The Rancher and the Rock Star (13 page)

Staying anywhere in his immediate vicinity was no longer an option, and Abby left him stammering behind her.

“For God’s sake, Abby.” His voice faded, so she knew he wasn’t following her. “This is just not a big deal. I only wanted to help . . . you . . .” He paused. “You do know Nashville is
country
music?”

The ridiculous, bewildered question tugged at her, made her want to turn and run back. The farther she walked, the more solidly anger spun itself into embarrassment and settled like lead in her stomach. It wasn’t having Gray pay the bill that actually annoyed her. It was the fact that the payment, obviously easy for him to make, had been exactly the godsend Karla suggested it was. She was supposed to be strong, a survivor, even on what would have been her son’s seventeenth birthday. Twelve years ago, she’d gone to court to prove she didn’t need help from anyone to care for her daughter.

When had her life plan shattered beyond the point of being fixable?

Chapter Thirteen

T
HE OLD FARMHOUSE
was big, but Gray wouldn’t have thought a person could actually get lost in it. He’d kept out of Abby’s way for half an hour after her tirade, but when he finally went to apologize, she’d vanished. He’d struck an angry nerve by paying her shavings bill. That much he got. Still, this was an unfair attack. If she’d let him explain, or explained her own anger . . .

“Aw, hell,” he groused on his way back from searching the barn. When did a woman explain anything? In the cobwebbed recesses of his once-married brain was a memory. He was supposed to figure things out from clues. Or maybe it was thin air. Either way, he’d never been good at it.

He prowled through the kitchen, living room, basement, and both bathrooms. When he took the liberty of peeking into her bedroom, concern lapped at his mind. Dusky light faded the flowers on her wallpaper into muted grays and blues. Prim lace covered her plump featherbed. But no Abby, sad or mad, occupied the silent room. Only a soothing hint of mint tinged with orange infused the air, and Gray stood motionless inside the doorway, intoxicated.

The way he always was around her—even when she was angry.

Back in the living room Roscoe, stretched like a lazy amber rug in front of the sofa, thumped his tail rhythmically.

“Where’s your mistress, fella?” The dog opened one eye wider than the other as if seriously debating whether to answer. Gray laughed. “Roscoe, where’s Abby? Find Abby, boy.”

To his astonishment, the golden heaved himself to his feet and wandered into the kitchen, stopping in front of what Gray knew was a walk-in pantry.

“Right.” Gray opened the door, finding it empty as he’d expected. “Good dog,” he said. “Confused, but good.”

Roscoe cocked the furry skin over one eye in a frighteningly human way and padded forward, followed by Gray’s scowl. Abby clearly wasn’t here, but Roscoe stopped at the end of the tiny space and flopped his rear down in front of the end wall. Gray had paid no attention to it before, but now a set of small, painted hinges on one side popped into view.

“Are you kidding me?” He bent over the dog whose luminous eyes said “I told you so” as clearly as a human voice.

Before he could lose the nerve, he rapped firmly on the door. Nothing happened. He shot Roscoe a skeptical look, and then a sliding lock clicked and a knob turned. Seconds later, Abby stood in the half-opened door. The light behind her glowed eerie-red, like a movie version of the guts of a submarine.

“Traitor.” She scowled at Roscoe, who only let his tongue fall out of his mouth and whacked his tail on the floor.

Gray waited, nervous as a kid at the principal’s office door. When her eyes finally met his, he saw only melancholy, not anger. His heart hiccupped in concern, but his relief soared.

“Good hiding place,” he said. “But we found you, so tag, you’re it.”

“I don’t suppose you’d just go away?”

He made a show of looking over her head into the room. “I would. But you know, finding your hidey-hole is like hearing a punch line. Now I really want to know the whole joke.”

“Maybe I’m not a clever enough comedian to tell jokes.”

“Hey. I’m a clever enough audience. I laugh at pretty much everything.”

He couldn’t resist reaching out to lift her chin with his forefinger. The smallest glint of laughter in her huge, aqua eyes ignited a burn of excitement around his heart.

“No dogs allowed.” She opened the door a few inches wider. “Meddling men allowed only when their lines are smooth enough.”

She closed the door behind him.

“Yeah,” he said. “About the meddling. I am sorry if I overstepped the bounds.”

“You did.” A conciliatory note graced her voice, but when he faced her in the weird, red hue, the puffiness around her lower eyelids stood out clearly. Guilt for his part in causing it pinched deep in his belly.

