“No chores for Gray.” Abby shook her head firmly. “He gets a tour and the low-down on the schedule around here. That’ll be enough for the first day.”
“No fair. You made me cut the grass my first day.” Dawson curled his lip.
“You are a child.” Abby set a platter of eggs and bacon and a small plate piled with toast on the table. Gray’s mouth watered. “Children were put on this earth to torture.”
“No lie.” Dawson scoffed.
Once Abby joined them at the table, Gray reached for the salt shaker, but Dawson caught him with a covert glance and gave a microscopic shake of his head before bowing it. Kim followed, then Abby. Gray blinked, lost for a moment, then forced his eyes closed.
“Lord,” she began, “thank You for this food. Thank You, too, that You’ve brought Dawson and his father together. Please watch over Gray and all the people in his business while he can’t be with them. Keep us in your care today. Amen.”
Kim and Dawson echoed her, and Gray mumbled “Amen,” waiting for the fidgety, embarrassed feeling he’d gotten as a boy when his grandmother had prayed for him like a fervent evangelist. But no fidgets came.
“Dig in.” Pleasant chatter picked up where it had left off, as if they’d merely stopped to say hello to a neighbor. Abby smiled at him as she handed over a plate of toast.
Breakfast tasted as if it had been prepared in a five-star kitchen, but he ate in half a fog, feeling like a sightseer on another planet trying to relax and pretend he understood the horse and farm jargon. Before he knew it, Kim and Dawson were finished, had bussed their dishes to the sink, and were out the door. Dazed, he looked helplessly at Abby.
“I don’t fit in here even a little. I just had breakfast on Jupiter’s red spot.”
“Welcome to life with teenagers. It’s a gas, what can I say?”
“It’s foreign.”
Abby leaned back and traced the inside of her coffee mug handle with a forefinger. “How often do you see Dawson?”
“A few times a year. He makes one trip here for two weeks, usually when I’m not on tour. I go to England once or twice for a couple weeks. We e-mail.” He sighed. “I was blind enough to think that was working. He always seemed willing to talk. I heard a lot about how frustrated he was being in England and how much he dislikes his stepfather.”
“And there’s a baby, did I hear?”
“Danielle. She’s two. He’s mostly neutral about her.”
“And he doesn’t get along with his mother?”
“I wouldn’t say that. He’s as angry with her as he is me right now. Ariel can be overbearing, and lately she seems to have no moral authority with him. But she loves her son and spoils him—as long as he stays where she puts him and doesn’t cramp her style.”
“Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Of course it does.” He shoved a hand through his hair and straightened in his chair. Defensiveness rose in his chest at her questioning, and their easy rapport turned brittle. “Legal custody is hers until he’s eighteen. I have unrestricted visitation, and although I can’t take him away from her, I think I can talk her into letting him stay with me through the summer. I’m betting on her appreciating more time with Danielle. And the model.”
“Is he really?”
“They’re a hot couple.” He steeled for more interrogation.
“We all parent how we parent.” She spun her mug like a top, looking into it as if it helped her concentrate. “And I can tell you, whatever you do, you’ll find a way to feel guilty about it. Trust me, I’m all over that emotion.”
His defensiveness dissipated. “You? Feel guilty? You’re a natural.”
“I am definitely not a natural. I need to try and keep order or I lose control.”
He could see the hyper-organizer in her. His mother had possessed the same quality, and sometimes he missed it in his frenetic life. He let go of his annoyance fully, wishing they could get through an entire conversation without ticking each other off.
“You look like a natural to me, Abby Stadtler. C’mon. Let me help you with these dishes, and when they’re orderly you can show me the ranch.”
By ten Gray was mentally exhausted. Walking Abby’s forty-acre place with its horses, chickens, dog, and hand-erected fences was exhilarating, but thinking about how she’d carved out her independence made touring with a rock band seem like eating cake every day.
“Sounds like you can wield a chainsaw as easily as you crack a velvet whip.” He enjoyed causing the flush that radiated from her skin.
They stood beside the farthest paddock, and he admired the sturdily patched top rail. She built fences, rode horses, taught a few riding lessons each week. The juxtaposition of an elegant horsewoman carving up wood with a chainsaw and whacking fence posts with hammers . . . He leaned his chin on his fists and stared into a paddock filled with three of her eight horses, hiding a grin.
“Working outdoors makes up for the twenty hours a week I’m stuck in the office.” She thumped like Tarzan on her chest. “Loud, scary chainsaw make girl feel like tomboy.”
She needed to stop putting sexy-tomboy-with-ripped-jeans images in his head. “So.” He swallowed, straightening. “You teach, you work at an architect’s office, you help out at the grocery store in town every other weekend. Busy lady.”
“I have an accounting degree, but I’ve always wanted to be around when Kim came home from school, so I never took a career. My mother-in-law has never thought I make enough to care for Kim the way I should.” Her face twisted in some private memory he couldn’t read. Then she brightened. “Ed and Sylvia have been godsends, always willing to keep an eye on Kim. I don’t need to worry about her any more, but letting her become independent is a slow process.”
