The Rancher and the Rock Star

by Lizbeth Selvig

  “I’m not asking your opinion, the decision is made. What I need is for you to make it happen.” Dawson stopped to listen, his brow puckering in confusion. “Chris. Chris! Tell them I’m dying of dysentery, or cholera. Make up whatever you need to, for God’s sake.” Gray’s voice tightened a notch with each word, and they found him pacing around Abby’s favorite maple tree, phone to his ear. He acknowledged them with a hapless shrug. “I know you think this is your worst nightmare, but I’ve banked a little good will over the years. You’ll manage it.”

  The roiling in her stomach and the dryness in her throat told Abby something major had just happened, but when she tried to back away to give him privacy, Gray held up one finger and pulled the phone out from his ear, his face pained, like a kid who’d heard his father’s lecture a thousand times before. Through the phone’s speaker came an agitated garble.

  “If you pop a blood vessel, Boyle, there’s nobody around to save you.” The first hint of humor laced Gray’s voice. “Stop yelling. I’ll call you in the morning after I talk to Spark. Yeah, yeah, I know I’m a dickhead.” He listened another second and turned serious again. “I do know it’s a big deal. I’m sorry. Good night. And Chris? Thanks.”

  With dread and awe, Abby peered at him, afraid she knew what had happened.

  “What’s going on?” Dawson’s voice, thin as rainwater, barely made it across the distance to his father.

  Gray’s words, when they came, were measured and unsteady. “You were partly right, Dawson. You tried my way, so I’ll try yours. I’ve taken that vacation you asked for. You have two and a half weeks.”

  Abby feared the boy might faint dead away. His face turned moon-colored, and his slender body went rigid. All that moved was his nut-sized larynx.

  “Hey, where is everyone?” Kim, still in spangled jeans and tight shirt, slipped around the corner.

  Abby struggled to corral her escaping sanity. Before her stood a teenage girl whose outfit had been chosen under the influence of raging hormones, and a man who’d just canceled hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of work at the petulant request of a boy who, in turn, was about to keel over. There wasn’t enough chocolate in the house to fix this group.

  “What’s up?” Kim asked.

  “Aliens just abducted my father,” Dawson replied, and headed once more for the barn.

  Gray started after him, but Abby caught his arm. “No, be patient. I just got finished telling him all the reasons this couldn’t happen. Let him process it.”

  “Aw, Abby.” He took her breath away by spinning in place and wrapping his arms around her like a man sinking in quicksand. “What the hell did I just do?”

  He trembled in her arms, and her pulse took off on some crazy, made-up beat. “I don’t know. Maybe you just gave your son an incredible gift.”

  Their embrace lasted only seconds, but by then it was Abby’s turn to tremble, overcome by his spice-and-musk aftershave and his hard physical touch. She hadn’t had a man hold her that close in more years than she cared to remember.

  “I’m sorry, Abby.” Calm returned to his face, if not her heart. “I’m in way over my head here.”

  “Trust me, that feeling never goes away. He’ll come back when he’s ready. You can spend another night here while you figure out what to do, and I’ll go make us all some cocoa.”

  “Is that the cure-all for everything?” He searched the yard with distracted eyes.

  She linked elbows with him on one side and her shell-shocked daughter on the other. “The recipe was my grandmother’s. Heat of July or dead of winter, it was her drug of choice. Now it’s mine.”

  She dug out her ingredients after that, had Kim help melt Gray’s Symphony bar, butter, and vanilla in a pan, then topped it off with rich, decadent cream. When the mixture was hot and thick, she handed a mug to her daughter, added a liberal splash of schnapps to Gray’s, then set the pair on the couch and admonished both to drink, like a parent dosing sick children.

  With a brave grin, Gray lifted his mug toward Kim and shook his head. “Guess it’s you and me, darlin’, until my child gets over his mad. Cheers?”

  “Cheers!” She clunked mugs with him, an adoring shine in her eyes.

  “I don’t have many true fans your age,” he told her. “How’d I get lucky with you?”

  The unintentional double entendre wasn’t missed, and Abby chewed her lip to keep from smiling. “We have a lot in common.” Kim’s voice took on an affected note of maturity.

  “Oh?”

  “I have the same birthday you do.”

  “July eighth? We’re birthday twins?”

  Kim sparkled and beamed like a little bejeweled star. She was too cute for words—despite sitting on the cusp of being too big for her embroidered britches. “And, I play clarinet.”

