The Rancher and the Rock Star (8 page)

It was the most ridiculous thing to weep over Abby could imagine, but a tear rolled down her cheek and she pinched back more with her fingers.

“Aw, Abby. I told you it was lame.”

“I didn’t think you’d even noticed. The chocolate I mean.”

“Oh, I noticed.”

She drummed up the courage to perform half her fantasy and closed the distance between them. Rising on her toes to bridge the half-foot gap in their heights, she placed a kiss on his cheek. “You lose—this isn’t lame either. But I’d like to keep it anyway.”

“In any other place but the land of Jumbawonka, it would be lame.”

He’d butchered the farm name several times, and she had no idea why it didn’t irritate the heck out of her. She was defensive about the name. “You have to stop making fun of my farm name.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

Above her head a floorboard creaked and Gray looked up the same time she did. Their reunion atmosphere immediately turned tense.

“Does he know I’m here?”

She nodded.

“And he didn’t run?”

“He doesn’t want to run. He wants you to find him and notice him.”

“Damn it, Abby. I did. I . . . I enjoyed having him with me. It was really pretty great. I don’t know what else to do for him.”

“Does he know you think it was pretty great?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t get irritated right off the bat. That won’t help.”

“Don’t get . . . ?” His gaze turned incredulous. “You bet I’m irritated. I’ve followed him here twice now, and I don’t have time for this.”

“Then leave him here until you do have time.” Her annoyance matched his. Couldn’t he see that his son was shouting for attention?

“What gives you the right to keep telling me what to do?”

“I didn’t suggest Dawson run away again, but he did. He could have gone anywhere, but he didn’t. Your son came to my house, and now he officially affects me, too.
That’s
what gives me the right.” She shouldn’t be irritated, but his stubbornness was maddening. Still, the steel in his eye sent a shaft of desire through her body, giving her the ridiculous longing to grab him and kiss his anger away rather than fight. Unnerved, she put a step between his sexy anger and her continual, annoying, lust-filled reaction to it.

“For crying out—” He cut himself off. The hardness melted from his face, leaving exhaustion in its place. “Oh, Abby, I’m sorry. I came here with gifts in hand hoping to beg for your help. You seem to be right about him. I don’t know why he ran away again.”

“Then you should ask him. Is that really so hard?”

“Hell yes, it’s hard. I’m his father. I should know things about my son.”

“Under the best of circumstances it’s hard to understand teenagers.” She curled her fingers around his bicep, remembering the solid bulge from their dance on the hay wagon over a week before. “Come on. I’ll put these in water quick, and then I’ll call Dawson. He’s upstairs.”

“I don’t know what’s going to happen.” He clasped both her hands around the flowers, and a silver-flash of excitement numbed her fingers when he squeezed. “I haven’t said it, and I should have. Thank you. For everything.”

“You’re welcome.” She smiled, and gently withdrew her hands, her cheeks heating at his touch. “We’ll figure this out. I promise.”

The scene as the two teenagers entered the living room this time couldn’t have been more different from the week before. Kim descended the stairs first with a bright smile in place. Rather than rumpled camping clothes, she’d encased her slim legs in a favorite pair of low-cut jeans with studded rhinestones and embroidered pink flowers winding up one leg. She’d topped it with a sucked-to-her-body white-and-pink knit top, its scooped neck just high enough to keep Abby from hauling her little butt right back up the stairs.

Dawson followed, shoulders tight, eyes downcast, hiding his pained combination of embarrassment and defiance.

“Hi, Gray.” Kim had found her fifteen-year-old confidence. They were in for teenage-trouble with her, too, Abby had no doubt.

“Hey, Kim. It’s great to see you again.”

She beamed.

“Hello, Son.”

Dawson’s scowl deepened. “Hey.”

“Nice of you to make finding your whereabouts easier this time. On the other hand, I had to put your mother off this morning when she called to talk to you. You’d be on a plane to England with armed guards if she’d learned you’d run off again.”

