Finding Stefanie (17 page)

“She reminds me of me when I was a kid.”

Lincoln noticed how she poured steak sauce over her meat, and it made him smile. He would bet she’d eat the entire portion too. He hadn’t seen a woman eat an entire meal since . . . well, probably since back in Texas. “You wore all black and looked like you wanted to beat up the world?”

She gave him a look of confusion.

“Macey,” he said and winked.

“Oh. No . . . I liked horses, just like her. When I was young, I wanted to start a dude ranch—only for lost kids, sort of like Macey and Gideon.” She glanced up at him through those dark lashes, as if testing his reaction.

“I think you’d be great at that.”

He felt her smile all the way to his heart.

“I grew up in Dallas, wondering what it would be like to ride a horse,” he said, cutting his asparagus. He didn’t tell her that he was so uncowboy in his core that he still fought fear every time he got near the big animals. Or that for his first movie, he’d been so afraid that Dex had to find an animal practically as old as Methuselah before Lincoln would ride it. Those secrets could stay buried.

“I’ll bet you’re a natural.”

He gave a laugh that was half embarrassment, half dismay. “Not at all. I wish I had half the horse sense you do. Did you go to school or something to learn? Maybe college?”

Stefanie cut another piece of meat. “I went to Montana State for one semester.”

“Why only one semester?”

He’d been an actor long enough to see when someone faked their answer. She wouldn’t win any Academy Awards for her sudden fidget-with-her-food performance.

“Came home to run the ranch.”

Hmm. He watched her put her drink down and wipe her mouth.

The phone rang in the kitchen. Thankfully, he’d asked Karen to stay, and she answered it.

Lincoln leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Wanna know a secret?”

Her fork stopped halfway to her mouth. She gave him a small smile and put it down. “Sure.”

“I never went to college.”

Stefanie looked truly surprised. “But you have a degree, don’t you? Didn’t I see a college certificate—?”

“It’s an honorary degree. From USC. I taught a couple classes there and spoke at their film school graduation, and they gave me a diploma.”

Her mouth opened, then closed, and she gave him a disgusted look.

He grinned at her.

“Mr. Cash?” Karen stood in the doorway, holding the phone, one hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s someone from a hospital in Texas. They said they need to talk to you—that it’s urgent. Something about Alyssa?”

He glanced at Stefanie and knew that the blood was draining from his face. He had momentarily lost any composure he might have and swallowed before answering. “I’ll take it in my study. Thank you.” He wiped his mouth. “I’ll be right back.”

Stefanie gave him a look he couldn’t, and didn’t have time to, interpret.

As he expected, it was the night nurse, giving her daily report. The situation with Alyssa had escalated. Not only was she experiencing night terrors, but they’d spilled out into day terrors also, and she was slipping in and out of mild seizures. The doctors wanted to prescribe a benzodiazepine drug, a sleep aid.

Lincoln listened as the nurse listed the side effects, wincing at more seizures, hysteria, and coma. He’d sunk into his desk chair and, long after he’d hung up, sat there, his head in his hands, thinking.

“Linc, are you okay?”

He hadn’t heard Stefanie come in, but there she stood, outlined by the door. She padded into the room and slid onto the desk by his chair. Her pretty bare feet dangled down. Apparently she’d taken off her boots anyway.

“You want to talk about it?”

No. He didn’t. What he wanted, what he
really
wanted, was to forget everything, forget the mistakes he’d made, forget the dismal future that hovered like a guillotine, even forget for a second that he had responsibility hanging around his neck, and take Stefanie Noble in his arms. He wanted her to think about him, dream about him like he dreamed of her. He wanted to see stars in her eyes—not the kind he saw in his fans’ eyes, but real stars, the kind based on . . . what? He wasn’t even sure who the real Lincoln was after all these years.

Mostly, as he’d watched her this past week, the way she worked so patiently with his horses, he ached to be the type of guy that might make Stefanie Noble proud.

But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t figure out a way to impress her, didn’t even know if he should try. What kind of future could a guy like him give her? He’d practically heard his own voice mocking him when she’d picked up one of his movies. No, he didn’t watch his own films—even at premieres, it was sheer agony. Because all he saw on the screen was Lewis Carter, a guy who’d faked his way to being a hero.

Lincoln wasn’t invincible. And as he sat there, cradling his head in his hands, he knew that he was tired of trying.

But the last thing Stefanie Noble would respect was a weak man. A man who couldn’t saddle a horse or rope a calf. A man who
might someday need a wheelchair to get around. The fact that every patient was different, every case of MS individualized, only scared him more. He might have finite, manageable symptoms . . . or not. In the end, however, his nerves were still breaking down, his body slowly decaying.

“Linc?”

He looked up at Stefanie and forced a smile. “That was . . .”

“Is someone hurt?”

He sighed, staring at the phone. Maybe it was her tone—full of compassion and trust—but he suddenly, desperately, needed to tell someone . . . no,
her
. “It’s someone I’ve been looking after. She’s having seizures, and they want to put her on some pretty strong meds.”

“Does she have epilepsy?” Stefanie scooted closer, put her feet on his chair.