  “You do?” His smile broke into genuine interest. “I started on the clarinet, and the piano.” Kim nodded that she knew. “I detested it at first because I was the only boy in the clarinet section, but my mother made me stick it out, and when my dad found music by all kinds of guys who played clarinet I fell in love. How ’bout you.”

  “I like it. I’m not good like you, but I love classical music. I think it’s cool you went to Juilliard.”

  “Juilliard was . . . great. Hard. Taught me I didn’t want to be a concert pianist. I broke my mother’s heart when I let Spark turn me to the dark side.”

  “Did he go to Juilliard, too?”

  Gray laughed out loud. “Not in a million years. He’s a self-taught musician all the way. His brother was my roommate, though, and when he introduced me to Spark, we were immediate friends. I’m very picky about my music, and he’s a free spirit. We’re perfect for each other.”

  Abby had an impossible time seeing Gray as a famous person sitting in her living room. Instead, his patient indulgence with her daughter, and his unexpected self-sacrifice for his son, were wearing away at the first impressions she’d had of his high-handed celebrity.

  “What’s your favorite song?” Gray stood and motioned for Kim to follow him. “C’mon, sit at the piano with me.”

  Panic and excitement vied for top emotion in her daughter’s eyes, and she bounced to the bench where she sat hip-to-hip with him. “Umm. I think ‘Forever,’ ” she told him.

  If Abby hadn’t been staring at him, she wouldn’t have seen the second’s worth of pain that blitzed through his eyes. He covered it instantaneously with a smile. “I don’t get that one very often.”

  “I like how it’s about so many levels of love.”

  He leaned back and stared. “That’s very astute. Okay then, do you know the words?”

  Abby could almost feel Kimmy’s stomach somersaulting in excitement as Gray started the slow, melodic song. To her shock, Abby found her heart flipping right along. Unadorned and unamplified, Gray had one of the smoothest baritones she’d ever heard. Like an old-fashioned crooner.

  “That was beautiful,” Kim said when they’d finished, her voice tremulous after finding courage enough to sing with him. “You should do it simple like that sometime.”

  “I haven’t sung that song in concert.” His voice was thoughtful. “Only the biggest fans know it.” He winked, which set Kim to blushing. “It’s a little personal for huge crowds anyway.”

  “Personal?”

  “I wrote it for a special girl.” His voice trailed off as if he seemed to think better of what he’d revealed.

  “Ariel?”

  “My mother.”

  Abby had no time to dwell on his quiet sadness. The back door hinges protested, and a moment later Dawson stood in the living room doorway. He eyed his father, then Kim, and stuck his hands in his pockets.

  “Were you serious? You actually told Chris to cancel six shows?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the catch?”

  G
ray stood and patted Kim’s shoulder before moving toward Dawson. “The catch is, if it gets out that you had anything to do with this, all the hate mail will come to you.”

  Once again, Abby saw the faint tic of a smile at the corner of Dawson’s lip, but he masked it perfectly. “What are you going to tell Mom?”

  “That you’re safe, and you’re with me.”

  “She’ll want me to go back.”

  “Maybe.”

  “What will you do if she says I can’t stay?”

  “Dawson.” Gray grasped his son’s shoulder, his fingers squeezing just a little too quickly, and vertical creases weaving his brows into a single, frustrated line. “I don’t know what’s going to happen five minutes from now. Can’t we take it one step at a time?”

  That stopped Dawson’s flow of questions. He turned to Abby, a flicker of hope in his eyes. She wondered how she’d ever thought him eighteen. He looked young and vulnerable.

  “We’ll stay here then?”

  “For tonight. Abby’s very kindly invited us. Then I thought we could go to the penthouse in L.A. Hang out in the city.”

  “No way.” He renewed his adamant tone. “Half the band hangs out there, too. Plus, I have work to finish for Abby.”

  Panic flushed her face and sent blood buzzing into her ears, so she scarcely heard Kim’s whoop of agreement. It was one thing to have a teenage boy here, and it was easy enough to entertain his father for an extra day or two. But longer than that?

  What about her crazy job schedule? Her minimal budget for anything extra? The financial negotiations she was facing this week with one neighbor for hay and Dewey Mitchell for stall shavings? She could hide all that from Dawson. But no way could she fake the realities of her life for someone like Gray.

  Not to mention that his lifestyle scared her to death. She and Kim lived quietly in a quiet place. What if someone found out he was here? She glanced at the three faces, and Gray’s features softened in understanding.

  “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

  THE SCENE IN Abby’s warm, eclecti
c 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.