The Rancher and the Rock Star (17 page)

“Oh, Gray, c’mon . . .”

“I’ll let you know exactly when we’re leaving. I have to make a couple of calls.” He turned for the house, but then looked back. “I’m paying for the damage to the flowers, too. And I’ll tell you just like I told Dawson, you don’t get a say in the decision.”

If she’d been ready to forgive him anything, he wiped out her sympathy in that second. Of all the egotistical, unfeeling, pig-headed, cliché rich boy . . . Abby seethed as he headed for his son. He didn’t get it. He probably never would.

S
TANDING IN THE
elegant lobby of the Bridgeport Care Complex in Richmond, Virginia, Gray set his hand on a subdued Dawson’s shoulder and rubbed against the tension. “Okay?” he asked.

“Grandma has a giant garden. She grows amazing flowers. She has a cool house. Why does she have to live here?” His voice was tiny.

Gray nodded. Laura Covey had been a fiercely strong woman who’d owned her own land long before marrying Neil and had protected it fiercely since his death five years before. For her to be in a place like this, however ritzy, was unjust.

Exotic-wood wainscoting and furniture in blue and burgundy brocade looked like they belonged in a Rockefeller sitting room. Plants abounded. The half-dozen elderly men and women seated in the room were well-dressed and involved in reading, knitting, or quiet discussion.

“It’s hard.” Gray gave a last squeeze to Dawson’s shoulder.

A young woman behind a carved reception desk smiled in practiced welcome, and then her mouth fell open. “Mr. Covey!”

“C’mon, Brenda.” He knew all the staff. He’d insisted on meeting them so there’d be no screeching scenes. “You know it’s Gray.”

“I do. Gray.” She flushed. “Your mother will be so happy to see you. She talks about you all the time.”

“I’ll be happy to see her, too.” He took two visitor badges from her and handed one to Dawson. They didn’t have to sign in, however. That deal had been struck to keep pages of the register from being stolen. Sometimes he hated his job.

The assisted living wing’s hallways were lined with oak doors, many bearing flower wreaths or welcome signs. Most stood partially open as in the case of his mother’s. Dawson remained pale and quiet as Gray rapped softly on the door.

“Mom?”

She sat in her favorite blue armchair in front of a sunny picture window, her nimble fingers pushing a needle through fabric in an embroidery hoop. A beautiful bouquet of roses and lilies sat on a nearby table. When he and Dawson stepped into the room, the expectant, quizzical smile, as if she were a child hoping for a gift, broke his heart, as it always did.

“Grandma?” Dawson finally came to life.

“Hello, dear,” she said softly. “It’s nice to see you.”

He grinned, his eyes clearing, and glanced back at Gray. “See? She knows me.” He bent to hug her and Gray’s heart sank further knowing Dawson couldn’t see the confusion in her eyes. “I miss you. I’ve been trying to come see you for a long time, but I couldn’t reach you.”

“Goodness.” She patted him awkwardly. “I haven’t heard that from you in ages. I’m thrilled you had time to take a break from your practicing.”

Confusion fueled his son’s frown. “Practicing?”

“Oh, no need to hide it, David. I know about your little band.” Gray caught her eyes, and his beautiful, sixty-three-year-old mother, with nothing but a few lovely streaks of gray in her dark hair, didn’t recognize him in the slightest. “You must be Spark. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Dawson’s jaw dropped, and he staggered back. Gray caught his shoulders and held him.

“Mom, I’m David. This is Dawson. He only looks like me.”

Her brow furrowed and she set her embroidery on the table. With a slender hand, she brushed at her light blue slacks. “Dawson?” A smile blossomed. “He’s such a good baby. And your name is David, too? My son is David. Davy.”

A small sob caught in Dawson’s throat. Gray pulled him more tightly against his chest. “I know,” he whispered. “Just talk to her. Sometimes she remembers.”

“David told me he wants to start a rock band at Juilliard, can you imagine? I told him they’ll kick him out.” A girlish giggle escaped. “They won’t, I know, he’s too good, and he’ll probably be good at rock ’n roll too. I wish he wanted to be a concert pianist, but . . .”

“He’s done pretty well anyway, hasn’t he?” Gray asked softly.

Her eyes clouded, and she stroked at her chin in obvious consternation. Then, as quickly as she’d grown agitated, she smiled and reached for Dawson’s hand. “He is amazing isn’t he?” She looked at him. “Twelve years old and they’re letting you play with the high school band. Most mothers can’t get their kids to practice at all, and you love it. I’m lucky.”

