The Rancher and the Rock Star (3 page)

“It was kind of satisfying.” He looked around at the more-organized piles of hay and grinned. “Like the Cat in the Hat came along and cleaned up his mess.”

“You’re a very strange man.” Her assessing gaze rose from his ankles to his eyes, and inner warmth overrode the clamminess from his jeans.

“Well, the fun and the rain are over,” Ed said. “Sylvie, let’s head home. Let these two alone. Nice meetin’ you, Goddess. You stack a mean hay bale.”

“What are your plans while you wait for your boy to return?” Sylvia cut off Gray’s reply with a pointed demand, not quite as ready as Ed to offer her trust.

Gray had pushed that question far to the back of his mind. With a jolt, the reality of his trip rushed back. “Playing it by ear,” he said honestly. “I have a hotel room up by the airport.”

“Fine, then.” She turned, her scowl slightly less intense. “Abby, you come for dinner if you like. I don’t want you skimping just ’cause dose kids aren’t home.”

“Thank you, Sylvia. But I promise, I have a nice pasta meal all planned.”

“Hmmpf.”

“You might have trouble getting your car out of here now.” Ed nodded at Gray. “Call if you need a pull. Don’t let that Dawson leave without saying good-bye.”

Once they’d gone, it was clear the tension between Gray and Abby had blinked one awakening-dragon eye at the mention of Dawson. Gray wasn’t eager to poke the monster into full consciousness, but he fought fresh irritation. It was his son. He wasn’t going to walk on eggshells.

Abby grabbed a push broom from beside a wall and stroked at the loose hay on the wooden floor with purposeful efficiency. “This’ll only take a second.” She didn’t look up. “I’ll just toss this loose stuff into a few stalls.”

He sighed. He needed to stop playing on the farm and . . . and what? Call Chris to hear him yell? Call the band to tell them he still didn’t have his kid? What he needed was Abby Stadtler on his side. A cool, wet nose nudged his hand. He stooped to pat Roscoe, which made him want to forget his manager and his rotten tour and stay right here. “Let me help.”

“Look.” To his relief a glimmer of soft light shone in Abby’s eyes. “I feel guilty enough about all you’ve done, although it’s very much appreciated. You don’t need to help.”

“C’mon, tell me what to do.” He grinned. “When we’re done we can discuss a plan for the immediate future. Helping will give me a chance to think of one. A plan that is.” Was that a smile? The giddy reaction in his belly unnerved him.

She struggled a moment longer, then gave in. “Fine. Grab the wheelbarrow.”

They loaded it with the loose hay, and Gray followed her down the barn aisle helping distribute a portion to each stall, chatty as she talked about the horses they were feeding.

“Six are ours, two we board,” she said. “Horses have always been part of my life. I used to compete; now I teach a few lessons, and Kim has the show bug. How ’bout you? Have you ever ridden?”

“At a dude ranch. Once,” he admitted. “You can write my horse knowledge on your little fingernail.”

“Ooh, not impressive.” She grinned. “C’mon, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

A conversation about horses? Regret pricked his conscience. He wasn’t the only one affected by tonight’s unnecessary concert cancellation. Five others shared the stage with him each performance, and there were sound-and-lighting techs, stage hands, and equipment people. Every one of them was stranded while he was playing in the country.

He pushed his guilt aside with effort. Sometimes being responsible for all those careers exhausted him. Had he really dreamed of living like this all those smoky, dinky bars ago? He should have become the concert pianist of his mother’s dreams.

“Here he is. Hey, gorgeous.” Abby interrupted his thoughts with a lilt he hadn’t heard before. “This is Gucci.”

The horse in the stall before them looked his name—like perfectly conditioned, expensive leather. With a snort he shuffled to the bars covering the top half of his box and pressed his forehead against them for Abby to scratch. Every ounce of her careful reserve disappeared. Gray was mesmerized and envious all at once as Abby leaned forward to whisper nonsense. In an instant, she transformed into a different woman.

“He’s my pathetic weakness in life.” She stepped back with a cute, embarrassed smile. “He’s not great outside in thunderstorms, so he’s been inside nice and dry. Would you mind if I took a minute to let him out for a quick run around his paddock?”