“The last thing I want to do is make your life tougher, Abby. My motive was truly just the opposite.”

He thought her shoulders sagged as she turned. “I know that. It was a long day, and you stepped into the crap left over from it. That’s all.”

“As long as I didn’t cause the crap.” He grinned at the back of her head and was rewarded when she looked back at him over her shoulder.

“Only one scoopful.”

“Can I make up for it by letting you talk about your long day?”

“No. You can make up for it by taking The Oath.”

“That sounds ominous.”

She led him from the small entry into a large, square room lined with tables, a sink, and counters covered with pictures. An acrid-sweet odor gave away its purpose. A darkroom? Images of the photographs Gray had seen in the living room flashed into his mind.

“This is quite a hideaway, Mrs. Stadtler.”

“That’s why there’s an oath. There are, maybe, five or six people who know of this place, and all of them are sworn to secrecy. One is your son. Are you as trustworthy as he is?”

The sharp tingle of photo chemicals swirled pleasantly in his nostrils. He lifted his right hand, stiffening the middle three fingers. “I do solemnly swear, as the sixth or seventh person to be granted access here, that the existence and location of your sanctum will forever remain secret within the confines of my brain—puny as that space is.”

“Do you have to make a joke of everything?” Her chestnut hair shimmered bronze beneath the darkroom lights. In a thick curtain, it hung past her shoulders, and Gray wished with every accelerating heartbeat that he dared to reach out and sift the silk through his fingers.

“Yeah,” he replied. “Otherwise I get too serious.” He waggled his brows Groucho-style. “But, I am serious about keeping your secret. Can I ask just one question?”

“Is it impertinent?” Her eyes narrowed like a Siamese cat’s.

“Oh, I’m sure it is. My questions seem to end up that way.”

“Then ask, but I may or may not answer.” Her cat eyes morphed back into gorgeous, aquamarine mirrors, and their lids fluttered in a tease.

“Why, Abby? Why hide this? I think I’ve seen the art that comes out of this room, and it feels to me like you’re not hiding the place as much as you’re hiding yourself.”

She wandered across the twelve-foot space toward a wooden stool. “Just the opposite. I come in here to find myself.”

“Do you lose yourself very often?” He followed her.

“No. And I don’t like it when I do. Like tonight in the driveway.” Her smile was only half-strength. “Justified as I was, I don’t usually get that hot.”

He didn’t know about that. He’d seen several flare-ups the past week, but they were moments of passion and conviction he admired. The kinds of things others might hold back because of who he was.

“You weren’t that hot. Under the collar, I mean.” A flush warmed his face, because he badly wanted to tell her she was very hot.

“Thank you.” Her deep breath was visible, as if she had to gather resolution for her next words. “And thank you for the gesture today. For paying Dewey. But I will pay you back.”

Gray’s own resolution hardened. “Abby, I don’t want you to.” He held up his hand as she parted her lips to speak. “You won’t let me pay you anything for the privilege of staying here, and the shavings bill was something that fell into my lap. I thought taking care of it was a way I could contribute for both Dawson and me. Please, it wasn’t planned. It was no more than one of those random acts of kindness.”

A blush crawled onto her cheeks. “I was embarrassed enough that I got behind with him. I’m mortified that you paid my bill for me.”

“Do
not
be. Good gosh, Abby. Who doesn’t have to prioritize bills? Stuff happens and eventually we take care of things.”

“Water heaters die. Feed prices go up.” Her voice was small. “Dewey was next on the list.”

He cupped the deceptively delicate curve of her shoulder. It hid so much strength. A buzz of electricity penetrated his guitar string–toughened fingertips. “Let me cross him off the list this one time.” He massaged her shoulder gently. “It’s no big deal for me.”

“I can’t tell you how much that pisses me off.” At last she lifted her gaze. Color still stained her cheeks. “Don’t you dare make a habit of this. But . . . thank you.”

He stared for longer than he intended, and the pink in her face turned a beautiful rose under the warm, red lights. A tug low in his groin forced him to drop his hand and breathe again.

“You’re welcome.”

She reached back to gather her thick hair and sweep it behind her shoulders. The pretty bulge of her feminine bicep and the swell of her breast beneath her pale-green tank top set more desire wheeling through him. He would have stuffed his hands in his pockets but there were none in his running shorts. He settled for clearing his throat.

“So, show me the magic in this room that helps a stressed-out mom find herself.”