“No, she was in an accident. Head trauma.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. When did it happen?”

“A long time ago, when I was about seventeen. She got caught in a drive-by shooting, got shot in the head.” He glanced at the phone.

Stefanie’s mouth opened, and she didn’t try to conceal her shock. “I’m so sorry.”

He took a breath, blew it out. “It was the same shooting that killed my mother.”

Out of the corner of his eye—because he couldn’t look at her horror straight on—he saw her cover her mouth with her hand. He closed his eyes as her other hand touched his shoulder.

In the movies, he might take this moment and use it to turn her into his arms. For a second, the bad Lincoln, the one who’d once lived for beautiful women, even considered it.

Instead, the man who wanted to let her see the real Lincoln—whoever that was—got up and walked away from her. He stared out the window.

“I’m so glad you weren’t hurt,” she said softly.

Lincoln fought the burn in his throat, the way it wanted to close up, cut off his breathing. He leaned his forehead on the cool pane of the window. “No, actually, I wouldn’t have been.” He turned to her, and before he could stop himself—maybe because he wanted the purging, someone to confess to—he said, “Because, you see, I was in the car.”

CHAPTER 11

S
TEFANIE STARED AT
Lincoln Cash—incredible, beautiful Lincoln Cash—and couldn’t breathe.

“What?” she managed to say, but it didn’t seem that he heard her because he covered his eyes with his hand, shaking his head as if he’d been sucked into some memory that overwhelmed him.

The memory of killing his mother?

“Oh,” he said, and it sounded more like a groan than anything. “I don’t know why I . . .”

Stefanie slipped off the desk. And then suddenly she had her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her, wrapping him tight. Holding him. Because, although this night had started out with her feeling completely out of her element, wondering why she’d agreed to dinner, wondering how to fortify her heart, right now, in this moment, she knew she had to be more than a neighbor. Lincoln needed a friend. “Linc . . . shhh.”

His arms went around her; his head touched her shoulder. He was shaking a little and holding on to her tight, like he meant it.

Like he needed her.

She closed her eyes, laying her head against his chest, breathing in the smell of his freshly laundered shirt, his cologne, and the musky scent of the outdoors. “What happened?” she whispered.

He said nothing for a long time. Then he took a deep breath and moved back.

She searched his eyes, but he turned his anguish away from her.

“What happened?” She kept her voice gentle and slid onto the desk again.

He sighed as if expelling pain. “I was . . . so . . . stupid.” The way he said it, like he was spitting, made her heart ache. She knew exactly the kind of stupid that elicited that tone.

He braced his hand against the wall and stared out the window. “There was this kid where I grew up. His name was E-bro—”

“E-bro?”

“It was a gang name—and his favorite sport was . . . well, let’s say I learned how to take the hits I do on the screen from real-life tutoring, thanks to E-bro and my stepdad.”

Stefanie clenched her jaw against that visual.

“E-bro was a couple years older than me in school and one of those kids that had been born with a beard and a mean streak. He thought I’d be a good target for torture, so I spent most of my school years running home, in hopes I’d get there before he did. When I didn’t, I’d hide out in the junkyard near our trailer park.”

Admittedly, Stefanie had a hard time getting her brain around Lincoln hiding, his knees knocking. But she didn’t say that, because the look of agony on his face as he turned to her confirmed his words.

“Later on, when I was fifteen and sixteen, I just learned to take
the lumps. But I wanted so desperately to be strong and maybe pay him back, so I—” he shook his head—“I joined another gang.”

“A rival gang?”

“Yep.” Lincoln sat down in the desk chair, pulling her foot onto his knee. He had his hand around her ankle and now rubbed his thumb along it, almost absently.

She tried to focus on his words.

“My new brothers decided to pay E-bro back for everything he’d done to me, so we piled into a car and headed to his house.”

Stefanie could almost see that night playing in his eyes, the fear and anger that would drive him to vengeance. She knew what it felt like to hurt and even be so angry that you might do something you’d regret.

“But the problem was E-bro lived beside me, in the next trailer over, which was probably why he’d picked me to torture in the first place. . . . It’s hard to be accurate with a MAC-10 submachine gun.” Lincoln’s voice tightened, and he closed his eyes. “Of course, E-bro wasn’t home, even though the shooter decimated his trailer, but the worst part was that some of the shots went wide.”

“And hit your mom,” she whispered.

“Yeah. And . . . the little neighbor girl. Alyssa was about six years old. She was like a little sister to me. She’d come over a lot, especially when her mom worked late, and that night, she was over. . . .” He hung his head, his dark blond hair falling over his face. Was he trying not to cry?

She put her hand on his shoulder. “What happened next?”

He shook his head, as if unable to talk.

So she waited, letting the silence and her touch speak patience and compassion.

Finally he said, “I was sick. Literally. They dumped me off at the hospital, but I spent the night retching, horrified, as they operated on Alyssa to save her life.” Even now, his voice sounded like he might be choking. He sat back with an expression of self-loathing so wretched that she knew it came from a place of honesty. “I couldn’t live with myself, so I turned myself in. The cops had been trying to get a hook into these guys—the shooter and the driver—for months, and they offered to dismiss all charges if I testified.”

