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Duane opened his mouth and nothing came out. It might not be his vocal cords this time, though. He hadn’t known Phil had found out about the secret meeting the band had held.
“Who told?”
Phil wasn’t paying any attention. “Don’t worry. You’ll be better in no time. We’ll keep the hot fluids coming. It will take a day or two to arrange things anyway. I’ll need to think of an angle to give to the reporters. They’re not all in Puerto Vallarta covering the rest of the band. But we still need an angle. It’s not enough that you came home. You need a reason.”
“I’m sick.”
Phil frowned. “That won’t be enough. You’re not dying. I’d try the adoption angle, but everyone’s done that one to death. I want something fresh. Besides, then you’d really need to adopt a baby and that would be complicated with the bus and all. And, since everybody’s doing it, we’d have to get an unusual baby to make the news anyway.”
“No,” Duane squeaked in alarm as he slowed the bus down. He realized he was stopped in the middle of Dry Creek, but there wasn’t any traffic so it didn’t matter. Surely no one would let him adopt a baby; he’d never even been close to a new baby. He turned around so he could face Phil. He could only mouth the word. “No.”
“That’s what I’m saying. No dying. No baby.” Phil tapped on his knee with his fingers as he thought. “I’ve got it. We’ll say you’re here to visit your old high school sweetheart. Don’t I remember you wrote that one song—”
“No!” Duane half stood up. He even managed more than a squawk.
“You don’t need to get so testy about it,” Phil said. “But we have to say something. Your fans will want to know why you’re here and not with the rest of the band in Mexico, partying your heart out. We need something the fans can grab hold of and feel good about. If your great-aunt was still alive, we could say you came to visit her. Sweet little old lady and all.”
“Cornelia?”
Great-Aunt Cornelia had been a drill sergeant. That was the only thing that had saved them. He never could have stayed if she’d been sweet. He would have had to hitchhike back to Chicago. Great-Aunt Cornelia knew just how much softness he could handle and she never smothered him with sentimental stuff. He still missed her.
Phil didn’t even stop. “But that’s out. Visiting her grave is too morbid. And, we certainly can’t say you’re here to go hunting for wild game or anything because that’s a big no-no with some groups. And there’s no water around for fishing. There’s really no reason for you to be in Dry Creek.”
Duane’s head hurt. For years he would have agreed with Phil; there really was no reason for him to be in Dry Creek. But lately he’d started to miss the place although he couldn’t quite say why. He looked out the bus window at the buildings just in case someone had added an opera house or something since he’d been here last. Of course, no one had. There were still only the usual places. The hardware store, the houses, the church—Duane stopped. “Say I came to visit the church.”
Duane had gone to church when he lived with his great-aunt. It had been one of her rules. He hadn’t paid much attention while he was in church, but he’d learned enough to know that churches were supposed to help people who were in need and he was definitely in need. Besides, he’d much rather go to a church service than have to explain to Linda why the papers all said he had come back to visit her. At least God wasn’t likely to spit in his eye the way Linda would. He hoped not anyway. After all, Great-Aunt Cornelia had always said God was good at forgiving people.
Phil was nodding. “Church might work. It’s a nice sentimental touch. It goes with the humble roots. And it would work in the Latin market.”
Duane nodded as he turned around and switched on the ignition again. He was glad that was settled.
The band hovered on the precipice and Duane wanted to do what he could to help. The band had already fallen apart once several years ago and reorganized with different people. He’d been the new one in the old band and now he was the oldest in the new band. And he felt it.
He missed the old band members; the ones who’d left so they could have normal lives.
The new members were trying louder and more aggressive sounds in their songs and Duane couldn’t seem to get his voice right to make it happen. That’s probably why his voice was strained. Sometimes the sheer noise of the new songs they played made him want to cover his ears. What if the others sensed that in him? In the old band, he had always been the one who was out there, ready to take the next step forward. Now, he was the one who was holding everything back.
Maybe that’s why he was drawn to Dry Creek. He’d known what he wanted from his music when he was here.
“We’ll say it’s a pilgrimage thing,” Phil said. “People like that kind of thing. A spiritual quest in the church of your childhood. This might work.”
