Her brow knitted. “Are you sure about this, Bragg? We could manage the distance to El Paso. It wouldn’t be easy but we would manage.”
“Afraid it’s too far for me. And it’s time I didn’t spend so much time on the road but here with you and Mitch.”
She studied his face as if searching for signs of doubt. There were none. She smiled. “Well, it will be nice having you around the old homestead.”
He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and tucked her against him. He’d damn near lost her, and he wasn’t going to take any moment for granted.
When the ambulance had arrived she’d been in bad shape. The drugs Jack had pumped into her system had suppressed her breathing and slowed her heart. That slow-beating heart, docs figured, is what saved her. She’d not bled out as fast as Dr. Stewart had anticipated, creating barely enough time to stop the bleeding and clean the drugs from her system.
Mitch had also survived his wounds. After his recovery he’d asked to return to Bonneville. Greer had gladly agreed, and he now worked with José managing the fields. He also talked about studying viticulture at UT.
Unraveling the tangle of Jack Trenton’s life had taken time, but Bragg and Winchester had unraveled each knot. Jack’s father had been hiding his son’s violent behavior for years until finally it had exploded in fury and Meg Trenton had been murdered.
Jack’s father, worried about scandal, had lied to the doctors at Shady Grove, saying his son needed time to recover from his sister’s death. Jack had stayed at Shady Grove a year.
At the camp, Jack had become obsessed with Elizabeth. When the other kids had left, he’d witnessed Elizabeth’s sense of loss. That image had remained with him all these years.
When Jack had finally broken free of Shady Grove, his hope was to find Elizabeth. But she had vanished, and his father had kept a careful, watchful eye on his son. On Jack’s release, he’d changed his name and gone to medical school, proving to be a brilliant and talented student. Ironically, he’d gained prominence as a gifted psychiatrist who’d helped countless people. When his father had died last year, Dr. Stewart, no longer under his father’s scrutiny, had stopped taking his meds. And then he’d seen Greer on television and his old desires had roared to life. As a medical professional, he’d found a way to consult with Shady Grove and gain access to old records, containing real names.
Months ago, his attack on Greer had left her bleeding badly, forcing the medical professionals to cut off her bracelets, so they could stop the hemorrhaging. When she’d awoken, she found Bragg sitting at her side holding the cut silver rings, his chin covered in thick dark stubble and his eyes heavy with fatigue and worry.
Her mother had also come to the hospital and sat at her side until she’d woken up. The two had hugged, cried together, and were trying to mend fences. The progress was slow and uneven but they were trying.
Bragg had stayed at Greer’s side through her recovery, and three days later when she’d been released he’d driven her home.
When her bandages had come off and the stitches were removed, Greer asked for her bracelets, saying she didn’t want to forget the past. It had been her mother who’d taken the bracelets and had them refashioned into one that now included gems for Rory, Sara, Jennifer, and Michael. Greer never took off the bracelet, but she also no longer dwelled on the past as often.
Now as Bragg held Greer close, he savored the warmth of her body. He rested his chin on her head. Words that had never come easily to him slid over his lips. “I love you.”
She hugged him closer. “I love you.”
He grunted and hugged her tighter. “Still want me underfoot?”
Greer leaned back, studied his serious face, and grinned. “You sure you’ll be elected sheriff?”
He winked and kissed her on the lips. “Lady, with you at my side, I’m sure of everything.”
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Nashville, Tennessee
Thursday, October 13, 3 A.M.
Dixie Simmons’s pink cowboy boots, tipped in silver and embossed with glittering stars, clicked against the rain-soaked pavement. A rainstorm had flashed through Music City hours ago and left the air crisp, colder than normal and heavy with moisture. Burrowing deeper into her fringed leather jacket, she shoved chilled hands into her pockets, fingering the roll of wrinkled one-dollar bills from the night’s tip jar. The brisk air snapped at her bare thighs but didn’t slow her on-top-of-the-world gait or spark a bit of remorse for her choice of attire. The black miniskirt wasn’t warm but it showcased her long legs, always a crowd-pleaser at Rudy’s honky-tonk.
