Coulda Been a Cowboy

by Brenda Novak

  “That I raped her? The only thing I forced her to do was get the hell out of my house!” He drummed his fingers on the desktop. This couldn’t be happening.

  “It’s her word against yours.”

  “Then I’ll take a lie detector test.”

  “No, you won’t. Those things aren’t completely reliable. They depend on the interpretation of the technician. If, for some strange reason, the tech happens to screw up and we get a false positive, we’d be done for. That’s a risk we can’t take.”

  There had to be something they could do. “I know if we check her background, we’ll find she’s no virtuous saint.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Just the claim will drag your reputation through the mud. You’ll lose your endorsements. Strive Athletic Equipment is already acting funny after that newspaper article. I had to send Howard the private investigator’s report that made you decide to take Braden in the first place.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “That he wasn’t happy. And he told me what we already know—with endorsements, the truth doesn’t really matter. It’s the public’s perception of an athlete, that’s all. You can’t be perceived as a womanizer or a jerk or a man who has no kindness for the mother of his baby, no feelings.”

  Just because he refused to wear them on his sleeve didn’t mean he didn’t have them. Rachelle had cut him to the quick. Even Greg didn’t understand how betrayed Tyson felt. “So what’s the bottom line?”

  “We’ve got to stop her.”

  “How? I don’t even know why she’s doing this!”

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  Tyson jumped to his feet. “She got the money she wanted.”

  “But she didn’t reach her true objective; she wasn’t admitted to your world.”

  Tyson knew Greg would understand that. The man had been trying to fit in since he started agenting. “She expected me to marry her?”

  “I’ll bet that was her fondest dream. Now that she knows she’s not going to get it, she wants the money and the baby.”

  Turning the slats of the wooden blinds to protect his eyes from the glare, Tyson began to pace. “She’s not getting the baby. That’s bullshit.”

  “You’re committed to ‘no’?”

  “To the tune of $1,000,000, remember?”

  “This could cost you your career, Tyson. And that’s worth a lot more than a measly one mil.”

  He gripped the phone that much tighter. “You’re telling me to give the baby back?”

  “Having you step in scared her. She knows we’re watching now. Maybe she’ll take better care of him.”

  Tyson didn’t believe it for a minute. He’d never met anyone more self-serving than Rachelle Rochester, no one more coldly calculating. That she came off so sweet and innocent made her all the more dangerous.

  Even if she took better care of Braden’s physical needs, how would it be to have her for a mother? Tyson had always thought his own mother was too consumed with building her title and escrow company to be a good parent. He’d become nothing more than a painful reminder of the only man she’d ever really loved. This would be worse. Braden would fall second to mere vanity and greed. And Rachelle would use him shamelessly until he turned eighteen.

  Tyson wouldn’t allow it. “Tell her she can go to hell.”

  There was a long pause. Obviously his agent wasn’t happy with his response. “Tyson, with your knee the way it is…”

  “What are you saying, Greg? What does my knee have to do with this?”

  “I’m saying you need to be cautious. You’re not as young as you used to be. I don’t know if you can afford this kind of fight. Maybe it’s better to concede this round.”

  Concede? To a crook and a phony? Never. If there was one thing his mother had taught him, it was to fight when he felt he had to. “Whose side are you on?” he asked and slammed down the phone.

  There was a rattle of plates, and he turned in time to see Dakota hurrying away from the open doorway. She’d obviously been bringing him breakfast—but had changed her mind when she heard him screaming into the receiver.

  Damn. She’d caught him at a vulnerable moment.

  He considered calling her back so he could smooth over his temperamental display. He didn’t want her whispering about him to the locals. Who knew what might leak out? The press would follow him here eventually. The last thing he needed was to do anything that could be interpreted as supporting the terrible things Rachelle was saying about him.

  But he was too angry to pretend he wasn’t.

  Besides, he no longer felt like eating.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Grandpa Garnier: Never kick a cow chip on a hot day.