“You always made me practice my guitar, Grandma. Just like you made Dad practice.” Dawson’s voice quavered, but Gray smiled encouragement. He remembered how awful it had been the first time his mother hadn’t known him.

“Mom, look closely,” he said. “I brought you a surprise. This is Dawson. Remember, he ran away? I found him and he’s okay.”

“Dawson?” She sat rigid a moment, her forehead creased in deep thought, but then she lifted her eyes and Gray had to hold back tears. Her green irises had cleared of all confusion.

“He shouldn’t be in that school Ariel put him in, but he shouldn’t have run away.” She turned. “You shouldn’t have run away, young man. You scared me to death.”

“Grandma? Grandma, do you know who I am?”

A flicker of sadness crossed her features, but she stroked his cheek when he knelt beside her. “I do, Dawson. Are you all right?”

“I came to see you, but they wouldn’t tell me where you were. I went to Minnesota to stay with a friend.”

“I knew David would find you.” She looked to Gray. “Hi, handsome.”

“Hi, beautiful.”

“Do not run away again.” She kissed Dawson’s head.

“I won’t, Grandma.” He choked back tears and clung to her hand. Gray bent and kissed her temple.

“Minnesota? That’s a long way away,” she said.

“I was working for my friend’s mom. She’s really great, right, Dad?”

“She is. Very special.” Gray swallowed against the lump in his throat and ignored the hole in his heart.

His mother looked at the pair of them for a long time, and Gray held his breath. There was never any telling how long her moments of lucidity would last. “So? What’s wrong?”

“Wrong?” He exchanged looks with his son and let his shoulders slump. “She’s quite angry with me at the moment, and I feel badly about it.” He could never explain to her what an understatement that was.

“Why is she angry?”

“It’s all mixed up with work, Mom.”

“What is her name?”

“Abby.”

“Abigail. One of my favorites. Work doesn’t matter, David. You said she was special, and you don’t say that often. That’s what’s important.”

She looked down at Dawson’s hand, still clutching hers, and lifted it to her lips.

“Sweet boy,” she said. “I adore you, you know. And I always will in here,” she touched her heart, “if not here.” She did the same to her forehead, and tears finally spilled from Dawson’s eyes.

He swiped at them with the back of one hand. “I love you, too, Grandma. Get better so you can go home, and I’ll come and help you.”

“Pretty flowers, Mom. Who are they from?” Gray tried changing the topic, but her brain didn’t follow the new course. He saw it before she even answered.

“Flowers?” She glanced around the room till she found the vase. “Oh, of course. They’re from Davy. He was by yesterday.”

“No, don’t go away yet, Grandma, don’t . . .” Dawson buried his head in her lap, and the confusion returned to her eyes.

“Mom,” Gray said, forcing his own voice not to break. “We’re going to go get you a strawberry milkshake from downstairs. And some French fries, just like you love. C’mon Daw.” He pulled the boy to a stand. The tough teen had been reduced to Jell-O and Gray knew he now needed a break. “We’ll be right back and have a little party. Then we’ll go down and you can show us the birds in the lobby.”

“That sounds lovely. I’ll get some plates and napkins.” She rose with them and headed for her small kitchenette, where she kept paper plates, a few canned goods, and some sodas in the refrigerator.

“It’s all right,” he said to Dawson, when they’d left the room. “It is.”

“It’s not,” he cried. “It’s never going to be all right.”

“If there is anywhere she can get help, it’s here, Son. I just needed you to know. I didn’t stuff her away. Moving Grandma here was the hardest decision I’ve ever made. But Pauline couldn’t take care of her at home anymore. It was just too hard.”

To his shock, Dawson threw his arms around Gray’s waist and sobbed. Even though he pulled away, embarrassed, after only moments, Gray felt his own eyes well as he thumped his son on the back.

“Please can we go home to Abby’s?” Dawson asked.

Gray hadn’t made much peace with her before they’d left. He’d set another hundred-dollar bill on Abby’s counter this morning before walking out the door, and now the memory of that alone appalled him. It was just another thing she’d asked that he’d ignored. He didn’t understand her aversion to help, but he should at least respect it. And he missed her. But he’d cleared out of her life—how could he go back and put her right back in the same position?