He had a hard time thinking of her as anyone’s mother at the moment. Vulnerability mingled with strength left her looking soft, youthful, different from any woman he’d been close to physically or . . . Or nothing. Hell, there hadn’t been anything more than the shallow and physical in so long he hardly remembered.

“Jack always said he built this room for me, but it was his studio.” She led Gray to the far end of the darkroom, where two file cabinets and a wide cupboard with nine shallow drawers stood. “He created so much beauty in here. We both poured our hearts into our work, but he was the master. When I come in here it isn’t sad or nostalgic, it just makes me remember how worthwhile it is to work hard for your goals.”

She pulled open one of the shallow drawers to reveal a stack of poster-sized enlargements. Gray recognized the stark, melancholy lines. “Jack’s work?” he asked. She nodded. “Where’s yours?”

“Mine? I have stacks of old crap filed away. I rarely look at any of this.”

“Let me then.”

“Gray, I . . .”

“C’mon Abby.” He pleaded, eliciting another laugh. “One artist to another.”

“One artist . . . right.” A scoffing little snort escaped from behind a curled lip, but she pulled open a file cabinet drawer packed with colored folders. With a sweeping gesture, she stepped back. “Knock yourself out.”

Several minutes later, forty or fifty black-and-white prints papered the counters, and Gray stared, star-struck in love with the array before him. “Who did you say was the master?”

He held up an eleven-by-fourteen print of a young child spying from behind the wide trunk of a tree, while a large, black dog circled the front, searching. Simple, funny, a whole story in one image.

“Pictures of my kids.” Her right shoulder hunched, blowing off the work.

“Animals, sunsets, landscapes . . .” He flipped picture edges one at a time. “Abby. These are incredible.”

“Thanks.”

He shook his head at her. “Seriously. Wonderful. One artist to another.”

“Oh, Gray, that’s nice of you.” Pensively, she stroked one of the pictures. “I like them. I’m proud of them. But Jack did the spectacular stuff.”

“Jack did the depressing stuff.”

“Huh?” Genuine confusion pulled her face into a tight question mark.

“His stuff is polished, yeah, and I hope I’m not dishonoring his memory, but every picture is empty. Full of lines and contrasts. Yours are full of life, Abby. Every picture tells a story. Each one is a song.”

“That’s a huge compliment coming from you. But it’s a lot harder to write a song than snap a shutter.”

“It’s got nothing to do with hard or easy. It’s about something inside a person that comes out in a way nobody else can imitate. I couldn’t take these pictures. And it’s obvious to me that Jack couldn’t either.”

“Jack’s pictures sold well. Mine didn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“We met in a photography class my first year of college and his last. I was in a little over my head. Jack had already been featured in a small gallery exhibition. He turned out to be a better teacher than the teacher, and one thing led to another. ” Abby smiled, but there was neither sadness nor joy in it. “I married young, but we planned to make the photography a joint effort. We did two shows together—a little arrogantly on my part, because I wasn’t really ready. Jack had the commercial success. Some interior designer bought a whole series of prints for a couple of office buildings. That gave us the down payment for this place. I sold half a dozen little prints over the years. I have a couple at a little restaurant in town, for example. But . . .”

“Why did you give up trying?”

Incomprehension clouded her eyes. “There wasn’t anything to try. I was sort of left without a partner.”

“Did you ever consider that, maybe, the main partner was not the one who died?”

She actually laughed, despite the blunt words. “You’re sweet, but no.”

Biting thoughtfully on the inside of his lip, Gray assessed the room. Wide trays sat next to the sink. Neat rows of taut wire stretched over the far counter with little clips ready to hold negatives or prints. A set of metal canisters were lined neatly on a center island, and two enlargers sat beside them. Gray had been in darkrooms enough to know this one wasn’t all that far from being useable.

“When’s the last time you used this? As a darkroom I mean?”

“Gosh, a couple of years maybe. Digital photography is faster. This is time-consuming and expensive. There’s no point.”

“I think there’s a big point. This is special.”

“You seem to have
developed
,” she grinned, “a prejudice for your landlady.”

“You have no idea.”

Their eyes and smiles held for another long second before Gray tore his gaze away. “So, you don’t develop film here, yet you have the low light on, and I see bottles of chemicals on the shelves.”

“It truly is ambience. If I do look at pictures, there’s something elemental about seeing them under this light. They look just as they did when they were emerging from the developer.”

“Like playing a song with my acoustic guitar. No frills; just the way you created it.”

She turned back to him, her brows arched with delicate wonder. “Exactly.”

“What did you take these with?” He pointed at the photos.