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Page 1 of Stormswept Colorado (Hart County #3)

Ayla

September, Last Year

“Fifteen minutes,” my tour manager warned, popping her head through the doorway to my dressing room. “Then you need to be in place.”

I didn’t take my eyes off my phone screen. “Got it.”

“Don’t make me drag you out of here.”

“I know . We’ve had this conversation before.”

I’d told my team how important this nightly ritual was to me.

I wasn’t going onstage without it. Might as well have been a rider in my contract, along with the sparkling water, kettle-cooked potato chips, and extra-dark chocolate that awaited me at every venue.

Some things a girl couldn’t live without.

The call rang twice. Three times. And then a window popped open with an adorable face. My lips split into a grin as I heard my two favorite words in the entire world.

“Aunt Ayla!”

“Hey, you.”

“Want to see the picture I drew today? ”

“Of course I do. But wait a minute. Let me see that smile again. I think something’s missing.”

Maisie giggled. “It’s my tooth.”

“Your toof ?”

She tipped her head back and laughed. Prettiest melody in the world, if you asked me. And I did have some strong opinions on music.

Ashford, Maisie’s dad, appeared on the screen behind her. “Hi, Ayla. Where are you tonight?”

“Toronto.”

“Dad, I’m talking to her.” She playfully pushed her father away. “Where’s Toronto? Is that California, like where Emma’s from?”

I smiled. “Nope, way off. It’s in Ontario, Canada.”

“Are you going to buy me a present from there?”

“ Maisie ,” Ashford said.

“Don’t I always? I’m going to need another suitcase for all your presents the next time I visit. Now, what should we sing for your bedtime song? I only have a few more minutes.”

I loved how they didn’t comment on my over-the-top makeup and beaded costume.

Probably because my relatives in Silver Ridge, Colorado, had seen me in this same getup plenty of times on video calls just like this one.

Maisie and I had a standing date before her bedtime, and we rarely missed it, even when I was on tour. Well, especially then.

I’d missed so much of Maisie’s life. When Ashford and I had first worked out our differences, I’d gotten choked up every time I was around Maisie because she looked exactly like Lori, my older sister.

And like me too. Except my hair was pale blond, while Maisie had Ashford’s chestnut color.

We had the same emerald irises though, with a ring of darker green around the outside.

Remembering Lori was always bittersweet. Yet Maisie recharged my batteries. Made me feel like Ayla Hopkins, Lori’s little sister, instead of Ayla Maxwell , pop star. I had mixed feelings about the Hopkins name given its other associations. But I would always be proud that Lori had been my sister.

Maisie wanted to sing along with me to her current favorite song, a hit from another artist. “Isn’t this song the best ever, Aunt Ayla?” she gushed.

Ashford was still in the frame, smirking. “Ayla might not agree. That’s her competition.”

“It’s a great choice, Maisie.” I was determined not to be jealous. Gotta love the honesty of a seven-year-old.

A lump gathered in my throat as her sweet, high voice rang out. Full of innocent confidence. She reminded me of myself at that age. I’d always loved to sing.

You’re too loud , my dad would say. Don’t put yourself on display . Good girls don’t do that .

I shoved that voice away. My music had made a difference in people’s lives. My songs brought a little extra beauty into the world, and that was something to be proud of.

After we finished singing, I said, “I’d better get going. Almost showtime. Say hi to Emma for me. And say woof to Stella.”

“Nooooo, don’t go yet! I miss you!”

Oh, I loved that. “I miss you too. Talk to you soon. Promise. I love you.”

“Love you too, Aunt Ayla!”

After I ended the call, my tour manager hadn’t reappeared. My back-up singers and dancers would be in the greenroom right now, psyching themselves up for showtime. I should be there with them. But I needed another minute or two to myself.

Whenever I thought of my dad, it left an icky feeling inside me. A stain I needed to wash away.

I turned toward the flowers, cards, and small gifts that lined a counter.

Things sent by local businesses and fans.

My team vetted everything to make sure it was all safe and uplifting.

Maybe that made me sound too sensitive, like I couldn’t handle criticism or negativity, but if I gave oxygen to every hater I’d never have a moment of peace again .

I ran my fingers over the petals of a red daisy. There were other more exotic blooms too, and they’d filled the air with a subtle, lovely perfume.

Plenty of people appreciated what I did. I had people who loved me. Maisie and Ashford and legions of fans.

Sometimes it was overwhelming how much the fans wanted to know about me, how they got caught up in the tiniest details about my schedule, my clothes, my lyrics.

But where would I be without them? Irrelevant. Then another up-and-coming singer, maybe the one Maisie liked, would take my place.

I’d worked so hard for this. Sacrificed.

Plucking the small card from the flower arrangement, I opened the envelope to read the message inside. There was no name. Just a handwritten message.

You have no idea how beautiful you really are. I’ve always been your biggest fan.

A little over the top, but okay. Not unusual. I was surprised there wasn’t a name and a phone number. Messages like that usually came with the wild hope that I would contact them.

Then I noticed another folded piece of paper inside the envelope. I unfolded it, finding an image. A printout of a photo.

It was me .

I didn’t understand.

Nausea rose in my stomach. Trembling overtook my body. Memories too.

When the door to the dressing room opened, I was struggling to breathe. The tour manager had reappeared, along with Cheryl Traynor, my artist manager and the woman in charge of my entire career trajectory. She didn’t come to every show, but she was here tonight .

Cheryl took one look at me and rushed over. “Ayla? You okay?”

“These flowers.” I cleared my throat, trying to stuff down the emotion. “Where’d these come from? Who sent them?”

Cheryl glanced at the tour manager, who just shook her head and shrugged.

“Is something wrong?” Cheryl asked me.

Reluctantly, I showed her the photo. “This was with the card. I want to know why someone has it. This is… It’s personal.”

Cheryl studied the image. It was an old picture from when I was a teenager, on the porch of the last house where we lived when I was sixteen. I was pretty sure Lori had snapped this with her digital camera. Just before I left for good.

Just before… that night .

“There are a lot of photos posted of you online. You know how people are. Someone you went to high school with wants to get some likes because they knew you once upon a time.”

As if I didn’t know that. My heart knocked against my chest.

“But we’ll look into it,” she promised. “Are you well enough to go on?” She pressed a hand to my face. “You’re clammy.”

“We can’t have her passing out onstage,” the tour manager said.

Their clipped tones had bolstered me. My team didn’t coddle me, and I didn’t need them to.

I’d been taking care of myself since I was sixteen. I’d tried to build walls around me, and sometimes the cracks showed. But I couldn’t afford to fall apart now.

“No, I’m going on. Someone get Ricky?” My makeup artist. “I just need a touchup.”

Cover it up , I thought. Paint it over so no one sees .

That photo meant nothing. My past was gone. Dead and buried. I wouldn’t let anyone see how much it really affected me.