“We’ll stay here one night and visit Grandma again tomorrow. Then we’ll decide what to do, okay?”

For once Dawson didn’t argue.

Chapter Seventeen

A
BBY GAZED SADLY
at her wildflowers standing straight and strong in the steamy sunshine, dancing almost imperceptibly in a tiny, ineffectual breeze. She’d been such an idiot, raging over the garden. These were wildflowers, tough despite their fragile appearances. They sprang back after every frigid Minnesota winter, and they withstood ninety-degree days like this every summer. It was why she loved them.

And why no sign remained of the abuse they’d taken two days ago.

She stroked the heavy camera hanging from its strap around her neck. She hadn’t ever really worried about her flowers; they’d been an excuse. An excuse to unload all her fears and hurt on Gray, when he’d been just as upset as she. She was still afraid. All she’d wanted was for him to stick up for her, and it had hurt that Chris and the photographers were more important to him. That’s what frightened her—the possessiveness she’d felt after less than two weeks with him. He didn’t belong to her; but she’d treated him as though he did.

The flowers swished, and Abby focused back on the garden, lifting the camera and squatting. A moment later Roscoe emerged and Abby snapped her shutter. She duck-walked backward, getting off four quick shots of the advancing doggy nose and drooling grin before he started barking like a maniac and she ran smack dab into a solid mass, toppled onto her butt, and screeched when a pair of hands reached to haul her up.

She scrambled to her feet and stared at the boy, who looked like he’d actually grown in forty-eight hours. “Jeez Louise! Dawson?”

“Hi.”

He smiled, but his eyes were dull, his face drawn. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong? Are you all right?”

A heartbeat later he’d wrapped his arms around her and laid his head on her shoulder. She held him with all her might, tears beading in her eyes at the emotions and need tensing the wiry, teenage body. She took a quick glance over his shoulder. Her heartbeat somersaulted with joy and relief.

“Hi,” Gray echoed. His hesitant smile grew slowly, but his eyes shone more clearly than his son’s did.

“I could kiss the pair of you. What happened? Where have you been?”

At the threat of kissing, Dawson pulled away, but his features were still wrapped in pale sorrow. “Grandma. We went to see her. She mostly doesn’t remember us.” He chewed his lip at the difficult admission.

“Honey.” She pushed at a lock of his caramel-colored hair, and he allowed that fussy gesture without a flinch. “I am so, so sorry. Tell me about it. Did she remember you at all?”

“A couple of times. But she kept thinking I was Dad and Dad was Spark.”

“Oh, dear . . .” She trailed her fingers down his cheek, searching for words that would help, when she knew nothing would. “What did she say when she did know who you are?”

“That . . .” His gaze flickered between hers and his father’s. “. . . I’m not supposed to run away anymore.”

She tried to smile without the ache in her heart showing through. How could she care so much about a family she didn’t know? “Then you need to take comfort in knowing your wise grandma isn’t gone yet. She’s absolutely right.” Dawson didn’t look at her. Abby touched his cheek again. “Isn’t she?”

That got her a nod and, finally, a half-strength smile. “She always was a little bit bossy.”

“And you wish she could be bossy all the time, right?”

He rubbed the heel of his palm across his nose as he nodded, like the child he still was pushing back his tears. Abby grabbed him into a hug again even though, this time, he squirmed.

“You don’t have to let her go, Dawson,” she said. “You don’t have to be afraid of being sad. Start writing to her now. All the time. Tell her everything you’re doing. We’ll take lots of pictures of you so she can remember as long as possible.”

“Really?” The whispered word barely made it past the emotion clogging his throat.

“Of course, really.” She let him free and held up her camera. “I’ll take them myself, okay? Have I told you how awfully glad I am you’re back?”

He straightened and took a minute to compose himself. “I talked Dad into coming.” He glanced again at Gray, who stood patiently a half-dozen steps away, a mix of confusion and, maybe, wonder on his face. Then Dawson shrugged. “But I didn’t have to talk very hard.” He stepped back. “I’m gonna go . . . put stuff away and . . .” He shrugged again. “Thanks.”

“Sweetheart, nothing to thank me for.”

Her heart danced through her chest as the boy passed his father, who laid a hand gently on his shoulder. They nodded almost imperceptibly at one another before Gray let him go and faced her. Her heart pounded in earnest.