Gray shook his head. He knew nothing about horses, but as he stood back while Abby snapped a lead rope on this one, he knew it was one of the prettiest animals he’d ever seen. Regal. Bunched-but-supple muscles. A dark brown body with jet black mane and tail and huge, brown eyes. He looked powerful, and explosive enough to scare the hell out of him.

Outside, a paddock with solid posts and four cross boards awaited the horse. Abby pulled his leather halter off and let him go. He snorted again, dashed four strides then planted his feet in a dead stop. With a devilish eye, he buckled his knees.

“Oh, yeah, thanks so much, you big dork,” Abby called.

Gucci sank onto the muddy ground and rolled in abandon. Ten seconds later he heaved to his feet, his spit and polish a thing of the past, and took off bucking across the paddock.

“He looks like a street-corner knock-off now, doesn’t he?” Gray asked.

She giggled. “Good one. Hear that, Gooch?” she called and latched the metal gate. “He’s definitely my guy. I rescued him eight years ago when police found him in an abandoned herd and couldn’t place him because he was a stallion.”

“Is being a stallion such a bad thing?” Gray stared at the horse, avoiding her eyes.

“They’re generally harder to handle. Too much testosterone.” She leaned on the top of the gate and hid a smile in her arms. “I should have gelded him but I couldn’t. Besides, he’s turned out to be a gentleman. He’s a German breed called a Trakehner and he’s got great personality and bloodlines. It took a while to track his registry, but I did, and he’s made a lot of very pretty babies.”

“Lucky fella. You obviously treat him well.”

Gucci stopped bucking and returned to the gate, nickering for fresh attention.

“Horse people have no perspective.” She stroked the horse, her words suddenly clipped with defensiveness. It befuddled him. She was full of magic one moment, matter-of-fact the next. “All right, that’s all he needs, he can go back inside. Time to figure out what to do about your wet jeans.”

“Does Dawson like the horses?” When Gucci was safe in his stall, the question escaped before Gray thought better of it. He’d been avoiding the subject, but curiosity burned about what his son was doing here.

“He does. He’s very sweet with them, and he’s not a bad rider. He hates mucking stalls, though.” Her smile was fond.

“I told you my son was bright.”

“He doesn’t take any crap.” Pleasure with her joke lit her lovely eyes. “I like that about him.”

“We used to call that stubborn,” Gray said. “Sounds like he’s got you hoodwinked.”

“Maybe you don’t know your son as well as you think you do.”

He touched her upper arm to stop her, and his voice remained calm with effort. “I don’t have to negotiate terms with you, Abby. I owe you all the gratitude in the world, but he isn’t another rescued horse. He has people who love him.”

“People he ran away from,” she said, almost under her breath.

“Now look . . .” His temper almost got the better of him, but she put up her hand first.

“I’m sorry. Until two hours ago I believed he was a nearly-grown kid making his way around the country as a big adventure. I’ve enjoyed him, and I hoped he’d find some roots here.”

“He has roots with his family.” Gray breathed out his anger. “Look. I am not here to read him the riot act. Strangle him perhaps . . .”

“I’m a parent, too,” she conceded. “I guess I can understand the desire to murder him.”

“With my bare hands.”

He grabbed his soaked T-shirt and leather jacket and followed Abby out the barn door. Once in the rain-freshened air, they both eyed his car with doubt. The barnyard was half-a-foot deep in slippery mud.

“I’d let it sit here for now,” Abby said. “Ed was right. Non-farm vehicles get stuck easily after a rain. Let things dry while we talk and get something to eat.”

He shrugged in agreement. Roscoe trotted ahead of them toward the house, his presence a warm memory of childhood, softening the tension between them. “You don’t have to feed me, you know.”

“Yeah, well . . .” Finally she smiled. “Don’t be too impressed. That pasta I mentioned to Sylvia? It’s a can of Beefaroni.”

He laughed. After endless weeks of room service and junk food, a can of Beefaroni didn’t sound half bad. They reached the house and Abby opened the back door. “Roscoe, you have to stay out until you get cleaned. But you . . .” She pointed at Gray and, for the briefest moment, despite their tension, the little sprite he’d seen earlier peeked out again. “Let’s take you inside and get you out of those pants.”

