The Rancher and the Rock Star (9 page)

“No,” he said to Dawson. “That’s too much of a burden on Abby. It’s not fair to subject her and Kim to my life. You know what can happen.”

Stubborn-Dawson surfaced again with all his devil horns and pride. “Yeah, I do know. Better than most. But, it’s really safer here than in L.A., unless Chris tells where you are.”

“He’d better damn well not. Sorry.” Gray glanced at Abby, then at Kim. “People will ferret us out all on their own.”

It had always seemed glamorous to be famous. Now that the reality of it was in her face, Abby saw how wrong the notion was. Dawson’s words struck a chord of sympathy. “So, if you and Dawson hid here, just for a little while, until you’ve had some time together,
would
you be safer?” The question was reluctant down to her core, and she forced her smile.

“I won’t ask you to do that, Abby. It’s too much.”

“Abby, you advertised for barn help. Let Dad be your handy man.”

The idea of hiring help had been a pipe dream from months ago—one not based in reality to begin with. The idea had died for good when the cost of hay had started rising over the winter. She’d kept up the sham of looking for help in order to hide the full extent of her financial woes from Ed and Sylvia. They tried to help her too much as it was.

“He doesn’t have to be my barn help, Dawson. You’re both welcome to stay. There’s still an empty guest room upstairs, although it’s no penthouse.”

“Oh, good grief.” Gray scowled at her. “Are you sure?”

No.
“Of course.” Abby fixed Dawson with a stern look when he all but preened. “Don’t get cocky, mister. You said you had work to do? You’re right. That’s part of this deal.”

“Yes ma’am.”

An uneasy silence enveloped them. Abby checked her watch, which read nine thirty. Her brain raced through a litany of the things, in addition to negotiating for hay and shavings, she had on her list for the week. Go to work, teach a half-dozen riding lessons, manufacture meals for four out of thin air . . .

“Hey?” A gentle voice startled her from behind, and Gray’s hands lit on her shoulders. “Are you okay? You really don’t have to do this.”

She blinked, as if she’d just awoken. Kim and Dawson had moved to the corner and chatted a mile a minute, heads together, friends again. Abby’s smile came slowly, like it had to surface through thirty feet of water. “I’m fine, and I’m very sincere about the invitation. Of course the idea of a fan invasion scares me a little, I can’t lie, but I think Dawson is right, this could be quieter and safer for a while. But how about you? You did, well, a pretty rash thing.”

“I guess.” His shoulders drooped almost imperceptibly.

“Is it going to be all right?”

For a moment his bottom lip caught in his teeth. “It’ll have to be,” he said finally. “Here’s the hell of it. I’ve just put about two hundred people on forced vacation. So what if they get paid? We don’t ever miss concerts and this’ll make six. But I don’t feel guilty. What’s wrong with me?”

His eyes didn’t quite match the words. There was guilt deep behind the smiling blue, but his rich-timbre voice was sincere. His fingers trailed from her shoulders, leaving her tingling.

“You gave your son a lot of power tonight.”

“Yes. I’m afraid of that. I could have dragged him with me again, and he’d have run again. I could have left him here and proved he’s right—my career comes first. Or, I could try,” he spread his hands helplessly, “this. Maybe Chris is right. I’ll win Dawson and lose the fans.”

“Or maybe you’re just doing something you’re supposed to do.” Her fingers itched to stroke his arm, soothe him. “Sorry, that was dumb. You really are so famous that it matters.”

A self-deprecating snort passed for a laugh. “Abby, Abby. How’d your daughter get to be such a fan, and you didn’t?”

He touched her nose with his finger. Her heart stumbled as her gaze caught on the shallow dimples that dotted each corner of his mouth when he smiled. She stared at his prominent cheekbones and triangular nose. Got lost in eyes as pale blue as a clearing sky.

“Because you’re only my third-favorite singer?” She tore her gaze away and studied her fingernails.

“Third?”

“Paul McCartney. Raised on him by an aunt. Old but still handsome. Great music.”

“Super guy. But, yeah, old. Old enough to be your grandfather.”

“Billy Joel.”

Surprise flashed like heat lightning in his eyes. “What is it with him? You and my dad. So, fine, another great guy—still, way too old.”

“That leaves you, Number Three. I bet you don’t think you’re too old.”

“Well, three’s always been my lucky number, but you’re wrong. The past few weeks I’ve felt ancient.”

“You aren’t! Forty-five on July eighth. I know because, well, you said it, Kim’s a fan.”

