“THIS WAS FUN,” she said when they both put their spoons down for the last time. “I’m sorry you had to miss your appointment; I just couldn’t see how to get to the airport on time.”
“It was fun, thank you. And you said the kids are due home before noon tomorrow. As long as I’m back by tomorrow night all will be forgiven.”
“David.” She used the name softly. “Dawson could stay. Truly. Maybe it would be easier.”
With exaggerated calm, he met her eyes. “I don’t understand. He lied to you and to your teenage daughter. Why do you want him here?”
“He’s a vulnerable kid who ran from something.”
“Yeah, a stuffy English boarding school. Wouldn’t you?” His eyes flashed into stormy blue and frustration tightened the planes of his sculpted face. His skin tone deepened, accentuating the shadow sprouting on his cheeks. He was back to being an attractive, angry man, and her pulse pounded in places that should have embarrassed her.
“I’d want to find out exactly why he ran.”
He leaned forward. “You think I’m not goddamned gonna ask him?”
His heated curse broke her spell-like fascination. She matched him, leaning into his face. “In this house, if you swear, you leave God out of it. And I’m sure you will ask your son all the pertinent questions—in that tone of voice. How lucky he is to have such an understanding father.”
For a moment she couldn’t tell if he was reloading for another volley or was simply shell-shocked that he’d been yelled at. Again. But he surprised her with a quieter voice. “I’m sorry, but I’m not going to argue about my son. He isn’t up for adoption.”
He was right. She wasn’t sure why she wanted so badly for Dawson to stay, but she had no right to argue with his father. “I’m sorry, too.” She looked away to gather composure.
“I should be glad you’ve taken a liking to my son, and I am.” His voice, laced with humor once again, drew her back. “You’re stubborn, Abby Stadtler, but you’re a very captivating woman when you’re on the warpath.”
Abby hadn’t fielded an honest compliment in so long her most intelligent response was the heat rising in her face. “How about a truce?” she asked, finally. “I’ll make dessert. My secret chocolate potion.”
“Secret chocolate can’t be anything but good.” He grinned. “Here’s to truces.”
She checked on their clothes first and returned to find him peering out a window in an eerily darkened living room “How are the old jeans?” he asked. “I should head back to the hotel when they’re dry. After the chocolate, of course.” He smiled, scanning the outdoors. “I did check in already and there’s work I could do there.”
“The jeans are still damp around the edges, but whenever you need to go . . .” The reluctance in her words surprised her. “We’ll see if you can drive out of the mud. I admit the whole area down by the barn is pretty awful after it rains.”
“Speaking of rain.” He squinted at the sky. “I think there’s another whopper brewing.”
She joined him and assessed the rapidly gathering new clouds. “Wow, you’re—”
With no warning, a jagged arrow lit the yard from heavens to grass. The violent crack that followed all but blasted them away from the window, and the house went dark. A yowl like a banshee on the kill pierced the crackling air.
“Holy sh— crap!” Gray grabbed her upper arms and pulled her into the safety of his embrace. He still smelled of alfalfa, now mingling with fresh soap-on-skin, and she had no idea if her heart pounded from the crash, his arms compressing her breasts into the mint-green terry, or his breath pulsing against her cheek.
“What was that? Freddy Kruger?” His laughter caught in his throat.
“No,” she choked. “Just Bird. My cat.”
“Abby, please. Please tell me you don’t have a cat named Bird.”
Her oversized, orange wuss-of-a-tabby glided into the room, blinking regally as if he hadn’t just hollered for his life. “Oh, but I do. Meet the Bird.”
He stared. “This place is a rabbit hole. You’ve even got the friggin’ Cheshire Cat.”
“Huh?”
“Muahaha, Alice. The mushroom is working.”
She frowned at him, utterly confused. “I say again, you are very weird.”