She scanned him thoroughly, halting deliberately several times as if he’d disappear again if she finished looking. Instead, when she reached his beautiful, familiar face, the world felt whole once more.

“How do you do it?” he asked.

“What’s that?”

“Tell him exactly what he should hear without threatening him. I barely get full sentences out without pissing him off.”

“It’s easy for me. I’m a neutral party.” She wasn’t, but she couldn’t yet put that into words. “You did the right thing, taking him, you know. But I’m glad you’re back, too.”

“I had to come back and get my money.”

“Ah. Well, it’s right where you left it.”

“I’m sorry, Abby.” He moved closer. “It was disrespectful to leave it. I was an ass all the way around.”

“No, Gray, I was the idiot. I wasn’t mad about the flowers, I—”

“You were mad for the same reason I was. Our safe haven was gone.” Abby nodded, her eyes burning. “I didn’t plan to come back. I wanted you to stay safe from that scene happening again.” He stood directly in front of her, and his masculine spice blended with the scent of wild asters and columbine.

“But you had to get your money.” A half-smile teased her lips.

The instant he lowered his head, hers lifted automatically, happy surprise surging through her veins like adrenaline. The exact moment he parted his lips in invitation, her tongue knew to slip in and stroke his. Their coolness and warmth swirled like the finest wine in her mouth, and she drank, reveling in the powerful shudders diving for her stomach.

He thrust his powerful tongue deep and then drew it out, pulling the strength from her knees as he bit gently on her lip. Their tongues tangoed again. And a third time. The exploration ended in sync and melded into a succulent kiss. Perfect. Flawless as a choreographed dance, yet unexpected as snow in summer.

“I see you have the old picture-taker out.” He adjusted her camera strap like he was straightening a collar, trying to look like he could ignore what had just happened.

“You’re a horrible influence. I should be fixing the screen door.”

“No, Abby, it’s good you were playing. I’m happy you were.” He lifted her chin and cut off her protest. “I don’t know whether it’s wise to stay, or if I’m even welcome to stay, but I promised Dawson to finish out my vacation.”

“Oh, all right,” she whispered. “I haven’t rented out your room yet.”

A long, satisfying silence let her take him in again.

“So are you, uh, going to develop that film anytime soon?”

“What’s it to you?” Biting softly on her bottom lip, she just barely avoided his eyes. Her stomach ached with desire that was way-too-suddenly out of control, and liquid sluiced to the aching spot between her legs.

“I had a short apprenticeship in a darkroom,” he said into her ear. “I’m a fair assistant.”

A movement and a flash of reflected light from the trees caught her eye, and her reply lodged in her throat. A creepy, watched sensation sent unpleasant shivers up her spine. “Did you see that?”

He nodded but continued to hold her tightly. “Are you expecting anyone?”

“No, but I’m pretty sure I saw someone or something over in the trees.” She pulled back slightly in his arms, her brows creasing. “Let’s go find out.”

“Stop.” He squeezed her shoulders gently and brought her attention back to him. She grinned when he smoothed her forehead with a finger. “You look like a little pit bull. Abby, I had to be told not to smoke around a barn; you need to be told not to go running off after potential people-in-trees.”

“It’s probably the dog.” She nibbled his earlobe, and he groaned.

“Probably. The better part of valor is to—”

“Mom! Mom!! Come quick. Quiiiiick!”

Kim’s shrill, panicked shriek sent Abby’s heart plummeting to her feet then lurching into her throat. Desire fled. Gray blanched. “Oh, God,” he cursed.

She pulled away and dragged the Minolta from her neck, dropping it next to the flower bed. A million unspeakable images sliced through her brain, as she and Gray raced down the driveway. Only when she saw Kim standing at the barn door, beckoning wildly, did the picture of her daughter lying broken on the ground from a fall disappear. But Kim’s dusty face was streaked with rivulets of water, her breeches and T-shirt half-soaked.

“Kim, Kim, calm down, sweetie, what’s wrong? Who’s hurt?”

For an instant Kim froze. “Gray? Gray! You’re back!”

“Yes, love, I’m here. But what’s going on? You scared the hair off us.”

“Ack! It’s the hose in the tack room. I can’t shut it off.”

Abby tamped down a hysterical urge to giggle and then she was running again, past the hay to the tack room door where she stopped so abruptly Gray banged up against her. Together they stared into a Looney Tunes cartoon.

