The porch post felt warm against her cheek. The sun reminded her of a shimmering copper globe hanging low over the hills. She thought about Dean and their kiss. If the timing were different…If she had a job, an apartment, money in the bank…If he were more ordinary…But none of that was true, and she’d spent too many years living at the mercy of others to put herself any further under his control. As long as she resisted, she had power. If she gave in, she’d have nothing.

The noise of an engine intruded on her thoughts. Shielding her eyes, she saw two cars approaching down the lane. Neither of them was Dean’s Vanquish.

Chapter Eleven

Two SUVs with tinted windows pulled up in front of the farmhouse. The back door of the lead vehicle opened, and a man dressed entirely in black stepped out.

His shaggy dark hair was threaded with gray, his weather-beaten face creased from too many long nights riding the glory trail. As he moved away from the car, his gunslinger’s arms hung loosely at his sides ready to draw—not a six-shooter—but the blazing Fender Custom Telecaster he’d used to conquer the world. If Blue hadn’t already been sitting, her knees would have buckled. As it was, she couldn’t squeeze a single particle of air into her lungs.

Jack Patriot.

Car doors began to open behind him, and men in sunglasses spilled out, along with a long-haired woman carrying a designer purse and a water bottle. They stayed by the cars. His boot heels hit the brick walk, and Blue turned into every screaming fan who’d knotted her fingers through a chain-link fence, pressed her body against a police barricade, chased a stretch limo, or stood vigil outside a five-star hotel praying for a glimpse of her rock idol. Except, instead of screaming, she couldn’t make a sound.

He stopped less than eight feet away. Small silver skulls adorned his earlobes. Beneath the cuff of his black, open-neck shirt, she saw a leather bracelet with a beaten silver sleeve. He nodded. “I’m looking for Riley.”

Ohmygod! Jack Patriot was standing right in front of her. Jack Patriot was talking to her! She scrambled to her feet. She wheezed for air, choked on nothing, and started to cough. He waited patiently, the silver skulls turning to rust in the sunset. Her eyes began to tear. She pressed her fingers to her throat, trying to clear the air passage.

Rock star legends understood overwrought females, and he took in the house while he waited. She balled her hand into a fist and struck her chest. He finally spoke again in the familiar smoke-and-gravel voice that still held remnants of his native North Dakota. “Could you get Riley for me?”

As she struggled to pull herself together, the front door opened, and Riley came out. “Hi,” she muttered.