Gray chose not to explain. He doubted she’d appreciate the unflattering humor. He brushed it aside and helped light candles. She left once more to bring their clothes up from the now non-functioning dryer. When she’d gone, Gray was free for the first time to do more than glance at the accoutrements of her life. While Bird stalked him, he roamed the room, which flickered in candlelight. Abby had her old farmhouse nicely decorated, with thick blue and red rugs on the wood floors, a mix of worn, traditional furniture, and shelves and tables filled with books and knick-knacks. The artwork, however, was what piqued his interest.
Several large, professional photographs adorned the walls, each graphic-like, with dramatic lighting and, in his opinion, bleak subjects: a leafless tree, an advancing thunderstorm—almost like today; an empty swing set beside an apple tree.
They were unquestionably good, but they startled him. In the few hours he’d known her, he hadn’t seen such austerity in Abby’s personality. Firmness. Stubbornness. She was definitely opinionated. But she was as far from cold as the pictures were from warm.
He moved across the room to a small, side alcove where an old Kohler and Campbell upright piano stood. He sat on the bench, stroking the instrument’s carved, oak finish. When he lifted the hinged lid, he exposed original, ivory keys, and a ripple of professional appreciation led him to run an arpeggio across the keyboard. The chords held a hint of old-string twang but still resounded with rich, mellow tones in a testament to the piano’s craftsmanship.
It sounded just like his mother’s old piano. Memories threatened to depress his mood, until a soft cat body twined through his legs and the sorrow dissipated. He bent to scratch Bird’s head, grateful. It sapped too much energy to think about his mother. Dealing with Dawson was enough for now.
The tiny alcove held more photos. He spied three grouped on a side wall and, drawn to the black-and-white pictures, Gray’s brow knotted. These were the opposites to those in the main room, possessing a soft-focused, precious quality the bigger pictures lacked: a chubby fist grasping the slender stem of a fuzzy dandelion; a very young child’s profile, cheeks puffed and lips pursed to blow; a close-up of long, pretty eyelashes resting against a gently curved cheek. Their simple story compelled him. He would have put these in a more public spot and tucked away the skeletal tree.
The focal picture in the space was a family portrait atop the piano. Abby, with a few fewer laugh lines, sat beside a square-jawed, all-American man with serious brown eyes. Before them sat two children—a sandy-haired girl of two or three and a tow-headed boy perhaps five.
There was a Mr. Abby. Or had been.
Flickering candlelight animated the picture, accentuating the man’s face and highlighting that of the boy—a miniature replica of the beach-blond man. Abby had never mentioned a son. Gray studied the faces, mystified.
“My husband.” Her quiet voice behind him held a pensive note. A shiver of unwelcome dread traced down Gray’s spine. He knew that tone of voice all too well—the one preceding a story nobody wanted to hear. “And my son Will.”
He held his breath without meaning to. “But?” He turned and met eyes tinged with old sorrow.
“They were killed in a car accident almost twelve years ago.”
His stomach dropped despite having expected bad news. “Oh, hell, Abby, I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you. But don’t be. It’s a safe subject most of the time, I promise.”
He couldn’t stop himself from tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. They both started at the touch and he swallowed. “So, tell me your story, Abby Stadtler.”
“Were you and Kim part of the accident?”
“No. It happened on a simple drive to the grocery store. Someone made a wrong turn.”
“I’ve never experienced something that traumatic.” His dull pain seemed insignificant.
“I’m glad if that’s true.” She let her lip quirk in skepticism. “I’m not sure I believe you, though. Everyone has sorrows. And don’t be sad for me. Birthdays are tough, the anniversary of the accident a little tougher, and once in a while it feels like it’s been five minutes. But, eleven years is a long time.”
“It’s only been five minutes for me.”
For an instant she stared as if she had no idea what to say. “Wow.” She finally spoke. “Did estrogen from my sweatshirt seep into you, or are you naturally a sensitive man?”
He laughed and stepped away. “The more you talk, the more I can see why Dawson might like it here.”
