The Rancher and the Rock Star

by Lizbeth Selvig

  “Sylvia here said she saw a stranger drive down but never return.” The two figures stepped out of the dwindling storm, the man’s yellow slicker and sou’wester hat streaming, the woman’s familiar square face coming into view as she lowered a flowered umbrella. “Thought maybe you were interviewin’ for the barn-help job, Sonny,” the man said.

  Sonny? He hadn’t been “Sonny” since he’d stolen apples from the neighbor’s tree as a kid. Dark eyes bored into Gray’s even as amusement played on the lined face.

  “Just what kind of barn help did you t’ink she was looking for?” The woman spoke, her accent charmingly Fargo-ish. “I knew we needed to come check on you, Abigail.”

  “Oh, Sylvia. Ed. I’m sorry.” Abby apologized as if to parents. “This must look awful.”

  “I dunno.” The man pulled off his hat to reveal a stiff white crew cut and ran a hand over his grizzled chin. “Pretty girl, handsome stranger, a little hay.”

  “Edward Mertz.” The woman admonished him with a laser glare that would have cowed a lesser man, Gray was sure.

  He grinned. So these were the Mertzes. Maybe not Fred and Ethel, but endearing just the same, in a fusty way. “I’ll get my shirt and we’ll explain our compromising situation,” he said.

  He touched Abby’s shoulder. Her eyes had lost their soft mistiness and were once again no-nonsense pools of clear aquamarine. Not without regret, he knew their unexpected, intimate time-freeze was over. More distance would be safer. Still, he’d thoroughly enjoyed watching a sexy little sprite peek out from Abby’s tough-mom exterior.

  He forced her sweatshirt over his head. It fit a little like spray paint but was warmer than his bare skin. A grimace tightened his lips when he looked down. To call the saying on his chest “girlie” was an understatement, and, although he wasn’t too concerned about Ed or even Sylvia, he prayed to heaven his bandmates would never, ever, ever hear it had been on his body.

  He’d greatly underestimated Ed.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, your Barn Goddess-ness.” The old man read the phrase “Barn Goddess” on the sweatshirt with obvious relish. “Since she gave you the uniform, I guess she gave you the job?”

  “What’s all this about a job?” Gray turned clueless eyes on Abby.

  Sylvia’s eyebrows knotted in concern. “Abby, tell me the truth. Are you all right?”

  Abby laughed. “Dear Sylvia, thank you, I’m fine.” She stepped forward and pecked the woman’s cheek. “He isn’t here for a job, but he did work much harder than he needed to.” She indicated the hay. “Ed, Sylvia, this is David Graham. He’s Dawson’s father. David, these are my neighbors and guardian angels, Ed and Sylvia Mertz.”

  “Dawson?” Ed asked. “That so?”

  “Yes, sir.” Gray reached to take the firm grip he offered. “Pleasure.”

  “Dawson’s been a help around here this spring. He didn’t say you were coming to visit. If we’d have known it was you, we wouldn’t have worried about Abby so.”

  “He doesn’t know I’m here. It’s . . . it will be a surprise.”

  “Ah, well, fair enough.” A quarter-smile quirked the corner of Ed’s mouth as he waved a finger at the sweatshirt. “Color suits you. It’s a little snug.”

  Gray folded his arms. “I’d be careful about provoking the Barn Goddess.”

  Abby giggled and Ed gazed at the mess of hay on the floor. “I like you. I came to kick you out, but I’ll wait until the rain lets up.”

  Gray shook a leg, scowling at the slime. “Hey, I appreciate it.”

  “Me, I’ll just watch you till the rain lets up.” Sylvia eyed him with bland skepticism.

  Smiling came easily to Gray—a honed business skill. He offered Sylvia one of his best: quick, broad, subtly dimpled, a poster-quality smile. It had, on occasion, made women swoon, but Gray doubted that Sylvia, in her hyper-protective state, would swoon for Valentino.

  He was right. She carefully brushed hay goop from Abby’s shoulder, shielding her like a miniature mother bear.

  “We should stack this.” Ed regarded the hay again.

  “No.” Abby waved away the offer. “It can stay until the kids get home. I’m just going to bring the horses in the back door and take Mr. Graham up to get dry.”

