by Nicole Snow
He lays his napkin on the table, undoubtedly holding in a sigh.
“Perhaps,” he says, careful not to look at me.
He’s not impressed with how I’m handling this, extending an invitation to keep Grace and her old man around.
I get it. His tone is placating. Hell, he’s the closest thing to a father I’ve ever had since my real dad shuffled off his mortal coil, but he’s not family.
He’s an employee. Always has been. I tend to forget that far more often than he does.
Ignoring Tobin, I look at Grace.
Whether he likes it or not, they can’t leave until that snow gets cleared, and I’m not lying about wanting company.
“Anything catch your eye with this place? Give me your suggestions.” I fold my hands, keeping my eyes trained on her.
She looks at her father, wide-eyed, as if to say, see what you did?
I smile at that.
So does Nelson, who gives me a lopsided half-grin.
“Well...I’d need to take a look around and ask you both some questions. What styles you like, favorite colors, what areas are mostly used for what, discover your color palette, all the usual stuff,” she says cautiously.
“Easy,” I say. “I like blue, love being comfortable, and we mainly cook and eat in this area. Right now, I’m feeling anything that isn’t plain white, considering what’s outside.”
I lift a hand, waving toward the window.
She rolls her eyes and tries not to smile, but ends up grinning anyway.
Goddamn, I like how she grins.
I have a feeling she doesn’t do it often.
“In all honesty,” I say slowly. “This place is pretty much exactly how it was when I bought it. It came furnished right down to our specifications, plus some creative input from the firm that handled everything. We haven’t done a whole lot except move our stuff in.”
“Even that picture of the actress?” Nelson asks.
Shit.
Tobin doesn’t offer more bacon this time. He just freezes, staring at me like an animal with its leg trapped.
I can read his mind. He’s wondering if I’m ready for this.
And ready for the other hundred questions that are sure to follow.
I can’t say I am, but it’s not like I have much choice in the matter.
Maybe it’s time. If I can’t handle an old guy sniffing around in the privacy of my own home, how will I ever handle it when everybody in Dallas finds out who I am?
So far, very few people know my true identity, but that won’t last in a town this small, where gossip is practically a sport.
“It’s my picture,” I tell them. “I’ve had it for years.”
“I saw a lot of her movies,” Nelson says. “Did you know Judy Barnet? Work with her or something?”
I can feel Tobin’s gaze; his concern glows almost hot, sincere and growing.
I nod at Nelson. “I knew her well. She was my mother.”
“Your mother?” Nelson seems surprised, caught off guard, and breaks into another thirty-second cough he smothers with a slurp of coffee.
“Damn, you are him, aren’t you? The Barnet kid. I never made the connection between her and...” He frowns. “So what’s your real name? Dane or Ridge?”
“Dane’s my middle name,” I tell him. “Mom insisted on Dane when I started acting, so I’d still have a sliver of personal identity outside the glaring camera lens.”
So much for that.
“I’ve seen your Westerns.” A big grin spreads over Nelson’s face, deepening his wrinkles. “Can’t say I really cared for that last one, though. The gun battle at the end didn’t come with any surprises.”
“Nothing I haven’t heard from the critics,” I say, appreciating his honesty. “My acting career is behind me these days.”
I look at Grace. “Tell me more about your thoughts on the house, what type of changes you’d make.”
“It’s already very lovely. Nicely decorated. Contemporary. New,” she says, avoiding my gaze.
I grin. “As in?”
“As in...nothing, I guess.” She flicks her hair back nervously, a soft gold wave catching the light. “I just mean it’s a really good starting point. You’d have to mess up big time to make this place ugly.”
“What’s the first thing you’d change? Nothing’s ever perfect.” I help her along since she’s trying to be polite.
“Hmmm...I’d add more color, I think. It’s just a little drab from what I’ve seen, though obviously I haven’t been through your whole house yet,” she says instantly, then clamps her lips tight as her cheeks turn red.
“Color?”
She nods. “Not a ton, but there’s a lot of grey in the house. This floor, anyway. It doesn’t really, well...connect with the exterior. This place must be beautiful without the snow. I can only imagine it greened up and sunny outside. I think I’d try to connect the outside with what’s in here, so the transition isn’t such a shock.”
I like the sound of that.
She has a point. The kitchen cupboards are contemporary slate grey. So are the walls, and the tile floor matches.
“Now tell me you can do it without changing up the paint?” I’m not into using a paint brush or roller, or living through the process. Been there. Done that.
Just because I’m rich doesn’t mean I’m above getting my hands dirty sometimes.
The little shrug she gives off is cute, but it’s the way her eyes light up that interests me.
“Little things can go a long way,” she says. “Vases of natural flowers, for instance. They’ll bring the outside world in. A picture or two, whether it’s a nicely framed black and white landscape or something painted, a little rustic. A tablecloth like the one in the guesthouse. Bowls of fruit or pinecones. Pillows. Rugs. Candles. The good news is, you’re almost a blank slate. Any decorator would be thrilled to roll up their sleeves and work with that.”