Duane passed the last house in Dry Creek and then saw the driveway to his great-aunt’s house. There were no lights in the house, of course, because no one was living there now. Still, Duane felt satisfaction when he drove past the bent stop sign and turned the bus onto the driveway. He was back on Enger land at last. His grandfather had farmed this land. Coming to this place had made him feel, for the first time as a boy, that he wasn’t just drifting through life. Granted, at the moment, it was muddy Enger land, but Duane’s roots were here even if they were buried deep.
The bus was about halfway down the driveway when Duane felt the tires start to spin. He pressed on the gas and the tires spun some more. After the third time on the gas pedal, he was well and truly stuck in the mud. He didn’t think Phil even realized what had gone wrong and Duane didn’t have the voice to explain it all to him so he just said it was time to rest.
Phil was so involved in making notes in his planner that he didn’t pay any attention to where they were anyway. Which was fine with Duane. He turned the ignition off and stretched a minute. Then he stood up and took one of the blankets draped over one of the seats and walked toward the bed area they had in the back of the bus. He was going to get some sleep. If Phil wanted to stay up all night and plan the church visit, that was fine. Let the man have his fun.
Duane lay down in the back of the bus and wrapped the blanket around him. Sleep never sounded so good.
Ten hours later, Duane heard a horn honking. He turned over and squinted at the soft light coming in the windows of the bus. It wasn’t even full day yet. And his throat was on fire. So, he pulled the blanket over his head to block the emerging sun and hoped that Phil would go talk to whoever was outside. Phil was good at reasoning with people who were annoyed and that honking sounded as if someone was upset about something.
Linda stared at the big bus stuck in the middle of the Enger driveway. There were enough tinted windows in the thing to make it look like a caricature of a Mafia car. Only twenty times as big, of course. She wondered if a gamblers’ tour to Las Vegas had gotten blown off course in the storm last night. There was no sane reason she could think of for a bus like this to be parked in a Dry Creek driveway. So much mud was spattered along the side of the bus that she couldn’t read the name of the tour company. Sometimes tour buses came through here on the way to the park where Custer’s Last Stand happened and this could be one of them.
Of course, there would be dozens of people milling around outside if that were the case. Once in a while, a tour bus would stop at the café and she knew tourists were never quiet. No, it couldn’t be a tour bus.
Maybe Lucy was right about everything needing a name, after all. There was something unsettling about seeing things and not knowing their name. She didn’t have a clue about where the bus came from or what it was or why it was here. That’s why she’d pulled off the road and come in to check it out. Maybe Duane had decided to repair the old homestead and had sent a bus up filled with supplies. No, that didn’t make any sense, either.
Linda’s heart sank. Maybe Duane had sold the place. He certainly hadn’t advertised for a buyer around this part of the country so that meant the new owners were probably from Hollywood. They’d probably tear the old house down and build some ugly mansion. Boots would be totally lost if they did that. He still walked over to the old house every day just to smell the familiar things. Not that Duane had probably bothered to find that out.
It was just like Duane to sell the house without checking with anyone in Dry Creek. But that must be what happened. This bus surely made it look that way. That bus was even big enough to serve as temporary lodging for workmen while the mansion was being built.
There was one of the workers now. Linda saw a man open the door of the bus and step down. He didn’t look very strong, but she supposed Hollywood builders might have enough sophisticated tools that they didn’t need to be strong to do their jobs.
“Can I help you?” the man said as he closed the door to the bus and stepped closer to her. “We’re not blocking anything, are we?”
“No, not a problem,” Linda said as she tried to give the man a cheerful smile. “Sorry if I woke you up. I suppose you’re with the new owners?”
The man blinked at her. “Maybe.”
“Oh.” Linda swallowed. That was a clear “none of your business” answer. “Well, if there’s anything I can do to help you, let me know. And welcome to Dry Creek.”
“I could use some help finding the church.”
“Oh, well, that’s easy.” Linda turned to point. “It’s the white building on the other side of town. You see the cross?”
The man nodded.
“You can usually find Pastor Curtis at the hardware store during the mornings. He works there some. If you need to talk to him, that is.”
“Oh, we’ll need to talk to him,” the man said. “The Jazz Man is on a pilgrimage.”
“Jazz—you mean?” Linda looked frantically at the bus. She wished she could see in those tinted windows. Or wipe the mud off the side of the bus and read what it said.
