They talked, teased one another, and traded jokes as the food and drinks kept coming. And for the first time in weeks, AnnieLee felt happy, a deep-in-her-bones kind of contentment. It was wonderful not to think about anything besides being there in that dim, quiet bar with the people she’d grown to love.

  Then Ruthanna raised her glass and said, “I’d like to make a toast to my favorite firecracker, AnnieLee Keyes. Congratulations, kid.”

  “Congratulations for what?” AnnieLee said with her mouth full of fries. “Getting fired by Kip Hart?”

  “Hardly,” Ruthanna said. “See, Jack and I have been keeping a little secret from you today. You want to know what it is?”

  AnnieLee washed down the fries with a gulp of her martini. “Yes, please, and hell yes,” she said.

  “ACD and Jack have worked out a deal, and they’re going to send you on a twelve-city tour of your own. Small venues, but really good ones. So congratulations, girl, and Godspeed.”

  Ethan gave a gleeful whoop before AnnieLee could even react, and then Jack said, “You’re forgetting something, Ruthanna,” as he put his hand affectionately on top of hers.

  Ruthanna smiled and kept her hand where it was. “The other thing you might care to know, Ms. Keyes,” she said, “is that I’ll meet you at your final performance in Las Vegas. And you and me are going to sing a few songs together.”

  AnnieLee felt her stomach drop down to her knees. “You’re kidding.”

  “I most certainly am not.”

  “So you’re coming out of retirement?”

  “No, I’m just taking a break from it.” Ruthanna glanced over at Jack. “We thought it sounded like fun.”

  Jack nodded. “That we did.”

  Ethan said, “I can just imagine the two of you, harmonizing on ‘Blue Bonnet Breeze.’ There won’t be a dry eye in the house.” He grinned. “Maybe I ought to make a few bets on that in Vegas.”

  “Who says you’re invited?” AnnieLee challenged him.

  He put his arm around her and squeezed. “You better let me come with you this time.”

  AnnieLee let her head fall against his shoulder. “I’ll think about it.”

  Chapter

  61

  Merle Haggard had once called his career a thirty-five-year bus ride, and after barely more than a week, Ethan could sympathize with the man. Towns flew by, faces blurred together, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten something that didn’t come out of a paper bag that was handed to him at a drive-through window. Why hadn’t anyone told him that they should’ve asked for fresh fruit, or at least a few carrot sticks, in AnnieLee’s hospitality rider?

  ACD wouldn’t spring for a driver—a small tour required small expenditures, after all—so piloting the Sprinter van had become yet another one of Ethan’s jobs.

  “At least it means you get to come along,” AnnieLee had teased him.

  He definitely didn’t mind the duty. But, unused to sitting still for hours in a row, he’d taken to drinking one kind of caffeinated beverage or another from the moment he woke up until he switched to beer at five. He also kept a bag of sunflower seeds in the door pocket because getting those little bastards out of their shells with his teeth gave him something to do besides hold the steering wheel steady.

  “Whoo-ee, turn that Cash up!” AnnieLee shouted from the passenger seat.

  “Are your arms broken?” he teased. “You do it. I’m driving.”

  Grumbling theatrically, she turned up “Sunday Morning Coming Down,” and then she sang along with it at the top of her lungs, in a thick hillbilly accent, as they drove west along I-40.

  Even when she was goofing off, her voice was wonderful, Ethan thought. And despite the boredom of driving and the exhaustion of the late nights, being on tour with AnnieLee could be a hell of a lot of fun.

  Two hours later they were pulling up in front of Cain’s Ballroom in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Beneath a vintage neon sign advertising long-defunct ballroom dancing classes, they unloaded the guitars and guitar stands, amps, pedals, extension cords, DI box, cables, loopers, and tuners.

  “Can you imagine how hard this’d be if we had the whole band?” AnnieLee asked as she lugged a speaker down the hall.

  But Ethan knew that she missed them, and that she wished they could have come on the tour. As far as ACD was concerned, though, the musicians who had played on AnnieLee’s singles were an avoidable expense.

