Sidetracked: If Yesterday Steals Tomorrow

By Valerie Banfield

The rock star. Before Nate Fowler fled from the spotlight, his fans saw the soul of an honorable man. It’s been three years. Where did he go? Does he really think he can make a comeback without spilling his secret?

The writer. Samantha Hill is desperate to get the scoop. But what makes her think she has any hope of interviewing the reclusive musician? After all, she’s been hiding too.

When Sammi imposes herself on her target, she ventures far enough to glimpse Nate’s burdens: he’s human; he’s vulnerable. And she’s temptation.

If Sammi wants to pen a story, she has to expose her past and unmask her heart. As long as yesterday’s shadows overpower the present, how can either Sammi or Nate hope to begin anew?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Valerie Banfield
• Release date: Jul 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536593976

Book preview

For Scot.

Steadfast, honorable, man of God;

father, husband, cherished son-in-law

Come away by yourselves to a desolate place and rest a while.

Mark 6:31

Chapter One

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Samantha Hill was not a keen joystick operator, even without the pressure. As her heart thudded and her lungs fought for enough space to take in air, a ribbon of sweat trickled down her neck. Her damp palms did little to improve her handling of the small device, and when the remote video feed transmitted by the drone went blank, she winced, dropped the controls to the ground, and considered stomping the equipment with her new leather boots—Nashville style, just like all the new clothes she purchased for her clandestine operation. If she didn’t get a gig out of this effort—nope, failure was not an option. Couldn’t be.

Sammi ran her hand through her short mop of straight black hair, pinched the bridge of her nose, and closed her eyes. Now what? Yeah, she’d stalked him for six days now, slinking after the man every time he ventured beyond the long drive that led from his residential hideout, memorizing his morning coffee run routine, checking the arrival times of visitors as they waited at the gate for admission to the property. Nothing she’d done so far could be construed as illegal, but climbing over the wall—as if she had the strength and agility needed to hoist herself up and over the eight-foot barrier—took her actions into the criminal realm.

She blew out an exasperated huff as she bent over and grabbed the control mechanism. Before she could stand back up, the sound of determined feet padding the pavement met her hearing at the same time the gate slammed shut. When two huge paws skidded to a stop mere inches from the toes of her boots, she froze. She didn’t need to look up to know that the canine had an enormous head and lethal fangs.

In her stooped position, the dog’s rank breath puffed against her forehead and ruffled the sagging neckline on her blouse enough to warn of unintended exposure. While she fought for some means to escape the situation, the angry froth dispensed along with the dog’s warning growl pooled at her feet. Never mind the immodesty, the dog had to smell fear; he likely hungered for blood.

Samson, sit. The voice, like the dog’s snarls, delivered heavy doses of anger and agitation. His command of the beast left little question as to who might be in charge. Sammi swallowed hard. She could play submissive. No problem.

Get up, the man barked.

Her fingers trembled as she followed the command intended for an intruder. She pulled the control box to her chest. If she dropped the thing, the massive German shepherd might react before his owner could tell him to sit again.

Sammi wasn’t particularly fond of dogs, wasn’t very good with them. Was she supposed to look the four-legged warrior in the eye or avoid visual contact altogether? Maybe that’s what she was supposed to do if she encountered a grizzly? Regardless, all she seemed capable of doing was withering in place. She decided to keep her eyes closed.

Look at me.

Well, so much for her first choice. She lifted her gaze from the pavement, tussled with the dog’s stare long enough to know she wasn’t meant to linger there, and raised her face until a pair of pale green eyes bore into her fearful brown orbs. Her left eye twitched.

He wasn’t a kid any longer—not that she knew him back then. Nate Fowler, now a forty-two-year-old nobody, hit his zenith when she was in middle school, when the admiration and reputation of any Christian rock star were beyond the realm—no, the galaxy—of things that mattered to her. He rode his popularity and maintained his star status until he turned his back on his fans and walked away three years ago.

Sammi discovered Nate and his music after she met and fell in love with Eric. Eric, the man who led her to a relationship with Christ, who introduced her to Christian worship music, who tumbled out of her life as fast as he arrived. She was as ill prepared for Eric’s exit as she was capable of fixing her eyes on Nate’s livid face. The man standing before her didn’t remotely resemble the worship leader whose music was capable of carrying her to spiritual depths.