“Why don’t you just tell her and let her do it? That would make your life a lot easier.”

“Not fair.”

“No? You could play poker all you liked. You could do whatever Chris asked you to do and not have to worry about sending a babysitter after me. I wouldn’t embarrass you in front of your girl-
fans
.” He glared at Kim who rolled her eyes and sneered right back.

“I
never
looked at it that way,” Gray said. “You aren’t in my way. It was nice to have you with me, Dawson. I was kind of proud to show you my life.”

“Oh yeah? All I ever saw you do was fire a nice guy, follow a jerky guy, suck up to gushing women, and wear shiny clothes while people screamed for you. All I did was sit around, learn a few guitar parts from your songs, and talk to Spark.”

“I’m sorry my life is such a wasted disappointment to you. Maybe Heighton doesn’t sound that awful anymore.”

Abby’s heart went out to Gray. Dawson had inappropriately hit below the belt, but somehow they had to get to the heart of the issue, or he’d just keep running away. She held her tongue with difficulty.

“It’s not that,” Dawson shuffled restlessly for the first time. “It’s just—it’s
your
life, and you don’t have time for mine. You didn’t even know I’d left. All I had to do was tell three people I was going to a different hotel room, and that was it. You didn’t care. You promised to come, and you didn’t. It’s that simple.”

“You’re right. I messed up. Come back with me, and I’ll get it right. I care that we get it right. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

The child disappeared, and a resolute lawyer took his place. “You’re here because it would look bad if you weren’t. If you care so bloody much then prove it. Prove I’m more important than seven girl-fans who show up on Chris’s arm. Miss work more than a day to stick around and see what real life is like for me.” His eyes glowed as if he’d just found the secret to the universe.

“Now look . . .”

“I tried it your way, Dad. I’m not going back on tour.”

“Then what, exactly, is it you think you are you going to do?”

For the first time, Dawson’s eyes met Abby’s. Her heart sank. She’d talked a big story, but did she really want the responsibility of having the boy around when his mother and father had other plans for him?

“I’ll stay here and work for Abby.”

“Dawson, I . . .” she began.

“Think again.” Gray interrupted her protest. “You can’t impose on someone like that.”

Dawson’s frustration blew the calm off his reasonable persona. He glared at his father, glared at Abby, and shot unfair darts at Kim, who watched the exchange like a witness to an accident. “Then you figure it out.” His voice doubled in volume. “When you three make it all happy and fine for you, tell me, and I’ll get used to it. It doesn’t matter what I want. It never has.”

He stomped away before Abby, or anyone, could react to his petulance. She knew there were clues to his unhappiness in his tantrum, but the child was Jekyll and Hyde—hard to find fault with one minute and running away the next. Dawson was a kid who’d never learned to handle his emotions, and she had no idea how Gray was going to help him learn.

Chapter Eight

T
WILIGHT STEEPED THE
living room alcove in blue-gray shadows, and its one, tall window magnified a last spray of neon pink sunset. Gray parked himself on the bench in front of Abby’s piano. She and Kim, who’d chattered her fill with him about her favorite songs, had gone to feed horses. God knew where Dawson was. The quiet taunted him.

He stared at the keys, so precise, so symmetric. He knew their secrets and how to unlock them as well as he knew how to put one foot in front of the other and take a step. Normally, he could stare like this and, without touching a single ivory, have a melody rush at him like wild mountain water through a gully. The deluge would flow over the rocks and boulders of rhythm and structure until, finally, lyrics—the final touch of sunlight on the water—would come. But as had been the case for six weeks, with exception of a freak stanza written in the rain, there was no rush of creativity, and he was filled with an ache rather than inspiration.

The ache grew from the idea of accepting responsibility for his son’s anger. An immature desire to pound out his frustrations on the poor piano gripped him. He’d been self-righteous, certain of Dawson’s joy at seeing his dad ride in to rescue him. Turned out—and how could he have missed this?—he was a sanctimonious, self-centered bastard.

