Run, Rose, Run

Ruthanna couldn't get the damn lick out of her head. A descending roll in C major, twangy as a rubber band, it was crying out for lyrics, a bass line, a song to live inside. She tapped her long nails on her desk as she scrolled through her emails.

"Later," she said, to herself or to the lick, she wasn't entirely sure. "We'll give you some attention when the boys show up to play."

It was nine o'clock in the morning, and already she'd fielded six pleading requests for Ruthanna Ryder, one of country music's grandest queens, to grace some big industry event or another with her royal presence.

She couldn't understand it, but people just failed to get the message: she'd retired that crown. Ruthanna didn't want to put on high heels, false eyelashes, and a sparkling Southern smile anymore. She wasn't going to stand up on some hot, bright stage in a dress so tight it made her ribs ache. She had no desire to pour her heart out into a melody that'd bring tears to a thousand pairs of eyes, hers included. No, sir, she'd put in her time, and now she was done. She was still writing songs—she couldn't stop that if she tried—but if the world thought it was going to ever hear them, it had another think coming. Her music was only for herself now.

She looked up from the screen as Maya, her assistant, walked into the room with a crumpled paper bag in one hand and a stack of mail in the other.

"The sun sure is bright on those gold records today," Maya said.

Ruthanna sighed at her. "Come on, Maya. You're the one person I'm supposed to be able to count on not to harass me about my quote, unquote, career. Jack must've called with another 'once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.'"

Maya just laughed, which was her way of saying, You bet your white ass he did.

Jack was Ruthanna's manager—ahem, former manager. "All right, what does he want from me today?"

"He wouldn't tell me yet. But he said that it's not what he wants. He's thinking about what you really want."

Ruthanna gave a delicate snort. "I really want to be left alone. Why he thinks he knows something different is beyond me." She picked up her ringing phone, silenced it, and then threw it onto the overstuffed couch across the room.

Maya watched this minor tantrum serenely. "He says the world's still hungry for your voice. For your songs."

"Well, a little hunger never hurt anyone." She gave her assistant a sly grin. "Not that you'd know much about hunger."

Maya put a hand on her ample hip. "And you got room to talk," she said.

Ruthanna laughed. "Touché. But whose fault is it for hiring Louie from the ribs place to be my personal chef? You could've picked someone who knew his way around a salad."

"Coulda, woulda, shoulda," Maya said. She put a stack of letters in Ruthanna's inbox and held out the paper bag. "It's from Jack."

"What is that, muffins? I told Jack I was off carbs this month," Ruthanna said.

Not that Jack believed anything she told him lately. The last time they'd talked she'd said that she was going to start gardening, and he'd laughed so hard he dropped the phone into his pool. When he called her back on his landline he was still wheezing with delight. "I can't see you out there pruning roses any more than I can see you stripping off your clothes and riding down Lower Broadway on a silver steed like Lady Godiva of Nashville," he'd said.

Her retort—that it was past the season for pruning roses anyway—had failed to convince him.

"No, ma'am," Maya said, "these are definitely not muffins."

"You looked?"

"He told me to. He said if I saw them, I'd be sure you opened them. Otherwise he was afraid you might chuck the bag in a bin somewhere, and that'd be…well, a lot of sparkle to throw away."

"Sparkle, huh?" Ruthanna said, her interest piqued.

Maya shook her head at her, like, You just don't know how lucky you are. But since lovely Maya had a husband who bought her flowers every Friday and just about kissed the ground she walked on, she was considerably fortunate herself. Ruthanna, divorced seven years now, only got presents from people who wanted something from her.

She took the bag. Unrolling the top, she looked inside, and there, lying at the bottom of the bag—not even in a velvet box—was a pair of diamond chandelier earrings, each one as long as her index finger, false nail included. "Holy sugar," Ruthanna said.

"I know. I already googled them," Maya said. "Price available upon request."

Ruthanna held them up so that they caught the light brilliantly and flung rainbows onto her desk. She owned plenty of diamonds, but these were spectacular. "They look like earrings you'd buy a trophy wife," she said.

"Correction," said Maya. "They look like earrings you'd buy a woman who made you millions as she clawed her way to the top of her industry and into the hearts of a vast majority of the world's population."

The office line rang, and Ruthanna put the earrings back into the bag without trying them on. She gestured to Maya to answer it.

"Ryder residence," Maya said, and then put on her listening face. After a while she nodded. "Yes, Jack, I'll pass that information along."

"He couldn't keep his little secret after all, could he?" Ruthanna asked when her assistant hung up.

"He says they want to give you some big giant honor at the Country Music Awards—but you'd actually have to go," Maya said. "And he'd like me to tell you that you really shouldn't pass up such a perfect opportunity to wear those earrings."

Ruthanna laughed. Jack really was something else. "That man can buy me diamonds until hell turns into a honky-tonk," she said. "I'm out of the business."

Ethan Blake's aging F-150 coughed and belched as he pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Ruthanna's sprawling compound in Belle Meade. It was a good thing the security cameras didn't record audio, because the Ford sounded downright embarrassing. It needed a new exhaust system plus half a dozen other repairs. But until he had more than a few grand in his bank account, vehicular maintenance was on the back burner.

Ethan pulled up under the shade of a massive oak and looked at his watch. When he saw that it was 11:02, he jumped out of the cab so fast he was halfway to the door before he realized he'd forgotten his guitar. By the time he was on the stoop outside the kitchen door, it was four minutes after the hour, and he was sweating through his white T-shirt.

He gave the knob a tug, but it was locked. Then, as the seconds ticked by, he started banging on the glass. There was no response. He fired a volley of curses into the ivy creeping up the sides of the Greek Revival mansion that Ruthanna jokingly called the Castle, and then he went around to the front and began stabbing madly at the doorbell. Ruthanna was going to kill him.

Maya finally opened the door. "May I help you?" she asked. She looked him up and down like he was a stranger trying to sell her a set of encyclopedias.

"Maya," Ethan said, exasperated. "I'm here to record."

"Mm-hmm," she said. But she didn't step aside to let him in.

"I'm late," he said. "I know, I'm sorry. I couldn't get Gladys started."

Maya's dark eyes widened. "I sure don't want to hear about that!" she exclaimed.

Ethan blushed right down to his neck. "Gladys is my truck."

Maya laughed at her joke, and then her face grew serious again. "Well, you know where you're going, and I guess you'd better get yourself there quick. You-know-who's waiting."