“You testified.”

Lincoln nodded. “I went to my mother’s funeral, stuck around long enough to see them go to jail, feeling like I should be right there with them, and left town.”

“And went to California?”

He released her foot, got up, and walked again to the window. “I changed my name and got a job as an extra on a Dex Graves movie.” Turning then, he cocked his head, a wry, mocking smile on his face, and held out his hands. “Behold, the invincible Lincoln Cash. Are you impressed?”

Stefanie slid off the desk and caught his hand, squeezing it. “Actually, yes. I think it took a lot of courage to testify against those guys. They could have come after you. And it’s clear to me that you’re still looking after your neighbor.”

The look he gave her, as if he might be peering right through her, right to her soul, desperately testing her words, turned her inside out, sweeping away her defenses.

Which was probably why she stood on her tiptoes, put a hand around his neck, and kissed him.

He stayed completely still, his mouth soft on hers and tasting faintly salty like tears.

What was she doing? She didn’t love Lincoln, did she? Perhaps it was compassion or even concern . . .

No. In this moment, she loved the part of Lincoln Cash she’d just seen.

Suddenly he moved, curling his arm around her, holding her tight against him. His hand went to her cheek and finally—
finally
—he kissed her back.

In fact, instead of holding her, Lincoln ran his hand behind her neck and kissed her like she’d never been kissed before. Not neighborly at all.

When he pulled away, she held his wrist, her heart thumping through her chest—so much that she wondered if he could see it.

Lincoln angled his forehead to hers, touching it. “Wow . . . I don’t know what to say. . . .”

She smiled at him gently, not sure what to say either. Her mouth, however, apparently had a mind of its own. “It’s better than in the movies.”

He swallowed, and then a smile broke out across his face, something honest and perfect. “Really?”

He seemed as nervous as she was, and that—only that—stopped her from leaping from his arms and running back to the Silver Buckle. Gathering her breath, she managed a soft smile, praying she wasn’t the most gullible person on earth. She ran her hand down his face. “Oh yes, Superhero. Oh yes.”

This couldn’t be any better. With him distracted, probably with that girl, he wouldn’t suspect it coming, wouldn’t know what had happened until his new life was shattered right before his eyes.

Just like he’d done to others.

Done to her.

With so many people around, it had been difficult to get close to him, but perseverance had paid off. Now it would simply be one of many choices, one of many opportunities.

And if fate stepped in, perhaps he wouldn’t be the only one who suffered. It seemed that justice, or perhaps irony, might be that kind.

This, my love, is for you
.

The engine turned over and the car backed down the drive quietly, without the lights.

For the third day in a row, Gideon had ended up with a corned beef on rye and hated it. He sat away from the group on a boulder at the edge of the yard—especially away from JB, who seemed to hold him personally responsible for Lincoln firing Luther. But after all the actor had done for Gideon—and mostly because he didn’t want to get blamed—he’d had to tell Lincoln about the tools Luther had been taking home from the work site.

And it had stirred something unfamiliar inside Gideon when Lincoln believed him. Even thanked him.

Sometimes Lincoln came down to sit with Gideon at lunch. He told him about movie stunts, like the Dex Ditch and Roll, which sounded so cool that Gideon thought he should probably try it.

Maybe it would take his mind off the fact that Libby had failed to show up for lunch all week. He bit into his sandwich, nearly gagging on the spices in the bread, and washed it down with a cold soda. He put the sandwich back in the paper and folded it up. He didn’t care how hungry he got.

He couldn’t help a wry shake of his head. Less than two months ago he had been digging out of garbage cans, stealing food, or raiding the Laundromat, hunting for petty change, hoping for enough quarters to feed his sisters, himself. Now he had a car, or a wreck of a car, but a job and regular meals and a sort-of . . . family.

He liked Nick and Piper and especially Stefanie, who had moved out of her own house for him. He hadn’t been able to look her in the eye for about a week because of that. But the way she paid attention to Macey—his sister gobbled it up, the need in her eyes painful for Gideon to watch. At least she’d stopped cutting herself.

He’d followed her out to the stable a couple nights back to have that conversation. Macey had been feeding one of the horses, and he’d seen then, for the first time, how much she resembled their mother. The way Macey stroked the horse’s blaze, spoke in soft tones, Gideon heard his mother and the way she’d told him everything would be okay. The way she’d tried to calm his fears.

He’d stood in the shadows, watching, feeling about ten years old, until Macey heard him. And then he’d poured all his fraying emotions into picking a fight with her, forcing her to show him her arms.

After Macey had left in a huff, he’d sat in the silence, listening to the horses eat, smelling the hay, the layer of animal sweat, and wished he could live here at the Silver Buckle forever.

He’d do just about anything to stay.

Even if Libby never came back, even if he’d scared her away—and that thought burned inside him because of how much he missed her—he wanted to stay at the Buckle more than breathing.

“I don’t believe in fate,” Libby had said.

As Gideon got up to throw away his sandwich and soda bottle, he didn’t want to either.

He wanted to believe that someone out there cared about him.

Enough to give him—them all—a home.