as she’d done so many times, she edged into the bright spotlight. She was a corporation. A multimillion-dollar star to whom a host of folks had hitched their wagons. So many people now depended on her that she was afraid of cracking under the burden. Besides back-to-back concerts at home and abroad, there were charity events scheduled and a growing number of photo shoots. Recently, subsidiary companies using her image had marketed T-shirts, look-alike dolls, posters and glossy notebook covers. She needed a break. She felt weighted down. Yet no one heard her plea.
When the theater again fell silent, Miranda adjusted the microphone with a trembling hand. It took a Herculean effort, but finally the music transported her to a place where singing songs had been a joy.
Her newest piece, one she’d entitled “A Cowboy at Heart,” flowed easily from her husky voice. As well it should. She’d written it for her dad. And then she sang “A Last Goodbye,” which paid tribute to both her parents. Frankly, Miranda doubted anyone in this faceless audience knew or cared that eleven years ago on this very night, her father and his band had perished in the wicked storm raging across his beloved Tennessee hills. The new songs poured out her heartache for a dad she’d lost five days after her fifteenth birthday, and for a mom who’d died of pneumonia when Miranda was four.
Even the most cynical among her production crew considered these ballads her very best. Who’d have guessed they’d be her last? Certainly not Wes Carlisle, her manager, a soulless man who’d hustled her into a one-sided contract during the confusing days following her dad’s death.
Wes would be livid when his caged bird flew the coop, and that made her smile.
Her band? A different story. She regretted not confiding in them. Her piano man and steel guitarist were dedicated. And Colby Donovan, her arranger, was the only one left of her dad’s friends. It was a good thing he was home recovering from surgery. When she’d attempted to tell Colby how she felt, he’d dispensed his usual bear hug and said Doug would have been so very proud of her. She’d achieved the pinnacle of success that her dad’s band had almost but never quite reached.
Despite regrets, she’d planned her flight. It would be complete. And it would be tonight—while Carlisle and his henchmen licked their chops, counting the proceeds they raked in from her sold-out concert. Wesley pushed and pushed and pushed her to write more and better chart breakers. No more, no more, Miranda thought with astonishing relief as the audience went still. Perhaps the fans had seen her tears. She couldn’t stop them from running down her face.
One last bow. One last wave. She had nothing left to give.
Look at them. They all envied her fame and fortune. None would understand she’d never wanted to be a star. She loved singing, but…
This time when Misty passed her guitar to the kid holding Wes’s clipboard full of must-dos, he obviously sensed steel in her backbone. Still, he cautioned, “Wes won’t like that you only gave two encores.” Jogging to keep up with Miranda’s long strides, he panted. “Wes has you timed to the second. Now you’ll hafta sit in your dressing room until he frees up a bodyguard to escort you to your bus. So I better stay with you.”
Miranda’s steps faltered as she neared her dressing room. “Remind Wes I said at rehearsal that this sequence would drain me. I need to have some time to myself. He’ll recall the conversation, uh…Dave, isn’t it?”
“Hey, you know my name. Cool! Wes hired me for this tour, ’cause your new CD’s gonna be a smash. He gave me strict instructions, but hey, you’re the star, Ms…. Mis…Misty,” the smitten kid stammered.
Miranda hated that Wes would fire this boy for losing her. But it couldn’t be helped. Dave’s very inexperience played into her hands.
AS IT HAPPENED, her escape turned out to be ridiculously easy. Inside her star quarters, Misty meticulously transformed herself back into the nondescript persona of Miranda Kimbrough. First, she hacked her long blond hair into a short spiky mop—carefully storing the cuttings in a plastic bag to be tossed later. Then she dyed her hair black. Without her blue contacts she barely recognized the woman staring out from the full-length mirror. Add ragged jeans, a faded blouse and a denim jacket straight off a boys’ rack, plus run-down combat boots and an old army backpack she’d scrounged from a thrift shop, and her getaway ensemble was complete. Inside the pack, she’d squirreled away cash withdrawn from one of her accounts. Considering she had millions, it was a pittance.
She worried that the meager funds wouldn’t last. But because Wes scrutinized her bank statements, she’d been afraid to take more. Miranda hoped what she had would keep her fed and on the road until her disappearance became yesterday’s news. For good measure, she’d sewn a pair of diamond earrings into the lining of her jacket. She didn’t need diamonds. Only freedom. A chance to be herself.
While Dave guarded the front entry of her dressing room, Miranda slipped out a rarely used back door. Head down, she sped down a hall and merged with a teeming horde purchasing CDs from Wesley’s hawkers. Rick Holden, Wes’s right-hand man, even tried to sell her a compact disc.
Shaking her still-damp curls, Miranda popped a stick of sugarless gum in her mouth and blended with a group of boisterous teens leaving the arena. Once free of the building, she ran for six blocks. Only then did she haul in a lungful of crisp October air. But she didn’t relax until a Greyhound bus bound for Detroit left the glittering lights of Nashville behind.
Starting in Detroit, her plan was to hop a string of buses that would eventually deposit her in far-off L.A. She reasoned that if one small woman couldn’t lose herself on the streets of Los Angeles, she couldn’t find anonymity anywhere.
IT TOOK THREE WEEKS after she pulled her disappearing act for Miranda Kimbrough to reach her destination. She hadn’t reckoned on Wes suggesting to police that she’d been kidnapped, possibly for ransom. The band, all the staffers and roadies, everyone had heard her beg him for time off. But when her bus hit Kansas City, it was a shock to see headlines screaming KIDNAPPED! above her most recent promo photo now plastered on the front pages of major newspapers and magazines.
Panicked, Miranda had taken refuge on the streets with the homeless. Luckily she’d met some kind folks. And vowed that if she ever managed to access her bank funds again, she’d help the homeless in some manner.
When temperatures dropped into the twenties, Miranda began to feel guilty for taking up space at the cramped shelter. And guiltier still accepting a handout of food, knowing all the while that she could, with one phone call, return to a life of privilege.
Could. But she didn’t make that call.
Wes virtually owned her. He pointed out often enough that she’d signed an ironclad contract. He’d find a way to turn her disappearance into a windfall. Going back would change nothing—except that she could expect to be watched twenty-four hours a day.
In the aftermath of her dad’s death, Miranda learned that few people in the industry performed for the sheer pleasure of it. Her dad had been a rarity. Doug Kimbrough had placed family at the top of his priorities. He’d loved her mother and Miranda and successfully juggled work and his home life.
Since Wes had signed her, she hadn’t spent more than two nights in a row in her own bed at home. And she’d like to make just one friend who didn’t eat, sleep and breathe music at warp speed. Someday she’d like to meet a man who could see beyond her voice. Someone who really cared about her likes, dislikes, needs and fantasies.
Her murky thoughts turned inward as Miranda hitched her backpack higher and trudged out of the busy L.A. bus terminal, and headed for an inner-city park she’d scoped out