The man nodded proudly. “He’s going to meet God, right here in Dry Creek, his childhood home.”
“He’s here?” Linda asked. She took a step forward involuntarily and then took two steps back. “Here himself.”
She wondered if there was another Jazz Man who had grown up around here.
The man continued to beam and nod. “Isn’t it great?”
Linda swallowed. Great wasn’t the word she would use to describe it. Astonishing, maybe. But great, no.
“We’ll have to start making arrangements, of course. Are there any hotels around? We’ll need to reserve some rooms.”
“Mrs. Hargrove has a room she rents out sometimes. It’s over her garage.”
The man frowned, but he took out a notebook from his pocket and opened it up. “I suppose it will have to do. What is the name of her place?”
“Name?” Linda was finally one hundred percent convinced that Lucy was right and that every business needed a name. “I don’t think it has one yet.”
“Oh.”
“But you can find it easy enough. It’s just down the street from my café.”
“You own the café? Are you serving breakfast yet?”
Linda nodded. “As soon as I get there and open up.”
“I’ll be there. I don’t suppose you have soup on the menu?”
She shrugged. “I could heat some up for you. It’s leftover from yesterday, though. Vegetable beef.”
“Perfect. I’ll stop in before I go over to the church. Or should I go to the church first? That sounds more pious, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. The reporters aren’t here yet. Besides, it’s Duane Enger who’s found religion. Not me.”
Linda was speechless. What was the man talking about? She didn’t mean to be skeptical about another person’s faith, but the Duane she knew hadn’t spared a thought for God. Duane had gone to church to please his great-aunt and that was all. “You’re talking about the real God? Not some strange guru cult thing?”
The man drew himself up to his full height. “Of course I’m talking about the real God.”
“Oh, well then—” Linda stammered. She could have asked the man if he used real butter and gotten the same reaction. “Congratulations.”
The man nodded. “I think we’ll have Duane sing a solo for church to celebrate his return to the faith. That should make for some good pictures. You have choir robes, don’t you?”
Linda nodded her head. That settled it for her. The Duane she knew would never wear a choir robe. “Sort of. But they’re old. And faded. They’ve been packed away for a couple of years. No one usually wears them for a solo anyway.”
“What color are they? I hope they’re not a metallic gray. That doesn’t show up so well in pictures.”
“They’re blue with white collars.”
“Good.” The man nodded. “Blue is good for pictures. And it looks so religious, if you know what I mean. You always see it in the old religious paintings. Why do you suppose that is?”
“You really should be talking to Pastor Curtis about this. I think those robes would need to be cleaned if anyone was going to wear one.”
“I’ll do that. Right after breakfast.”
There didn’t seem to be anything else to say so Linda nodded. Maybe the man was crazy. She’d been looking at those tinted windows for five minutes now and she didn’t see any movement inside the bus. Maybe the man was some kind of stalker who went to the childhood homes of celebrities and told everyone the celebrity was inside a bus when it was really empty. It would be kind of creepy, but—
Suddenly, Linda realized she and this man were the only ones standing here in the middle of the Engers’ driveway. “I should get to the café.”
The man smiled. “I’ll be there for breakfast in a few minutes.”
Linda turned. “You might want to stop at the hardware store first.”
She started walking back to her car.
There were always lots of men sitting around the old woodstove in the hardware store early in the morning before the café opened. Charley Nelson and Elmer Maynard particularly made that a habit now that they’d retired from ranching. They sat there and waited for the café to open. Both of them had lived enough years on this earth to be able to spot a crazy person if they talked to him for more than a minute. She’d stop and warn them to be on guard.
And, just to be on the safe side, she’d bring out her heavy metal spatula from the kitchen when she served this man his breakfast. She could slip it into the pocket of her big apron; it wouldn’t look as much out of place as the butcher knife would. Besides, the man didn’t look tall enough to overpower her, so the spatula should keep her safe and secure enough. A solid rap with that should discourage him.
In a way, she told herself as she got in her car and drove the rest of the way to her café, she hoped the man was crazy. That meant Duane Enger wasn’t anywhere near Dry Creek. Even a spatula wouldn’t do much to protect her from Duane.
She’d opened the café door before she remembered she had something even stronger than a kitchen utensil to rely on here. She had the power of prayer. She was still new in her faith and she had to confess she was too used to solving her own problems. She needed to learn to ask God for help more; Mrs. Hargrove and Pastor Curtis had both told her that.
