"I know the cold medicine hit you hard," said Idabelle Babcock, "but you're the only waitress on duty today besides me. Take care of that new fellow who just wandered in, would you? I've got to get on with my baking or I'll never be ready for the dinner crowd."
"You mean the hayseed in the checked shirt?" Rita asked thickly. Usually her New York accent made a startling contrast to her boss's Texas twang, but today her brain was full of cotton. With her nose so stuffy, she sounded like a three-year-old who hasn't quite gotten the hang of consonants. "I hope he's not going to carry on like the last couple of guys."
What was it about ranch hands that made them act as if they'd never seen a five-foot-six, blue-eyed blonde before? There were plenty of attractive women in central Texas, although Rita had to admit she hadn't seen any others who dyed the tips of their hair pink or had their eyeliner tattooed on.
"First of all, honey, we're all hayseeds here in Skunk Crossing. Second, he's good-looking enough to make the cows give ice cream instead of milk, so if he gawks at you, enjoy it. Go on, now, shoo." Idabelle waved her out of the kitchen into the cozy coffee shop.
At three o'clock on a Monday afternoon, the dozen tables were less than half-filled. Rita took as deep a breath as she could, given her advanced state of nasal congestion, and strolled at a leisurely pace across the black-and-white tile floor.
Waitressing was her second least favorite thing to do, just ahead of scrubbing floors. At twenty-six, she'd hoped never to have to fall back on either one again.
Much as she liked Idabelle, she wasn't thrilled to be stuck here in this tiny town. The Black-and-White Café, with its fake red carnations on every table, might smell tantalizingly of bacon and maple syrup, but it was a long way from her budding career as a Broadway actress and singer. Well, okay, Off Off Broadway, but she was working her way up.
Rita had planned to beef up her résumé and her bank account with a monthlong stint at a dinner theater in San Antonio. Problem was, her rattletrap car had taken its final curtain call en route, stranding her in the middle of nowhere.
When she called the dinner theater producer, he'd informed her he had a policy against advancing money. He'd go with local talent, he'd said, and hung up.
Since Rita's theater friends were as broke as she was, she'd had to rely on her waitressing skills. Thank goodness the gruff but kindhearted Idabelle had rented her a cheap room at the bed-and-breakfast and hired her on at the café. Even after three weeks, though, she still couldn't afford the expensive parts her car needed.
Rita whipped out her pad as she approached the well-built man who sat fiddling with the ketchup bottle as if he couldn't wait to douse something with it. In his late twenties, he had a rangy, rough-hewn look, with melting brown eyes and hair slightly darker than Rita's used to be before she reinvented herself as a blonde. The cowboy clothes were low-key and definitely well worn.
If she were casting a rodeo movie, she'd give him the part of the muscle-bound champion. Or, better yet, a nonspeaking role where all he had to do was drape himself picturesquely across a saddle.
"Hi, I'm Rita," she said. "What can I get you?"
"Well, I'd like some hotcakes and…" The man looked up from his menu and stopped with his mouth open.
His gaze traveled up her figure as if peeling away the frilly white apron and black dress. The guy probably had an X-ray imagination, but then, what sex-starved backwoods Romeo didn't?
"Like what you see?" Rita meant to be sardonic, but her tongue felt like an Olympic skater trying to perform a triple axel on ice cubes. To her dismay, the words sounded sincere.
"Honey, I sure do," he said.
She had to admit, she'd asked for that. "What'll you have with your hotcakes?"
"I don't suppose you're available?"
Rita gave him credit for delivering that ancient line as if it were fresh. He got extra credit for the nice, even teeth, too. Somewhere along the line he'd collided with either a good orthodontist or an exemplary set of genes. "Afraid not. As you can see, I'm working."
"Nobody works all the time." The guy's smile was such an intriguing blend of cockiness and hope that she almost smiled back.
She'd better get her attitude together or she'd never survive when she got back to New York. "I work every chance I get. There are bills to pay." No point in going into none-of-his-business details. "You want hash browns or grits?"
"Grits would be fine." Without taking his eyes off her, he handed her his menu and the ketchup bottle.
"You can keep that," Rita said.
He took the menu back.
"The ketchup," she said.
"Sorry." The man shook his head at his mistake. "I finished a cattle drive in Montana last week. I nearly forgot how it feels to eat in a restaurant."
A cattle drive. So that explained the lean physique and the 110-percent sheer maleness of the man. "Just don't spit tobacco on the floor. The management frowns on it."
"If I promise not to, will you take in a movie with me tonight? A little female companionship might help to civilize me." He leaned back in his chair and gazed at her invitingly. The man had guts, she conceded. And a thick hide, since she'd already told him no.
It was the wrong moment for Rita's nose to get ticklish, because it cut off her natural inclination to put the guy in his corn-pone-eating place. Also, it looked bad if you sneezed on a customer, so she held it until her eyes watered. There was nothing worse than having a cold in August, she thought miserably.
"That's all right," said the stud, misunderstanding. "I didn't mean to scare you. I know I'm a stranger in town, but there's nothing to be afraid of. My name's Owen Ryder. I inherited the Twin Star Ranch from my uncle, Charley Ryder. I bet he used to come in here a lot to see a pretty girl like you."
"No doubt." Although Rita knew old Charley had died before she'd arrived in Skunk Crossing, she found herself reluctant to tell Owen any details, including the fact that she was a stranger here herself. "I'll get your coffee," she said, and made a getaway into the kitchen.
"Your cheeks are burning," Idabelle told her.
Rita slapped down the order. "That guy is so full of cow manure, he shouldn't be allowed off the range."
The café owner thumped a ball of dough onto a flour-sprinkled cloth and began kneading it for all she was worth. Her homemade bread was so popular, she could hardly keep enough on hand. "I'd be pleased as punch if a man like that took a shine to me. But then, I'm not some big-city woman."
"Here's the funny part. He thinks I'm a shy local girl." Rita chuckled. "Maybe I'll let him keep on believing it."
Idabelle picked up the order form and squinted at it. "That's strange."
"What is?"
"What you wrote down," said her boss. "Hotcakes, great teeth, guts."
"That's grits," Rita said. "Forget the teeth. I don't know what I was thinking."
"I do." Idabelle made a kissing noise as she turned to pour batter for the flapjacks.
Rita grabbed a pot of coffee and a mug. "I never thought anything of the sort," she said. "Not about that cowboy."
