ease and steel of a West Texas oil rig. Every day, the sun beat down on my back, an

g weight that threatened to destroy her. I was a Juilliard-trained pianist with a p

leep in a cramped trailer with men who smelled of oil and cheap whiskey. I drove my beat-up truck for three hours to a

mething she' d scraped off her shoe. She pointed me tow

a tailored suit, his smile slick and smug. Wesley Johns. Her childhood friend. The rig foreman was there

ct, "I tried to find reasons to dock his pay, but he works li

im. She stroked Wesley' s ha

U for two million. Make sure he' s stuck

cold. The air

d in and kis

a vintage Porsche for

that owned the rig. The rig I had bled on for five years. It was all her. The deb

collapsed in tha