  AFTER TYSON’S PHONE CALL, the house fell silent, except for the television, which was tuned to Good Morning America, and an occasional squeal from Braden as he crawled around the living room. While Dakota did the dishes, she wondered what kind of news the man Greg Higgins had delivered to Tyson. Clearly, her employer wasn’t pleased with whatever he’d heard.

  A few minutes later, a creak on the stairs alerted her that he was coming. Then he appeared wearing basketball shorts, a Stingrays T-shirt and tennis shoes.

  He still hadn’t shaved. Maybe he was trying to make himself less recognizable. He obviously didn’t want to draw any attention, or he wouldn’t be staying by himself in a friend’s cabin way out in the boonies.

  “Hungry?” she asked, trying to pretend she hadn’t just tried to bring him a tray.

  “No.” He jerked his head toward the baby. “How’s he doing?”

  “Good. He ate some cereal and mashed banana for breakfast, with a bottle of juice.”

  Braden gave his father a beaming smile. But Tyson, who was already wearing a scowl, didn’t acknowledge it or respond.

  “And what about you?” he asked.

  Dakota had been doing her best to keep her face averted when possible. She knew her lip and the bruise on her cheek looked worse than they would if she’d had the chance to shower and use the cover-up that came in handy when she needed to hide the remnants of her and her father’s fights. “Better,” she said, rinsing off another dish.

  “Let’s see.”

  She kept working. “There’s nothing to see.”

  “Look at me. How bad is it?”

  Again she tried to shrug him off. “It’s fine.”

  He didn’t respond, but he stood in the center of the room watching her—she could feel his attention—so she finally relented and turned.

  His eyes zeroed in on her lip. “Damn, he clipped you pretty good.”

  “It’ll be better tomorrow.”

  “And that bruise on your cheek?”

  “I’ve got something I can put on it. You won’t be able to see it.”

  “Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”

  What could she say? She was getting used to hiding the worst of her injuries. The cut on her arm still hadn’t healed. She was afraid it was getting infected.

  “I’m going out for a jog,” he said and took a water bottle from the cupboard above the fridge.

  Dakota put another plate in the dishwasher. “It’s about to rain. You might want to run inside. Gabe’s got two different treadmills back there.” The workout room took up as much square footage as the living room, dining room and kitchen combined, and was better equipped than most professional spas. Dakota had already wandered through it, admiring the expensive equipment and imagining how she could look if she had access to that every day.

  “I don’t care about a little rain. Running in place has never made much sense to me.”

  The door slammed shut, leaving Dakota alone with Braden. “Don’t worry about him,” she told the baby. “He’s just in a bad mood.”

  Braden sat on his diapered behind and jabbered as he played with her keys, which she’d given him because he didn’t seem to have any toys.

  “I’ll get you some blocks when I go to town today,” she pro
mised.

  Finished drying the last pan, she scooped the baby into her arms and laughed as he planted a wet kiss on her chin. She knew the behavior had more to do with teething than affection, but it felt good all the same. “You’re something else, you know that?” she told him, tickling him under the chin.

  He giggled and buried his face in her neck, and she hugged him close. He felt so solid and round and soft. He was going to be big, just like his daddy.

  She could get used to this job, she decided. She already liked it more than anything else she’d done.

  “If your father’s not going to use the gym, maybe I will,” she said. “Then you and I will go outside and see what needs to be done to plant a garden.”

  As long as she’d be at the cabin so much, she figured she might as well take advantage of all the amenities. The cupboards in the kitchen, and the freezer in the mudroom, were so well stocked maybe she’d even do some cooking. She’d found steaks, shrimp, crab, even a couple of lobster tails—and Tyson acted as if he didn’t care what she did as long as she kept the baby happy.

  She thought of the magazines piled in her bedroom in the trailer—mostly fan magazines because they were quick reads, but there were plenty of food and wine magazines, too. Mr. and Mrs. Cottle at the pharmacy gave her the outdated ones they pulled from the shelves. When she was young, she’d dreamed of becoming a gourmet cook and had spent a lot of time since then studying food preparation and experimenting with various menus.