“Whatever. I’m pretty sure I’m terrified about what I did tonight, but all I feel is rebellious excitement. I’d call that a middle-age crisis.”

“It will all work out as it should. God has His ways of taking care of things.”

“I doubt He’s much interested in giving me any free rides.”

Such an insane indictment of himself nearly took away her speech.

“I don’t know why you said that, Mr. Number Three. But I don’t believe it for a second.”

“Sweet Abby, you aren’t a fan are you? After the life I’ve led, I can’t tell you how lucky I am to get a clean slate with you.”

“I don’t want to be a fan.” She gave in and touched him, skimming the soft black hair on his sculpted forearm. “I could try to be a friend.”

“What did I say?” His smile didn’t quite make it to his tired eyes. “Three is my lucky number.”

Chapter Nine

T
HE SCENE IN
Abby’s warm, eclectic kitchen the next morning was a mini-carnival of milling animals, pot clattering, the smell of bacon, and the bickering of teenagers—unbelievably different from Gray’s usual noon-delivered, room-service breakfasts. The closest he ever came to such cozy domesticity was when he had a rare morning to himself with his own box of Lucky Charms.

“About time you got out of bed,” Dawson called. “We’ve been up over an hour.”

“It’s eight-flipping-o’clock.” Gray’s lips twitched into a grimace. “What’s the matter with you people?”

“Horses to feed, stalls to clean.” Abby turned from the stove and grinned.

“Is it a requirement here to be cheerful in the morning?”

“Yup.” She handed him a steaming mug. “Maybe this’ll help. Do you drink it?”

“Coffee?” Gray took a stimulating sniff. “Where’s the needle?”

“How many eggs?”

The question threw him. He never had to think about something as mundane as egg math. “Uh, two?”

She laughed. “Uh, two it is. Go, sit. Toast?”

“Sure. I didn’t mean for you to have to wait on us, Abby.” He sat and sent a tentative smile to Kim. She and Dawson scribbled on a piece of paper covered with a penciled-in grid.

“Once I tell you my schedule for the day, you might not feel so apologetic. Lunch is on your watch, since I’ll be at work. I come home, teach two riding lessons, and dinner will be late.”

“As the resident interloper, I wouldn’t think to complain.” He squinted at the two kids. “Some sort of weird breakfast game?”

“Trading chores,” Dawson replied. “Kim likes cleaning the stalls. I hate it, but we both hate cleaning the bathrooms, so we’re splitting it up.”

“We do this Monday mornings now, or I have to listen to them harp on each other all week.”

“I don’t like cleaning bathrooms either.”

“Good.” Kim beamed at him. “Since you’re the new guy, you get the creepiest tasks.”

The fact that she’d escaped her fan nerves pleased him. But the strange, familial atmosphere was unnerving.

“No chores for Gray.” Abby shook her head firmly. “He gets a tour and the low-down on the schedule around here. That’ll be enough for the first day.”

“No fair. You made me cut the grass my first day.” Dawson curled his lip.

“You are a child.” Abby set a platter of eggs and bacon and a small plate piled with toast on the table. Gray’s mouth watered. “Children were put on this earth to torture.”

“No lie.” Dawson scoffed.

Once Abby joined them at the table, Gray reached for the salt shaker, but Dawson caught him with a covert glance and gave a microscopic shake of his head before bowing it. Kim followed, then Abby. Gray blinked, lost for a moment, then forced his eyes closed.

“Lord,” she began, “thank You for this food. Thank You, too, that You’ve brought Dawson and his father together. Please watch over Gray and all the people in his business while he can’t be with them. Keep us in your care today. Amen.”

Kim and Dawson echoed her, and Gray mumbled “Amen,” waiting for the fidgety, embarrassed feeling he’d gotten as a boy when his grandmother had prayed for him like a fervent evangelist. But no fidgets came.

“Dig in.” Pleasant chatter picked up where it had left off, as if they’d merely stopped to say hello to a neighbor. Abby smiled at him as she handed over a plate of toast.

Breakfast tasted as if it had been prepared in a five-star kitchen, but he ate in half a fog, feeling like a sightseer on another planet trying to relax and pretend he understood the horse and farm jargon. Before he knew it, Kim and Dawson were finished, had bussed their dishes to the sink, and were out the door. Dazed, he looked helplessly at Abby.

“I don’t fit in here even a little. I just had breakfast on Jupiter’s red spot.”

“Welcome to life with teenagers. It’s a gas, what can I say?”

“It’s foreign.”

Abby leaned back and traced the inside of her coffee mug handle with a forefinger. “How often do you see Dawson?”

