At the time, there was discussion that the generosity in reviews had something to do with all that had been learned about McCade, all that had happened with the trials, his subsequent disappearance, and a relief that he was back and doing what he was so good at doing.

But time has told this was not true.

The album was just exceptional.

And although this, nor any of the following efforts of the Roadmasters achieved the commercial success of The Cycle or even Some Like Yesterday…, it is commonly agreed that Follow Your Star heralded a new era for the Roadmasters that wasn’t solely about your reunion or being in a new millennium.

The depth and poetry of the lyrics, the wisdom and resonance of the music would go on to define the band, not overshadowing what had come before, but instead cementing your place in the industry, in the genre of rock, and declaring that you were an enduring act who could grow together as a band and stand the test of time.

Well…

Yeah.

[Grins]

Of the ten songs on the album, only five of them were written by McCade. There are two by you, one written by Clinton, one by Townes, and one that’s the first genuine songwriting collaboration for the Roadmasters, this between you and McCade.

Unh-hunh.

Even so, from start to finish, it was not lost on anyone that every song was about Lyla.

No.

[Shakes head]

I suspect it was not.

[Grins crookedly]

China

I was driving home from work when I saw him.

Parked in front of my condo, a big truck.

And leaning against the grill…

Preacher.

My heartrate spiked and my fingers tightened on the steering wheel.

And after I got over the shock (and, okay, thrill) of seeing him again, all that was in my head was that I didn’t think he’d do this.

I really didn’t.

I’d told Shawn no.

And I was torn between fury that he did and relief at seeing him standing there, looking healthy…

And alive.

But as I drove closer, I hated that I liked the longer beard with the shorter hair.

I hated how much I liked how his jeans bunched around his crotch with the way his legs were crossed at the ankles.

I also hated how sinewy his forearms were, crossed on his chest.

And I hated that it was one hundred and ten degrees outside, and he could lean against a truck in jeans, boots and a tee and look like he was hanging out on a breezy, seventy-five-degree day.

I hit my garage door opener, tore my eyes from him and turned into my driveway.

I parked, shut her down and got out of the car as fast as I could, walking swiftly down a drive Preacher was walking up.

And yes.

Oh yes.

I hated that I loved the way he moved.

I’d always loved the way he moved.