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  The senior pastor accepted the document and flipped slowly through the pages. As Ken made his initial scan of the contract, Luke studied the welcoming church leader, finding it easy to imagine why someone would pour his heart out to this charismatic man.

  An act Luke was not tempted in the least to do.

  “The conditions I mentioned are all spelled out in the agreement. My work history is attached, and I’m happy to answer any questions.” He paused again to give the pastor time to read.

  Luke had spent the past hour pitching the services of Praise Productions, his mobile one-man recording company. His offer of a free two-day rehearsal and subsequent audition normally sealed the deal. As a rule, once the pastor and his council checked Luke’s references and observed his work, they were anxious to secure his services. Luke prayed the usual process would work once again, and that he wouldn’t have to reveal his personal reasons for coming to Abundant Harvest.

  “I don’t accept deposits or ask for any portion of my fee up front,” he explained. “Full payment will only be expected after you approve of the master. If you have a valid complaint within the first year, I guarantee a full refund. I’m proud to say that’s never been necessary.”

  The pastor glanced up and Luke continued.

  “There’s a list of duplication houses attached to the contract. I try to include some local referrals, but sometimes you have to go out of state to get the best deal. I always leave that choice up to the decision makers at the church.”

  Pastor Allen narrowed his eyes as he fixed Luke with an assessing stare. “I’ve read about production companies in Nashville and Los Angeles. Seems to me, staying in one spot would be simpler for a growing enterprise.” He paused to level Luke with a curious gaze. “Why do you spend your life on the road, son?”

  Luke smiled and relaxed in his chair.

  “I love the industry, but it’s competitive and cutthroat. I don’t care to live in any of the U.S. production meccas and I don’t want a big company choosing my projects for me. So, I opted to be portable and stay independent. I research and select my own clients, manage the process from start to finish, and when the work is done I move on to new challenges in a new part of the country.”

  The trim pastor reached into a large candy dish in the middle of the table and withdrew a bite-size chocolate bar. He offered one to Luke and took two for himself.

  “Luke, it’s not my place to question your financial practices, but I’ve already put some research into recording costs and your rates are significantly lower than any I’ve seen. I’d almost feel guilty, like we were taking advantage of you.”

  “Sir, I assure you there’s no need to feel that way. Earning a fortune at this isn’t my goal and I have resources that allow me to be flexible.”

  Luke referred to his dependency upon the dwindling earnings of the heavy metal band he put together during his boarding school days. As the infamous and outrageous Striker Dark, Luke was the front man on lead guitar and vocals. His out-of-control life as Striker drove the final wedge between Luke and his rigidly conservative parents, who wouldn’t forgive their son’s choices, even today.

  In the early years a staggering amount of money had allowed him to make a clean break from his folks and never look back. Before signing with an unscrupulous agent he’d lived like a prince, but Lisa Evans had managed the band out of a fortune that should have lasted a lifetime. The loss of Luke’s income to a money-hungry woman was now at the top of a long list of mistakes he never intended to make again.

  Fortunately, all these years later a new generation of rockers found the old albums. The royalties steadily trickled in for the band that had held the attention of the American public and the music industry for six years.

  Until tragedy split them up.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry into your private business,” the pastor’s voice interrupted Luke’s thoughts.

  “No apology necessary, sir.” Luke unwrapped his candy and popped the sweet confection into his mouth.

  “Then that leaves the question of why us? You said you were in California the past year. How did you hear about Abundant Harvest Church?”

  “Like I said, I do my research. I’ve been exposed on one level or another to the recording industry since I was a kid. I’ve seen a lot of talent destroyed by the trappings of the business and I believe God’s called me to help young people avoid some of the dangers. I watched this year’s Battle of the Bands review online and came to see if the Harvest Sons are as promising as they seem.”

  Absolutely true, but not the whole story.

  The real draw was the young man who played lead guitar for the Harvest Sons. A ringer for Luke at that age, obviously filled with startling promise and easy prey for a gold-digging agent. The boy’s image had haunted Luke, who was impressed to the point of distraction during the hours he’d studied the video. He’d been drawn to Houston by a force too big to fight. He was on a mission to satisfy himself that the kid named Eric would not suffer the same fate as Striker Dark.

  Pastor Ken looked at his watch, stood and motioned for Luke to follow. “The band uses the main sanctuary to practice before the evening service. Let’s go see if the Sons live up to their reputation.”

  “Sir—” Luke paused before standing “—I should warn you about my no-nonsense style. I don’t mince words and I’ve been known to step on more than a few toes. But it works for me and I’ll pit my results against anybody’s any day.”

  Ken smiled, grabbed another bite of candy and tossed one to Luke. “As I recall, Jesus was a pretty direct communicator.”

  “Yeah, and look how popular He was with the Pharisees,” Luke quipped, and the two men chuckled as they passed through the doorway.

  Saturday afternoons were always a time of bustling activity at Abundant Harvest. Claire made a habit of being on-site each week whether or not she’d signed up for volunteer work. By all standards this church had a large congregation with a perpetual need for unscheduled help. Arriving early, she parked at the outer edge of the lot, collected her purse and book bag and began the hike toward the main sanctuary.