Nate walked toward her, fisting one hand and waving her mangled drone in his other hand. You lose something?

Uh. When she lifted her foot to take a step back, the dog growled. Staying put seemed a good alternative.

Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t call the police. He stood with his feet apart, the stance of a ready wrestler. The crows feet edging his eyes enhanced their angry sheen, and although countless smiles may have etched the thin lines on either side of his mouth, their rigid curve displayed the man’s displeasure.

Uh, she stammered as she lifted her shoulders and raised her brows in high, hopeful arcs. I’m harmless?

Wrong answer. He flung the drone at her, and when it bounced at her feet, she glimpsed deep teeth marks on the mangled rotors. The dog recoiled at the disturbance and scrambled to a standing position.

Samson, sit.

If her heart weren’t in her throat, she’d try to thank the musician. She pulled in tiny gasps of air as tremors toyed with her nervous system. First, he scowled at her lame reaction, and then his face took on a perplexed expression.

You work for some tabloid?

Sammi managed to shake her head.

A stalking fan?

Hmm, how to answer. Stalking? Yes. Still a fan? Up until this altercation, yes. But not the reason for her presence.

I, uh, wanted your story.

"So, you are with a tabloid."

No, I’m not.

Nate threw her an impatient glare and when he lifted both hands, as if in surrender, the movement brought Samson to his feet again.

Samson, come.

Ah, yes, she could inhale again. Sort of. I heard rumors about a new album. I do freelance work and thought I might be able to earn a name for myself if I managed an interview with the reclusive Nate Fowler.

Some reason you can’t pick up the phone and call my manager?

I know Ron Crowley used to work for you. If you still have a relationship with him, then I have to assume he blew me off.

Nate narrowed his eyes when he asked, You talked to Ron?

I tried. I called, sent letters, came to town and knocked on his office door. The woman who answered told me to leave.

Nate reached down and rubbed Samson between his ears. The attack dog relaxed and lifted his head to the massage.

"Mr. Fowler, I am not looking for some tabloid-worthy news. I came here because I think your fans want to know what happened to you. I want to know."

He gave the dog a pat on the head and looked hard into Sammi’s eyes. When her stinking eye twitched again, he chuckled.

You don’t have a paparazzi’s aggressive demeanor, do you? He kicked at the drone. Although you appear to be determined and inventive.

I am determined. I mean, I really want to know where you’ve been for the past three years, and I want to know what brings you back.

All three heads turned at the sound of a car pulling up to the gate. Samson didn’t growl, exactly, but the hair on his back seemed to stand up a little bit.

A tall man with thin gray wisps delineating his receding hairline stepped out of the car, inspected the scene with accusing blue eyes, and jutted his chin toward Nate.

Trouble?

Nothing Samson and I can’t handle. You can go ahead. I’ll be right behind you. Nate turned his attention back to Sammi, but the newcomer apparently didn’t appreciate Nate’s invitation to go away.

Who is she?

The teensiest hint of levity lifted the edges of Nate’s lips. I don’t know. He raised his shoulder and waited.

Um, I’m Samantha Hill.

You recognize the name? Nate asked his visitor.

Sam Hill? I thought it was a joke.

Rather than engage in visual combat with the man’s belittling stare, Sammi hung her head. How to explain her name? The name came with her marriage to Eric. For that, she loved it. The rest of the world, like the balding jerk gawking at her now, saw the name as comical, nothing more than a euphemism for hell. The prospect of reverting to her maiden name smacked of betrayal. How could she let go of the name Eric chose to share with her?

When she looked up, Nate wore an ear-to-ear grin. She may as well step into the moment.

Are you amused enough to grant me an interview?

Nate isn’t available for interviews.

But—

I don’t know, Ron. It might not hurt to have some free marketing.

Ron? This man was Ron Crowley?

Who do you represent? Magazine? Newspaper? Ron asked.

I freelance, Sammi said. She could only hope he wouldn’t ask the next logical question.

So, which publication sent you?