Chapter Three

G
RAY’S VOICE FADED
as he prowled the living room talking on his phone in hushed tones. Abby’s guilt flared. Hiding the fact that she knew who he was felt dishonest, yet she dreaded telling him. David Graham was simply Dawson’s dad, frustrating to argue with but easy to have temporarily in her life. Gray Covey was a celebrity with the proven power to wreak havoc on her senses and trample through her world like a circus elephant through a family picnic.

Besides, since he hadn’t come clean, either, anonymity seemed equally important to him.

Nerves darted through her stomach when she heard him say good-bye, but all her apprehension vanished when he appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Phone call finished?” She managed to hold back full-fledged laughter, but one playful sputter refused to stay contained.

“Don’t start.” He pointed at her, a warning in his eyes.

“Start what?” She feigned innocence. “It’s adorable.”

Because his overnight bag sat in a hotel room two hours away and his jeans and T-shirt were now in her dryer, Gray stood wrapped in the only item of clothing they’d found big enough to cover him. The shabby, terrycloth, wrap robe—whose vintage even Abby couldn’t recall—might have been sensational, showcasing his extraordinary calves and tapered ankles as it did. The trouble lay in its mint-green color and the chorus line of embroidered, jumping frogs circling it from one front edge to the other.

“You swore, not a word. The Barn Goddess comments were bad enough.”

Their disagreements might not be over, but no way could she discuss them with a phenomenally attractive man in a frog bathrobe. Absolutely not with her stomach cavorting at the tease of chest hair between the robe’s lapels. She remembered full well what he looked like sans frogs.

“Fine.” She hid her wayward thoughts. “Supper will take your mind off the humiliation.”

She led him to the small dining room off her kitchen where Gray’s forehead lost its furrows, and his rich laughter rolled through the room, fanning the flutter in her stomach.

“Too damn funny, Abby. I’ve never seen a sarcastic dinner table before.”

“You did order Beefaroni.”

He had—nixing all other suggestions she’d made for their early supper. So, she’d set the table with a juvenile assortment of tableware, left over from when the kids had been little. Boats and cars graced the placemats, bucking horses and cowboys decorated the bowls, and giraffe and monkey cups with neck and tail for handles, respectively.

“Go ahead, pick whichever place you like. Sorry I didn’t have a frog cup.”

“I know you think you’re funny.” He sent her a glare made up mostly of laugh lines.

It had been ages since she’d done something so frivolous. During the absurd meal prep, Abby hadn’t once considered cost, or time and effort, or whether he’d think her insane. It was so out of the cautious character she’d become, she hardly believed they were in her house. And after a leisurely meal seasoned with breezy laughter, she hardly believed she was with Dawson’s prickly father.

“T
HIS WAS FUN,”
she said when they both put their spoons down for the last time. “I’m sorry you had to miss your appointment; I just couldn’t see how to get to the airport on time.”

“It was fun, thank you. And you said the kids are due home before noon tomorrow. As long as I’m back by tomorrow night all will be forgiven.”

“David.” She used the name softly. “Dawson could stay. Truly. Maybe it would be easier.”

With exaggerated calm, he met her eyes. “I don’t understand. He lied to you and to your teenage daughter. Why do you want him here?”

“He’s a vulnerable kid who ran from something.”

“Yeah, a stuffy English boarding school. Wouldn’t you?” His eyes flashed into stormy blue and frustration tightened the planes of his sculpted face. His skin tone deepened, accentuating the shadow sprouting on his cheeks. He was back to being an attractive,
angry
man, and her pulse pounded in places that should have embarrassed her.

“I’d want to find out exactly why he ran.”

He leaned forward. “You think I’m not goddamned gonna ask him?”

His heated curse broke her spell-like fascination. She matched him, leaning into his face. “In this house, if you swear, you leave God out of it. And I’m sure you
will
ask your son all the pertinent questions—in that tone of voice. How lucky he is to have such an understanding father.”

For a moment she couldn’t tell if he was reloading for another volley or was simply shell-shocked that he’d been yelled at. Again. But he surprised her with a quieter voice. “I’m sorry, but I’m not going to argue about my son. He isn’t up for adoption.”

He was right. She wasn’t sure why she wanted so badly for Dawson to stay, but she had no right to argue with his father. “I’m sorry, too.” She looked away to gather composure.