They were ships passing in the night. Prairie schooners, Rita corrected herself, and went out to pour Owen some coffee. With a little luck, maybe she'd spill some down his pants and scald his brains.
By the time Owen finished his flapjacks, he'd reluctantly concluded that this stunning waitress had no intention of going on a date with him. Maybe she already had a boyfriend or, more likely, two or three.
He wasn't the type to give up easily, though, not when he saw something he really wanted. And he liked everything about Rita, from the pink-edged blond hair to eyes so blue they set off a stampede among his red blood cells. He liked her spirit, too.
It was no use worrying about the fact that he didn't plan to stay in Skunk Crossing, Texas. It would take him months to fix up the ranch he'd inherited so he could sell it for top dollar. As usual in a new place, he'd hang around until he found himself waking up at night raring to pack his bags and move on.
Since he was a teenager, Owen had been driven to search for something he couldn't name, something that would satisfy him completely, something that probably didn't exist. He hadn't found it in the army or at any of half a dozen cities around the West and he knew he wasn't going to find it in this middle-of-nowhere town.
In the meantime, if beautiful Miss Rita didn't want to date him, he'd find another way to get to know her. In fact, he had it right in his pocket.
She stopped by again, smelling of the cherry cough syrup he'd seen her swallowing a minute ago, and slapped his bill on the table. "You can stay as long as you want, cowboy, but I'm off."
"I thought you worked such long hours you didn't have time to date," Owen teased, and then held up his hand to stop the sharp retort she was obviously fixing to launch. "If you don't want to go out with me, that's fine."
"Glad to hear it." She had a funny accent, he noticed, but that was probably due to her cold.
"If you need money like you said, how come you're not working the dinner shift? I've heard that usually pays better than lunch," he said.
"I don't have enough seniority to get that shift." She released an impatient breath.
"You must hate sitting around with nothing to do when you've got all those bills to pay," Owen said. "Look at what I was about to take over to the Crossing Chronicle." From his pocket, he unfolded the ad he'd planned to run in the local weekly.
Rita planted one hand on her hip while she read it. Man, she looked great from every angle, Owen thought.
He knew he was playing with fire. A small-town lady like her would expect her man to stick around. Well, he'd cross that bridge when he came to it.
"A housekeeper." Her nose wrinkled. "You couldn't pay me enough to scrub your floors."
That old ranch house needed a lot more than scrubbing. He'd be willing to play it by ear, though, just to have Rita on the premises. "I'll do the heavy work myself. Mostly the place needs a woman's touch," he improvised.
"Do I look like Martha Stewart to you?"
"Honey, you look like a movie star to me," he said.
Rita thrust the paper into his hand. When they touched, her skin burned against his palm, sending his masculine instincts slamming to attention.
"You didn't mention a salary," she said.
"It's hourly." Although he'd meant to offer eight dollars, Owen had a feeling she'd laugh in his face. Ten probably wouldn't do it, either. Mentally, he did a quick calculation of the number of hours involved and compared it to his bank balance. No point in haggling, he decided. "Would twenty an hour interest you?"
Those enormous blue eyes swept over him like a vacuum cleaner. Coming to a decision, she nodded. "Okay. I can only work in the evenings, though. And my car's busted. That's what I need money for."
It surprised him that one of her beaux hadn't volunteered to do the job. What was wrong with the men in this town, forcing a woman to work extra hard when all she needed was a few repairs?
"I was a mechanic in the army," Owen said. "I'll haul your car out to the ranch and fix it myself. No charge."
"It needs parts."
"I'll order them sent to my place. It won't take long." He might stretch it out by a few weeks, Owen reflected, trying to ignore a twinge of conscience. They needed time to get to know each other. "I'll drive you to and from town."
Rita eyed him dubiously. "You'd better not have any smart ideas about getting me alone on your ranch. You pull any funny stuff, buster, and I'll overhaul your transmission myself."
He whistled. "Your mama must have fed you hot chilies for breakfast!" Moving to close the deal, Owen added, "Why don't we go fetch your car right now? I've got a tow bar on my pickup."
She shook her head. "I'll start tomorrow afternoon."
"Why's that?" The prospect of a delay made him edgy. Patience had never been Owen's strong suit.
"First, I'm going to check you out," she said.
"I never lived around here. But sure, go ahead. Uncle Charley probably told people a few things about me." He'd never broken the law and he'd only gotten drunk a few times in his younger years, so Owen wasn't worried about what she might learn.
"If you come up clean, I'll see you tomorrow. And for twenty bucks an hour plus free car repair, I'll even scrub your floors." Before he could frame a reply, Rita's shapely bottom sashayed across the restaurant and out of sight.
For once in his life, Owen stayed where he was, held fast by pure masculine appreciation.
Rita stood in the doorway, gaping at the shambles inside the ranch house. When she'd agreed to work for Owen, she hadn't figured on needing a bulldozer, a crane, and most likely a game warden before she could get into his home.
In one corner, cobwebs thick enough to catch a buffalo hung from an upright piano. So much paint had peeled from the walls that she could only guess at their color, and the scarred coffee table listed sharply to starboard.
"Sorry about the mess." Owen gazed around ruefully. "I didn't realize it was this bad. Guess I was paying more attention to the rest of the spread."
"Don't tell me you sleep in here!"
"I sleep out in the trailer," he said. "That's where my uncle must have stayed the past few years, too, judging by the looks of this place. I guess he was in worse shape than he let on. If he'd told me, I'd have come and helped him."
"I don't know where to start," Rita protested, even as her brain began organizing a rescue operation. Messy though it was, this house could have swallowed half a dozen overcrowded apartments like the ones where she'd grown up in New York with her mother and her aunt's family.
Her dreams had kept her sane. Dreams of onstage glory. Dreams of wealth and vast Fifth Avenue apartments.
Of course, she'd matured since then. In singing and acting, she'd discovered not an avenue to wealth — far from it — but a way to live in the moment, to be truly herself. And as soon as she got her car fixed, she'd be heading back to the life she loved.
"I'll tell you what," Owen said. "There's fence posts to mend and the barn to paint, but I'll work in here with you until we get things straightened. I promised you no heavy lifting and I meant it."
To demonstrate, he hoisted the broken coffee table, carted it to the front door, and heaved it into the yard, where it landed with a crash. In the summer heat, his plaid shirt clung to his torso, etching the muscles. When he turned to face her, Rita's fingers itched to trace their outlines.
