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  But when he'd made that promise to himself, he had no way of knowing that six months after the funeral he'd be living in Conway, North Dakota, working on an oil rig, bringing up crude from deep underground, and living in a bunkhouse with four other men and one woman who had become his best friends. Friends who weren't about to let his twenty-eighth birthday pass without a proper celebration. And since every single one of them had bought him a shot, and Chase thought it would be rude to refuse, he'd downed them all—as well as the ones bought for him by other well-wishers, including his boss from out on the rig, and the guy who sold tamales from the trunk of his car.

  "That's right, buddy, clear your head," the man at the next sink said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "You're gonna be good as new."

  Chase turned, expecting to see Calvin or Jimmy. Instead, he found himself staring at a guy in a black shirt with a black string tie, topped with a black jacket. Black jeans and boots completed the look. Very Ring of Fire, except that his smooth, tanned face was way too perfect to resemble the Man in Black.

  "I think I might’ve had a little too much," Chase said ruefully.

  "Hey, when can you cut loose a little, if not your birthday? I'm Carl Cash," he said, offering his hand.

  "You related to Johnny?" Chase asked, shaking hands and wincing at the crushing grip.

  "Heh, well, I try not to take advantage," Carl said modestly. He took a card from the pocket of his shirt and handed it over.

  Chase squinted, the print wavering in front of his eyes. "Professional talent management," he managed to read. "Nashville. Oh, you here to see Stiletta?"

  "As a matter of fact, yes, I hope to talk to her."

  Chase nodded. "Figured it was just a matter of time before she was headed for Music City. She's really got talent. I tell you what, you spiff her up a little, she'll pack 'em in."

  It was about time Sherry got a break, and Chase struggled to pull himself together so he didn't accidentally blow her chances. This guy Cash seemed decent enough, if you could judge a man's character by spending a few minutes in a public bathroom with him after throwing up, which on second thought struck Chase as unlikely. Still, Carl Cash didn't need to know Sherry had been juggling two other jobs and sleeping in the Tar Barn to make ends meet for herself and her little brother.

  "Yeah, we'll see. Meanwhile, you've got a hell of a voice yourself, Chase. You ever perform professionally?"

  "No," Chase said, suddenly on the alert. "No, no, uh-uh. Nope. Hey, I got to get back to my friends. Nice to meet you."

  He was already backing toward the door, but Carl followed. "Hey, wait up, I'm serious. I'd like to talk to you some more, maybe take a listen to your demos."

  "I don't have any," Chase said. It wasn't really a lie, since none of the recordings were here in Conway. They were all sitting in a storage unit back in Red Fork, Arkansas, along with his father's war medals and the silver comb and brush that had belonged to the mother he didn't remember, who had died when he was three years old.

  "Well, we can work around that."

  Chase pushed through the door, back into the din of the bar, but he didn't want to be a complete jerk, so he turned around and faced Carl. "Look, it was sure nice to meet you, and I'm flattered that you liked my singing, but that was just for fun. I don't do it professionally."

  "But you might be able to. Not to be crass, but what can you pull down, working on an oil rig up here? Thirty, forty thousand a year?"

  More like eighty, Chase thought but didn't say. Since the boom began, a shortage of workers meant you could make a lot of money if you were willing to work hard. In a couple years, he'd have saved more money than he'd earned in the entire ten years since high school. Which was a hell of an irony, since—thanks to Gerald—he didn't have to work much at all any more. If he was careful, he could probably make his inheritance last another ten years.

  But now that Gerald was dead, that chapter of his life was over.

  "I do all right," he said, in a steelier tone than he intended.

  Carl didn't look offended. "What I'm talking about is you doing more than all right. I'm talking about getting you in front of a crowd that can appreciate you, making the kind of money that really adds up." He stepped a little closer, which Chase had to give him credit for, since he was pretty sure he didn't smell very good. He, Jimmy, and Zane had just come off a three-week hitch without a day off, and he'd barely managed a shave and a clean shirt before coming out tonight.