I can almost visualize her ideas as she’s looking around the room.
Yeah, I think I’ve made up my mind.
“Listen, I’m going to let you knock yourself out, lady. Tobin can order whatever you need, but it won’t arrive overnight, of course. That’s not an option here. I mean, I know this is sudden, but if you’re willing to spare the time and energy, I’m game.” Then, because I’m starting to feel claustrophobic, I set my napkin down. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a few chores to do.”
I don’t have any real chores. I just need to escape. Get away before the memories hit. They’re bound to, even if they only smack me over the head on a delay.
All the shit I don’t like thinking about, remembering, regretting.
What Grace described is what I call a woman’s touch.
I’m not sure I should have that around me at all, even if it’s only temporary.
Maybe Tobin’s right, and I hate like hell to admit it.
I also need to think about the Sellers and that thug last night.
What sort of shit I might’ve invited in by charging to her rescue and hauling them home, then floating the idea of them staying here.
It’s not in my nature to second-guess, but I don’t make all of my decisions on the fly.
Seclusion, privacy, and a fresh start were all good reasons why I chose Dallas for a new beginning. Yet, right now, they’re the very things driving me crazy.
That shouldn’t mean I throw open the door to a sick man and a woman who’s far too pretty to be around me for long. Not to mention the fact that they’re both being chased by a wolf with some reason to show his fangs—maybe more than one.
I throw on my coat and head outside, grabbing the shovel off the front porch.
A little heavy lifting never hurt a man.
I start working my way through the deep snow around the house, hoping the physical release of energy helps me think clearer, and maybe find a way out of this shitshow.
5
No Place Like Home (Grace)
I don’t know what it is abo
ut Ridge, but now there’s no denying the obvious.
There’s far more to this guy than he’s letting on.
A rich and famous actor? Here? In the middle of flipping nowhere?
It’s like he’s gone into hiding. I can’t say exactly why I believe that, but I do.
I guess we’ve got something in common, though, even if we’re a universe apart in other ways.
But Ridge isn’t hiding in the same way Dad and I need to disappear. And I doubt Ridge would’ve been gullible—or desperate—enough to take Clay at his word.
Dad was convinced the farm would settle his debt for good, and I’d wanted to believe him.
Out of sheer desperation, I’d made myself believe there was a chance. Even though I know firsthand just how far Clay Grendal goes to get what he wants.
I just wanted to believe this nightmare could end. Peacefully. Forever.
Stupid me.
Refusing to dig in my heels and tell Dad it was a dumb idea only made things worse, no question.
Now I wonder if I’m being dangerously naive again. Making things worse by agreeing to decorate Ridge’s castle.
Sweet baby Jesus, I’m not even close to qualified for this.
He’s a famous actor. I’m a nobody decorator with a dusty degree.
Sure, I went to school for it, but I don’t have the experience, the talent, the eye for a gig like this. I feel like a kid who was just asked to touch up Michelangelo’s work in the Sistine Chapel.
And I think Tobin agrees, even if he’s too polite to say it.
I still can’t figure him out.
He’s like the love child of Jeeves and Marie Kondo with his emotionless mask and a seek-and-destroy routine for anything the least bit out of place.
He hasn’t come out and said, lady, you suck—like rudeness is even in his DNA—but it’s in his eyes, on his face, in his stance.
It’s written boldly in the cold way he’d answered my questions while showing me around the house, which took the better part of an hour to cover what felt like fifteen, maybe twenty thousand square feet of ultra luxe country living.
Obviously, he’s cooperating because Ridge is his boss, and nothing more.
I get the reluctance and his loyalty.
I also get why Dad offered my services, despite almost short-circuiting the second he did.
Pushing the air out of my lungs, I sigh until my shoulders sag, looking down at the clipboard in my hand. Yes, I’m aware we have these things called smartphones and tablets now, but my brain works better when I plot my ideas in good old-fashioned pen and ink.
I have a few thoughts that could brighten this house, but at the same time...
Is it really the house that needs brightening?
It’s the mood, the vibe, the energy in this place.
There’s something dark and heavy inside Ridge Barnet, and I think that’s what truly worries Tobin and keeps him iced over. I’m not sure how I know it, but I do.
After answering my questions on the layout, Tobin left me to wander the place on my own, and I have, all three floors of white walls and grey floors and rooms laid out for every purpose under the sun—except they’re all eerily empty.
As beautiful as it appears from the outside, the house is void of any true soul inside. It’s an empty vessel begging for life.
That alone should have me excited about this job, particularly since the budget is basically unlimited in this case. In theory, it’s an easy fix and won’t cost much in time or money, but it just makes me wonder more and more about its illustrious owner.
I wonder about the chores he’d mentioned too.
Doesn’t Tobin do most of that?
What does he even have outside?
One chicken, a rooster, who I already fed, doesn’t really merit chore territory.
If I want to figure out how to glam up this house right, I think it starts with unraveling its owner.
So I head back downstairs, pausing for a moment while putting on my coat to stare at the picture of Ridge’s mother. The whole scene is like this sad miniature shrine, even if it commands a deep respect.
