Dry Creek Sweethearts. Janet Tronstad

She and Duane had shared a kiss or two, parked in the driveway and smelling those lilacs. Maybe it would be therapeutic for her to face those lilacs again by herself and say a final goodbye to her memories of Duane.

      After all, the two people who had crashed into that stop sign twenty-some years ago, and bent it to the crooked heart shape it was today, had found peace last year by facing the ghosts of their past. They’d hit the stop sign while trying to elope to Las Vegas and it took them both coming back to the sign to figure out that they still wanted to be together.

      Of course, things were different with her and Duane. They wouldn’t come together again. When she smelled those lilac bushes in the Enger driveway, she would be alone. Still, maybe she’d find some peace and be able to move on and love someone else. She sighed; it was time.

      “Everybody misses their home,” Lucy said firmly as Linda put her mop in a corner and gathered up their jackets.

      “Like I said earlier, Dry Creek isn’t Duane’s home anymore.” Linda gave Lucy her jacket. “He lives in Hollywood. You know that.”

      Duane could be living on the moon; he was so distant.

      Linda put her jacket on and opened the door going out of the café. A burst of cold, damp air came inside.

      “Home is where the heart is,” Lucy said as she stepped out on the porch. She waited under the overhang so she wouldn’t get wet. “Mama used to tell us that. Remember?”

      There was another flash of lightning in the distance.

      Linda wished she hadn’t relied quite so much on clichés when she was inventing the stories for Lucy about what their mother had said. Linda turned the light off and shut the door behind her as she closed the café for the night.

      “That might be a customer coming,” Lucy said as she looked down the road entering Dry Creek and pointed. “There’s a set of headlights.”

      The rain was heavy and the night was black, but the lights were visible even though they were blurred.

      Linda saw them. “The headlights are high. It’s probably a cattle truck going out to the Elkton Ranch. But don’t worry about it. Those ranch hands always carry a thermos of coffee. Besides, they won’t want to stop for anything at this time of night, especially if they have animals in the back. Once the thunder gets closer, it’ll spook anything in the truck so they want to get home and unloaded as soon as they can.”

      Lucy nodded. “Maybe it’s Lance.”

      Linda shrugged. “Could be.”

      Lance periodically worked for the Elkton Ranch when they needed extra help or he needed extra income.

      The sisters both walked quickly to Linda’s old car. Fortunately, the vehicle started right up. Linda backed the car out of its parking space and drove down the asphalt road to the gravel road leading to the Morgan family farm.

      It was too bad she and Lucy were traveling in the same direction as that old cattle truck, Linda thought, because that meant they wouldn’t be passing it. Even if Lance wasn’t in the cab of the truck, the other ranch hands were always good for a big wave, especially on a stormy night like tonight. Linda could use some down-to-earth men to cheer her up. Thankfully, not every man around here needed to be a big star to be happy.

      There was really something to be said for a man like Lance, Linda told herself. He was content just pulling a good horse to ride in the annual Bucking Horse Sale, a rodeo in Miles City, and working cattle at the Elkton Ranch. There was nothing in Lance that yearned for something bigger than what he already had. He’d be happy to stay in Dry Creek forever. He’d make someone a good solid husband.

      Linda wondered if Duane’s dreams had made him happy over the years. He had loved to play his jazz music for people. Now, instead of an audience of twenty, the size he’d had on a good day in Dry Creek, he played for thousands of fans at the same time. The sound of the music might be different and rock music might not be his first choice, but he was probably very pleased with himself.

      After all, he was on the radio, which was more than she could say for anyone else who had grown up around here, including Lance with his local rodeo fame. It was certainly more than she could say for herself.

      Yes, she decided, Duane Enger probably was very happy.

      Chapter Two

      Duane Enger was miserable and sick and tired.

      Everything was dark outside the bus except for the shine of the headlights on the wet asphalt as he drove into Dry Creek. He saw the taillights of a car in the distance so he knew he wasn’t the only one unfortunate enough to be driving around in the heavy rain. He figured his manager, Phil, who was sitting in the passenger seat right behind him, had seen the lights, too.

      “There were people in that car,” Phil muttered as he leaned forward to complain in Duane’s ear. “And you let them get away.”

      Phil had been driving like a maniac on the way up here, refusing to let any cars pass them. Duane had finally concluded the man might be having a midlife crisis even though he was only thirty-six. Of course, it had also occurred to Duane that Phil might have been lying about his age since the day they’d met. No one wanted to be old in the music business, especially in the teenage market.

      Phil was short and pudgy so he looked as if he could be any age. He was completely bald so he didn’t even have any hair to turn gray. Not that the man’s age mattered, in Duane’s opinion, unless it affected how he acted behind the wheel.

      For most of the trip, Duane had been too sick to pay any attention to what was happening outside the bus. But he had stopped dozing in Idaho when Phil ran a stop sign and, once they hit Miles City, Duane asked to take over the driving. There weren’t enough road signs to clearly mark the way to Dry Creek so Phil reluctantly agreed Duane could drive.

      That didn’t stop Phil from scooting forward on the seat behind the driver’s seat and giving Duane his constant opinions on everything, especially the other cars on the road.

      Duane hunched over the steering wheel and coughed. “Not—”

      His voice cracked.

      Phil held out a cup of the coffee they’d bought an hour ago at a gas station in Miles City. “I keep saying you need to be resting your voice. I know the doctor said it was not a virus, but he meant for you to rest your voice.”

      “I can talk.” Duane did his best, but the words came out thin as he reached out with one hand and took the cup.

      The other man didn’t even answer. The windshield wipers were on full speed and the rain beat on the roof of the bus. Duane took two gulps of the lukewarm coffee and handed the cup back to Phil.

      “I thought when you said you wanted to go home that there would at least be a clinic around here. You know, for emergencies. Like pneumonia,” Phil said.

      “Don’t have pneumonia,” Duane whispered, almost sure that he was right. He’d had a low-grade fever that seemed to come and go, but that was probably nothing.

      “I don’t even see a sign for a veterinarian. Those cows we passed must get sick sometimes.”

      “Doc Norris. Edge of town.”

      Phil grunted. “At least we could have radioed ahead for a people doctor to meet us in Ensenada if you’d followed the plan and gone on that yacht like you were supposed to. That yacht had everything.”

      Phil was big on plans and yachts.

      “Reporters—” Duane’s voice went to a high squeak, but he thought he made his point. Just to be sure, he added in a whisper, “With me coughing and sneezing like some typhoid case.”

      Phil put his hand on Duane’s shoulder. “Let’s take it easy. I know the doctor in Los Angeles said it was probably just vocal strain and a sinus infection. But what if he’s wrong?”

      “Not wrong.”