  "But that's not what you really want, is it?" Carl continued. "You want to sing. I've known enough guys like you to see it. The way you handle the guitar. Your first line as smooth as the last. Need to find out who writes for you, by the way, but we'll get to that."

  Chase edged away from him. "Don't know what you're talking about," he muttered, not meeting Carl's eyes. "It's just a hobby."

  "Hobby, my ass. But all right. You go party with your friends. Enjoy your birthday. You have my card. Give me a call tomorrow, and we'll get this thing rolling."

  "I really don't think—"

  Carl tipped an imaginary hat. A black one, no doubt. "Don't fight it, my friend. You were born to be a star."

  * * *

  "We are never going to drink our way out of this," Zane said, gazing at the row of shot glasses. Each held top shelf tequila courtesy of Carl Cash, who'd slipped the bartender a stack of bills before leaving.

  "I got a solution for that," Chase said. He turned to the audience, which was settling back into their seats as Sherry/Stiletta came back on stage and started tuning her guitar. She was a good kid—he just hoped she was tough enough for the big city ways and hard-edge business side of Nashville. Ever since she'd taken up residence in the Tar Barn, she'd been like a little sister to the rest of them. A guy like Carl Cash, if he pushed her too hard, could have her in over her head before she had time to catch her breath. Chase made a mental note to go visit her in the Tar Barn tomorrow and make sure she was handling it all okay.

  But that was tomorrow's problem. Today's was lined up on the bar. "Hey, Grover, Rickshaw, Tadpole—drinks on me!" he shouted, getting the attention of some guys he worked with on the rig. Even though they could all afford to drink in the swankier establishments in town, where oilmen lined up four deep at the bar trying to talk to the few women, these were the sort of boys who preferred to drive a few miles out of the way to find a place that reminded them of home.

  "Hey, happy birthday, man," Rickshaw Jones said, picking up a couple of the shot glasses and draining them in a row. "What are you now, old man, forty? Fifty?"

  "In your dreams," Chase said, sipping at his beer as his friends guffawed and made jokes at his expense.

  "Excuse me," a voice said at his elbow. A female voice, attached to a faint cloud of perfume. It was so rare that Chase was around any women besides Sherry, Jayne, his landlady and the check-out clerks at Wal-Mart that he was momentarily disoriented.

  He turned and found himself staring down at a woman who looked like she walked right out of the 1950s. Her blond hair was curled and pinned against her pale, long neck. Heavy, black eyeliner and a dusting of pearly glimmer accented her wide, blue eyes, and her lips were a bright red pout. She was wearing a polka-dot dress that cinched tight at the waist before flaring out into a skirt that barely grazed her knees. She was a rockabilly dream come true.

  "Ma'am," Chase said automatically, then chastised himself inwardly. Gerald had ridden him hard about his manners. "Ma'am" and "sir" were as ingrained as the notion that Chase would never be good enough to carry on the Warner name.

  "I'm hardly a ma'am." The woman laughed. She had a nice laugh, throaty and deep and genuine. "My name is Regina McCary. I'd love to buy you a drink."

  Jimmy hooted, nearly falling off his chair. Chase noted the shot glasses had all been drained; his friends wouldn't be feeling too good tomorrow. Or him, for that matter. Skipping that last shot didn't exactly make up for everything he'd had to drink already. Sober, he'd never have had the courage to get up on
that stage.

  Or to do what he did next.

  He offered Regina McCary his arm and steered her to a booth in a dim corner of the bar. Maybe a beautiful woman was exactly what he needed to pull him out of the blues that had been chasing him all week as his birthday drew near. "There's no way you're buying me a drink," he said, "but seeing as it's my birthday, I guess it's my prerogative to buy you one. As long as you tell me what you're doing in town—and how long you're planning to stay."

  "I'm here for professional reasons," she said vaguely. When she slid into the booth, her skirt floated up prettily and she smoothed it down with her slim hand. Chase checked for rings and saw none, just bright red nail polish.

  "From out of town?" Chase asked, aware of his slurred speech. "Reason I ask is, Buddy's Tavern is a little off the beaten track."

  "Don't want to share this place with outsiders?" Regina asked. "Keep it to yourself or something like that?"