“A few times a year. He makes one trip here for two weeks, usually when I’m not on tour. I go to England once or twice for a couple weeks. We e-mail.” He sighed. “I was blind enough to think that was working. He always seemed willing to talk. I heard a lot about how frustrated he was being in England and how much he dislikes his stepfather.”

“And there’s a baby, did I hear?”

“Danielle. She’s two. He’s mostly neutral about her.”

“And he doesn’t get along with his mother?”

“I wouldn’t say that. He’s as angry with her as he is me right now. Ariel can be overbearing, and lately she seems to have no moral authority with him. But she loves her son and spoils him—as long as he stays where she puts him and doesn’t cramp her style.”

“Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Of course it does.” He shoved a hand through his hair and straightened in his chair. Defensiveness rose in his chest at her questioning, and their easy rapport turned brittle. “Legal custody is hers until he’s eighteen. I have unrestricted visitation, and although I can’t take him away from her, I think I can talk her into letting him stay with me through the summer. I’m betting on her appreciating more time with Danielle. And the model.”

“Is he really?”

“They’re a hot couple.” He steeled for more interrogation.

“We all parent how we parent.” She spun her mug like a top, looking into it as if it helped her concentrate. “And I can tell you, whatever you do, you’ll find a way to feel guilty about it. Trust me, I’m all over that emotion.”

His defensiveness dissipated. “You? Feel guilty? You’re a natural.”

“I am definitely not a natural. I need to try and keep order or I lose control.”

He could see the hyper-organizer in her. His mother had possessed the same quality, and sometimes he missed it in his frenetic life. He let go of his annoyance fully, wishing they could get through an entire conversation without ticking each other off.

“You look like a natural to me, Abby Stadtler. C’mon. Let me help you with these dishes, and when they’re orderly you can show me the ranch.”

By ten Gray was mentally exhausted. Walking Abby’s forty-acre place with its horses, chickens, dog, and hand-erected fences was exhilarating, but thinking about how she’d carved out her independence made touring with a rock band seem like eating cake every day.

“Sounds like you can wield a chainsaw as easily as you crack a velvet whip.” He enjoyed causing the flush that radiated from her skin.

They stood beside the farthest paddock, and he admired the sturdily patched top rail. She built fences, rode horses, taught a few riding lessons each week. The juxtaposition of an elegant horsewoman carving up wood with a chainsaw and whacking fence posts with hammers . . . He leaned his chin on his fists and stared into a paddock filled with three of her eight horses, hiding a grin.

“Working outdoors makes up for the twenty hours a week I’m stuck in the office.” She thumped like Tarzan on her chest. “Loud, scary chainsaw make girl feel like tomboy.”

She needed to stop putting sexy-tomboy-with-ripped-jeans images in his head. “So.” He swallowed, straightening. “You teach, you work at an architect’s office, you help out at the grocery store in town every other weekend. Busy lady.”

“I have an accounting degree, but I’ve always wanted to be around when Kim came home from school, so I never took a career. My mother-in-law has never thought I make enough to care for Kim the way I should.” Her face twisted in some private memory he couldn’t read. Then she brightened. “Ed and Sylvia have been godsends, always willing to keep an eye on Kim. I don’t need to worry about her any more, but letting her become independent is a slow process.”

“It seems to be working.”

“That’s a nice compliment for a mother. Thank you.” Her pleasure warmed him through to the core. Maybe they
could
get through a conversation.

The place wasn’t perfect. A hodgepodge of solid structures and faltering outbuildings dotted the acreage. But even the old pieces were tidy. Fascinated, Gray hoarded information about her like a magpie collecting shiny things. Back at the house he took in the whole picture.

“It’s beautiful here.”

The deep-seated truth in his statement worried him. Standing in the warm summer breeze with the smell of green earth and horses around him, he was gripped, again, by a desperate longing to forget that his band and his fans existed.

“I’m lucky. I thank God every day for this place. And there’s always something new.”

“My son sure seems to think so. Fun times at Jumbawumba.” He wiggled his brows to show he was teasing.

“I warned you not to make fun of my name.” She laughed. He couldn’t tell if it was faked or forced.

“Tell me why you picked it.
Maybe
I’ll stop.”

“A combo of our names.” She didn’t hesitate, and he almost missed the skin tensing around her eyes. “Jack, Abby, Will and Kim. Jabberwicki. We dreamed of a small, working, Midwestern ranch with about ten horses, some dairy goats, and our own hay crop. I’d teach riding lessons. Jack would sell boutique milk and cheese. The kids would grow up away from big-city problems. Obviously, some of that never came to pass.”