"Okay, let's start with…" She paused, seeing a feathery black-and-white tail wave into view behind an ottoman. What a pretty cat, was her first thought, right before understanding dawned. The nearby town hadn't been named Skunk Crossing for nothing.
That was when Rita screamed.
Rita's close encounter with the skunk, which Owen had lured outside using an old bag of cat food, was only the first of her adventures. During the next week, she discovered exactly how badly his late uncle Charley had neglected the ranch house.
There were piglets rooting in the laundry room. Kittens mewling in a doorless kitchen cabinet. An owl nesting in the attic.
For twenty dollars an hour and the chance to get her car fixed so she could leave Skunk Crossing, Texas, she was more than willing to play Dr. Dolittle during the off hours from her waitress job. Besides, the kittens were cute, the pigs had personality, and the owl fascinated her with its knowing stare. She was almost sorry when it departed for parts unknown.
"We'll need to find homes for these," she said on Saturday as she knelt in front of the barn stall where she'd just moved the little cats. The mother, whom Owen had told her was named Patches, meowed and rolled over for a tummy scratch. "Unless you plan to keep them." She rubbed the soft fur.
"I'm afraid I wouldn't know what to do with them." Owen glanced down from the loft, where he'd been pitching moldy hay out the hay doors. The chaff in the air clogged Rita's sinuses, which had barely recovered from her head cold. Even so, she caught a tantalizing whiff of aftershave lotion and tangy male exertion.
In the August heat, sweat gleamed on Owen's tanned, bare torso above low-riding jeans. There was something almost irresistible about a well-built man with his shirt off, Rita thought. Absently, she plucked her low-necked blouse away from her steamy skin and then realized she'd just given him a clear view down her shirt.
He was a big boy. He could handle it, she mused, then checked upward and realized he'd grown even bigger since the last time she looked. Well, that was his problem.
"That's a terrific sty you built for the piglets," she said, hoping he hadn't noticed the direction of her gaze. "You've got great carpentry skills."
"I've worked on ranches most of my life," he said. "You've got to be your own construction worker, mechanic, vet, whatever it takes."
It was on the tip of Rita's tongue to suggest that he'd be handy at building stage sets. She bit back the words.
For reasons she couldn't explain even to herself, she still hadn't wised him up to the fact that she was a stranded actress from New York instead of the local girl he assumed her to be. She'd even caught herself softening her accent without meaning to. Thank goodness he didn't get into town much or know anyone who might gossip about her.
Of course, Owen hadn't shared with her the fact that he planned to sell off this ranch rather than settling down. She'd learned about it by putting two and two together. At the restaurant, Idabelle had recalled old Charley saying that his nephew had a bad case of wanderlust. Suzette, the local real estate broker, had mentioned Owen asking how much ranches were selling for.
Rita wondered if he was keeping it secret because he figured a small-town lady was more likely to get involved with a man who might marry her. If he only knew that she ran away screaming any time a man tried to tie her down, he might do something about that excitement of his, something she wasn't sure she would mind.
"Where were you stationed in the army?" she asked. They'd been laboring so hard all week, they'd had little chance to talk about anything more personal than whether to clean the curtains or burn them.
"In Germany," he said. "After I got out, I fixed cars at a garage in Boise for a while. Working indoors makes me feel like I'm in prison, so I gave it up."
From the corner of her eye, Rita spotted a dust mouse from her morning's work in the kitchen clinging to her hair and finger-combed it out. At least the kitchen was clean now, although it still needed painting. Despite its condition, it felt luxurious after the kitchenette in the Manhattan flat she shared with three other actresses.
"What would you have done if you hadn't inherited the Twin Star spread?" she asked.
"I was thinking about heading for California." Owen slid down the ladder from the loft, his boots planted on either side as if he were a fireman scooting down a pole. At the bottom, he opened the cooler, took out two colas and tossed her one. "They've got ranches out there, I hear, although not as many as there used to be."
"What's so special about California?" After wiping her hands on her jeans, Rita popped the top and took a swig. It was so wonderfully cool that she pressed it to the valley between her breasts.
"Nothing, except it's a place I haven't been." His can uplifted over his mouth, Owen glimpsed what she was doing and spilled soda down his front.
"Hey! There's a refreshing idea!" Rita teased.
Spluttering, he tried to brush off the sticky liquid. "Rita, didn't your mama ever tell you not to distract a man when he's drinking?"
"You find this distracting?" she asked archly, and pressed the can between her breasts again.
His sharp intake of breath sent a delicious shiver down her stomach into private places. "I know you're working for me, and I'm not the kind of guy to take advantage of a woman," he said.
"But?" she challenged.
"Maybe we ought to take advantage of each other." His eyes hooded, he set down his soda and shifted toward her.
Rita fought a rapid battle with her better judgment and lost. Instead of heading for the open door, she set her own can on top of the cooler.
Owen's work-roughened hands caught her shoulders gently. He angled her toward him, scorching her with a hungry gaze. Tipping her chin up lightly with his fingers, he brushed a kiss across her mouth, tilted his head and probed more deeply.
Mesmerized, Rita felt her breasts swell and her knees melt as he gathered her against him. Somehow she'd expected a cowboy to be rougher, quick to pull her onto the fresh hay piled on the floor and nearly as fast as a New York male to whip off his pants. Even though she'd invited their embrace, she'd been prepared to squirm her way free.
Instead, Owen seemed to enjoy every simmering moment as he ran one hand through her blond hair and cradled her cheek against his palm. Taking his time, he trailed his attention down to the vee of her blouse, where he worked a button to reveal more of her cleavage.
"You sure are lovely," he said. "Fresh and sweet."
"Don't pretend you haven't turned heads from Montana to…" What was some other Western state? Rita wondered. "…wherever."
"I've had a few girlfriends," Owen admitted. "There's something different about you, though. Colors seem brighter when you're around."
"You're full of pan drippings," Rita shot back. Pan drippings? Where had that phrase come from?
He chuckled. "I'm hot, all right. And so are you." Talking didn't hinder his talented hands, she noticed as his thumbs circled her nipples inside her bra. Ripples of pleasure radiated into her marrow, making it hard to remember that she needed to call a halt.
"I'd say we're getting a little too hot to handle." Catching his wrists, Rita gave them a tug.
Instead of pulling away, Owen bent down and put his mouth where his thumbs had been a moment before. Rita knew she ought to object. And she was going to, any minute now.