Yeah, that question. Um.

Ron shook his head and turned toward Nate. She doesn’t have an assignment. Miss Hill wants an interview in the hopes she can find a home for it. No. We’re not doing this. He started to walk back to his car.

Wait, Sammi said. "Please. Look, I used to work for Soulful Heart magazine. I know the industry. I know people."

Why don’t you work for them any longer? You get fired?

Hmm. Another how to answer conundrum. Technically, yes. Because she’d done something worthy of termination? Not really.

Look. I don’t know why Nate walked away from his music, but I know what it’s like to abandon something defining. I’m learning how hard it is to get past the personal and industry barriers that stand between my passion and me. I want to write again. I want to write about derailment and getting back on track. I have a story, but no one cares. Nate has a story, and thousands of fans want to hear it.

Come on, Nate, let’s get to the house. Ron inclined his head toward the gate, but Nate didn’t make a move to comply with his manager’s suggestion. Instead, he turned back to Sammi.

Where can I find samples of your work?

Her heartbeat stalled long enough to make her gasp. His question didn’t begin to convey an agreement for an interview, but it held the door open. "I write under my maiden name, Samantha Baker. I wrote my last article for Soulful Heart two years ago, but if you search their archives, you might be able to find some of my work on their website. Or, I could email some articles to you if you’d like."

No need. I’m certain we have a hefty collection of the magazines in the house. Do you have a business card?

He wanted her card? Samantha’s heart threatened to veer far away from its steady rhythm once again. She tried to hide her quivering fingers as she reached into her jacket pocket and extracted her card—the first card out of the five hundred she ordered from some online site—and started to hand it to Nate. He, in turn, shoved his thumbs behind the belt loops on his jeans and struck an exaggerated I’m-just-a-spectator-here pose.

Samson likes to be helpful. Just give it to him. Those green eyes weren’t angry any longer, and although he wore a teasing expression, Nate seemed to mean exactly what he said.

Sammi glanced toward Ron, whose sour expression induced her to redirect her focus to anywhere other than his face.

She rummaged in her pocket again and pulled out three more cards. You might need a few extra in case, well, you know, just in case.

Nate wore a satisfied smirk as Sammi held the edge of the cards and gingerly presented them to the canine. When Samson clamped down on his prize, Sammi flinched and stepped backwards. The haughty pooch flung his chin upwards, meandered over to his owner, and started prancing toward the gate. The showoff.

Nate pulled his thumbs free, tipped his imaginary hat, and walked away.

Chapter Two

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"What were you thinking? You cannot—cannot—give an interview to some weirdo who tries to invade your property and your privacy. Ron fumed as he paced from one side of the recording studio to the other. Why would you take the chance to let some unknown whacko ruin what’s left of your career?"

My career? I don’t have one right now. Reminding Ron of the obvious probably wasn’t Nate’s best move.

Ron stopped and chewed on his lower lip while he mulled over his next pronouncements. The man was predictable. Nate gave him that much. Ron wasn’t so much a manager as he was a control freak. If not for . . .

Are you even listening to me?

Nate put the guitar back on its stand, cocked his head so that he could see his father-in-law, and made a small effort to give the man his attention. Hmm?

Give me the woman’s cards. Ron held out his hand.

The level of Ron’s interference failed to diminish during Nate’s hiatus from the stage. When he realized he couldn’t sway Nate’s decision, Ron attempted to enlist the band members, the stagehands, and recording studio crew to persuade Nate to reconsider. Instead, the man’s meddling drove an irreversible wedge between the team. When it came time to regroup, only the backup keyboard player—the one who replaced Cara until the band met the last of its concert obligations—responded to Ron’s attempts to bring everyone back into the fold. They’d all moved on, not that Nate could blame them.

You could have returned her phone calls, Nate said.

Would you call somebody who identified herself as Sam Hill?

Her name is Samantha. You need a better excuse than that one.

Okay, how about this, Ron replied. You and Cara are not ready to share your situation with your fans.

An interview doesn’t have to be about Cara and me. I can keep the story focused on the new tunes and the new band. Nate cleared his throat instead of calling the man out for speaking for his daughter. Would he ever stop?

