Chapter Three
Beau
Two connections and a seat in economy had him cursing Leon and his flight arrangements.
So much for flying into a fixed base operation as a celebrity VIP.
His seatmate had passed out ten minutes into the flight, then proceeded to drool down his own shirtfront.
On the bright side, the snores blocked out any strange in-flight noises that might potentially be linked to mechanical issues, proving ignorance could be bliss.
The plane landed without incident. Beau disembarked with the other fifty or so passengers and followed the flight crew to arrivals.
He’d tossed the Blake Shelton look for his old rock and roll duds, and it turned out clothes really did make the man, because not a soul on board recognized him.
Or maybe they simply weren’t fans. He was good either way.
Inside, after a five-minute delay, the terminal’s lone baggage carousel creaked into action.
He took inventory of the crowd, wondering who his ride was.
No one screamed cowboy. He stooped to grab his guitar case and bag from the meandering conveyor belt, then took the straps for the guitar case out of his bag and clipped them in place.
He never left them on the guitar case when flying because he didn’t like the baggage handlers using them to toss his ten-thousand-dollar acoustic Martin around.
He slipped his arms through the straps, then felt a firm tap on his shoulder.
“Excuse me. Beau Jones?”
Beau turned and tried to take it all in.
The speaker was a little shorter than he was, all wiry muscles wrapped up in jeans, flannel, and work boots with plenty of dings in the toes.
The leather had chipped off in places. A gray Stetson covered short salt-and-pepper hair and shadowed a sharp-pointed chin.
Bushy gray brows straddled direct, pale-blue eyes that gleamed with an intelligence suggesting their owner missed very little.
The sun had desiccated his skin, creating the illusion of an albino raisin, meaning he could be forty or eighty.
The bolo tie was a nice touch. Beau had left his at home in his top dresser drawer.
He experienced a moment of awestruck confusion. He’d suffered this same paralyzing sensation when he’d first crossed a stage on international television, and the spotlights had blinded him for a few seconds. If Jesus were a cowboy, then this would be him.
“Yeah, I’m Beau,” he said.
“Adam Caldwell. I’m your ride.” Adam shook Beau’s hand, his firm grip pumping his arm twice before letting go. He wrestled Beau’s bag from him with blunt-tipped, work-hardened fingers that were impeccably clean.
He was as blunt as his hands. “Follow me.”
His lanky, bow-legged gait left no doubt as to his occupation. Beau trailed a half step behind him, allowing himself to be guided through the small terminal, although it was hard to imagine how he’d ever get lost.
Adam halted outside the public washrooms. “We’ve got a long drive ahead of us,” he said. “You should make a pitstop.”
It wouldn’t be the first time Beau had watered some plants in the great outdoors when there were no public toilets around, but okay. He wasn’t going to lie. Cowboy Jesus intimidated him whole a lot more than Leon ever had.
He took care of business and rejoined Adam, who leaned against a wall with Beau’s bag at his feet, watching passersby with the scrutiny of a secret agent scoping out GRU spies operating under the Russian military intelligence service.
Beau’s misgivings grew legs. Maybe he should hand in his resignation now, although Adam didn’t look like the kind of man who took kindly to quitters.
If he offered to drive Beau to the train station, Beau planned to run.
“Look,” Beau began, determined to be Christian about this for Jesus’s sake, “there’s been a misunderstanding. I thought—”
“There’s been no misunderstanding,” Adam interrupted.
Merciless eyes gripped Beau the way a boa constrictor squeezed its next meal.
“Your agent said you have no ranching experience, but you’re bound by contract to protect your brand and you’re eager to learn.
Come see the ranch before you make decisions you might regret later. ”
Which didn’t sound ominous at all. But once the ranch saw what a lazy-ass, worthless cowboy he made, they’d be glad to be rid of him. He had two months of songwriting ahead of him and nothing was going to stand in his way.
Adam passed him a small glass bottle of orange juice. “Here. Drink this.”
“Thank you, but I’m not thirst—” Beau said, only to be interrupted again.
“I told you. It’s a long drive and we won’t be stopping. Drink up.”
Cowboys, it turned out, had the world’s worst social skills. Rather than argue with this one, Beau decided to conserve his energy for getting fired from the ranch. He cracked the cap on the bottle and downed the contents in one long, drawn-out swallow.