A black rubber hose attached to the old washing machine flailed like a demented snake, hissing water that drenched the floor, walls, ceiling and a half dozen saddles.

“I tried to wedge it in the sink,” Kim gasped, her voice squeaky and breathless. “I was going to wash all the saddle pads, but everything went nuts as soon as I turned on the machine. I turned it off again, but the water kept coming.”

“Oh, for crying out loud!” Abby rushed forward and grabbed the maniacal tubing, wrestling it safely into the laundry sink. “What would cause pressure like this?”

“The pressure tank still being full,” Gray replied. “Where’s the water shut off?”

“In the house, but I’ll go. I’ll never be able to explain where it is. Can you take this?” She transferred hold of the hose to Gray. “Kimmy, wipe the saddles before the leather gets . . .”

A fart-like sputter emanated from the hose, and without further warning it lost all tension. Two more convulsive spurts left it quiet in Gray’s hands, its slow stream turning to a steady trickle that petered out as they watched.

“Touch of the master,” Gray quipped and offered a smile, but Abby’s thoughts flooded with sick horror. “Thank goodness, right?” Gray peered at her

She buried her face in her hands. “No, no, no. No way is this going to be good.”

The cartoon theme continued when Dawson wheeled in like Wile E. Coyote chasing the Roadrunner. Abby almost heard the screech of his heels sliding to a stop.

“What’s going on?” His chest expanded and contracted like a wheezing concertina.

“The washing machine hose went crazy, and now there’s no water.” Kim said. “Hi. Welcome home.” Dawson gave her a sideways smile.

Gray cranked the knob on the washer and pulled. The machine only buzzed expectantly. Incapacitated with disbelief, Abby searched her mind for a solution and drew a pitiful blank. Gray tested the laundry sink faucets. They were similarly unresponsive.

He let out a grunt. “Yup, there seems to be a problem.”

The colossal understatement sent fear through Abby’s body, and she clamped her lips tight against the words in her mind.
Yeah, I’ll tell you what the problem is, man who can lay a hundred dollars on the table without blinking. No money—that’s the problem.

The unkind thought pulled her up short. He’d already apologized for that, and this was not his fault. But why was she standing here like an imbecile? She handled things. She made decisions. A handsome guy showed back up and she went brain dead?

“Good observation, Dad.”

Abby sputtered, and the next second she was sobbing, although, mercifully, her choking did sound like hysterical giggles.

“It’s okay, Mom. It’s okay.” Kimmy put her arms around Abby’s shoulders, and it helped. It was the way of things in their tiny family, and suddenly the two men standing around were no longer sapping the strength from her. “It’s probably easy to fix.”

“Are you sure you can’t explain where the pressure tank is?” Gray asked.

“In the basement.” She sighed. “You know about wells and pressure tanks?”

He actually looked wounded. “I grew up in rural Virginia. My dad made me learn all kinds of stuff because I might need it someday. I’m not a totally worthless geek.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”

“I’m not promising I can fix anything, but it won’t hurt to look.”

“I appreciate it, I do. But I have a bad feeling. When you can use ‘no water’ and ‘well’ in the same sentence, you’re rarely talking about a problem that can be fixed with duct tape.”

“We’ll for dang sure do our best, ’eh? C’mon Daw. Let’s go pretend we’re superheroes.”

“Who has to pretend?” Dawson didn’t crack a smile.

Despite the valiant turning of dials and adjusting of tubing, the Covey Superheroes were unsuccessful as well as smudged and rumpled when they were forced to give up on restoring water. Despite her heart sinking steadily deeper into panic, Abby couldn’t help but be enamored of the father/son duo working so hard for her. Deep in the recesses of her heart, she remembered what a family could be. But it was too much to dwell on.

“I’ll call Orv at Barrett’s Well Service,” she said. “I’m sure he’ll know exactly what needs to be done.”
And how big a loan I’ll have to take out from the Bank of Someone Who Doesn’t Know Me.

The weight of Gray’s hands on her shoulders almost loosened the hold she’d grasped on her tears. Dirt stained his shoulder, and a dark, wet spot spread down his thigh. His blue eyes offered sympathy in the dim light of the musty old basement.

“Is there a quiet spot in town or nearby, where I can take us all to dinner?” He massaged gently, imperceptibly with his fingers. “We can’t cook without water.”

“Beefaroni.” Her voice dulled even though she intended to joke.