That was the last rational thought she had before they sank onto the pile of hay together.
What on earth had she let herself in for? Rita mused as she lay half-submerged in hay and glowing with satisfaction. Next to her, Owen released a contented sigh.
His hard body looked so appealing that she almost forgot her doubts about what they'd just done. The man must spend a lot of time in the sun with his shirt off, Rita reflected, because he had a tan to put a surfer to shame, not to mention a build that would bring instant, envious silence to any gym he cared to ramble through.
Outside the barn, the August daylight was fading, leaving a mist of Texas heat. It would be easy to lie here forever. Or to go on doing what she was doing day after day, working mornings at the café and, after hours, helping fix up Owen's ranch house. Was it really so important to hurry back to New York?
The hay tickled Rita's nose and she sneezed. She found her jeans on the ground and pulled out a tissue left over from her recently defunct head cold.
Speaking of pockets, that reminded her of what Owen had produced from his: a condom. Great idea, of course, except that it emphasized that he was a stud. Also, she recalled, he still hadn't disclosed the fact that he planned to sell the ranch.
Like Rita's father, who'd abandoned his family when Rita was ten, he gave only the illusion of being reliable. The sooner she got on with her life, the better.
That was impossible with her car out of commission. Come to think of it, he'd made no appreciable progress on fixing the thing in the past week.
"Owen?" Rita said.
He rolled over, took one look at her naked body and groaned. "Honey, you can ask me anything you want and I swear, I'll do it."
"I'm not in the mood for any more…"
"If you want, I'll pick you up and carry you to the water tank for a swim. Or what do you say we stroll inside in the altogether and I'll cook you a Spanish omelet for dinner?" His rich brown eyes widened hopefully.
Rita took a swig from her now-warm can of cola. "What I was wondering was when you expect those car parts to get here from San Angelo."
"Car parts?" He looked baffled, as if the dirt-streaked white sedan weren't sitting a few dozen feet outside the barn, where he'd unhitched it from his pickup.
"For my Oldsmobile," she prompted.
"Oh, right." Pulling his thoughts together with visible effort, the temporary rancher sat up and reached for his own soft drink. "They're on back order. There's a shortage of parts for your model."
"Have you tried eBay?" Rita asked sweetly.
He choked on the soda. It sounded as if it had gone up his nose.
"That's on the Internet," she said with pretended innocence. "Don't they have that in Montana?"
"I, uh, forgot about eBay." Owen had the grace to look embarrassed. "Guess you're way ahead of me, as usual."
Judging by the crimson stain on his cheeks, Rita figured the parts had either already arrived or were likely to be here any day. She hoped she'd shamed him into installing them fast.
His next question caught her off guard. "What's your rush, anyway? I'm driving you to and from town, and you can walk anywhere you need to go in Skunk Crossing."
Rita's hand tightened on the soft-drink can. Until now, she'd let Owen assume she was a local lady without actually lying to him. She hated to spoil the moment after they'd made love by telling him the truth, but what was the alternative?
Owen had never seen a woman so unselfconscious about being naked. Or so gorgeous, either. It was a winning combination.
From the way Rita's pretty mouth was working, though, he could tell his question had hit on a sore point. He finally organized his thoughts enough to reflect that she hadn't volunteered much about herself this past week since she'd started working for him part-time. Such as, why did she live at the bed-and-breakfast, and where was her family?
He hoped the answers didn't involve a man, particularly not one who had a claim on her. Such as a husband she'd run away from.
"I'm not from around here." Stretching out her long legs, Rita leaned against the barn wall, letting her pink-tipped blond hair tumble around her bare shoulders. "In fact, I was just passing through."
If he hadn't been so absorbed in male fantasies every time she was around, Owen realized, it might have dawned on him once her cold cleared up that she didn't have a Texas accent. "Where is it exactly that you live?"
"New York," she said.
"Upstate?" He'd heard there were farms in that region. Wineries, too.
"City," Rita corrected.
His brain shifted gears with a subliminal grinding noise. He had to cancel the small-town assumptions and substitute — what?
"Never been there," Owen admitted. "What sort of work do you do?" Thinking of her job at the Black-and-White Café, he added, "Waitressing?"
"Only when I have to," Rita said. "I'm an actress and a singer."
"Like in musicals?" he heard himself say through a sheen of unreality.
Sure, his new girlfriend was beautiful enough to be on stage. Men would probably pay just to look at her. But an actress? Never in a million years had Owen expected to meet such an exotic creature in Skunk Crossing.
"Exactly," she said. "Mostly I've worked Off Off Broadway. I was on my way to a dinner theater job in San Antonio when I got stuck."
"Does that pay much?"
"No," she said.
He should have figured that, since she'd been eager to clean his rundown house for twenty bucks an hour. "I'd love to hear you sing."
"Get that piano tuned and you can count on it." Flashing him a dazzling smile, Rita scrambled to her feet and picked up her itsy-bitsy underwear.
"Going somewhere?" He hoped not.
"I'm starving and you promised me an omelet," she said. "Any chance of eating soon?"
"You bet!" Owen hurried to his feet and grabbed his jeans.
"I never saw anybody take so long to get dressed. You move about as fast as rush-hour traffic," Rita teased, and marched out of the barn without a backward glance.
Struggling to pull on his clothes, Owen hopped after her toward the ranch house. He didn't want to let this lady out of his sight.
He'd figured Rita for someone special from the moment he laid eyes on her, but he'd never imagined anything like this. Owen had lived in a lot of places in the ten years since he'd turned eighteen. One thing he'd discovered about his girlfriends, though, no matter where they lived, was that the better he got to know them, the more alike they seemed.
Rita was different. Full of surprises and quick-witted, too. He suspected it would take one heck of a long time to get bored with her.
Owen proved to be a good cook, judging by his omelet. "Is this one of the things you cooked over a campfire during your cattle drive?" Rita asked as they carried their empty plates to the sink. "If it is, I might sign on."
She might sign on for more of that lovemaking they'd done in the barn today, too. Her body still hummed.
"We sure could have used an entertainer like you up there in Montana." As Owen washed the dishes, Rita found herself fascinated by his powerful arms and hands, now that she knew exactly what he could do with them. "It's beautiful country but after a while, I got tired of all that wide-open space with nobody around."