The thought cut him to the quick. It wasn’t true.

Was it?

Admittedly, he hadn’t been around for every one of Dawson’s milestones. By sheer virtue of his notoriety he couldn’t be a typical T-ball dad or go on Scout camping trips. His very presence would have overshadowed anything Dawson did. But he’d seen his son’s first step. He’d played catch at home. He’d taught him to play music.

To exacerbate the problem, Ariel hadn’t been a T-ball, Scout-camp kind of mom either. The impact on Dawson of having two jet-setting parents had never dawned on Gray.

Prove it, Dad.

A rare memory dredged itself from the depths of Gray’s past. A picture, with only the dregs of childhood bewilderment attached to it, of Roy Cooper’s face floating above his bed in a night-shadowed room. “Good night, my man, you’re going to grow up big and strong someday.”

Gray hadn’t been quite four when his biological father had come in that night. According to his mother’s story, Roy had packed up, left the next morning, and she’d never seen him again, either. Gray would never know why, since five years later, Roy Cooper had died in a hunting accident. Now, the only reason the man held any significance was because he’d given Gray life. He didn’t matter, because his departure had allowed Neil Covey into his and his mother’s lives.

Neil. Dad. If a model for fatherhood existed, it was the man who’d been what was called on paper a stepfather. Not only had Neil never missed a school concert or performance while Gray had been growing up, but he’d flown himself and Gray’s mother up the east coast countless times to see performances all through Gray’s years at Juilliard.

He placed his fingers on the piano keys, cooling his desire to pound on them, and eased into the intro riff of “Piano Man.” How many countless times had his dad joked to the world it was his favorite song? The day Gray had been able to introduce Neil Covey to Billy Joel was one of his proudest.

All the things a father should teach, Neil had taught to a son without a strand of his DNA. Gray’s fingers slipped from the ivories.

“Dad, don’t let her take me to England! Jeez you can’t get your driver’s license there until you’re eighteen.”

Dawson still didn’t have even a learner’s permit.

Gray spun on the bench, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. Where was Neil’s influence now? He was more like the man who’d walked away from fatherhood all those years ago. The alcove had lost its sunset glow, and the darkened shadows, purple now, magnified his remorse.

“Shit.” The word, spoken aloud, echoed as purple as the light. His language didn’t fit in this place. But, then again, neither did he. What he was contemplating would, with his lack of parenting skills, likely turn out to be the worst thing for Dawson. He already knew it was for himself. Even so, with dread for the conversation he was about to have, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and moved slowly toward the back door. Suddenly, there wasn’t enough air indoors for what he planned to do.

A
BBY PLACED HER
hand on Dawson’s shoulder as they neared the house. She’d found him in the barn shining his favorite horse’s coat to a high gloss, and now, as his steps slowed, she pushed aside the thought that Will might have looked like this and tried to tamp down her sympathy. Before she could promise him everything would work out, Gray’s strident baritone carried from the other side of the yard.

“I’m not asking your opinion, the decision is made. What I need is for you to make it happen.” Dawson stopped to listen, his brow puckering in confusion. “Chris. Chris! Tell them I’m dying of dysentery, or cholera. Make up whatever you need to, for God’s sake.” Gray’s voice tightened a notch with each word, and they found him pacing around Abby’s favorite maple tree, phone to his ear. He acknowledged them with a hapless shrug. “I know you think this is your worst nightmare, but I’ve banked a little good will over the years. You’ll manage it.”

The roiling in her stomach and the dryness in her throat told Abby something major had just happened, but when she tried to back away to give him privacy, Gray held up one finger and pulled the phone out from his ear, his face pained, like a kid who’d heard his father’s lecture a thousand times before. Through the phone’s speaker came an agitated garble.