Her eyes misted. “I . . . People hear my story and tell me how strong I am. But, I’m not. I get strength from God, and, for many reasons, your son has been a gift from Him. I’ll miss Dawson, but your words mean a lot. Thank you.”
“Nothing to thank me for.”
And there wasn’t. He understood now why Abby was enamored with Dawson, but he still had to take him. The boy had used to beg to hang with the band. If anything, Abby’s story made Gray want more than ever to have that happen.
“Hey! It’s time to celebrate almost an hour without an argument.” A grin signaled the end of Abby’s melancholy. “Ready for dessert? I actually have a little propane stove I can cook on.”
“Since it’s raining Birds and Roscoes at the moment, I can’t think of anything better. Or, nothing appropriate.” He waggled teasing brows. “What do you think about my jeans?”
“Still pretty damp in the seams.” She looked like she wanted to say far more but let her gaze shift instead to a blatant and unapologetic perusal of his calves. “You certainly don’t have to hurry on my account.”
In light of what she’d just shared, Gray was sure he had to be misreading her tone, but the slow suggestion and the deepening of her voice were unmistakable. Heat that had been bubbling beneath his emotions since the moment he’d met her turned into shivers, and sweats, and unadulterated, unsolicited lust. Her baggy, cotton, drawstring pants and clingy pink knit top were suddenly as sexy as black lace. Ignoring his guilt, he lifted her chin, and she tilted toward him. He brushed her lips with a kiss that assuaged nothing but set his nerves jangling. Soft and willing, she kissed him back, tasting of sweet mint.
“No. I’m afraid hurrying is a very good idea,” he said. He took his jeans and she stepped back, pointing to a flight of stairs at the end of the living room.
“Use the upstairs bathroom. The one you used down here earlier has no window. It’s the second door left, right up the stairs.”
When he’d disappeared, Abby hugged herself as squadrons of butterflies swooped across the whole of her belly. What on Earth was she thinking? Her lips tingled like a schoolgirl’s. Kiss her? She’d let him kiss her?
Back in the kitchen, her hands trembled as she opened a narrow cupboard beside the refrigerator that hid a secret, exorbitant stash of ingredients for making mind-blowing and artery-clogging hot chocolate: chocolate bars, and a variety of cocoas, marshmallows, and a few choice spices. Sensuous smells drifted to her like exotic oils. Her plan had been to seduce Gray with chocolate into spilling his secret—the one she already knew. Instead, she’d lost her mind and kissed him back. She used him to keep the sting of the past at bay. Now she paid for the indiscretion with a heart that refused to settle into its normal beat.
A gentle pop and the beep of the kitchen phone heralded the return of power, and her kitchen flooded with brightness. She raised her eyes in silent thanks and let the light bring rational thought. Her mind calmed. Gray had been gone quite a while when the sensation of being watched made her turn. As her pulse headed for its upper limits again, she examined his face. Everything was different.
With one hip cocked against the doorframe, he held his arms rigid across his chest. His pale blue eyes held glacial flecks, and a question rode his brows.
“Jeans still fit?” she joked. Oh boy did they. But he didn’t lift an eyebrow.
“Of course.”
“David? Is something . . .”
“You’re good at remembering to call me that.” His voice was not angry; nonetheless a chill zigzagged down her spine. “Isn’t that right? You know.”
“Know what?” Regret heated her cheeks.
“Oh, come on.” He straightened and stepped into the room. “I think we’re close enough now we owe each other the truth. How long have you known?”
“David, I . . . Fine. Gray.” It was a relief to say it. “Since I slapped away the cigarette.”
The incredulity on his face was unmistakable. “You’ve known all along who I am?”
“I assumed you had a reason for not telling me yourself.”
“I did. I didn’t want to freak you out.”
“Umm, you seem a lot more freaked than I am.”
“Was it kind of fun? To see the famous guy in his skivvies? In your robe? To know you’d kissed the man on the posters?”
