Catch A Fallen Star. Amy Vastine

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

       CHAPTER SIXTEEN

       CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

       CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

       CHAPTER NINETEEN

       CHAPTER TWENTY

       CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

       CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

       CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

       CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

       CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

       CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

       CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

       CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

       CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

       CHAPTER THIRTY

       CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

       CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

       CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

       Extract

       Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

      “WHAT IN THE name of all that is holy is this?” Boone Williams stood in front of the shiny silver Airstream trailer with his hands on his hips. He’d slept in a lot of strange places while touring the country, but this had to be a joke.

      “This is your new home away from home,” Dean said, flashing the used-car-salesman grin he thought worked on everyone.

      Dean Presley was the head of Boone’s record label, Grace Note Records, and the one who had convinced Boone to come down here to small-town Grass Lake. He had promised the perfect Tennessee retreat. A place with all the comforts of home and none of the stress. It was supposed to be top-notch, somewhere the rich and famous like Boone could reconnect with the music.

      “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Boone grumbled. This was a trailer in the middle of a horse farm. The pungent smell of manure did battle with the overwhelming scent of hay that made his nose itch. This was no vacation home. This was a nightmare.

      “Don’t judge until you see the inside. It’s not the Four Seasons, but you’d be amazed at what we fit into this little space.”

      “I knew there wasn’t a Four Seasons in this Podunk town, but I’m sure there have to be accommodations a little more fitting for someone like me.”

      “Boone—”

      “I have twenty-five number-one singles, I’ve won three Grammys and ten Country Artist Awards, and I was named America’s favorite male country music artist at the People’s Choice Awards...four times. I’m pretty sure I deserve better than this.”

      Dean sighed, mimicking Boone’s stance. He closed his eyes for a moment and his smile faded. “I hate to remind you that you also haven’t had a record out in five years. Instead, you’ve had two DUIs and a few other run-ins with the law that you were fortunate to get out of because of who you are. The last time you attended the CAAs, you were asked not to return because you shoved an assistant producer backstage. And right now, the only thing you’d win if people voted would be favorite tabloid star. I’m pretty sure this place is exactly what you need.”

      Every dose of reality was like a hot poker in the gut. Dean was right, but that didn’t mean Boone wanted to hear it. Dean opened the door to the Airstream, and Boone stomped up the stairs and inside.

      It wasn’t the worst place he’d ever had to stay, but not at all what he had expected. He had grown accustomed to his life of luxury. The pillow with the words Welcome Home stitched across it mocked him from the beige couch in the front. A basket of cookies and a bottle of sparkling water sat on the little dinette in the kitchen area. In the back was the bedroom, complete with a full-size bed and one tiny nightstand. Boone threw his suitcase on the bed.

      “Faith stocked the kitchen with some basics, but I can take you into town to pick up groceries or any incidentals you might have forgotten,” Dean offered. “I can also show you around the barn and introduce you to the horses whenever you’re ready. We can save the studio tour for tomorrow.”

      Studio tour? The studio was apparently also on this godforsaken farm. The likelihood that Boone would be impressed was low. Not that he had anything to record. The words still weren’t coming. The music had dried up when he’d dried out.

      “How many horses are there?”

      “We’ve got three right now.”

      “That’s not very many.”

      “We lost one back in May,” Dean explained. “Faith’s been taking her time looking for a new one. Therapy horses aren’t easy to come by. They’re special. Not every horse can work as one. Faith drove up to Nashville this morning to check out a filly a friend of hers has for sale. Maybe we’ll have four in a few short days.”

      Faith was Dean’s fiancée and the one who ran the farm where Boone was now trapped. It was supposedly a therapeutic horse farm called Helping Hooves. Boone wasn’t sure how horses could help someone like him. Of course, the humans who had tried hadn’t had much success, either.

      Maybe he was a hopeless case. The failure his father had always believed he would be.

      Suddenly the already tight quarters began to feel even more claustrophobic. The walls closed in, and Boone began to panic. Soon there wouldn’t be enough air for both of them.

      “Let’s go meet the horses,” he said, pushing past Dean to get to the door. At least he knew the animals wouldn’t ask him about his divorce or when his next album was coming out. They wouldn’t remind him of how far he had fallen.

      * * *

      THE AFTERNOON SUN shone bright in a cloudless sky as Dean led Boone to the stables. Boone rubbed the back of his neck, cursing himself for not grabbing a hat.

      A red sedan that hadn’t been there when Boone arrived was parked near the barn. An uneasy feeling came over him. He did not want to deal with the public just yet.

      “Just to be clear, I’m not signing any autographs or doing any meet and greets while I’m here.”

      Dean glanced over his shoulder with what strongly resembled a smirk. “We’re definitely on the same page about that. You aren’t exactly what I’d call fan-friendly at the moment.”

      “What’s that supposed to mean?” Boone nudged him from behind. Dean’s business partner was usually the one who acted like Boone was incapable of being nice. Maybe Dean believed that to be true.

      The real truth was that if Boone wanted to, he could charm the pants off anyone. All he was saying was he didn’t want to, not that he couldn’t. There was a big difference.

      “I mean you’re here to focus on you and the music, not make new friends.”

      The two men stepped into the stables just as a teen girl with dark hair and ripped-up jeans began her tirade.

      “I knew you would tell him! This is my time with the horses, and now he’s going to make me talk about things I don’t want to talk about! Why do you hate me so much?”

      A man dressed in jeans and a flannel