  Once their gear was loaded in, Ethan went to meet the sound guy. He made a point of treating these men (they were always men) with special respect, since they would control how AnnieLee’s voice and guitar sounded during the show.

  Cain’s sound guy, Jerry, was burly and talkative, and after AnnieLee’s sound check, he invited Ethan to the bar for a quick pint. Hank Williams and Willie Nelson had played at Cain’s, Jerry told him proudly, and Johnny Paycheck had gotten in one of his many fights there, and Bob Wills and his Texas Playboys had broadcast a radio show from its stage for eight years.

  “Folks called it the Carnegie Hall of western swing,” Jerry said.

  Ethan had seen the pictures of Bob Wills, Ernest Tubb, and other departed stars on the walls, and as he looked around the big room, with its high, arched rafters and polished maple floor, he imagined he could feel their benevolent spirits in the air. Those musicians would’ve liked AnnieLee—Ethan was sure of it.

  When he and Jerry had finished their beers, Ethan went to find her. She was backstage eating the potato chips that her rider did stipulate (she’d admitted to him that they were her favorite food) and scrolling through emails on her phone.

  “Eileen sent me a review from Memphis the other night,” she said, looking up at him from underneath tousled bangs. “The writer said I had the eyes of a saint and the voice of an angel.”

  “Did they happen to mention your heart of a hellcat and tongue of a serpent?” Ethan asked as he grabbed another beer out of the mini fridge.

  AnnieLee laughed and threw her sweatshirt at him. It hit the side of his face, and in that instant, he smelled her—the scent of lilacs, pine, and sunshine. He didn’t throw the sweatshirt back.

  “Can I play in my socks tonight?” she asked. “My boots are too tight.”

  “I think you know the answer to that question,” Ethan said, opening the beer and taking a long, cold drink.

  “How about barefoot? Hillbilly style?”

  He just shook his head. AnnieLee had learned a lot from Ruthanna, but she couldn’t be convinced to care about perfect stage makeup or glamorous costumes. “If it doesn’t matter what I look like when you’re listening to me on the radio,” she’d say, “why should it matter when we’re in the same room?”

  Ethan could see her point, but he felt that shoes onstage were nonnegotiable.

  So AnnieLee wore her too-tight boots for her performance that night, along with a pair of loose jeans and a low-necked T-shirt that showed her delicate collarbone. He watched her stride onto the stage, gaze out at the crowd and up to the rafters, and then give the room a smile as bright as any spotlight. The crowd cheered, and she began to play.

  “A rough road, we’ll walk it,” she sang.

  “Never give up, we’ll talk it.”

  Her voice seemed even fuller and richer than usual, and in between songs, she joked and bantered with the audience as if they were old friends. She was a born performer, Ethan thought. She fed off the crowd, and she grew more energized the longer she was onstage.

  He was leaning back, relaxing and letting the music flow over him, when he heard his name coming through the PA. The front legs of his chair banged hard on the floor as he sat up, suddenly alert.

  He looked over and realized that AnnieLee was staring at him from center stage. “You gonna come give me a hand or what?” she said into the microphone. Then she turned to the crowd. “Don’t you want to hear my friend help me out with a little harmony?”

  The answering applause made it clear that Ethan had no choice in the matter.

  Man, he thought, getting up and shaking himself out a little, the way he used to do before a boxing match. She really should’ve warned me. I would’ve done a shot.

  But then he jogged out onto the stage and took the second guitar from its stand. For a second, the instrument felt as foreign to him as the first rifle he’d ever held—like something he had no idea how to use. But then AnnieLee smiled her beautiful, wild smile at him, and his nerves eased. He knew how to do this; he’d done it a hundred times before. Smaller crowds, sure, and local ones—but did that really matter? He stepped up beside her and put his mouth to the second mic. He’d even remember to introduce himself this time.

  “Hello, Tulsa,” he said. “I’m Ethan Blake, and usually I’m just the chauffeur these days. But tonight I guess AnnieLee and I are gonna play a song for you.”

  He looked over at her. Her eyes were shining.

  “I don’t know about you,” she said to him, “but I’m feeling like we should honor the woman who brought us together.” She turned back to the crowd. “That’s Ruthanna Ryder, everybody—and I know you all love her as much as I do.”