  Later today, she’d pick up a few recipes she wanted to try. She needed to check on her father anyway. But she didn’t really want to see him. His irrational and violent behavior wasn’t easy to forget. After he cut her last time, he’d promised he would never raise a hand to her again.

  She ran her tongue over her sore lip. Since he’d started drinking, he was no longer the man she’d once known and loved.

  She wouldn’t visit today. Nor would she call, she decided. Mrs. Duluth would alert her if there was anything serious going on. Feeling better, she hurried to exercise before Tyson came home.

  * * *

  TYSON FORCED HIMSELF to run uphill so fast he felt as if his lungs might burst. With so many personal problems and so much competition on the field, he had to be better, stronger, faster. Mind over matter, he reminded himself, and kept going even when he was convinced he’d drop if he didn’t quit. His knee was starting to hurt—he knew a trainer would tell him to take it easy—but he was tired of giving in to the weakness. He wasn’t ready to leave the NFL. He still had five good years in him.

  If only his body would cooperate.

  As long as he could play, the endorsements wouldn’t matter, he told himself. He’d still be gainfully employed. And if he played well, he could outlast the scandal over Rachelle’s accusations and, eventually, maybe he’d win a few of them back.

  But that wasn’t very realistic, and he knew it. By then, he’d be older and that much closer to retirement. It was the young guys the big names wanted—the ones with a perfect reputation.

  “Damn her,” he said aloud. Then, unaccustomed to the altitude, he finally stopped and bent over to suck some cool, mountain air into his burning lungs.

  He had to go back to California, he realized, had to meet with Rachelle. Maybe he could talk some sense into her. He knew it wasn’t likely. She had no conscience or she wouldn’t have done what she’d done in the first place. But what other option did he have? He wouldn’t relinquish Braden. He was convinced taking the baby had been the best thing to do. How else could he be sure his son would be raised right?

  But he couldn’t stand by and let her destroy his reputation and possibly his career.

  “I can be back tomorrow,” he promised himself and headed for the cabin.

  * * *

  TYSON’S VISIT to California didn’t turn out to be the quick trip he’d intended. He couldn’t get a flight out of Boise until the following morning, and when he reached L.A., Rachelle wouldn’t respond to his attempts to contact her. After three days, he finally showed up at her place unannounced, only to be confronted by a man who claimed to be her bodyguard.

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave, Mr. Garnier.” The giant Samoan left the security chain in place and spoke through the crack. “You can get in a lot of trouble for being here.”

  Garnier wasn’t intimidated by the hulky bodyguard. He faced men who weighed one and a half times his weight for a living. “Why? All I want to do is talk to her.”

  “I’m sorry, but you’re violating a restraining order.”

  “A what?” Tyson cried in confusion. Restraining orders were for dangerous, violent men. He’d never struck a woman in his life.

  The man shoved some papers through the crack. “Consider yourself served.”

  Tyson stared down at the official-looking paperwork.

  “You can’t come within two city blocks of Ms. Rochester or you could be arrested,” the bodyguard informed him. “The hearing is in six days.”

  Disbelieving, Tyson scanned the fine print. It was true. Rachelle had filed for a restraining order. “Wait!” Tyson put a hand on the door so the Samoan couldn’t close it. “The only thing I should be arrested for is being stupid enough to get mixed up with her in the first place,” he nearly shouted.

  The man glanced nervously at Tyson’s hand. “The cops are already on their way.”

  Tyson’s muscles bunched in impotent rage. “This is nuts!”

  “Just because you’re a famous football player doesn’t mean you have the right to harass women.”

  “Harass them!” This time Tyson did shout. “When have I done anything to her? She’s a freakin’ parasite, that’s what she is. It’s my money that’s paying your salary!”