  Chase laughed. "Something like that. Or more accurately, most folks don't want to drive five miles out of town to find it when there's a new bar popping up every week in town, seems like."

  "Because of the oil boom?"

  "Yes. Local population doubled in the last few years, the town can barely keep up with all the new folks moving here. Got people sleeping in trailers and basements and tents. They're putting up apartments and houses as fast as they can, but it's not fast enough. But bars? They'll damn sure build plenty of those before they get around to churches and restaurants and schools."

  The waitress came by and gave Regina a scrutinizing look. "Another Sex on the Beach, sugar?"

  "Um, I think I'll switch back to gin and tonic. Heavy on the tonic, if you don't mind. And whatever he's having." She slipped a twenty onto the waitress's tray before Chase had time to reach for his billfold.

  "Uh... coffee?" Chase asked.

  The waitress laughed. "Not a chance, buster. No way I'm brewing a pot just for you. Might be able to dig up an old bottle of Kahlua..."

  "No need," Chase said hastily. "Maybe a glass of water?"

  The waitress rolled her eyes, tucking the twenty into her apron as she left.

  "So I'm flattered and all..." Chase said. Through his beery haze, he was beginning to wonder why such an attractive woman had picked him out of all of his friends. After all, Calvin was the best looking, and Jimmy had the body women swooned over. Even Zane had more than his fair share of game, though Chase had never figured out what Zane had that women found so irresistible.

  "Allow me to speak directly," Regina said, taking a slim sliver case from her purse. She flicked it open with her shiny red nails and pulled out a card.

  "Oh, wait," Chase said, his heart sinking. "I should have guessed. You're with that other guy."

  CHAPTER THREE

  "Other guy?" Regina looked confused.

  "Look here, I don't mean to be rude, but let me save you a little time and trouble. I'm not interested." Chase slid out of the booth, or tried to, anyway, but he managed to get his feet tangled and nearly fell on his ass.

  "Wait," she said quickly, grabbing his wrist. "Please don't go yet."

  Chase stayed where he was, at the edge of the seat. The waitress returned with their drinks, setting the glass of water down hard enough to slosh water onto his lap. It was ice cold, and the shock of it served to wake him up a little. He squinted at the card Regina had handed her, the letters swimming before his eyes.

  "You're a talent agent, right?"

  "Well, yes...."

  "Then let me point you toward someone who actually has some talent. You see that gal up there, getting ready to play?"

  Sherry chose just that moment to launch into "I Fall to Pieces," her voice impossibly mature beyond her years, hinting at heartbreaks and hard-won wisdom.

  "She's delightful," Regina said, leaning in close in order to be heard. "And I'll be speaking with her as well. But I'd like to focus on what I could do for you. At least agree to meet me somewhere where we... can talk without distractions."

  When you're sober, Chase imagined her thinking, and ducked his chin guiltily before remembering she had crashed his birthday party. That even now he ought to be back with his friends, shooting pool and flirting with Marjorie, who helped her husband out behind the bar and was quite a hot commodity for a woman in her sixties.

  But that was the problem. In a town where the ratio of men to women was a depressing four-to-one—and many of the women were locals who'd just as soon see the rigs pack up and leave, except for the money that came along with the noise and commotion and traffic—it had been months since Chase had touched a living, breathing woman, much less had an actual date. In fact, if he'd known how hard it was to meet women in Conway, he might've tried a little harder to enjoy himself in Red Fork before he left, maybe spent a little more time with the handful of women he used to casually date. Some of the guys he worked with went home to wives and girlfriends on their weeks off—or drove two hours to a casino, or four hours to Bismarck, or five hours to Billings, looking for female company—but Chase hadn't gone anywhere except a camping trip with Calvin and Jimmy during which they mostly talked about how much they missed women. It had been so long since Chase was with a woman that he was having an imaginary romance with a woman who sold abdominal exercise machines on late-night infomercials.

  And here in front of him was a living, breathing woman who, if Chase's brain hadn't been completely addled by six weeks of backbreaking work on the rigs and a fair amount of alcohol in the last few hours, was gorgeous by anyone's standards.