“I should be glad you’ve taken a liking to my son, and I am.” His voice, laced with humor once again, drew her back. “You’re stubborn, Abby Stadtler, but you’re a very captivating woman when you’re on the warpath.”

Abby hadn’t fielded an honest compliment in so long her most intelligent response was the heat rising in her face. “How about a truce?” she asked, finally. “I’ll make dessert. My secret chocolate potion.”

“Secret chocolate can’t be anything but good.” He grinned. “Here’s to truces.”

She checked on their clothes first and returned to find him peering out a window in an eerily darkened living room “How are the old jeans?” he asked. “I should head back to the hotel when they’re dry. After the chocolate, of course.” He smiled, scanning the outdoors. “I did check in already and there’s work I could do there.”

“The jeans are still damp around the edges, but whenever you need to go . . .” The reluctance in her words surprised her. “We’ll see if you can drive out of the mud. I admit the whole area down by the barn is pretty awful after it rains.”

“Speaking of rain.” He squinted at the sky. “I think there’s another whopper brewing.”

She joined him and assessed the rapidly gathering new clouds. “Wow, you’re—”

With no warning, a jagged arrow lit the yard from heavens to grass. The violent crack that followed all but blasted them away from the window, and the house went dark. A yowl like a banshee on the kill pierced the crackling air.

“Holy sh— crap!” Gray grabbed her upper arms and pulled her into the safety of his embrace. He still smelled of alfalfa, now mingling with fresh soap-on-skin, and she had no idea if her heart pounded from the crash, his arms compressing her breasts into the mint-green terry, or his breath pulsing against her cheek.

“What was that? Freddy Kruger?” His laughter caught in his throat.

“No,” she choked. “Just Bird. My cat.”

“Abby, please. Please tell me you don’t have a cat named Bird.”

Her oversized, orange wuss-of-a-tabby glided into the room, blinking regally as if he hadn’t just hollered for his life. “Oh, but I do. Meet the Bird.”

He stared. “This place
is
a rabbit hole. You’ve even got the friggin’ Cheshire Cat.”

“Huh?”

“Muahaha, Alice. The mushroom is working.”

She frowned at him, utterly confused. “I say again, you are very weird.”

Gray chose not to explain. He doubted she’d appreciate the unflattering humor. He brushed it aside and helped light candles. She left once more to bring their clothes up from the now non-functioning dryer. When she’d gone, Gray was free for the first time to do more than glance at the accoutrements of her life. While Bird stalked him, he roamed the room, which flickered in candlelight. Abby had her old farmhouse nicely decorated, with thick blue and red rugs on the wood floors, a mix of worn, traditional furniture, and shelves and tables filled with books and knick-knacks. The artwork, however, was what piqued his interest.

Several large, professional photographs adorned the walls, each graphic-like, with dramatic lighting and, in his opinion, bleak subjects: a leafless tree, an advancing thunderstorm—almost like today; an empty swing set beside an apple tree.

They were unquestionably good, but they startled him. In the few hours he’d known her, he hadn’t seen such austerity in Abby’s personality. Firmness. Stubbornness. She was definitely opinionated. But she was as far from cold as the pictures were from warm.

He moved across the room to a small, side alcove where an old Kohler and Campbell upright piano stood. He sat on the bench, stroking the instrument’s carved, oak finish. When he lifted the hinged lid, he exposed original, ivory keys, and a ripple of professional appreciation led him to run an arpeggio across the keyboard. The chords held a hint of old-string twang but still resounded with rich, mellow tones in a testament to the piano’s craftsmanship.

It sounded just like his mother’s old piano. Memories threatened to depress his mood, until a soft cat body twined through his legs and the sorrow dissipated. He bent to scratch Bird’s head, grateful. It sapped too much energy to think about his mother. Dealing with Dawson was enough for now.

The tiny alcove held more photos. He spied three grouped on a side wall and, drawn to the black-and-white pictures, Gray’s brow knotted. These were the opposites to those in the main room, possessing a soft-focused, precious quality the bigger pictures lacked: a chubby fist grasping the slender stem of a fuzzy dandelion; a very young child’s profile, cheeks puffed and lips pursed to blow; a close-up of long, pretty eyelashes resting against a gently curved cheek. Their simple story compelled him. He would have put these in a more public spot and tucked away the skeletal tree.