“He wants you to turn to Him, dear,” Mrs. Hargrove was forever saying. “You’re His child now. He cares about you.”
So, after Linda went into the kitchen part of the café to start the coffee, she took her Bible out of her purse and started to read the Psalms. The words did make her feel better.
After all, if God could keep someone safe in the valley of the shadow of death, He could protect her from a man having delusions of grandeur in a mud puddle in the Enger driveway. She’d still carry the spatula for backup insurance, though. The Bible talked about wise and prudent women, too. There was no point in being foolish and going off unprepared for problems.
Chapter Three
Duane woke up several hours later and squinted. Enough light was coming in the tinted windows to let him know it was midmorning. He wished it was still dark. His eyelids felt as though they were coated with sandpaper. Fortunately, the fire in his throat was gone and he could swallow without pain. He tried to say his name and an encouragingly full voice came out briefly before turning to a squeak. If he had some coffee, he might actually be able to talk normally.
Something had pulled Duane out of his sleep and he couldn’t figure out what it was. Phil was obviously not in the bus. The rain must have stopped, because Duane couldn’t hear it. No one was around. He knew the bus was stuck in the mud at his great-aunt’s place. It couldn’t have been the sound of another vehicle coming up to the bus that had awakened him. Nothing but a tow truck could get in and there were no tow trucks in Dry Creek. If anyone was here, they had walked down the driveway.
Then he heard it. A quick, decisive knock on the door of the bus.
Phil wouldn’t ordinarily knock, but maybe he had his hands full with something and couldn’t pull the door open. The thought encouraged Duane since that probably meant his manager was on the other side of the door holding several cups of coffee.
Duane ran his hand through his hair as he walked down the aisle of the bus toward the door. He’d have to find Mrs. Hargrove and ask about getting the key to his great-aunt’s place. Well, it was technically his place now, although he never thought of it that way.
Great-Aunt Cornelia would be the first one to tell him to get his hair combed before he went out and he had a stubborn spot that resisted his finger combing. If he could get inside the house, he could take a shower. The water would be cold, but it would be better than nothing. It should, at least, tame his hair. Maybe he’d be able to turn the utilities on without too much trouble.
Duane stepped down toward the bus door and pushed it open.
“Oh.”
Duane grunted and took another swipe at his hair. The sun was bright outside and it hurt his eyes. He blinked anyway. What was she doing here? He always thought that when he saw her again, he would be looking good. Like maybe coming off a heart-pounding concert where there were screaming fans on the sidelines and reporters taking pictures.
Instead, he suddenly remembered the ketchup stain on his T-shirt from the hamburger he’d eaten outside of Salt Lake yesterday. A T-shirt he’d just slept in. And he hadn’t shaved since he left San Pedro. Or even brushed his teeth last night. There wasn’t a fan in sight. And his hair looked wild.
“You’re really here,” Linda said to him as she narrowed her eyes and examined him suspiciously.
Duane winced. She would have given a warmer welcome to a spider crawling up her arm. And she hated spiders.
“My bus,” Duane croaked out. His voice was not as strong as he had hoped or he would remind her it was also his land. The people in this part of the world might not be impressed by rock stars, but they were big on the rights of someone who owned land to be on that land, even if they were stuck in the mud and looked as if they’d slept on a park bench during a hurricane.
Right now, Duane couldn’t speak all of the words he’d need to explain that he didn’t usually look like this. That he was successful and had money in the bank. In two banks, in fact. He even had gel that would tame his hair if he just had a chance to get to it.
Linda held out a brown bag. “Your friend, Phil, asked me to bring this out to you.”
He saw the forced smile Linda gave him. Her face was thinner than he remembered and her hair was definitely more subdued. She’d let it go back to her natural brown color and it looked good, all sleek and shapely. She was wearing jeans and an oversize chef’s apron that covered a white T-shirt. Of course, there were no ketchup stains on her T-shirt. No hair problems, either. She could have stepped off the cover of a gourmet food magazine.
Duane needed coffee. There were two containers in the bag and as long as one of them was coffee he was okay. He’d drink almost anything if it’d give him his voice back so he could talk to Linda. “Thanks.”
