Roz Fox - A Cowboy at Heart

“I almost forgot—that’s the big plus. Oasis will transfer their group-home license to you.”

“That’s permissible?”

“Must be. Gunderson seems to know. He says they have a year left on their state contract, but you’ll need to undergo a Social Services inspection. Gunderson claims it’s a mere formality. He implied there’s nothing much to qualifying as a bona fide shelter.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” For the first time since the idea had struck him, Linc felt the heaviness around his heart lift just a little. “I’m headed back to my office. If you work a deal, contact me there. Then I’ll put my house in Coldwater Canyon on the market and start notifying clients that I’m turning them over to my partner until I get the shelter operating. Thought I’d allow at least two years. By the way, Dennis has promised he’ll retain your firm for all the legwork I currently have you do.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence. I only hope I can work with Dennis. I realize you like the guy, but frankly, Linc, I hope you know what you’re doing. Rumor has it he’s pulled some shady stuff to get accounts.”

“You’ve been in Tinseltown long enough to know you shouldn’t listen to rumors.”

“I tell you, Dennis Morrison doesn’t have the same standards you do.”

“Name something he’s done besides drop a couple of going-nowhere B stars to make room for a few up-and-comers. I wouldn’t have done it, but our competitors do it constantly. I trust Dennis enough to hand him my personal portfolio. I doubt I’ll have time to follow the market for a while. Running a teen shelter is going to be a new experience for me. Once it’s up and running smoothly, I figure I can step back and just do the fund-raising for it. By then I’ll be ready to get back into the business.”

“Why risk your career at all, man? You’ve got it made where you are.”

“I’m doing it for Felicity.”

“I gotta be honest here. You’re putting your life on hold because you feel guilty about something no one could’ve foreseen. You gave that kid a life anyone in her right mind would grab in a minute. Felicity blew it, Linc. That’s the unvarnished truth.”

“She was sixteen, John, my responsibility any way you cut it. I spend part of every single day in the Hollywood trenches. I knew she didn’t have the talent to be a rock star. Instead of taking the time to try and steer her in a better direction, I shelled out bucks whenever she found some new bloodsucker to give her voice or music lessons. I guess I hoped she’d eventually see for herself. That was a big mistake. My mistake.”

“Yeah,” John muttered. “You think your crystal ball should’ve told you one of her so-called mentors or rocker pals was a drug dealer on the side.”

“According to the cops, not all street kids are losers. I can’t save all of them from Felicity’s fate, but maybe I can redirect one or two. All I know is that I’ll never be able to live with myself if I don’t try. Call me with a final deal, all right?”

There was an uncomfortable silence until Linc added, “This Gunderson guy you’re dealing with—he verified that there are no restrictions on the land against farming, right? I mean, part of my plan is to have the kids invest a little honest sweat plowing, planting and harvesting crops that’ll eventually pay for their upkeep. I’m not offering any other kid a free ride like I gave Felicity. That’s where I really fouled up.”

“You’ll have the land, Farmer Parker. Jeez, I have a hard time envisioning you with blisters on those Midas hands of yours. But if you’re serious, I’ll go dicker.”

“Hear me, John. I am serious. Never more so. I’ll be waiting for your report at my office. So long for now.”

Nashville, Tennessee

PHONY FOG hissed from canisters strategically placed behind a row of footlights. A single spotlight faded by degrees until it left the twenty-six-year-old country singer swallowed in darkness and her signature mist. Her body cringed away from a rolling swell of whistles and stamping feet.

Unsnapping her guitar strap, she passed the instrument to a stagehand who’d materialized from the wings. Her mind was fixed on the solace waiting in her dressing room.

“Awesome performance, Misty!” The stagehand’s shout was drowned out by the thunderous din from the auditorium. “Hey, where ya goin’?” The kid’s lanky frame blocked her passage.

“I’m fixin’ to go change out of this hot costume.” The singer blotted perspiration from her forehead with a satin sleeve. Eyes made electric blue—by contacts her manager insisted she wear to conceal what he called her blah gray eyes—closed tiredly.

“Wes said you hafta give four encores tonight.”

Her eyes flew open and she shook her head.

“Yep. It’s a packed house. Wes says you’re to give ’em a taste of your new songs so every fan here will stampede to the lobby and buy a CD.”

“Four encores?” She sounded dazed, as if he’d asked the impossible. Indeed, he had.

Four fingers were waggled under her nose. The crescendo beyond the stage had escalated to a degree that caused the young man to give up attempting to communicate. He pressed the guitar into her midriff and shoved her back toward center stage.

Miranda Kimbrough, known to country-music fans simply as Misty, dragged in a deep breath. Plastering on a smile as she’d done so many times, she edged into the bright spotlight. She was a corporation. A multimillion-dollar star to whom a host of folks had hitched their wagons. So many people now depended on her that she was afraid of cracking under the burden. Besides back-to-back concerts at home and abroad, there were charity events scheduled and a growing number of photo shoots. Recently, subsidiary companies using her image had marketed T-shirts, look-alike dolls, posters and glossy notebook covers. She needed a break. She felt weighted down. Yet no one heard her plea.

When the theater again fell silent, Miranda adjusted the microphone with a trembling hand. It took a Herculean effort, but finally the music transported her to a place where singing songs had been a joy.

Her newest piece, one she’d entitled “A Cowboy at Heart,” flowed easily from her husky voice. As well it should. She’d written it for her dad. And then she sang “A Last Goodbye,” which paid tribute to both her parents. Frankly, Miranda doubted anyone in this faceless audience knew or cared that eleven years ago on this very night, her father and his band had perished in the wicked storm raging across his beloved Tennessee hills. The new songs poured out her heartache for a dad she’d lost five days after her fifteenth birthday, and for a mom who’d died of pneumonia when Miranda was four.

Even the most cynical among her production crew considered these ballads her very best. Who’d have guessed they’d be her last? Certainly not Wes Carlisle, her manager, a soulless man who’d hustled her into a one-sided contract during the confusing days following her dad’s death.

Wes would be livid when his caged bird flew the coop, and that made her smile.

Her band? A different story. She regretted not confiding in them. Her piano man and steel guitarist were dedicated. And Colby Donovan, her arranger, was the only one left of her dad’s friends. It was a good thing he was home recovering from surgery. When she’d attempted to tell Colby how she felt, he’d dispensed his usual bear hug and said Doug would have been so very proud of her. She’d achieved the pinnacle of success that her dad’s band had almost but never quite reached.

Despite regrets, she’d planned her flight. It would be complete. And it would be tonight—while Carlisle and his henchmen licked their chops, counting the proceeds they raked in from her sold-out concert. Wesley pushed and pushed and pushed her to write more and better chart breakers. No more, no more, Miranda thought with astonishing relief as the audience went still. Perhaps the fans had seen her tears. She couldn’t stop them from running down her face.