Judy Barnet was a beautiful woman.
And the longer I stare at her sunshine smile painted red, wild blue eyes, and dark wavy hair pressed perfectly into place, the more I see the connection, the resemblance with her son.
It’s the eyes, mainly. Their color and shape. They’re keen, bright, and alive in the portrait.
Judging by Ridge, I bet hers had the same flash of mischief and good humor sometimes.
I’m not sure why, but it makes me smile.
Growing up with someone so famous couldn’t have been easy. Judy starred in so many classic pictures throughout the seventies and eighties, traveled the whole world.
She must’ve been gone a lot when Ridge was little.
If his father died when he’d been eight, who took care of him while she was away?
A thousand other questions nip at my brain as I zip up my coat and pull my hat and gloves on. I walk to the cabin and check in on Dad, quietly, because as soon as I open the front door, I see him sleeping on the couch by the fireplace.
Thank God.
He’d coughed half the night, and I’m glad he’s resting now.
I set my clipboard on the table near the door and pull it shut again. I’ll let him sleep as long as he wants and use the time to check on Rosie and Stern.
They could use some affection. Until recently, I never thought that old yarn about animals soaking in bad juju was true.
But even before we left Wisconsin, they were restless as hell.
Awake at odd hours, eating sluggishly, letting out loud snorts of disapproval whenever I’d get them settled for the night and start heading back to the house.
If there’s any animal that has a nose for trouble, it’s probably a horse. I’m sure Dad and I reeked of it.
And I’m sure they’re more confused than ever since we landed here.
Though the barn is gorgeous, they’re probably wondering what we’re doing in a place so nice it still smells more like a new car than a farm with stables seasoned by years of use.
I’m not expecting to see anyone in the barn, so I’m startled when I open the door and see a tall, dark silhouette brushing Stern.
Ridge.
I should’ve known this is where he’d gone after clearing a pathway through the snow to the door. Then again, paths were also shoveled to all of the outbuildings, including the guest cabin.
“Now you’ve gone and done it. You’ll be his best friend for life,” I say, closing the door behind me. “Stern loves being brushed.”
“Yeah, I figured,” Ridge says quietly, a smile curling his lips.
I frown slightly.
He turns and his smile breaks into a grin. “I think he’s almost asleep.”
A laugh rumbles in my throat.
“Yeah, probably,” I whisper, stepping closer. “He’s been known to do that. Just drifts off with a nice shiny coat.”
“The stall should hold him up if he falls over,” Ridge says, still whispering and running the brush over Stern’s back. “I just hope he tilts away from me.”
Something about his easy smile and the way he’s keeping his voice low for the sleepy horse makes my heart tingle.
So he’s a weirdo, maybe, but he’s a nice weirdo.
I don’t think I’m fawning over the former A-lister the entire world knows. Of course he’s good-looking, but it’s his attitude, his kindheartedness, that’s turning my crank just now.
“He won’t fall.” I pat Rosie’s rump on my way to where there are several shiny new curry combs and brushes filling a shelf.
“I know,” he says. “Even when they’re sleeping like the dead, they never totally let go. These guys don’t get groggy or hungover like people do.”
“You know your way around horses, don’t you?” I say, selecting a soft bristle brush for Rosie.
“No choice.” His voice sounds slightly off, an
d his eyes stay glued to the horse, bringing the brush away from Stern so he can pat the beast’s neck.
“Did you have horses growing up?” I ask.
“I starred in several Westerns. Big damn commercial flops full of bad writing, but I had fun with the cast, including the ones on four legs. And before that...yeah, I grew up riding a bit.”
I nod, totally blanking on his recent, more subdued acting history. He just doesn’t seem like a famous actor right now, out here in the barn. He’s more like a normal guy tending his ranch.
An average guy with amazing looks who loves to butt in on situations he shouldn’t.
Technically, nothing about that screams average.
The fact that he’s a famous somebody just makes it weirder. A rich and famous actor, Hollywood royalty, who rescued us from only God knows what if Jackknife Pete had his way.
“These guys are getting up there in age, aren’t they?” he asks as I start brushing Rosie.
“A little bit,” I answer. “But don’t tell them that. I think they’d both hate to be put out to pasture totally, even if we save them from the heavier work these days.”
“That why you’re taking them to Montana?”
“No.” I tilt my head, studying him, unsure where he’s going with this sudden round of questioning.
“Still won’t spill your secrets, huh?”
He barely throws his gaze over, and we lock eyes.
For a second, I lose myself in that weary, knowing smirk of his.
“I...I told you, it’s not my place.” Changing the subject before it gets heated, I ask, “Last night you said you planned on buying livestock. Does that mean horses, too?”
“Probably. I had the place stocked with everything I’d need. Told the boys who furnished this place to set me up for a little of everything. Don’t know if I can handle hogs, though...have you smelled some of the pig farms around here?”
“Um, yeah. Animals of all kinds are kinda little poop factories. What goes in comes out a lot...like, a lot a lot.”
Ridge grins and then breaks into a chuckle.