You know as well as I do that any interview will wander to Cara. Her voice and her presence on the stage were more responsible for your success than your pretense at being the headliner.

You done? Nate asked.

Not until you give me the woman’s business cards.

Nate looked at the wall clock and wished, for the millionth time, he could turn it back three years. Maybe then, he could tolerate Ron Crowley. Now?

Ron?

I’m waiting.

"I know you are, but I need you to listen up. I respect you as Cara’s father and my father-in-law, and I’ve kept you on my payroll—my payroll—out of respect for my wife. Since she can’t speak for herself right now, you get the benefit of the doubt, although I have a weighty suspicion that she would have fired you long before now."

Ron set his jaw and drew his eyes into slits. You need a manager who knows how to get you back into the game. No one else can do it better than I can, and no one else has a greater motivation than I have.

The man’s self-importance never wavered, regardless of the circumstances, whether he coached Nate as a new musical phenomenon, or whether he maneuvered every iota of Nate’s established career. No question, Nate’s life—and Cara’s too—were much simpler when Ron spent his energy building his own successful empire. Too bad it was at the expense of thousands of misinformed, misled, and manipulated followers, not to mention the person who took the fall for him. Today, Ron’s overreach in Nate’s business activities paled when compared to the control he attempted to exert as he fulfilled his parental role.

You want to put me back into the game? Worship music is hardly a game. It’s not a gig, a hobby, a profession, or a pastime. It’s a calling.

Ron continued to rest his piercing eyes on Nate when he said, We’ve had this conversation before, and we agreed to disagree.

True, Nate said, but I regret that I compromised. I need a manager who shares my faith. Clearly, you don’t. You were on your way out of my music three years ago. If you can’t do your job as God sees fit—Ron rolled his eyes at that one—then you need to leave. Now.

I’m not going anywhere. I’ll round up your audience for you, just as I did the last go-round, and I’ll line up venues you saw only in your dreams. You want to risk everything for a stupid interview with Sam Hill, you go right ahead. Ron paused when the new drummer slipped into the studio. Just remember that I warned you.

~

Well, that rehearsal didn’t go as planned. Melissa walked into the studio, handed Nate the document her attorney had penned for her, and strode back out of the building. It seemed fair to give the new crew the option to back out of their contract during the initial ninety-day period, but Nate never expected anyone to exercise the clause. Where would Ron find a female vocalist in time to polish the music before recording the new tunes?

As he turned on the alarm system and walked the short distance to the house, Nate scratched the top of his head and pulled his earlobe, both of which were anxiety habits. Melissa’s departure underscored Ron’s attitude about Nate’s precarious comeback album and tour. Not for the first time, he had to wonder if his former fans might reject him altogether.

A bigger reality check: this wasn’t about Nate Fowler. It never was. Still, would people give him half a chance to emerge from this prolonged detour? Would they embrace the new flavor of his offerings? His repertoire consisted of melodies and lyrics meant to draw attention to God’s grandeur, the immense display of His glory. The new work? Nate still intended the songs to direct the listener’s attention to the Creator, but Nate wanted them to bring out two distinct truths: God is holy; He wants total surrender.

Nate tugged on his earlobe again as he reached the back door. Surrender. He needed to surrender—and he tried to do just that—one day at a time. He sure didn’t have control, and hadn’t for a very long time.

The pleasant aroma of garlic and herbs greeted Nate before the two women came into view. Debbie stood at the stove, stirring something in a saucepan.

Until the event that changed their world, Nate hadn’t considered Debbie Crowley someone who contributed much to society, with the exception of her having birthed a beautiful, lovely, and precious daughter. Even now, the woman’s appearance rubbed him the wrong way. In spite of her approaching seventy, Debbie still bleached her hair white-blonde, wore too much makeup, and dressed in clothes more appropriate for a high schooler. The ankle and wrist tattoos drove him crazy.

Debbie’s thin face accentuated deeply etched wrinkles formed by decades of tobacco, sun exposure, and too much drinking. Her smile, on the other hand, seemed to make up for all of the abuse. She shared it with him when she turned around.

Good session? she asked.

Nate rubbed his chin. Not exactly.