The focal picture in the space was a family portrait atop the piano. Abby, with a few fewer laugh lines, sat beside a square-jawed, all-American man with serious brown eyes. Before them sat two children—a sandy-haired girl of two or three and a tow-headed boy perhaps five.

There was a Mr. Abby. Or had been.

Flickering candlelight animated the picture, accentuating the man’s face and highlighting that of the boy—a miniature replica of the beach-blond man. Abby had never mentioned a son. Gray studied the faces, mystified.

“My husband.” Her quiet voice behind him held a pensive note. A shiver of unwelcome dread traced down Gray’s spine. He knew that tone of voice all too well—the one preceding a story nobody wanted to hear. “And my son Will.”

He held his breath without meaning to. “But?” He turned and met eyes tinged with old sorrow.

“They were killed in a car accident almost twelve years ago.”

His stomach dropped despite having expected bad news. “Oh, hell, Abby, I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you. But don’t be. It’s a safe subject most of the time, I promise.”

He couldn’t stop himself from tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. They both started at the touch and he swallowed. “So, tell me your story, Abby Stadtler.”

“His name was Jack.” She smiled, and yet there was a sheen in her eyes and an almost-imperceptible deepening of her voice. “We were married seven years, and he was a wonderful, gentle man. Will was a little rabble-rouser and smart as a whip but, of course, I’m eternally prejudiced.” Her chin lifted a fraction in protectiveness. “He was five, two years older than Kim. She says she remembers him, although I’m not sure how much. But they were inseparable.”

“Were you and Kim part of the accident?”

“No. It happened on a simple drive to the grocery store. Someone made a wrong turn.”

“I’ve never experienced something that traumatic.” His dull pain seemed insignificant.

“I’m glad if that’s true.” She let her lip quirk in skepticism. “I’m not sure I believe you, though. Everyone has sorrows. And don’t be sad for me. Birthdays are tough, the anniversary of the accident a little tougher, and once in a while it feels like it’s been five minutes. But, eleven years is a long time.”

“It’s only been five minutes for me.”

For an instant she stared as if she had no idea what to say. “Wow.” She finally spoke. “Did estrogen from my sweatshirt seep into you, or are you naturally a sensitive man?”

He laughed and stepped away. “The more you talk, the more I can see why Dawson might like it here.”

Her eyes misted. “I . . . People hear my story and tell me how strong I am. But, I’m not. I get strength from God, and, for many reasons, your son has been a gift from Him. I’ll miss Dawson, but your words mean a lot. Thank you.”

“Nothing to thank me for.”

And there wasn’t. He understood now why Abby was enamored with Dawson, but he still had to take him. The boy had used to beg to hang with the band. If anything, Abby’s story made Gray want more than ever to have that happen.

“Hey! It’s time to celebrate almost an hour without an argument.” A grin signaled the end of Abby’s melancholy. “Ready for dessert? I actually have a little propane stove I can cook on.”

“Since it’s raining Birds and Roscoes at the moment, I can’t think of anything better. Or, nothing appropriate.” He waggled teasing brows. “What do you think about my jeans?”

“Still pretty damp in the seams.” She looked like she wanted to say far more but let her gaze shift instead to a blatant and unapologetic perusal of his calves. “You certainly don’t have to hurry on my account.”

In light of what she’d just shared, Gray was sure he had to be misreading her tone, but the slow suggestion and the deepening of her voice were unmistakable. Heat that had been bubbling beneath his emotions since the moment he’d met her turned into shivers, and sweats, and unadulterated, unsolicited lust. Her baggy, cotton, drawstring pants and clingy pink knit top were suddenly as sexy as black lace. Ignoring his guilt, he lifted her chin, and she tilted toward him. He brushed her lips with a kiss that assuaged nothing but set his nerves jangling. Soft and willing, she kissed him back, tasting of sweet mint.

“No. I’m afraid hurrying is a very good idea,” he said. He took his jeans and she stepped back, pointing to a flight of stairs at the end of the living room.

“Use the upstairs bathroom. The one you used down here earlier has no window. It’s the second door left, right up the stairs.”