  She stopped short at the sight of an unmarked black truck and matching gooseneck trailer that stretched across a half-dozen parking spaces. The combo would be commonplace at Savage cycles, however, in the church parking lot it was an unexpected and imposing sight.

  Shrieks of obvious delight and the excited yapping of a dog drew her thoughts from the black rig. Claire changed her course and followed the sounds to the temporary classrooms positioned behind the youth center known as the Hangar.

  “Hi, Miss Claire!” a gaggle of girls called. Three high school seniors perched with legs swinging on the tailgate of a friend’s muddy pickup. Their attention was immediately diverted by barking and laughter.

  “What’s all the fuss?”

  “The guys are teaching this puppy to play Frisbee,” one of them explained. “He’s a natural but he doesn’t want to give it back after he catches it. Brian and Eric will be too tired to play for the service tonight if they keep this up.”

  Peals of laughter rose from the growing crowd of high schoolers. Claire navigated the parking lot to the edge of the grass, where lively activity was in full swing. At the sight of a yellow Lab pup, a stab of anguish shot through her heart as she remembered the scene only hours earlier. But this well-groomed dog sported a red bandana around his neck, brandished a white Frisbee in his mouth and proudly ran the boys a merry chase.

  Brian dived for the animal’s skinny hind legs and missed by a long shot. The dog whirled about, trotted back to where Brian lay facedown in the grass, dropped the Frisbee on the boy’s head and woofed in chorus with the kids’ laughter.

  Claire took in the relaxed scene, wondering if these youngsters had any idea how fortunate they were to be so carefree. At their age she’d had precious little time for weekend afternoons of games and laughter. There were voice lessons and costume fittings, rehearsals and rounds of competitio
n.

  Even in the quiet of her room at night she never forgot that one small mistake could cost her everything. After her father left to chase his dreams, the life she and her mother salvaged depended upon vigilance and dedication. To secure her tuition at the acclaimed private school she had to have scholarships. She had to win pageants.

  She had to look and sound perfect.

  Light glinted through the trees as the sun dipped toward the western skyline, reminding her the afternoon was winding down. Her chance to practice in the sanctuary was slipping away. Tomorrow morning’s solo would challenge her vocal range and she wanted one final sound check, so she headed toward the main auditorium.

  By design, every aspect of Abundant Harvest Church was contemporary. Shunning the traditional redbrick chapel with a long center aisle, the church founders had opted to invest their building funds in an economical and practical 70,000 square foot warehouse-style structure.

  The facility known as the worship center served as a sanctuary for weekend services. When the hundreds of folding chairs were stored away, the expansive room became a double-sized gymnasium for after-school activities. Each week visitors made notes on their welcome cards expressing approval of the spacious accommodations, including a stage with state-of-the-art audio/visual equipment.

  Familiar with the Saturday evening sound crew, Claire waved to the figures, barely visible through the darkened window of the control booth, and climbed six steps that led up the right side of the stage.

  “Good afternoon, Claire,” the pastor’s voice boomed from the speakers.

  She raised her hand, palm outward, against the glare of lights being set for the evening service.

  “Hi, Pastor Ken.” She waved a response into the darkness.

  The band’s self-appointed stage manager, Dana Stabler, positioned a microphone before Claire. The petite brunette was a quirky teen who tried on personalities like other girls experimented with nail color. Today she was hip-hop, all decked out in baggy jeans and a football jersey.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  “Give me a minute, Dana.” Claire turned her back to the mic. After practicing some warm-up scales, she dropped her chin and offered up a silent prayer. Then she turned toward the light and removed the microphone from its stand.

  She inhaled through her nose and opened her mouth to begin. Before the first note rushed across her vocal chords, a voice intruded.

  “One moment, miss.” A polite command, not a suggestion.

  With her mouth gaping open in surprise she felt and probably looked like a hungry guppy. Her lips clamped together with a small “umph” as she waited for some cue to continue.

  “Go ahead, please,” the voice instructed.

  Claire closed her eyes to concentrate and recall the note to be sung a cappella, without accompaniment. Once again she filled her lungs, parted her lips and began to breathe the high C. The note started softly, low in her chest, then crescendoed over the course of several seconds into a force of sound that filled her head and resonated in the open hall.

  She’d tilted her head back from the mic allowing the sound to float heavenward. A high-pitched squeal pierced the moment. Her head and eyes snapped toward the source of the disturbance.

  “Sorry about that,” was the curt response from the booth.

  “Is there a problem?” Claire asked, knowing her voice held a hint of the annoyance she was feeling after the back-to-back interruptions.

  “There’s a new guy in the sound booth.” Dana’s pierced eyebrows drew together apologetically.

  “I noticed.” Claire curved her lips into a wry smile.

  “Take it from the top,” the male voice suggested.

  “If you’re sure.” She squinted against the lights.

  “I’m sure.” There was amusement in his otherwise brusque tone. “I’m also sure less vibrato will make your intro more powerful.”

  “Excuse me?” No one had criticized her skills since she’d fired her last vocal coach.