Tonight she’d been the last to sing at Rudy’s bar, the centerpiece of Lower Broadway’s four-block stretch of honky-tonks and restaurants. The one A.M. time slot was not the best spot on a Thursday but considering Rudy hadn’t been expecting her, she’d appreciated the spot, the chance. Some singers might not give one hundred percent to the late-night crowd, but not Dixie. She’d sung as if her life hung in the balance, or better, that a talent-hungry music producer sat in a darkened corner. She’d been spot on tonight, quickly forgetting about the gig’s mix-up while singing Patsy Cline’s “Crazy.” When she’d switched to a Taylor Swift song she’d energized the crowd, who soon were whooping and hollering. Applause followed her when she’d left the stage, her black mini swishing around her thighs. The rush of excitement had rivaled great sex.
The club’s owner, Rudy Creed, had watched her from behind the bar, clearly pleased by the way she’d roped the crowd’s attention. He’d stopped her on the way out and had said there’d been folks asking after her. “They think you’re good. Worth following,” he’d said.
Worth following.
Lordy, but she wanted to be worth following more than the breath she took. She’d been on the music circuit for three years—a long time to be waiting tables, knocking on closed music executive’s doors, and sinking every extra dime into publicity stills and demo CDs. One record producer had shown interest months ago; they’d slept together but lately he’d been dodging her. However his noes, as far as she was concerned, were warm-ups to a yes, so she’d kept after him. She’d finally gotten him on the phone days ago and he’d been pissed by her persistence. “Yeah, you got talent but stay the fuck away from me.”
All she’d heard was you got talent.
The metro buses didn’t run this late so she’d been forced to walk west on Broadway and past the hotels before turning on the tree-lined side street where she’d parked her car. Her cute pink boots cramped her toes and dug a blister on her heel.
Momma would have complained about the walk, the cold, and her feet. Momma understood hard work but she didn’t understand dreams or the cost of fame. Just last night, Momma had begged Dixie to take the secretary job in Knoxville, but Dixie had refused.
Dixie wanted to be a star. Wanted everyone to know her name. Just needed the right break.
Worth following.
Maybe, she’d finally paid enough dues. Maybe soon she’d look back on tonight and recognize the exact moment her life changed.
Her chest puffed with pride as she imagined people wanting her. She liked being wanted.
As she rounded a corner and headed north, a group of men on the opposite side of the street passed going south. They wore jeans, blue jackets, and collared shirts popped up in a collegiate kind of way. She guessed they were students at Vanderbilt University. The men slowed their pace and a couple stared at her with wolfish gazes.
The flicker of pride grew brighter. She liked male attention almost as much as the stage. She savored the feminine power she brandished, knowing it could derail any man’s train of thought right off the tracks.
Dixie paused and bent forward to adjust a tassel on her boot. One of the boys whistled.
She grinned and waved, her excitement building. She’d
have crossed that street, maybe suggested a party, but tonight another man waited.
She tossed the boys a wave, and when they called her over, she pouted and shook her head no before hurrying toward her car parked a half-block away. The boots bit into her little toe.
Dixie fished her phone out of her purse, dialed a familiar number, and waited. The phone rang once. Twice. Dollar-store bracelets rattled on her wrist as she untangled a blond hair extension from a silver feather earring.
The phone kept ringing.
Sugar used to pick up on the first ring. He’d be breathless and excited as if he’d been waiting anxiously for her call. But lately, if he answered, he let the phone ring five or six times and his hello carried less anticipation.
Four. Five. Six. He picked up on the seventh ring. “Dixie.” He’d wrapped her name in a honey-flavored bourbon, his drink of choice.
“Hey. Want some company tonight?”
Hesitation and then, “Not tonight, Dixie. I’ve an early morning.”
Jealousy scratched as she imagined another blonde lying beside him in his bed singing sweet songs in his ear. He liked blondes who could sing. The sound of a woman’s voice crooning in his ear made him hot. The first song she’d sung to him had been “You’re Still the One.”
“I thought you wanted me to come by tonight.” No missing the pout underscoring the words.
He yawned. “I know, but I’m tired. It was a long day.”
In the early days, he’d never been tired when she called. She’d been his tonic. His muse.
His rejection amplified her craving for attention. She nestled closer to the phone, imagining she could touch him. “Sugar, I can wake you up. That is a promise and a guarantee.”
“Not tonight, Dixie. In a day or two.” The soft edges hardened.
Rebuff coupled with cold and sore feet stripped her of patience. “Why are you doing this to me? I thought I was special.”
He sighed into the phone. “You’re special. But enough is enough. We need to take a break. People are watching.”
As she ducked her head, her long hair curtained off her face. “Who?”
“People. And that’s all you need to know.”
“You have names. I want them.”