When Last We Loved by Fran Baker Read Free Book Online

congratulated himself on this find by chasing a shot of bourbon with a swig from his beer mug. He hadn't felt so good since the night he'd found that spare ace in the cuff of his card-playing pants and wiped out old Fred Thompson's four of a kind.
    * * * *
    “I'm going to check out the audience while you guys finish tuning up.” Cassie climbed over the instruments and amplifiers that cluttered up the stage floor. She'd made it a habit to size up the crowd before a show so she could pick out a few customers she could “play to” while getting a feel for the people who'd paid to hear her perform. She thrived on the exchange of energy that flowed between herself and the various audiences who'd shared her emotion-packed concerts.
    Once in a while Cassie spotted a man whose build or mannerisms reminded her of Hoyt. When this happened, her heart would lodge in her throat until she realized that she was staring at a stranger. Cassie wondered if Hoyt ever thought of her, or whether she'd been relegated to the status of a fond memory that he might dredge up some quiet evening over a fine cigar and a glass of brandy.
    What difference does it make? she would ask herself silently when the blues took over. We simply weren't meant to be.
    Cassie peeked through the heavy maroon drapes that were scheduled to open in half an hour. Since Allen had started managing her career, she'd quit counting the days and weeks until she could leave for Nashville. He'd grabbed every booking they were offered— from family reunions to political picnics to sleazy bars where the customers didn't give two hoots about the entertainment— and audiences were now the gauge that she used to measure the passage of time. She lived according to the adage that there was no such thing as a bad audience, only a bad performance.
    “Are we hoedown or cheek to cheek tonight?” Scrappy rosined his fiddle bow with expert strokes. If the audience was rowdy and ready to party, the band served them an earsplitting dose of country rock and stomp-along songs. If the audience was quieter, ready to do some serious dancing, then ballads and two-steps were the order of the evening.
    “Does anybody know how to play ‘Fascination'?” Cassie couldn't believe what she was seeing.
    “What's wrong?” Scrappy hurried over to look himself, then groaned. “Oh, no!” He slapped his forehead with his hand.
    “Don't quote me, but I think Allen has goofed in G major.” She sighed and let the curtain drop back into place. What now?
    “Those people are dressed for a tea dance!" Scrappy exclaimed. He shoved his hat back and scratched his beard. “I wonder what the owner of this ballroom is going to do when he realizes he's hired a country and western act.”
    “Did you get a load of those tuxedoes and ball gowns?” Cassie rolled her eyes. “They're not here to do the Cotton Eyed Joe, that's for sure. They're here to fox-trot!”
    “You'd better see if you can get hold of Allen,” Scrappy suggested. “Who knows? We may have taken a wrong turn off the LBJ.”
    “What's going on back here?” A tall, swarthy man wearing formal clothes eyed the four members of the group with the pained expression of someone who'd just discovered half a worm in his apple. “And who, may I ask, are you?"
    “I'm afraid there's been a terrible mistake here, Mr.— ” Cassie hesitated.
    “Howard Shaw.” The man looked down his incredibly thin nose at her blue jeans and sniffed contemptuously.
    “I'm Cassie Creighton and this is my band, the Texas Twisters,” she explained. “We were hired to play here tonight— at least we think we were, and— ”
    "I paid for a three-piece combo and a girl singer, not Nashville on the Road.” Howard Shaw pressed his lips together in a thin line of disdain.
    “Is there a telephone handy?” Cassie asked. “If we can get hold of Allen Ingram, our manager, maybe he can shed some light on this.”
    “It's perfectly clear to me what's happened. Allen Ingram