouldn't trade the applause and the satisfaction of pleasing a crowd for all of the beer in the Lone Star Brewery.” He shot her a sideways glance. “I don't think you would, either.”
They laughed together and Cassie was cheered by the fact that there was someone else who understood her blues. “Let's stick that song I wrote into the second set,” she suggested. Her enthusiasm was coming back and she was ready to lick the world, an audience at a time. “We've rehearsed it enough and I'm comfortable with your arrangement now.”
“If that promoter friend of Allen's is legitimate, that song could just be our ticket to Nashville.” Scrappy grabbed her hand. “Pick up your feet, girl. I don't want to miss the action.” They broke into a jog and headed for the arena.
Hoyt's name was announced over the loudspeaker as Cassie crawled past a row of knees and found her seat in the bleachers. His chap-covered legs straddled the heaving sides of a bad medicine mustang, and he held one hand high above his Stetson in arrogant compliance with the strict rules of bronc busting.
“Oooooh!” The crowd gasped in admiration as Hoyt absorbed a particularly brutal jolt. Sunlight glinted off the silver belt buckle he'd won as champion of the Grand National Finals last year in San Francisco.
The horse hung narrow for what seemed like an eternity. Its sharp hooves pummeled the ground, spraying sawdust and dirt every which way. Hoyt pitted himself against the bone-jarring action, making the contest look as easy as riding a mechanical carnival pony.
When the buzzer sounded, signaling the end of his ride, he slid off the bronc's back and slapped its gleaming rump, then saluted the cheering crowd. Cassie relaxed her tightly clenched muscles and drew an easy breath. She'd unconsciously tensed during those long eight seconds. It infuriated her to know that she still cared so much.
Would she always be haunted by the memory of his lean, golden body taking her higher than she'd ever dreamed possible?
“Mr. Purdy, this is the young lady we've been talking about.” Allen drew her attention when he leaned across her, and she wrinkled her nose as she caught the sour smell of the beers he'd been soaking his throat with all afternoon. “This is Harlan Purdy, Cassie. He's an old buddy of mine and we just happened to bump into each other a little while ago. Harlan is a promoter from Nashville and he caught your show and was impressed enough to ask about meeting you.”
Allen slurred the last part of his introduction as he threw a possessive arm around her shoulders. Cassie was perturbed that he was mixing business with imbibing again. She wanted to duck and let him lose his balance, but she smiled warmly, instead, savoring the promise of a private moment with Allen later. The first chance she got, she was going to read him the riot act
“If I were a canary, Miss Creighton, I'd throw myself out of the nearest tree.” Harlan Purdy wiped his palm on a spotless handkerchief he'd pulled from the lapel pocket of his white Kentucky Colonel suit The promoter grinned like a Cheshire cat and mopped his brow.
“Yes, sir, reminds me of the night I signed Little Joey Ballard smack in the middle of a medicine show back in Fayetteville, Arkansas.” He chewed his cigar and it rolled to the side of his mouth. “Did you ever hear of Little Joey by any chance?”
Cassie