  She was? He smiled but she ignored it.

  “Well,” Ed glanced outside and removed his yellow slicker, dropping it into a corner. “It’s near done raining. You and Sylvie go get ’em. The Goddess and I will neaten this up.”

  “I assumed from your mailbox your name would be Ethel.” Gray shot him a benign smile.

  “Just so you know,” Ed replied without missing a beat, “I’m seventy-six years old and you ain’t remotely the first one to come up with that.”

  “Darn.”

  As they shoved bales closer to the wall, the barn filled with the sweet green scent of fresh alfalfa, as thick and intoxicating as a drug. The rain stopped tattooing on the roof, but new sounds took its place. Doors sliding, horses snorting, Abby’s soft voice, and hooved feet clomping on wood. The not-unpleasant odor of horses mingled with the alfalfa. Working beside Ed, harder than he had in months, Gray hadn’t felt this relaxed in as long as he could remember.

  “Horses are in. You guys did a lot.” Abby returned wearing a zipped hoodie, her face pink, her countenance changed, filled with contentment. The sweatshirt’s zipper tab stopped inches above her breasts, and it was clear she’d doffed everything underneath. The gray fleece caressed her curves intimately enough to make any male jealous, and Gray mentally declared the shapeless garment as entrancing as her skimpier tank top.

  “It was kind of satisfying.” He looked around at the more-organized piles of hay and grinned. “Like the Cat in the Hat came along and cleaned up his mess.”

  “You’re a very strange man.” Her assessing gaze rose from his ankles to his eyes, and inner warmth overrode the clamminess from his jeans.

  “Well, the fun and the rain are over,” Ed said. “Sylvie, let’s head home. Let these two alone. Nice meetin’ you, Goddess. You stack a mean hay bale.”

  “What are your plans while you wait for your boy to return?” Sylvia cut off Gray’s reply with a pointed demand, not quite as ready as Ed to offer her trust.

  Gray had pushed that question far to the back of his mind. With a jolt, the reality of his trip rushed back. “Playing it by ear,” he said honestly. “I have a hotel room up by the airport.”

  “Fine, then.” She turned, her scowl slightly less intense. “Abby, you come for dinner if you like. I don’t want you skimping just ’cause dose kids aren’t home.”

  “Thank you, Sylvia. But I promise, I have a nice pasta meal all planned.”

  “Hmmpf.”

  “You might have trouble getting your car out of here now.” Ed nodded at Gray. “Call if you need a pull. Don’t let that Dawson leave without saying good-bye.”

  Once they’d gone, it was clear the tension between Gray and Abby had blinked one awakening-dragon eye at the mention of Dawson. Gray wasn’t eager to poke the monster into full consciousness, but he fought fresh irritation. It was his son. He wasn’t going to walk on eggshells.

  Abby grabbed a push broom from beside a wall and stroked at the loose hay on the wooden floor with purposeful efficiency. “This’ll only take a second.” She didn’t look up. “I’ll just toss this loose stuff into a few stalls.”

  He sighed. He needed to stop playing on the farm and . . . and what? Call Chris to hear him yell? Call the band to tell them he still didn’t have his kid? What he needed was Abby Stadtler on his side. A cool, wet nose nudged his hand. He stooped to pat Roscoe, which made him want to forget his manager and his rotten tour and stay right here. “Let me help.”

  “Look.” To his relief a glimmer of soft light shone in Abby’s eyes. “I feel guilty enough about all you’ve done, although it’s very mu
ch appreciated. You don’t need to help.”

  “C’mon, tell me what to do.” He grinned. “When we’re done we can discuss a plan for the immediate future. Helping will give me a chance to think of one. A plan that is.” Was that a smile? The giddy reaction in his belly unnerved him.

  She struggled a moment longer, then gave in. “Fine. Grab the wheelbarrow.”

  They loaded it with the loose hay, and Gray followed her down the barn aisle helping distribute a portion to each stall, chatty as she talked about the horses they were feeding.

  “Six are ours, two we board,” she said. “Horses have always been part of my life. I used to compete; now I teach a few lessons, and Kim has the show bug. How ’bout you? Have you ever ridden?”