“If you pop a blood vessel, Boyle, there’s nobody around to save you.” The first hint of humor laced Gray’s voice. “Stop yelling. I’ll call you in the morning after I talk to Spark. Yeah, yeah, I know I’m a dickhead.” He listened another second and turned serious again. “I do know it’s a big deal. I’m sorry. Good night. And Chris? Thanks.”

With dread and awe, Abby peered at him, afraid she knew what had happened.

“What’s going on?” Dawson’s voice, thin as rainwater, barely made it across the distance to his father.

Gray’s words, when they came, were measured and unsteady. “You were partly right, Dawson. You tried my way, so I’ll try yours. I’ve taken that vacation you asked for. You have two and a half weeks.”

Abby feared the boy might faint dead away. His face turned moon-colored, and his slender body went rigid. All that moved was his nut-sized larynx.

“Hey, where is everyone?” Kim, still in spangled jeans and tight shirt, slipped around the corner.

Abby struggled to corral her escaping sanity. Before her stood a teenage girl whose outfit had been chosen under the influence of raging hormones, and a man who’d just canceled hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of work at the petulant request of a boy who, in turn, was about to keel over. There wasn’t enough chocolate in the house to fix this group.

“What’s up?” Kim asked.

“Aliens just abducted my father,” Dawson replied, and headed once more for the barn.

Gray started after him, but Abby caught his arm. “No, be patient. I just got finished telling him all the reasons this couldn’t happen. Let him process it.”

“Aw, Abby.” He took her breath away by spinning in place and wrapping his arms around her like a man sinking in quicksand. “What the hell did I just do?”

He trembled in her arms, and her pulse took off on some crazy, made-up beat. “I don’t know. Maybe you just gave your son an incredible gift.”

Their embrace lasted only seconds, but by then it was Abby’s turn to tremble, overcome by his spice-and-musk aftershave and his hard physical touch. She hadn’t had a man hold her that close in more years than she cared to remember.

“I’m sorry, Abby.” Calm returned to his face, if not her heart. “I’m in way over my head here.”

“Trust me, that feeling never goes away. He’ll come back when he’s ready. You can spend another night here while you figure out what to do, and I’ll go make us all some cocoa.”

“Is that the cure-all for everything?” He searched the yard with distracted eyes.

She linked elbows with him on one side and her shell-shocked daughter on the other. “The recipe was my grandmother’s. Heat of July or dead of winter, it was her drug of choice. Now it’s mine.”

She dug out her ingredients after that, had Kim help melt Gray’s Symphony bar, butter, and vanilla in a pan, then topped it off with rich, decadent cream. When the mixture was hot and thick, she handed a mug to her daughter, added a liberal splash of schnapps to Gray’s, then set the pair on the couch and admonished both to drink, like a parent dosing sick children.

With a brave grin, Gray lifted his mug toward Kim and shook his head. “Guess it’s you and me, darlin’, until my child gets over his mad. Cheers?”

“Cheers!” She clunked mugs with him, an adoring shine in her eyes.

“I don’t have many true fans your age,” he told her. “How’d I get lucky with you?”

The unintentional double entendre wasn’t missed, and Abby chewed her lip to keep from smiling. “We have a lot in common.” Kim’s voice took on an affected note of maturity.

“Oh?”

“I have the same birthday you do.”

“July eighth? We’re birthday twins?”

Kim sparkled and beamed like a little bejeweled star. She was too cute for words—despite sitting on the cusp of being too big for her embroidered britches. “And, I play clarinet.”

“You do?” His smile broke into genuine interest. “I started on the clarinet, and the piano.” Kim nodded that she knew. “I detested it at first because I was the only boy in the clarinet section, but my mother made me stick it out, and when my dad found music by all kinds of guys who played clarinet I fell in love. How ’bout you.”

“I like it. I’m not good like you, but I love classical music. I think it’s cool you went to Juilliard.”

“Juilliard was . . . great. Hard. Taught me I didn’t want to be a concert pianist. I broke my mother’s heart when I let Spark turn me to the dark side.”