"Where I grew up in New York, we knew from the sounds and smells what our neighbors ate for breakfast and which TV shows they watched." It was a relief for Rita to be able to talk about her childhood, now that she'd admitted she wasn't a local girl. "My mom and I had great scenery out the bedroom window, too — a brick wall. It had a funny blotch on it. I used to imagine it was a secret sign from my fairy godmother."
"A secret sign about what?" Owen scrubbed the glasses with a practiced hand. The last fellow Rita had dated had never used anything but disposables, even his knives and forks. He'd been a one-man environmental disaster. A disaster in several other departments as well.
"A sign that my father was coming back." She could hardly believe she was confiding this. Something about the ranch house, despite its years of hard use, made her feel at home. Something about the man made her feel she could trust him, too, although she knew perfectly well he was a confirmed wanderer at heart. "He left when I was little."
"You lived alone with your mother?" After Owen tossed her a terry towel, Rita set to work drying.
"I wouldn't call it alone. We shared a two-bedroom place with my aunt and her kids. She's a widow." Rita loved her family and wished she could summon more nostalgia for happy times in the flat. Instead, all she recalled was taking refuge on the fire escape, dreaming of becoming a Broadway star. Or, better yet, of having her father come home and never leave again.
"At least you probably had friends around." Owen dried his hands on another towel. "It seemed like as soon as I made a friend, we moved on. My father was always losing his job and going in search of a new one. I think he liked it that way. My mom didn't, though."
"Where are they now?" Rita didn't object when he took her hand and led her outside. Darkness had fallen while they ate, and a thousand stars blazed across the sky, brighter than she'd ever seen.
"My dad died while I was in the army. Mom's remarried and lives in Tucson," he said. "I want to show you something, Rita. Look up there."
He pointed at the sky. Not knowing the names of the constellations, she had no idea what she was supposed to be looking at. The important thing was that Owen cared enough to show it to her. "It's beautiful, whatever it is."
"Look at that star. Not those faint ones. The bright one, right there." He indicated a part of the heavens that glittered with lights. "My daddy used to call it the Ryder Wandering Star. He said he'd discovered it and one of these days he was going to officially put our name on it."
Rita pretended to study it, although she still couldn't tell which one he meant. "It's an airplane," she said at last.
"It is not!"
"Give me a minute," she said. "If I study it long enough, I can tell you — I knew it!"
"What?"
"It's a Southwest Airlines flight to L.A. with a stopover in Las Vegas."
Owen let out a whoop of laughter and caught Rita in a hug. "You've got to be the most original woman I ever met!"
"You ain't seen nothin' yet, cowboy," she drawled. Being held against his broad chest gave her a warm, secure sense.
Rita was about to suggest they go try out the new bed he'd installed in the house when she felt something brush against her leg. Something small and yielding and…alive.
She let out a squawk. "What is that? Tell me it's the cat!"
Owen bent down. A whimpering noise greeted him, followed by a sharp yap. "It's a puppy," he said. "Half-grown and half-starved, too."
Rita knelt beside him. Her eyes had adjusted to the moonlight enough to make out the nubbly fur on the darting form as the little dog jumped, desperate for attention. "At least he's friendly."
Owen's expression sobered. "People who get tired of their pets sometimes dump them along the road. They figure the little critters will find a home on a ranch. I wish they could see how sad most of those animals end up."
Rita ran her hand across the matted fur. The puppy licked her eagerly. "He shines with love," she said. "Like a baby."
"I wouldn't figure a performer would have much use for babies." Owen sounded amused. "Unless you're planning on starting your own children's chorus, like in The Sound of Music."
Maria von Trapp on a ranch? Maria von Trapped was more like it! A shudder ran through Rita. She didn't know why she'd mentioned babies. She'd seen how tough it was for women like her mother and her aunt when they were left to raise those babies by themselves.
"No babies for me," she said. "I've got to keep my figure in shape for my next performance."
"Do you have a play scheduled?" Disappointment roughened Owen's tone as he knelt to scratch the puppy.
"Not exactly," she admitted. "A friend of mine who's done some producing wants to cast me in his next play. Pete's trying to pull together the financing." He was one of the people she'd called when her broken-down car stranded her in Skunk Crossing. Unfortunately, he hadn't had any money to lend her.
"What kind of friend?" Owen rose abruptly.
Was that jealousy she detected? "Don't worry, he's already got a girlfriend and he's not my type." You are, Rita thought. If only you lived in New York. But then you wouldn't be you. "That's why I need my car fixed. If you can't do it, I'll…"
"Sure I can." He ducked his head. "I put off ordering those parts, hoping you'd stick around longer. I'm sorry about that."
"No problem." If he hadn't delayed her departure, they might not have made love today. Rita knew she would cherish the memory for the rest of her life.
"If that fellow offers you a role, I don't want to be responsible for you missing your chance," Owen said ruefully. "I've always wished I could figure out what I want from life. I keep hoping that the next place I go, I'll run into it. You're lucky to have your dream all cut out and pasted on the wall where you can look at it."
"That's an interesting way of putting it," she said.
The little pooch let out a high-pitched bark. Owen hoisted the puppy in his arms. "Let me put him in the utility room so he doesn't wander off, and then I'll drive you back to town."
As Rita watched him cut through the darkness toward the lighted house, she almost called out to say that she would stay tonight, after all. She stopped herself. They'd already grown too close for comfort.
She had to go back to Skunk Crossing and, as soon as Owen repaired her Olds, to New York. Today, with their glorious lovemaking in the barn and quiet moment under the stars, had been an island in time, one she probably would never visit again.
Whether she wanted to or not.
Maria von Trapp on a ranch? Maria von Trapped was more like it! A shudder ran through Rita. She didn't know why she'd mentioned babies. She'd seen how tough it was for women like her mother and her aunt when they were left to raise those babies by themselves.
"No babies for me," she said. "I've got to keep my figure in shape for my next performance."
"Do you have a play scheduled?" Disappointment roughened Owen's tone as he knelt to scratch the puppy.
"Not exactly," she admitted. "A friend of mine who's done some producing wants to cast me in his next play. Pete's trying to pull together the financing." He was one of the people she'd called when her broken-down car stranded her in Skunk Crossing. Unfortunately, he hadn't had any money to lend her.
"What kind of friend?" Owen rose abruptly.
Was that jealousy she detected? "Don't worry, he's already got a girlfriend and he's not my type." You are, Rita thought. If only you lived in New York. But then you wouldn't be you. "That's why I need my car fixed. If you can't do it, I'll…"
"Sure I can." He ducked his head. "I put off ordering those parts, hoping you'd stick around longer. I'm sorry about that."