  As the crowd cheered, AnnieLee strummed a chord progression that Ethan instantly recognized. Tapping his foot to the beat, he joined her in song.

  Big dreams and faded jeans

  Fit together like a team

  Always bustin’ at the seams

  Big dreams and faded jeans

  He leaned into the microphone, the spotlight bright in his eyes, the stage solid beneath his boots, and AnnieLee by his side.

  I could get mighty used to this, Ethan thought.

  Chapter

  62

  Ethan rode high on their duet until they were heading back to their hotel at midnight. He was gliding down Cincinnati Avenue when he felt a sudden prickle of alarm along the base of his scalp. He glanced in the rearview mirror at the lights of the car that had been following him for several blocks. They didn’t belong to a black truck—he could see that much. But this didn’t necessarily reassure him. Camouflage was easy; anyone could rent a different car.

  He looked over at AnnieLee. Her eyes were closed, her feet were on the dashboard, and she was softly singing the song she’d helped him to write.

  Lost and found, I’m safe and sound

  No more drifting aimlessly, I’ve settled down

  She had no idea that he was worried, and he decided to keep it that way. He looked behind him again. Maybe I’m just being paranoid, he thought.

  Without signaling, Ethan made a few leisurely turns so that he was now heading in the opposite direction. He passed a Dollar Tree and a gas station, and then a car lot, its empty vehicles gleaming under the streetlights. Whoever was driving the car behind him kept close, and AnnieLee remained oblivious. Soon she wasn’t singing anymore. But it wasn’t because she’d noticed anything. It was because she’d fallen asleep, her head against the window, cushioned by the jacket he’d given her.

  Ethan was glad that she could relax, even as he felt the chill of certainty crawling over his skin. It wasn’t paranoia on his part. Someone was following AnnieLee, and this wasn’t even the first time he’d sensed it on tour.

  He knew it wasn’t Mikey Shumer. Crooked as Mikey was, Ethan had believed him when he’d said he had nothing to do with it. Mikey Shumer wouldn’t waste his time or his money, not when he could nab the next hungry up-and-comer, especially one who’d be less stubborn than AnnieLee.

  So who could it be? A fan with stalker tendencies? A crazy ex-boyfriend?

  Who is it, AnnieLee? he thought. And why won’t you tell me?

  Still he drove, turning here and there, as if he hadn’t already driven six hours today and then played part of a show he hadn’t been expecting to play. The yellow lines wavered in front of him. His eyeballs felt as dry as dust.

  Finally he couldn’t take the slow-speed car chase any longer. He pulled into the parking lot of a Pizza Hut and waited to see what would happen next.

  The car behind him—a Chevy Impala—slowed, and then it stopped in the middle of the road. Ethan tensed, waiting for it to follow him into the lot. He started to reach under AnnieLee’s legs for the knife he kept in the glove compartment. But then, with a squeal of tires, the car sped off, its brake lights disappearing into the darkness.

  Ethan sat back with his hands gripping the steering wheel. Maybe, he told himself, it was just a pair of teenagers having their dumb idea of fun.

  Maybe.

  Beside him, AnnieLee stirred. “Are we at the hotel yet?” she asked.

  Ethan put the van back into gear and pulled onto the road. What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. And he was there to protect her.

  “Almost, AnnieLee,” he said. “Almost.”

  Chapter

  63

  Take a picture of me, will you?” AnnieLee asked, whipping her knitted cap off her head and holding out her phone to Ethan. She’d stopped on the sidewalk in front of the State Room in Salt Lake City, Utah, beneath a sign proclaiming in big black letters TONIGHT ANNIELEE KEYES. “It’s my first actual marquee,” she called. “Come on, cowboy! Cheese!”

  Ethan dutifully took a few photos with her phone and then looked down at the screen. “You’re squinting in every single one of them,” he said.

  “That’s okay,” AnnieLee said, cramming her hat back onto her head. “When Eileen told me to send her pictures for my so-called tour diary, she forgot to say they had to be good.”