  “Control the vibrato, if you can,” the man challenged.

  Five seconds into the opening note the voice once again interrupted, “Cutting that high C off sooner will give you more breath for the next measure. Would you like to practice off mic before we begin again?”

  Claire jammed a fist on each hip as she glared into the darkness. The huge room fell silent awaiting her response.

  “Are you just gonna stand there in a double huff?” he asked.

  She was positive she heard the guy snicker.

  “Pastor Ken, may I speak with you for a moment?” Claire planted the mic back into the stand and headed down the steps. She took several unsure paces up the aisle, as she waited for her pupils to make the switch from white-hot spotlights to the dimly lit auditorium.

  A side door opened, allowing slanting rays of afternoon sun to pour inside. She was distracted from her mission as all heads turned to follow the progress of a runaway pup, barking with obvious pleasure and loping up the aisle toward Claire with a half-dozen teens in hot pursuit.

  Chapter Two

  Her agitation forgotten, Claire gave in to the force of a smile as it spread across her face at the unusual sight. This particular animal was so energized and jubilant that, for a few seconds anyway, nobody seemed anxious to curtail the pup’s activity.

  On stage, where Dana continued to set up the band for the evening service, she crossed one mic path over another and a screech of feedback blared.

  The dog darted beneath a row of seats, crouched in the darkness and whined in puppy terror.

  A male figure left the sound booth, navigating the darkened aisle in long, determined strides.

  “My apologies, folks. I’ll take care of this.”

  The voice was soft and humble, but definitely the same one that recently questioned her skills.

  “Hang on, Freeway. I’ve got you, buddy.” He held up a hand to ward off the approaching teens, a quiet signal the situation was under control.

  Dropping to one knee, he extended his arm, palm to the floor and allowed the dog to sniff cautiously. The sniffing soon turned to contented licking and happy tail thumping. The puppy crept from beneath the seat and into the waiting arms of a master who cradled the pet in a gentle embrace. “Freeway trusts me,” he said simply.

  Claire’s breath caught in her throat at the overwhelming sense of familiarity.

  “Sorry about that, Pastor Ken,” Brian apologized for the group, then herded everyone toward the door.

  “No harm done,” the pastor assured them. “Give us fifteen and we’ll be ready for you guys.”

  “I’ll put Freeway on a lead and find him a shady spot for a nap.”

  “Great idea, Luke. That’ll give Claire time to finish her sound check.”

  Claire was positioned in the aisle between the open door and the stranger in the shadows. She stepped aside to allow him to pass. Each step brought him closer to her.

  Closer to the light.

  “Oh, forgive my lack of manners.” Pastor Ken hurried to Claire’s side. “Hit the house lights, please,” he called to a volunteer and the florescent bulbs overhead blazed to life.

  “Claire Savage, I’d like to introduce Luke Dawson. Luke, Claire is the young woman with the incredible voice I was telling you about.”

  She reached to steady herself on the back of a nearby folding chair. Standing before her was the Good Samaritan who had monopolized her thoughts for the better part of the day.

  Luke clenched his teeth and waited for the response that almost always accompanied an introduction. People never said anything out loud, not in front of him anyway. But unspoken pity for his permanent disfigurement was there. Loud and clear.

  If they only knew he’d been through fourteen grueling procedures to get to this point. Skin grafts were amazing, not magical, and there was a limit to what reconstructive surgery could accomplish. The remaining scar on his neck was the last remnant of the fire and a constant reminder of the all-consuming demon that w
as only a snort away. He’d long ago accepted the ugly scar on his neck. And in an oddly comforting way, facing the vestige of his freebasing accident in the mirror every day kept him from slipping back into the pit of his destructive past.

  He shifted Freeway’s lanky frame and extended a hand. She hesitated before dropping her purse onto the seat of the nearest chair and accepting his grasp.

  “Pleased to meet you,” she said, and for once a greeting surprised him.

  Sincere interest flickered through the molasses-brown eyes fringed with thick lashes. It usually took a few minutes of polite conversation and the mention of his profession to solicit that wide-eyed, raised-eyebrow look. Was she going to run right past sympathy and slide into open and outright curiosity? This was a first.

  Most folks seemed eager to keep the contact brief, as if the disfigurement on his neck was transmissible. This woman held on, prolonging the grip, all the while her eyes fixed on his. She appeared to size him up through the touch. He had to admit it was an appealing change, and the closest thing to intimate contact he’d allowed in years.

  Her blunt cut hair had glistened under the stage lights with too many shades of blond to be anything but natural. It hung straight, just past her shoulders, with bangs that could use a trim. She was tall. The kind of tall that had probably cost her a date to the prom because high school boys were too cowardly to dance with her. Shoulders back, chin high, she looked him eyeball to eyeball with no apology for her height.

  Something about the almost overconfident gleam in her dark eyes caused him a moment of discomfort. Of déjà vu.

  He shifted his attention to her dress. She’d opted for trousers and a jacket on a day of record Houston heat. He was certainly in no position to judge since he stood there in his perpetual “uniform,” consisting of jeans and a long sleeved black T-shirt with Praise Productions printed in script across the back.