Amy Vastine - Catch A Fallen Star

It wasn’t the worst place he’d ever had to stay, but not at all what he had expected. He had grown accustomed to his life of luxury. The pillow with the words Welcome Home stitched across it mocked him from the beige couch in the front. A basket of cookies and a bottle of sparkling water sat on the little dinette in the kitchen area. In the back was the bedroom, complete with a full-size bed and one tiny nightstand. Boone threw his suitcase on the bed.

“Faith stocked the kitchen with some basics, but I can take you into town to pick up groceries or any incidentals you might have forgotten,” Dean offered. “I can also show you around the barn and introduce you to the horses whenever you’re ready. We can save the studio tour for tomorrow.”

Studio tour? The studio was apparently also on this godforsaken farm. The likelihood that Boone would be impressed was low. Not that he had anything to record. The words still weren’t coming. The music had dried up when he’d dried out.

“How many horses are there?”

“We’ve got three right now.”

“That’s not very many.”

“We lost one back in May,” Dean explained. “Faith’s been taking her time looking for a new one. Therapy horses aren’t easy to come by. They’re special. Not every horse can work as one. Faith drove up to Nashville this morning to check out a filly a friend of hers has for sale. Maybe we’ll have four in a few short days.”

Faith was Dean’s fiancée and the one who ran the farm where Boone was now trapped. It was supposedly a therapeutic horse farm called Helping Hooves. Boone wasn’t sure how horses could help someone like him. Of course, the humans who had tried hadn’t had much success, either.

Maybe he was a hopeless case. The failure his father had always believed he would be.

Suddenly the already tight quarters began to feel even more claustrophobic. The walls closed in, and Boone began to panic. Soon there wouldn’t be enough air for both of them.

“Let’s go meet the horses,” he said, pushing past Dean to get to the door. At least he knew the animals wouldn’t ask him about his divorce or when his next album was coming out. They wouldn’t remind him of how far he had fallen.

* * *

THE AFTERNOON SUN shone bright in a cloudless sky as Dean led Boone to the stables. Boone rubbed the back of his neck, cursing himself for not grabbing a hat.

A red sedan that hadn’t been there when Boone arrived was parked near the barn. An uneasy feeling came over him. He did not want to deal with the public just yet.

“Just to be clear, I’m not signing any autographs or doing any meet and greets while I’m here.”

Dean glanced over his shoulder with what strongly resembled a smirk. “We’re definitely on the same page about that. You aren’t exactly what I’d call fan-friendly at the moment.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Boone nudged him from behind. Dean’s business partner was usually the one who acted like Boone was incapable of being nice. Maybe Dean believed that to be true.

The real truth was that if Boone wanted to, he could charm the pants off anyone. All he was saying was he didn’t want to, not that he couldn’t. There was a big difference.

“I mean you’re here to focus on you and the music, not make new friends.”

The two men stepped into the stables just as a teen girl with dark hair and ripped-up jeans began her tirade.

“I knew you would tell him! This is my time with the horses, and now he’s going to make me talk about things I don’t want to talk about! Why do you hate me so much?”

A man dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt—presumably the “he” who was going to make the girl talk about whatever it was she clearly did not want to talk about—stepped between the angry young lady and whoever had made her so furious.

“No one is going to make you talk about anything you don’t want to talk about, Violet. That’s our deal, remember?”

“You say that, Jesse, but you always get me to spill my guts even when I don’t want to.”

The girl reminded Boone of another indignant teenager who loved horses. His daughter, Emmy, was fourteen and, likely thanks mostly to her mother, hadn’t answered his calls or replied to any of his text messages in months.

“Please give me a break,” an exasperated redhead said as she pushed her way around the man named Jesse. “I can’t take this drama. Jesse is your social worker. He should know when things happen so you two can process through it. Lord knows you don’t want to talk to me about it.”

“Why would I talk to you? You don’t want to hear about my drama. I bet you wish you could ditch me just like Dad did.”

The mother’s head fell back as she let out a growl of frustration. Boone took a step toward the door. They were obviously intruding on a very personal conversation.

Jesse noticed them then. “Dean.” He made his way over while mother and daughter glared in their direction—another all too familiar sight.

“Sorry, Jesse.” Dean also began to backpedal. “We’ll come back. I didn’t realize you had a session scheduled.”

“No, I’m going to go,” the redhead said. “Violet’s right. This is her time with the horses, not our time to fight. We should save that for home.”

“Ruby...” Jesse spun back around. “We should use this as an opportunity to work on your communication.”

“I am pretty sure you could spend the rest of your life helping us with our communication. I can afford only an hour of your time, so I am going to leave.” She gave Dean an apologetic grimace. “Sorry for the...whatever this was, Dean.”

“Don’t be sorry. We really can come back. Maybe you should stay and talk this out with Jesse and Violet.”

“And keep your friend here from getting the grand tour? No way.” Her hand landed solidly on Boone’s chest. That was the moment he realized she knew exactly who he was. Clearly she was a fan. For some reason, his female admirers always wanted to touch.

“Aren’t you cute,” Boone said, ready to prove to Dean that he could be nice. “If you think it would help, I’ll sign something for you and your daughter. Maybe this little encounter will turn the whole day around.”

People used to tell him that all the time. They would profess their love for him and swear that meeting him was life altering. Fans often told him that getting his autograph or their picture taken with him was the best moment of their lives, even better than the day they got married or gave birth to their children. Boone Williams had that effect on people.

This little redhead cocked her head and seemed confused, however. Boone figured she was still trying to play like she didn’t recognize him. It was a common ploy. Fans sometimes tried acting unaware of who he was at first in the hope it would put him more at ease around them.

He gave her his trademark grin and lowered his voice, which had literally made women swoon. “You want me to sign something for you, pretty lady?”

See? He could be nice.

The line between the woman’s eyebrows deepened. “Unless you’re signing your name on a check that’s going to pay for about a hundred more sessions with Jesse, I’m not sure your signature is going to do me and my daughter much good, mister.”

With that, she was gone.

“Are you famous or something?” the girl asked, arms crossed tightly in front of her.

He thought he was. He sure used to be. Lately, however, he’d been famous for all the wrong reasons.

“Violet Wynn, this is Boone Williams.” Dean paused for her to react. She didn’t, so he continued, “He’s a very famous singer at my record label. He’s going to be staying here for a few weeks to work with the horses and maybe write some new music.”