"No problem." If he hadn't delayed her departure, they might not have made love today. Rita knew she would cherish the memory for the rest of her life.
"If that fellow offers you a role, I don't want to be responsible for you missing your chance," Owen said ruefully. "I've always wished I could figure out what I want from life. I keep hoping that the next place I go, I'll run into it. You're lucky to have your dream all cut out and pasted on the wall where you can look at it."
"That's an interesting way of putting it," she said.
The little pooch let out a high-pitched bark. Owen hoisted the puppy in his arms. "Let me put him in the utility room so he doesn't wander off, and then I'll drive you back to town."
As Rita watched him cut through the darkness toward the lighted house, she almost called out to say that she would stay tonight, after all. She stopped herself. They'd already grown too close for comfort.
She had to go back to Skunk Crossing and, as soon as Owen repaired her Olds, to New York. Today, with their glorious lovemaking in the barn and quiet moment under the stars, had been an island in time, one she probably would never visit again.
Whether she wanted to or not.
Owen had the parts for Rita's car delivered the following Tuesday. The next two afternoons, while she fixed up the spare bedrooms, he worked on the Olds. It gave him an excuse to stay close to the ranch house, where he could watch her through the windows.
He'd never seen a woman look as good as Rita with a hammer in one hand and paint spattering her T-shirt and jeans. He wished she hadn't been so insistent on keeping her distance since they made love on Saturday.
If only he could persuade her to stay for another month or two! By then, Owen figured, he'd probably be ready to move on himself. Although inheriting his uncle's ranch and fixing it up to sell had temporarily given him a purpose, he knew that sooner or later the open road would beckon with its promise of excitement.
Still, he liked being here a lot better now that the fences stood straight, the barn and house bore new coats of paint, and the place smelled of fresh hay. He'd even allowed himself to name some of the animals, including the stray puppy, Baby.
Heck, if Owen ever did want to settle down, he'd probably buy a ranch a lot like this one. Even more important, he'd want to come home every night to a woman as much like Rita as possible. But he'd learned over the years that staying in one place simply wasn't in his nature.
On Friday morning, he woke up with an idea. Rita wasn't coming to work for him today because Idabelle needed her to cover the dinner shift at the café. Owen had a whole day and a half to execute his plan.
If he pulled it off, he was sure she'd be back in his arms by Saturday night.
"He's got it bad," Idabelle said when Rita came into the kitchen on Saturday to enjoy a cup of coffee at the end of her shift.
The Black-and-White Café had been crammed all morning with ranchers and their families in town to do some shopping. The crowd had barely thinned out by midafternoon.
"Who do you mean?" Slipping off her pumps, Rita propped her feet on a chair and wiggled her toes. She had half an hour to change into casual clothes before Owen picked her up.
"That cowboy from Montana," said her good-natured boss. Although nearly seventy, she showed no signs of slowing down as she kneaded her bread dough. "That handsome fellow who pays you to hang around the Twin Star Ranch looking pretty."
"You think that's all I do?" Rita gave an unladylike snort. "I work so hard, my blisters have calluses."
"You get satisfaction out of it, though," the older woman said.
"I get satisfaction out of the money he pays me." Curiosity nagged at her. "What makes you say he's got it bad?"
"I've seen the shine on his face when he looks at you. He's right around the corner from being in love." Idabelle didn't miss much. It was rumored that she always knew when a townswoman got pregnant even before the woman's husband did. She was wrong about Owen, though.
"From what I hear, he's a rambling man. Sooner or later, he'll be on his way." Rita tapped some artificial sweetener into her coffee. "Not that I plan on sticking around, myself."
"I've never known a rambling man who didn't get his heart lassoed sooner or later." Idabelle grinned. "Speak of the devil, there he is."
Rita nearly fell off her chair. "He's early!"
"Wait'll you see what he's driving," said her boss.
Rita peered through the kitchen window. There it sat in all its glory, the car whose untimely breakdown had stranded her in Skunk Crossing in the first place. Owen had fixed it, washed off over a month's accumulated dust, and waxed the white paint until it gleamed. "Fantastic!"
Before running to greet him, she tugged her hair free from its clip and shook it out. "Where's my purse? I need lipstick."
Idabelle handed it to her. "Don't bother with makeup, honey. You're a knockout just as nature made you."
She dug through the contents, pushing aside her cellular phone and wadded tissues. No sign of the lipstick. At last, impatience won. "I'll take your word for it. See you tonight!"
As she flew out of the room, Rita heard Idabelle say, "I wouldn't count on it."
Through the rolled-down car window, sunlight picked out golden highlights in Owen's brown hair. His grin when he spotted her was as wide as Texas. "How do you like it?"
"It's beautiful!"
"Hop in."
She hesitated. "I have to change first. I'm not dressed for painting."
"Forget working." Owen beamed at her. "We're taking the evening off to celebrate your car's rebirth. I'm barbecuing dinner, plus I've got a surprise for you."
"You don't have to ask twice." Rita slid into the passenger seat.
She loved having a man cook for her. As for the surprise, it was probably something silly. Owen had been claiming he could teach one of the piglets, Flirty, to walk backward. Despite Rita's scoffing, maybe he'd succeeded.
Foot on the gas, Owen shot off so fast she barely had time to fasten her seat belt. A chicken scrambled out of their path as they roared along the main street of Skunk Crossing.
As they zipped past the general store and the tiny post office, people turned to stare, then waved. Rita waved back. She recognized the faces of customers from the café and friends of Idabelle's. She'd heard their life stories and supposed that, by now, they'd heard hers, too.
Soon they were speeding through open land, where the earthy smells and far horizon made Rita feel at home. Only five weeks ago, when she'd first arrived, she'd felt as if she were driving through an alien landscape.
When they turned onto the Twin Star Ranch, she saw that the welcome sign had been repainted and the double stars, hanging from a frame overhead, glittered with gold paint. "Is that the surprise?"
"What do you take me for?" Owen said. "When I promise a surprise, I don't mean a little touchup to a sign."
"Sorry." Rita stared ahead through the windshield, more eager than she'd expected to be to get back to the ranch after a day and a half's absence.
The outbuildings, the barn, and the house baked peacefully in the August sunshine as Owen rounded a grove of mesquite trees. Rita's spirits soared. After a lifetime of cramped quarters, she loved the sprawling expansiveness of the place.