  At Tyson’s sudden burst of temper, the Samoan stepped back. “You’re losing your cool,” he said. “Please leave before the police have to drag you away.”

  No, this was too unfair! “Look.” Rolling up the papers, he shoved them in his pocket and forced himself to lower his voice. There was no need for a hearing, no need for this to get out of hand. All he wanted was for Rachelle to live up to the agreement she’d made. “You can stay in the room if you want. Or bring her to the door so we can talk through the crack. I’m not going to touch her. I swear.” He lifted his hands to convince the man of his honesty. “I just want to speak to her. I need to know what’s going on.”

  A female voice said something in the background that led Tyson to believe Rachelle was close by, but the bodyguard shut the door before Tyson could address her directly. A moment later, the Samoan opened it again, but only as far as the security chain would allow. “Sorry. Ms. Rochester feels she’d be unsafe.”

  A tic began in Tyson’s cheek. “In what way?”

  “She says you’re not stable.”

  Until that moment, Tyson had never seriously considered hurting anyone. “Rachelle, what the hell are you doing?” he yelled. “We had a deal. You got every penny you asked for. What more do you want?”

  “I want my baby back,” he heard her say. Then the door closed again.

  Tyson banged on the wooden panel. He even went around back to see if he could get Rachelle’s attention through the windows. He hoped the police were really on their way—maybe they’d help him sort this out. But, evidently, she’d called the media, too. Because it was a reporter who showed up first—and snapped a picture of him climbing over her fence, the set of his jaw so rigid that, when it was published in the paper the following day, he looked ready to kill.

  * * *

  TYSON HAD BEEN GONE for ten days when Dakota spotted his picture on the cover of one of the tabloids. She was in Finley’s Market, picking up more baby food, and had Braden in the shopping cart. Tired of being strapped in, the baby kept holding his arms out for her to pick him up, but she was too mesmerized by what she saw.

  Football Star Stalking Ex-Lover

  What a headline! Her heart raced as she grabbed the paper and began to read:


  Tyson Garnier, five-time all-pro wide receiver for the Los Angeles Stingrays, was caught Sunday trying to force his way into the home of twenty-four-year-old onetime waitress Rachelle Rochester. Although the pair have a nine-month-old baby together, friends of Ms. Rochester say they’ve never been a couple. One woman, who agreed to speak only upon condition of anonymity, says Garnier became obsessed with Rochester after spotting her at the restaurant where she worked, going so far as to follow her home and insist she accompany him to his place. She was gone nearly three weeks, during which time her roommate filed a missing persons report.

  Ming Lee is the owner of the restaurant where Rochester worked. “She just disappeared,” Lee said of her waitress. “When she came back, I asked her, ‘Where’d you go?’ And she said she was kidnapped.”

  Another friend adds, “When Rach finally resurfaced, she told me a bizarre tale about how this professional football player had kept her locked up as a sex slave, and forced her to do all kinds of kinky things.”

  If that were true, why didn’t Ms. Rochester go to the police? Dakota wondered. Or had she tried? Did Tyson have connections that would enable him to clean up his mess without any penalty?

  As if in direct answer to her question, the article continued:

  When asked why Ms. Rochester never filed a police report on the incident, her roommate, Adrienne LeFever said, “She told me it was because no one would believe her. Tyson Garnier’s a star athlete. Everyone loves him. She’s a lowly waitress who barely graduated with a GED, poor thing. My guess is he paid her off.”

  “It’s not true.”

  The voice cut through Dakota’s concentration. Lowering the paper, she found Gabriel Holbrook sitting in his wheelchair next to the newsstand. His black hair was wet, suggesting he was fresh from a shower, and she was pretty sure he’d just shaved, because there was a tiny nick in his cleft chin. With his dark coloring, vivid blue eyes, massive shoulders and disarming grin, he was as handsome as ever.

  “They’re looking to sell papers,” he explained.

  The story was gripping, she had to give them that. And a little frightening, if it was true.