Gray’s heart dropped, as if it had been tossed across all forty of Jabberwicki’s acres. He’d probably just set a record for the amount of time a man could exist with his foot in his mouth. “I’m sorry, Abby. I’ve been rude.”

“No. It was always a silly name. I used to be a silly person.”

“You don’t think you are anymore?”

“I have fun. I’m not silly.”

“Maybe I should take you to hang out with a rock band.” He bared his teeth in a teasing grin, and elicited a Kim-like giggle. “I am very sorry about what I’ve said about the name. Really. No more making fun.”

For long minutes they stared at each other—the first time he’d really assessed her since the day on the hay wagon. The longer he stood, the heavier his body grew until a dull, pleasant throbbing started low in a place he definitely didn’t want her to notice. They hadn’t annoyed each other in an hour, but her sunny fragrance and her aquamarine eyes were bothering the hell out him right now.

“It’s all right.” Her voice held the perfect amount of breathlessness to bother him even further. “I thought you were kind of cute.” She colored.

The urge to repeat his one, unprotested kiss from a week ago hit so strongly he nearly obeyed it, but he’d already created enough complications where she was concerned.

“I know you need to get to work.” He cleared his throat and stepped back. “Thanks for the tour. I, ah, should call Spark. My band . . . guitarist.” He stammered like an idiot.

“I know who Spark is.” Her smile was indulgent, the kind you’d give a peculiar relative. “Go. Call. I’ll see you later.”

She turned to enter the house, and Gray rolled his eyes to the sky-blue heavens. This was an alien world all right. That, or he really was an idiot.

A
BBY AND
K
IM
finally left the barn at seven thirty that night. Despite feeling guilty that Gray’s first dinner would be so late, Abby’s mood flirted with contentment. Her riding students were gone, and the horses were fed. The strength and purpose she got from her animals filled her with satisfaction. This was the part of her cobbled-together days she liked best.

The aroma of food confused her as they entered the kitchen. All day she’d tried to figure out what she had in the freezer that would make a quick, acceptable dinner for four, but the smell of roasting meat, and the grins from Gray and Dawson, rendered plans for her favorite hot dish moot.

“Yum,” said Kim. “Who’s cooking?”

“Men cook.” Gray thumped his chest like a caveman bragging about his mammoth kill.

Abby couldn’t believe it. Even in Jack’s day those words had never rung from her kitchen. “This is a surprise.”

“Consider it a thank-you for putting up with us.” Gray’s dark stubble and pale blue eyes were beautiful but incongruous in her familiar space.

Whatever was cooking, it hadn’t come from her larder. Her freezer contained two pounds of hamburger and three frozen TV dinners. She’d been staving off shopping day.

“Where’d you get food?” She made herself sound pleasant. “I haven’t had time to go shopping for a while—we were pretty depleted.”

“I had a couple of ideas, so I enlisted Ed and Dawson to go to the store.”

Abby hovered between gratitude and beyond-words humiliation. She edged to the stove and looked into a pot of boiling potatoes.

“You know how to cook?”

“Who’d guess, right?” Gray laughed and pushed Roscoe away from the range with a pat. “My mama taught me a few things, and an aborted scouting career taught me a couple more. My repertoire makes me an impressive date for a five-day week, and then I get boring super fast.”

“My, this is awfully nice.” Her voice emerged a little cooler than she intended. “It wasn’t necessary.”

“I know.” He shocked her by placing his hands on her shoulders. “I wanted to do something to help, and stuffed pork chops are part of my repertoire. Sylvia sent Ed down to double check I hadn’t axed you overnight, and we got to talking. It’s that simple.”

His explanation at least proved he knew she was uncomfortable.

“Pork chops?” She softened her voice and received a broad smile. Lord, he had fantastic teeth.

Okay, admiring his teeth was going too far.

“Big ol’ thick ones. With Granny Covey’s famous jerk sauce and corn stuffing.”

“I think I’m in love with Granny Covey.”

“As well you should be. Go wash up, you two. This’ll be ready in ten.”

S
CRUMPTIOUS.
A
BBY COULDN’T
think of a more appropriate word, nor could she have ordered better food in a gourmet establishment. The pork melted in her mouth, and the heat of peppers and allspice dazzled her tongue. She had no idea how to thank either Dawson or Gray when she stood from the table once the meal had been demolished.

“It’s been a long time since someone took care of us girls without asking.”

“Remember that, Son.” Gray winked at the boy. “Make ’em believe you’ve never heard the word chauvinist.”