“Wait right here. I forgot something.” With that next command, Adam strode off.
Unbelievable.
After ten minutes, Beau considered calling a cab, then hiding somewhere until it arrived. He was busy working on his cover-your-ass story to give to Leon and the network when Adam returned, carrying a takeout bag from the restaurant.
The cowboy picked up the bag. “Let’s go.”
Outside the terminal’s main entrance, Beau got his first real glimpse of the mountains from ground level and a much better idea of their size and scope.
To a city boy, used to skyscrapers, concrete, and steel, the sight of so much forest and rock and sky felt equal parts awe-inspiring and overwhelming.
The sense of confinement—of being cut off from the rest of the world—creeped him out.
They crossed a stretch of pavement, stepped over a short concrete curb, and entered the parking lot. Adam headed straight for a plain white van parked backend next to a hangar at the farthest end of an otherwise empty lot.
Beau’s misgivings, already taxiing down the runway, shot skyward. Takeoff left him a little light-headed and he staggered as if he’d had one drink too many.
“Careful there, cowboy,” Adam said, taking note of his misstep.
The mountains had a weird effect on the valley’s acoustics, and his voice echoed, sounding both nearby and far off.
“You should lay off the alcohol when you fly. Cabin pressure can cause mild hypoxia.”
Had he been drinking? Beau honestly couldn’t remember. He must have been, though, because it certainly felt as if he had.
They reached the van. A young man with his arm in a cast leaned against the side panel.
He straightened as Adam and Beau approached.
Beau didn’t take note of much more than that because his misgivings were morphing into straight out suspicion.
Something about this whole scenario seemed off. He couldn’t put his finger on it.
He couldn’t put his finger on his nose, either. His eyes crossed when he tried it and the world started spinning.
“You don’t look so good. Maybe you should lie down,” Adam said.
He held the rear door of the van open. Beau’s bag was already inside, lying on top of a mattress and sleeping bag. His guitar case was beside it. Beau tried to figure out how that had happened when only two seconds ago, he’d been disembarking a plane. Things weren’t adding up.
A part of his brain struggled out of the fog and advised him to run, so Beau did what any good Jersey boy would do when faced with two strangers and an unmarked van and a premonition of danger. He whipped around and took off.
Except running wasn’t exactly what anyone could call it. His feet tangled together, and he fell on his face. His forehead hit the asphalt with a dull thud, but it was okay, because his hand broke the fall. It twisted beneath him. Somewhere, he heard a twig snap.
He bounced to his feet. “I’m okay.” Two men seized his arms. His head swiveled between them. “Am I ever glad to see you guys. Jesus tried to kidnap me.”
“Don’t worry, we’ve got you. You’re safe,” one of them said.
“That’s great. Fantastic. Because I’ve got new songs to write. In fact”—Beau sagged until his knees hit the ground—“I’m going to write one about you. You guys are my heroes.”
*
Belle
“You roofied him?”
Horror dribbled Belle’s heart around in her chest like a basketball at an NBA game. She stared at Adam, hoping she’d misunderstood what he’d just said.
Adam stared back, unperturbed. “His agent warned me he could be a runner, what with his mental health issues and all. His agent underestimated him. That guy is a sprinter.”
“Did he try to run before or after you drugged him?”
One of Adam’s shoulders came up, leaving it to Belle’s imagination.
Her imagination worked fine. It saw them all ending up in prison for life.
This situation was a prime example of why a person should be careful when making wishes.
She’d longed for an opportunity to use her medical skills, and she now had a patient.
A patient who had a nasty bump and abrasion on his forehead. She whipped out her twenty-first-century medical tools—not the Dr. Frankenstein ones she used for tourists—and checked Beau’s pupils with a retinoscope to see if they were equal, and how they reacted to light.
So far, so good. The possibility of a concussion remained, but she saw no signs of anything serious.
She continued her physical examination. The final conclusions were both a relief and alarming.
He had one swollen wrist and one swollen ankle.
Each looked like nasty sprains that would take time to heal.
He’d also broken his left pinky finger, which was unfortunate, because the clunky stainless-steel watch with an emerald-green face on his right wrist said he was a lefty.
The break itself felt clean. She taped a splint on it to keep it immobile.
Although the damage wouldn’t be permanent, his guitar-picking talents were going to be seriously restricted for a few weeks.