Debbie diverted her attention back to the pan before resting her inquisitive eyes on him again.

Looks like I need another vocalist. Melissa walked when she got a better offer. I know I don’t have a guaranteed future, but doesn’t anyone remember me? My reputation?

I do, hon. Melissa’s too young to remember. That’s all.

Age mattered a lot more in secular music than the Christian music realm, but it seemed as if Nate had surpassed Methuselah’s 969-year lifespan during these past three years. Yeah, Nate had aged, but he’d also matured, whether he’d intended to or not. His journey, however, was nothing compared to what his wife had endured.

Ron says he’ll have another vocalist here by the end of the week. We’ll see.

Debbie stiffened at the mention of Ron’s name, and her jaw flinched. I guess you don’t have to worry, then. The Miracle Man will take care of everything.

Nate chose to ignore the comment rather than stir up perennial trouble. He strode over to Cara, lifted her wavy blond hair away from her neck, and planted a kiss on her cheek. On the table in front of her rested an open coloring book. A pile of colorful crayons, some broken, sat next to her project.

How’s my sunshine?

Mumumu, she responded. When he picked up a yellow crayon and filled in a section of the flower petal on the open page, Cara clenched her left hand and broke the dark blue crayon she held.

You don’t like my help? Well, that’s all right. I sing better than I color anyway. Nate did not expect the irritation in his wife’s eyes to transform into sorrow. She looked away. When he revisited his comment, he wanted to kick himself. He lacked the words to apologize. Cara’s rich, mellow voice used to tangle with his average-Joe tone. Today, like the past thousand days, she was mute. She could barely color a children’s coloring book.

Somehow, despite the transition, she recognized her life was not as it had been, and depression hung over her like a stubborn haze that failed to recognize the sun, even as its rays frolicked on the rest of the landscape.

Nate closed the coloring book, collected the crayons, and carried serving dishes to the table while Debbie cut Cara’s chicken breast into bite-sized pieces. After Debbie dished small portions of green beans and mashed potatoes onto Cara’s plate, Nate and Debbie each took one of Cara’s hands while Nate blessed their food. As soon as Nate delivered his, Amen, Debbie scooted her chair back, grabbed a bottle of beer out of the refrigerator, and returned to the table.

When she pouted, Nate said, What? I didn’t say a word.

You didn’t need to. Don’t think Cara can’t read your face as well as I can. You need to stand in front of a mirror and practice looking pleasant. Debbie finished her scolding with a slight shake of her head, popped the bottle cap, and took a swig.

Why, why, why did Nate put up with his in-laws? Ron? Despite his history and antics, he was Cara’s daddy, and Cara grew up as Daddy’s Girl. Nate didn’t want to dismiss the man without his daughter’s concurrence, regardless of their circumstances.

As for his mother-in-law? Ron shoved Debbie to the sidelines after he divorced her, but the woman loved her daughter more than she loved herself. When Cara’s world fell apart, Debbie inserted herself into their lives and proved to be a godsend. She moved into the spare room, took over every task Cara used to do, assumed the role of caregiver, and became a 24/7 presence at the residence—beer, cigarettes, and bad habits notwithstanding.

Shameless appreciation crept over Nate’s face as he cut a piece of chicken, lifted it to his mouth, and chewed. This is outstanding.

Thanks, Debbie murmured.

You are too. I should tell you more often.

Debbie leaned back in her chair, picked up her beer, and said, Yes, you should. She tried to hide her nonchalant response to the overdue praise, but Nate eyed the upturned edges of her lips as she took another drink.

Just to go on record, Debbie said, I didn’t care for Melissa that much anyway. Her voice didn’t hold a candle to her predecessor’s.

Because no one understood the depth of Cara’s cognitive abilities, those who spoke within her hearing often employed suggestion and innuendo, for fear she might take offense or misunderstand. If the inability to communicate infuriated her, the recollection of her lost talents might destroy her tenuous environment altogether.

Ron will never find a flawless replacement, but we need someone.

I know, Debbie answered. Melissa had good pitch, a good ear for harmony, and hit every note. But the girl didn’t sing from her soul.

Nate sat up. "Soul. I