"Where is it?" she asked.
"Inside." Owen halted at the foot of the walkway.
Without waiting for him to open her car door, a polite habit that had startled Rita the first time he did it, she hurried out. The front door was unlocked, as always.
When she stepped into the house, she inhaled the familiar scents of lemon oil and cedar. It was hard to believe she'd spent two weeks fixing this place up, and now she was leaving. After all, she'd only been sticking around until her car was ready.
Then she saw it. "The piano!" With the wood oiled and a broken key replaced, the upright had been moved from the corner to a place of prominence. "Don't tell me you got it tuned!"
"I had to fetch the piano teacher from Groundhog Station, and pay her plenty." Standing behind Rita, Owen rested his hands lightly on her shoulders. "You promised to sing for me before you leave."
That was what this house lacked: music. Children, too, Rita reflected with a lump in her throat as, for a moment, she imagined two towheaded children peeking from behind the couch.
Now, why was she thinking about that? It must be her unconscious mind telling her something, she decided, and took her seat at the piano, already knowing what she was going to play.
Rita's rich voice warmed the old ranch house, filling it with a nostalgia that brought tears to Owen's eyes.
She'd chosen the song "Sunrise, Sunset" from Fiddler on the Roof. The emotion in her voice carried him into the scene of parents at a wedding, recalling the span of years as their children grew up and wondering how time had passed so quickly.
How many children had been raised in this house during the century since it was built? Owen wondered. How many more would reach maturity between these walls, and would any of them be his? Or was he destined to keep on moving, always searching for an elusive magic that remained beyond his reach?
As he watched Rita's hands flow across the keys, Owen yearned to sit here forever, listening to her sing.
Rita had always figured that the only reason people cried at weddings was because marriage was such a disastrous idea. Like her father, most men didn't stick around.
Yet she found herself wanting to trust Owen. Idabelle had been right. Love shone from his eyes as he listened to her singing.
When Rita had performed onstage, the enthusiasm of the crowd had never matched what she saw on his face. His joy touched her more than any rush of applause ever had.
Maybe she'd been wrong about him. People could change, and even a wanderer like Owen might not wander forever.
A sharp, electronic noise interrupted her playing. For a moment, Rita didn't know what it was, and then recognition dawned. "My phone!" The darn thing hadn't rung in days. She hadn't missed it, either.
"Let it go," Owen said.
"I can't. Conditioned reflexes." Digging the phone from the bottom of her purse, she flipped it open. "Hello?"
Her friend Pete's voice vibrated with excitement. "Our funding came through. The theater's ours for a three-week run in October! Like I told you, you'll love the part."
She felt as if she'd missed something. "What part?"
"Didn't you get my email?"
"I haven't been checking my email." Guiltily, she remembered the laptop computer sitting in her room, unused.
"It's a play called Hard Scrabble," said the budding producer. "You play a farm wife who takes in a hired hand while her husband's working in the city. There's a strong sexual subtext and violence at the end. The critics will love it."
Sex and violence? Rita heaved an inward sigh. "I don't suppose there's a happy ending?"
"Are you kidding? Nobody does happy endings these days."
Rita wanted a happy ending. Not only on stage, she realized suddenly. She wanted a real happy ending, and she wanted it right here in Skunk Crossing, Texas.
What she loved most about acting was the freedom from limits. Playing a role allowed her to shed her fears and inadequacies and become another person. Rita suddenly realized that she hadn't missed that experience these past two weeks because, at the Twin Star Ranch, she'd been living life instead of acting it.
This was what Rita wanted, not to pretend she was a farm wife but to become one. And she could only do that by sharing her future with the man she loved. The problem was, she didn't know whether he loved her, too.
"I'll have to get back to you," she told Pete.
"We've got a tight schedule," he warned. "I don't mean to pressure you but if you're not available, I'll have to recast the role."
"It won't take me long to figure this out," Rita said. "I'll call you back."
"Twenty-four hours max," Pete warned.
"I promise."
When she clicked off, she saw Owen watching her with an unreadable expression. Could it be slow recognition that he didn't want to lose her?
"My friend offered me a part in a play," Rita said. "A terrific part."
His jaw worked and he ran his tongue across dry lips before saying, "Why didn't you accept right off the bat?"
Although Rita preferred to play it cool, she couldn't afford to. She had to lay her cards on the table. "He wants me to play a woman who lives on a farm. But I don't want to act like that character, Owen. I want to be her."
If only Owen would nod eagerly, his face lighting up the way it had while she sang. Throwing himself onto his knees and pledging his undying love would work, too, Rita thought.
In a flat tone, he said, "You want to settle down here?"
"The idea crossed my mind." Why wasn't he throwing his arms around her, the idiot? Couldn't he see that they had something special?
"I was hoping you'd stay for a while, but…" The words trailed off.
Disappointment knotted in Rita's chest. While she'd been falling in love, Owen had merely been amusing himself.
She felt like a fool, and it hurt. "You'll have to excuse me." She heard the edge to her voice, and didn't care. "We actresses tend to confuse fantasy with reality."
"You sound angry." Owen sat glued to his chair. "What did I do wrong?"
"Nothing I shouldn't have expected." Rita stuffed her cell phone into her purse and stood up. She hated feeling like a clingy woman, practically begging a man to marry her. Her, of all people! "Thanks for fixing my car. You can send my last week's wages in care of Idabelle."
"You're leaving?" Finally, the man got to his feet and, for a moment, she thought he was going to block her path. Maybe she hoped he would. But he didn't.
"You can hire someone local to finish my job," she said. "I'm sure she'll work for less than twenty bucks an hour."
"I don't want anyone else," Owen said.
"There are other pretty girls in Skunk Crossing." Rita headed for the door. "Just make sure your next girlfriend knows what the rules are. Of course, some of us know the rules, but we forget them anyway. It's my own fault. So have a nice life, wherever you end up. California, that's the next stop, isn't it? Send me a postcard."
Leaving him speechless, she hurried out to her car. Owen had left the keys in the ignition, because nobody ever stole a car out here in the middle of nowhere. Well, she was going back to New York, where people sometimes stole cars while you were still sitting in them.
It was just one more reason to be madder than fire at him.
That evening, the animals seemed unusually restless to Owen. So was he. At midnight, he was still lying awake, replaying his confrontation with Rita in his mind.
He should have said more. Done something. Promised her — what?