  She uncrossed her legs, revealing a bit of lacy underskirt and a stretch of smooth, creamy skin above her knee, and recrossed them. He could swear she knew exactly the effect she was having on him. And he didn't care.

  "Oh, hell," he muttered, lurching out of his chair. "Fine. Tomorrow. I'll meet with you tomorrow."

  "Excellent! What would be convenient for you, Mr. Warner? Would you like to meet in the lobby of my hotel?"

  "No hotels," Chase said automatically. He hated hotels, and had ever since childhood, when Gerald decided the easiest thing to do would be to haul his son around the country with him on business trips every time a nanny quit. And they quit often, perhaps because Gerald couldn't seem to understand that their job description did not extend to entertaining their boss in bed.

  And that meant that Chase spent a lot of very long days stuck in hotel rooms with only pay-per-view and his home-school textbooks for company. "And call me Chase. Probably best if you came around to the ranch."

  "Ranch?"

  "It's walking distance from here. There's a sign—well, there used to be a sign, now there's just a sign post." Jimmy was still getting used to the truck he bought himself last month, that was twice as big as the one he owned before, and he had clipped the post on his way into the drive a week earlier. The hand-carved wooden plank bearing the words "SUGAR HILL RANCH" had fallen on the roof of the truck's cab, so there was twice as much bodywork to be done. Everyone had stayed out of Jimmy's way for a while after that. "But it's easy to find," Chase finished lamely. "Ask anyone to point you to Sugar Hill."

  Regina was tapping on her phone. "Just give me the address and I'll use the GPS."

  "Phone service isn't all that reliable out here. Look, maybe I should just drive into town and meet you."

  It probably was the best idea: to meet her on neutral territory. At the Bluebird, maybe, where they served slab bacon the owner cured himself. Or the Tip Top Truck Plaza, where the food was terrible but the company was always amusing. The regulars were men who'd gone bust during the last oil boom, now old and grizzled, whiling away their mornings over coffee.

  But anywhere they went in town, Regina would have to endure the yearning glances of every man who walked by. And Chase, even in his inebriated state, was pretty sure he didn't feel like sharing her attention. Of course, the bunkhouse residents would be every bit as likely to find Regina irresistible. The difference was that they would all behave—if not for Chase
's sake, then because they were scared of Jayne.

  "Naw, never mind. It's easy enough to find. You know the road you drove out here on?"

  "Route Fifteen?"

  "Yeah, and then you turned left on Pedersen Road? Well, we're another half-mile or so down the road. You get to the creek, you've gone too far. Drive's on the right."

  Regina had been tapping the whole time he was talking. Chase wondered how much she'd been able to enter on the tiny screen. She finished typing and slipped the phone into her purse.

  "It's a date," she said briskly, shaking his hand. "What time shall I plan to come?"

  "We're up early," Chase said. Then he amended, "Most days, anyway. Tomorrow we might, uh, be moving slow. How's nine?"

  "That will be fine. I look forward to it."

  Chase watched her go, enjoying the way her skirt flared over her nice, smooth backside. Behind him, he heard some of the guys hooting and whistling, and he could feel his face heat up.

  "Hell of a birthday present!" one of them called, and Chase checked his watch and discovered his birthday was officially over, and realized he was looking at his twenty-eighth year in a whole new light.

  * * *

  A dark form was leaning up against her rental car.

  Regina dug in her purse for the mace she had carried ever since the age of twelve, when she'd first been allowed to ride the train by herself in Chicago. She'd never had cause to use it, but after too many late-night episodes of Law & Order she wasn't about to take a chance.

  She wouldn't have guessed that her opportunity would have taken place in town whose welcome sign read "Welcome to Conway—Home of the Coyotes—Population 6,200"—but then again, Conway had doubled in size since the oil boom began several years ago. In fact, that same sign had been spray-painted by some joker who'd turned the six into a twelve with red paint.

  Of the thousands of newcomers, surely at least a handful were bad apples: drifters, ne'er do wells, men on the run from their past. And it was just her luck that one of them was waiting for her right now.