  “You might be the least vain person I’ve ever met,” Ethan said. “Dudes included.”

  AnnieLee took this as a compliment and told him so. “I’m trying to sing the truth, aren’t I? So it’d be weird if I didn’t show it, too.”

  “But you could keep your eyes open in a picture,” Ethan said, sounding ever so mildly exasperated. “No one would say that’s not telling the truth.”

  AnnieLee laughed. He had a point, of course, but she didn’t have any interest in looking good in the photos. Her voice alone mattered to her. As far as she was concerned, beauty was little more than a liability.

  AnnieLee spun around on the sidewalk with her arms out. It was so good to be out of the van that she felt like bursting into song. Salt Lake was a nice town. Hell, every town was a nice town. It was the highways in between them that were driving her crazy.

  That, and the deep, unwelcome feeling that she should always be looking over her shoulder.

  She worked hard to ignore that feeling. Most days, she was successful. She’d played ten good shows, and Jack said ACD was very happy with their decision to send her out. There’s nothing to worry about—that’s what she kept telling herself.

  “So what’s in this tour diary?” Ethan asked, bringing her back to the present moment. “You written anything about me yet?”

  She stopped spinning, and the world tilted around her. Was she crazy, or was Ethan looking at her as if he hoped the answer was yes?

  “It’s just photos,” she said. If he’d asked her whether she’d written any lyrics about him—well, that was a different story. “Love or Lust” was straight up about that man, not that she’d cop to it. “But I’ve taken a lot of pictures of you. Take a look if you want.”

  Ethan held out her phone. “I’m not going to just scroll through your photos.”

  “Why not? I’ve got nothing to hide.” But this was an outrageous thing to say, and they both knew it. “At least not on my photostream,” she added.

  “Right,” Ethan said. “You’re a regular open book.”

  AnnieLee flinched a little at the hurt she heard in his voice, but she didn’t protest. She took the phone back and tucked it into her pocket. What I’m not telling you? she thought. Believe me, you don’t want to know.

  She hunched her shoulders against the cold wind blowing up State Street. There was new snow in the Wasatch Mountains.

  Ethan saw her shiver. “Well, we should probably go on in and make nice,” he said.

  “I guess we should,” AnnieLee agreed.

  She followed him through the door, politely shaking hands with everyone as Ethan introduced them both, but her thoughts had already turned toward the upcoming show: how big was the room, how were the acoustics, and how many of the seats would be filled?

  But Ethan was naturally gracious, and he never seemed curt or hurried. He easily ingratiated himself with all the promoters and managers, and he’d dealt with their road troubles—a flat tire outside Wichita, a mild bout of food poisoning somewhere in rural Colorado—with good humor and patience. He was the steadiest man AnnieLee had ever known.

  She glanced down at her phone, wondering what Ethan would do if she showed him all the threatening Instagram comments. There were new ones every day now. Would he call the police? Try to cancel the tour? Find the nearest Cabela’s and buy a gun? She’d brought her own Smith & Wesson, hidden inside the makeup kit she barely ever opened, but that was another secret she was keeping.

  AnnieLee’s publicist had tried to reassure her that the messages didn’t really mean anything, and that lots of younger artists—women especially—attracted strange and sometimes menacing online attention. “I know it’s not fair,” Eileen had said. “It’s how the world is, unfortunately. But our team is on top of it. They’ll delete and report all inappropriate comments from creepy random strangers.”

  And they were doing their best. But what Eileen didn’t know, of course, was that the comments weren’t random, and they weren’t from strangers. And that by posting tour dates and pictures to Instagram, Eileen was making it easy for AnnieLee to be found.

  Or maybe the better word was stalked.

  Even though she knew it was a bad idea, AnnieLee opened Instagram and checked her DMs. There was a link to the fiddle recording she’d asked the young musician to send her, an offer from an aspiring designer to send her some outfits, and a hundred sweet little fan messages full of hearts and praising hands emojis.

  And then, as she’d known she would, she saw a new anonymous message, sent from the world she’d left behind. It was a picture of an unmade bed, and lying on the rumpled sheets was a curved and gleaming knife. Rose watch out, the note said.