She reeled as if struck. “What kind of cruel questions are those? Who kissed whom, poster man? And wait a doggone minute. You’re the one who kept the secret in the first place.”
“It was mine to keep, not yours.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.” Disbelief curled through her stomach. “I knew you’d tell me in your own time. How the heck did you figure it out anyway?”
He steeled his gaze. “I couldn’t remember which way I was supposed to turn upstairs. Imagine my surprise when I wandered into the second door on the right and flipped the switch out of habit. Not only were there lights, but I scared myself to death.”
Kimmy’s room.
Abby closed her eyes. If Gray hadn’t been so miffed, and her butterfly squadron hadn’t started crashing and burning, she might have laughed. A tiny part of her wished she’d been there to see his face.
“Have to say, I didn’t expect to see myself as wallpaper in what I expected to be a bathroom.”
“Gray, I’m sorry. Kim . . . she’s one of your biggest fans. That’s not an excuse, but I haven’t even begun to process the sheer coincidence of all this. Dawson never said a word. He rags on Kim constantly about her hero worship of you, which makes a lot more sense now. Why does this bother you?”
“Because I know how fame works. People lie and cheat to get close to me. And I should have known better than to think it could be any different here. Being selfish tripped me up.”
“That’s ridiculous. We had a new start on some great . . .” she said, flushing, “. . . chemistry. I’ve got my hot chocolate ready to brew. What has to change?”
As if something she’d said flipped a switch, his body relaxed little by little. A smile formed into the practiced curve she’d seen in the farmyard. “You’re right, Abby. You’re right. I’m overreacting. So, what’s this about hot chocolate?”
His voice lacked several degrees of warmth. When his eyes met hers, his gaze penetrated only color deep. She wanted to cry. Fortunately, she’d learned long ago how to swallow useless tears.
“My specialty.” Her voice fell flat. “Wait till you try it.”
Chapter Four
ABBY PARKED NEXT to her dilapidated garage an
d fought the mix of anxiety and excitement in her stomach. Gray had not gone to his hotel the night before but spent it in Dawson’s room, with rain pounding until dawn and his car mired in the mud. But to say the tension between her and Gray had eased would be an outright lie. Why she should feel fluttery to see him was beyond understanding. His one accidental kiss had been the last warm moment between them.
“Whose car is that?” Kim, beside her in their twelve-year-old Explorer, squinted at Gray’s Malibu stuck in front of the barn where it had sunk four inches into giant skid marks.
“Well, I have news. Someone’s here to see Dawson.” She spoke carefully, heeding, just in case, Gray’s fear that his son might run again if he knew he’d been found.
“Me?” Dawson straightened in the back seat, his normally genial face on high alert.
“Yes.” Abby drew a deep breath. “Is there anything you two would like to tell me before we head inside?”
“Like what?” he asked warily.
“Like a little mix-up you might have had on your birthdate?”
“Mom, now wait . . .” Kim began her protest, but Dawson stopped her.
“You already know.” The sullenness in his voice was the first Abby had ever heard. “Why bother to ask?”
“It’s your word against this man’s. I’m giving you a fair chance.”
“Fine, then. I lied about my age.”
“We can explain,” Kim implored. “He had to leave home. His parents are crazy. His dad is never around; he just travels making money at odd jobs. The only thing he ever did was teach Dawson to play the guitar. And his mom just threw him in this private school and left him there.”
Kim had met Dawson online, and they’d been friends for two years. Her invitation had brought him there, and now her explanation rushed out, an obvious paraphrase of the story Dawson had fed her. The twisted truths were priceless.
Her daughter was a beauty. Abby thought so without apology every time she looked at her. Caramel-colored, straight-as-sixties hair hung to her lower back, and she had Jack’s luminous, hazel eyes. She smoothed Kim’s long tresses. “Trust me, you’ll have plenty of chance to explain. I’m just disappointed you didn’t tell me the truth.”
The Rancher and the Rock Star Page 4