  “At a dude ranch. Once,” he admitted. “You can write my horse knowledge on your little fingernail.”

  “Ooh, not impressive.” She grinned. “C’mon, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

  A conversation about horses? Regret pricked his conscience. He wasn’t the only one affected by tonight’s unnecessary concert cancellation. Five others shared the stage with him each performance, and there were sound-and-lighting techs, stage hands, and equipment people. Every one of them was stranded while he was playing in the country.

  He pushed his guilt aside with effort. Sometimes being responsible for all those careers exhausted him. Had he really dreamed of living like this all those smoky, dinky bars ago? He should have become the concert pianist of his mother’s dreams.

  “Here he is. Hey, gorgeous.” Abby interrupted his thoughts with a lilt he hadn’t heard before. “This is Gucci.”

  The horse in the stall before them looked his name—like perfectly conditioned, expensive leather. With a snort he shuffled to the bars covering the top half of his box and pressed his forehead against them for Abby to scratch. Every ounce of her careful reserve disappeared. Gray was mesmerized and envious all at once as Abby leaned forward to whisper nonsense. In an instant, she transformed into a different woman.

  “He’s my pathetic weakness in life.” She stepped back with a cute, embarrassed smile. “He’s not great outside in thunderstorms, so he’s been inside nice and dry. Would you mind if I took a minute to let him out for a quick run around his paddock?”

  Gray shook his head. He knew nothing about horses, but as he stood back while Abby snapped a lead rope on this one, he knew it was one of the prettiest animals he’d ever seen. Regal. Bunched-but-supple muscles. A dark brown body with jet black mane and tail and huge, brown eyes. He looked powerful, and explosive enough to scare the hell out of him.

  Outside, a paddock with solid posts and four cross boards awaited the horse. Abby pulled his leather halter off and let him go. He snorted again, dashed four strides then planted his feet in a dead stop. With a devilish eye, he buckled his knees.

  “Oh, yeah, thanks so much, you big dork,” Abby called.

  Gucci sank onto the muddy ground and rolled in abandon. Ten seconds later he heaved to his feet, his spit and polish a thing of the past, and took off bucking across the paddock.

  “He looks like a street-corner knock-off now, doesn’t he?” Gray asked.

  She giggled. “Good one. Hear that, Gooch?” she called and latched the metal gate. “He’s definitely my guy. I rescued him eight years ago when police found him in an abandoned herd and couldn’t place him because he was a stallion.”

  “Is being a stallion such a bad thing?” Gray stared at the horse, avoiding her eyes.

  “They’re generally harder to handle. Too much testosterone.” She leaned on the top of the gate and hid a smile in her arms. “I should have gelded him but I couldn’t. Besides, he’s turned out to be a gentleman. He’s a German breed called a Trakehner and he’s got great personality and bloodlines. It took a while to track his registry, but I did, and he’s made a lot of very pretty babies.”

  “Lucky fella. You obviously treat him well.”

  Gucci stopped bucking and returned to the gate, nickering for fresh attention.

  “Horse people have no perspective.” She stroked the horse, her words suddenly clipped with defensiveness. It befuddled him. She was full of magic one moment, matter-of-fact the next. “All right, that’s all he needs, he can go back inside. Time to figure out what to do about your wet jeans.”

  “Does Dawson like the horses?” When Gucci was safe in his stall, the question escaped before Gray thought better of it. He’d been avoiding the subject, but curiosity burned about what his son was doing here.

  “He does. He’s very sweet with them, and he’s not a bad rider. He hates mucking stalls, though.” Her smile was fond.

  “I told you my son was bright.”

  “He doesn’t take any crap.” Pleasure with her joke lit her lovely eyes. “I like that about him.”

  “We used to call that stubborn,” Gray said. “Sounds like he’s got you hoodwinked.”

  “Maybe you don’t know your son as well as you think you do.”

  He touched her upper arm to stop her, and his voice remained calm with effort. “I don’t have to negotiate terms with you, Abby. I owe you all the gratitude in the world, but he isn’t another rescued horse. He has people who love him.”

  “People he ran away from,” she said, almost under her breath.

  “Now look . . .” His temper almost got the better of him, but she put up her hand first.