She'd caught him off guard with her admission that she wanted to stay on the ranch. Apparently she'd been hoping for a declaration of love and a proposal. The conversation had felt as if it were happening at jet speed while Owen lagged behind in a horse-drawn buggy.
He'd always imagined the future as a long road leading him toward some as-yet-undefined fulfillment. Until now, every woman he'd cared about had lost her sparkle before long and every place he'd lived, sooner or later, had grown wearying.
His chest tightened. He didn't want to lose Rita, but how could he be sure this time was different? How could he ask her to give up the opportunity she'd been waiting for when he was so uncertain?
Far off on the highway, Owen heard a car passing. In the deep silence of the night, it sounded like Rita's Oldsmobile.
Maybe it was her, setting off for New York. In a few more minutes, she'd be forever out of reach, his beautiful lady with her enchanting voice and a smile like sunrise over the plains.
Owen didn't stop to think. He jumped up, threw a pair of coveralls over his pajamas and ran to his pickup.
By the time he jounced onto the highway, the car was long gone. If it was Rita, she had to be heading east, so he turned right and stepped on the gas.
Five miles later, the car grew larger and larger through the windshield. It was an Oldsmobile, all right, a dark green one instead of white. To make sure she hadn't painted it on a last-minute impulse, Owen drew close enough to see the license plates. They were from New Mexico, not New York.
He eased his foot off the gas, his heart thundering in his chest. Relief flooded him. Slowly, however, it shaded into alarm.
Sheer panic had taught him more than all the rationalizations in the world: He couldn't bear to lose Rita. The scary part was that maybe he already had.
"I'm real sorry you're leaving," Idabelle said as Rita loaded suitcases into her trunk on Sunday morning. "The café customers will be, too, when they find out."
"I'll call you when I get home." She hoped her makeup hid the traces of tears. "Come visit me sometime."
"I'd love to see you in a play," Idabelle said. "Be sure and send me your reviews."
"Thanks for everything." Rita gave her a hug.
A familiar rattling made her swing around, her heart in her throat. A second later, Owen's pickup jerked to a stop a few feet away and he climbed out, cowboy hat in hand. Despite the lump in her throat, she loved seeing his muscular body and mischievous grin one more time.
From the truck came an assortment of animal noises. "What on earth?"
Owen lifted down the puppy. "Without you, Baby's been crying all night." The instant his feet touched the ground, the dog raced over and jumped at her knees. From a carrier, he retrieved Patches, who circled to give Baby a wide berth before rubbing against Rita's calves. "The cat yowled something fierce, too."
A sound that was half squeal and half snort issued from the truck bed. "Who else is in there?" she asked suspiciously.
"Flirty." Gently, Owen set the piglet on the ground. "Come on, show Rita how you can walk in reverse." He clapped his hands. After a hesitant moment, the little creature rocked back and stuck out one leg for balance. "You did it!" To Rita, he said, "See, I told you I could teach her!"
"Owen Ryder, what the heck are you doing?" Idabelle demanded.
"Setting the scene." With a grin, he reloaded the animals into the truck, each in a separate compartment. "A major production needs a supporting cast, right?"
Rita was in no mood for jokes. "If this is your idea of a farewell production, you can skip it. I've got a long drive ahead of me."
Fighting tears, she started toward her car. Halfway to the driver's door, Owen caught her. His broad chest looked almost irresistible to lean on, but that was the point, Rita thought. She couldn't depend on him.
"There's something I didn't see until after you left." Close to her ear, his deep voice vibrated directly into her core. "The Twin Star Ranch won't mean anything with one of its stars gone."
"Why should you care? You're planning to sell it anyway," she blurted.
"You knew that?"
"I hear things," Rita said. "Skunk Crossing is a small town."
"Okay, it's true, I was planning to sell it." In his earnestness, Owen talked faster than usual, although not up to New York speeds. "I've always had this restless yearning, as if there was something I'm meant to find and someplace I'm meant to be. I've been looking for those things all over the West."
"And?" she prompted, almost afraid to breathe.
"It hit me last night that I was wrong," he said. "There's someone I'm meant to be with, and that person is you. Rita, I hope you'll stay here, because I think we could both be happy at the ranch, but if you're bound and determined to act in this play, then I'll come with you."
"To New York?" He couldn't be serious!
"They need mechanics in Manhattan just like anywhere else, I'll bet."
Finally, Rita dared to look directly into those honest brown eyes. "I'm not sure I get your point. What are you suggesting?"
"She's right," said Idabelle. "Quit beating around the bush, Owen."
He ducked his head in embarrassment. "I forgot the most important part." From his pocket, he plucked an old-fashioned ring. The square-cut diamond glimmered in the sunlight. "My uncle Charley bought this for the woman he loved, but they quarreled. He was too proud to admit he was wrong, so she went off and married someone else, and he spent his whole life alone. I don't want to do that, Rita. I'm asking you to marry me and wear my ring. I promise to buy you a new one, whatever kind you like, as soon as I can save the money."
The Texas sun warmed her as she gazed at the man waiting anxiously for her answer. "You know what?"
He shook his head and swallowed hard. "What?"
"I didn't tell you the whole truth," Rita said.
"How's that?"
"You envied me because I knew what my dream was," she said. "Well, I thought I did, but I was wrong. My dream isn't the theater. It's this ranch with a cowboy who's too sexy for his own good and a bunch of animals so mixed-up they fall in with your crazy schemes."
A smile played uncertainly across his mouth. "I sure hope that's your New York way of saying yes."
"I knew there was a reason I hadn't called Pete back yet about that acting job," Rita said. "I guess it had something to do with hoping the man I love would figure out he loved me, too." In case that wasn't clear enough, she added, "That's a yes."
Owen threw back his head and whooped. Several passersby glanced in their direction. "I sure do love you, Miss Rita Coker!"
"I'll take that ring now." As Owen slid it onto her finger, she admired the stone's brilliant clarity. "I like it just the way it is. Old-fashioned things are the best."
"I'm going inside and leave you two alone," said Idabelle. "Congratulations, both of you."
"Thanks, Mrs. Babcock," said Owen.
As she watched her friend leave, Rita realized that everything she'd experienced in her twenty-six years so far had been a prologue. Now the curtain was rising at last on the drama, or perhaps the comedy, that was to be her life.
With a sigh of contentment, she slipped into Owen's arms, her heart swelling with music as Act One began.
The End