“Did he go to Juilliard, too?”

Gray laughed out loud. “Not in a million years. He’s a self-taught musician all the way. His brother was my roommate, though, and when he introduced me to Spark, we were immediate friends. I’m very picky about my music, and he’s a free spirit. We’re perfect for each other.”

Abby had an impossible time seeing Gray as a famous person sitting in her living room. Instead, his patient indulgence with her daughter, and his unexpected self-sacrifice for his son, were wearing away at the first impressions she’d had of his high-handed celebrity.

“What’s your favorite song?” Gray stood and motioned for Kim to follow him. “C’mon, sit at the piano with me.”

Panic and excitement vied for top emotion in her daughter’s eyes, and she bounced to the bench where she sat hip-to-hip with him. “Umm. I think ‘Forever,’ ” she told him.

If Abby hadn’t been staring at him, she wouldn’t have seen the second’s worth of pain that blitzed through his eyes. He covered it instantaneously with a smile. “I don’t get that one very often.”

“I like how it’s about so many levels of love.”

He leaned back and stared. “That’s very astute. Okay then, do you know the words?”

Abby could almost feel Kimmy’s stomach somersaulting in excitement as Gray started the slow, melodic song. To her shock, Abby found her heart flipping right along. Unadorned and unamplified, Gray had one of the smoothest baritones she’d ever heard. Like an old-fashioned crooner.

“That was beautiful,” Kim said when they’d finished, her voice tremulous after finding courage enough to sing with him. “You should do it simple like that sometime.”

“I haven’t sung that song in concert.” His voice was thoughtful. “Only the biggest fans know it.” He winked, which set Kim to blushing. “It’s a little personal for huge crowds anyway.”

“Personal?”

“I wrote it for a special girl.” His voice trailed off as if he seemed to think better of what he’d revealed.

“Ariel?”

“My mother.”

Abby had no time to dwell on his quiet sadness. The back door hinges protested, and a moment later Dawson stood in the living room doorway. He eyed his father, then Kim, and stuck his hands in his pockets.

“Were you serious? You actually told Chris to cancel six shows?”

“Yes.”

“What’s the catch?”

Gray stood and patted Kim’s shoulder before moving toward Dawson. “The catch is, if it gets out that you had anything to do with this, all the hate mail will come to you.”

Once again, Abby saw the faint tic of a smile at the corner of Dawson’s lip, but he masked it perfectly. “What are you going to tell Mom?”

“That you’re safe, and you’re with me.”

“She’ll want me to go back.”

“Maybe.”

“What will you do if she says I can’t stay?”

“Dawson.” Gray grasped his son’s shoulder, his fingers squeezing just a little too quickly, and vertical creases weaving his brows into a single, frustrated line. “I don’t know what’s going to happen five minutes from now. Can’t we take it one step at a time?”

That stopped Dawson’s flow of questions. He turned to Abby, a flicker of hope in his eyes. She wondered how she’d ever thought him eighteen. He looked young and vulnerable.

“We’ll stay here then?”

“For tonight. Abby’s very kindly invited us. Then I thought we could go to the penthouse in L.A. Hang out in the city.”

“No way.” He renewed his adamant tone. “Half the band hangs out there, too. Plus, I have work to finish for Abby.”

Panic flushed her face and sent blood buzzing into her ears, so she scarcely heard Kim’s whoop of agreement. It was one thing to have a teenage boy here, and it was easy enough to entertain his father for an extra day or two. But longer than that?

What about her crazy job schedule? Her minimal budget for anything extra? The financial negotiations she was facing this week with one neighbor for hay and Dewey Mitchell for stall shavings? She could hide all that from Dawson. But no way could she fake the realities of her life for someone like Gray.

Not to mention that his lifestyle scared her to death. She and Kim lived quietly in a quiet place. What if someone found out he was here? She glanced at the three faces, and Gray’s features softened in understanding.