  “I’m sorry. Until two hours ago I believed he was a nearly-grown kid making his way around the country as a big adventure. I’ve enjoyed him, and I hoped he’d find some roots here.”

  “He has roots with his family.” Gray breathed out his anger. “Look. I am not here to read him the riot act. Strangle him perhaps . . .”

  “I’m a parent, too,” she conceded. “I guess I can understand the desire to murder him.”

  “With my bare hands.”

  He grabbed his soaked T-shirt and leather jacket and followed Abby out the barn door. Once in the rain-freshened air, they both eyed his car with doubt. The barnyard was half-a-foot deep in slippery mud.

  “I’d let it sit here for now,” Abby said. “Ed was right. Non-farm vehicles get stuck easily after a rain. Let things dry while we talk and get something to eat.”

  He shrugged in agreement. Roscoe trotted ahead of them toward the house, his presence a warm memory of childhood, softening the tension between them. “You don’t have to feed me, you know.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” Finally she smiled. “Don’t be too impressed. That pasta I mentioned to Sylvia? It’s a can of Beefaroni.”

  He laughed. After endless weeks of room service and junk food, a can of Beefaroni didn’t sound half bad. They reached the house and Abby opened the back door. “Roscoe, you have to stay out until you get cleaned. But you . . .” She pointed at Gray and, for the briefest moment, despite their tension, the little sprite he’d seen earlier peeked out again. “Let’s take you inside and get you out of those pants.”

  Chapter Three

  GRAY’S VOICE FADED as he prowled the living room talking on his phone in hushed tones. Abby’s guilt flared. Hiding the fact that she knew who he was felt dishonest, yet she dreaded telling him. David Graham was simply Dawson’s dad, frustrating to argue with but easy to have temporarily in her life. Gray Covey was a celebrity with the proven power to wreak havoc on her senses and trample through her world like a circus elephant through a family picnic.

  Besides, since he hadn’t come clean, either, anonymity seemed equally important to him.

  Nerves darted through her stomach when she heard him say good-bye, but all her apprehension vanished when he appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Phone call finished?” She managed to hold back full-fledged laughter, but one playful sputter refused to stay contained.

  “Don’t start.” He pointed at her, a warning in his eyes.

  “Start what?” She feigned i
nnocence. “It’s adorable.”

  Because his overnight bag sat in a hotel room two hours away and his jeans and T-shirt were now in her dryer, Gray stood wrapped in the only item of clothing they’d found big enough to cover him. The shabby, terrycloth, wrap robe—whose vintage even Abby couldn’t recall—might have been sensational, showcasing his extraordinary calves and tapered ankles as it did. The trouble lay in its mint-green color and the chorus line of embroidered, jumping frogs circling it from one front edge to the other.

  “You swore, not a word. The Barn Goddess comments were bad enough.”

  Their disagreements might not be over, but no way could she discuss them with a phenomenally attractive man in a frog bathrobe. Absolutely not with her stomach cavorting at the tease of chest hair between the robe’s lapels. She remembered full well what he looked like sans frogs.

  “Fine.” She hid her wayward thoughts. “Supper will take your mind off the humiliation.”

  She led him to the small dining room off her kitchen where Gray’s forehead lost its furrows, and his rich laughter rolled through the room, fanning the flutter in her stomach.

  “Too damn funny, Abby. I’ve never seen a sarcastic dinner table before.”

  “You did order Beefaroni.”

  He had—nixing all other suggestions she’d made for their early supper. So, she’d set the table with a juvenile assortment of tableware, left over from when the kids had been little. Boats and cars graced the placemats, bucking horses and cowboys decorated the bowls, and giraffe and monkey cups with neck and tail for handles, respectively.

  “Go ahead, pick whichever place you like. Sorry I didn’t have a frog cup.”

  “I know you think you’re funny.” He sent her a glare made up mostly of laugh lines.

  It had been ages since she’d done something so frivolous. During the absurd meal prep, Abby hadn’t once considered cost, or time and effort, or whether he’d think her insane. It was so out of the cautious character she’d become, she hardly believed they were in her house. And after a leisurely meal seasoned with breezy laughter, she hardly believed she was with Dawson’s prickly father.