“It seems to be working.”
“That’s a nice compliment for a mother. Thank you.” Her pleasure warmed him through to the core. Maybe they could get through a conversation.
The place wasn’t perfect. A hodgepodge of solid structures and faltering outbuildings dotted the acreage. But even the old pieces were tidy. Fascinated, Gray hoarded information about her like a magpie collecting shiny things. Back at the house he took in the whole picture.
“It’s beautiful here.”
The deep-seated truth in his statement worried him. Standing in the warm summer breeze with the smell of green earth and horses around him, he was gripped, again, by a desperate longing to forget that his band and his fans existed.
“I’m lucky. I thank God every day for this place. And there’s always something new.”
“My son sure seems to think so. Fun times at Jumbawumba.” He wiggled his brows to show he was teasing.
“I warned you not to make fun of my name.” She laughed. He couldn’t tell if it was faked or forced.
“Tell me why you picked it. Maybe I’ll stop.”
“A combo of our names.” She didn’t hesitate, and he almost missed the skin tensing around her eyes. “Jack, Abby, Will and Kim. Jabberwicki. We dreamed of a small, working, Midwestern ranch with about ten horses, some dairy goats, and our own hay crop. I’d teach riding lessons. Jack would sell boutique milk and cheese. The kids would grow up away from big-city problems. Obviously, some of that never came to pass.”
Gray’s heart dropped, as if it had been tossed across all forty of Jabberwicki’s acres. He’d probably just set a record for the amount of time a man could exist with his foot in his mouth. “I’m sorry, Abby. I’ve been rude.”
“No. It was always a silly name. I used to be a silly person.”
“You don’t think you are anymore?”
“I have fun. I’m not silly.”
“Maybe I should take you to hang out with a rock band.” He bared his teeth in a teasing grin, and elicited a Kim-like giggle. “I am very sorry about what I’ve said about the name. Really. No more making fun.”
/>
For long minutes they stared at each other—the first time he’d really assessed her since the day on the hay wagon. The longer he stood, the heavier his body grew until a dull, pleasant throbbing started low in a place he definitely didn’t want her to notice. They hadn’t annoyed each other in an hour, but her sunny fragrance and her aquamarine eyes were bothering the hell out him right now.
“It’s all right.” Her voice held the perfect amount of breathlessness to bother him even further. “I thought you were kind of cute.” She colored.
The urge to repeat his one, unprotested kiss from a week ago hit so strongly he nearly obeyed it, but he’d already created enough complications where she was concerned.
“I know you need to get to work.” He cleared his throat and stepped back. “Thanks for the tour. I, ah, should call Spark. My band . . . guitarist.” He stammered like an idiot.
“I know who Spark is.” Her smile was indulgent, the kind you’d give a peculiar relative. “Go. Call. I’ll see you later.”
She turned to enter the house, and Gray rolled his eyes to the sky-blue heavens. This was an alien world all right. That, or he really was an idiot.
ABBY AND KIM finally left the barn at seven thirty that night. Despite feeling guilty that Gray’s first dinner would be so late, Abby’s mood flirted with contentment. Her riding students were gone, and the horses were fed. The strength and purpose she got from her animals filled her with satisfaction. This was the part of her cobbled-together days she liked best.
The aroma of food confused her as they entered the kitchen. All day she’d tried to figure out what she had in the freezer that would make a quick, acceptable dinner for four, but the smell of roasting meat, and the grins from Gray and Dawson, rendered plans for her favorite hot dish moot.
“Yum,” said Kim. “Who’s cooking?”
“Men cook.” Gray thumped his chest like a caveman bragging about his mammoth kill.
Abby couldn’t believe it. Even in Jack’s day those words had never rung from her kitchen. “This is a surprise.”
“Consider it a thank-you for putting up with us.” Gray’s dark stubble and pale blue eyes were beautiful but incongruous in her familiar space.
Whatever was cooking, it hadn’t come from her larder. Her freezer contained two pounds of hamburger and three frozen TV dinners. She’d been staving off shopping day.
“Where’d you get food?” She made herself sound pleasant. “I haven’t had time to go shopping for a while—we were pretty depleted.”
“I had a couple of ideas, so I enlisted Ed and Dawson to go to the store.”
Abby hovered between gratitude and beyond-words humiliation. She edged to the stove and looked into a pot of boiling potatoes.
“You know how to cook?”
“Who’d guess, right?” Gray laughed and pushed Roscoe away from the range with a pat. “My mama taught me a few things, and an aborted scouting career taught me a couple more. My repertoire makes me an impressive date for a five-day week, and then I get boring super fast.”
“My, this is awfully nice.” Her voice emerged a little cooler than she intended. “It wasn’t necessary.”
“I know.” He shocked her by placing his hands on her shoulders. “I wanted to do something to help, and stuffed pork chops are part of my repertoire. Sylvia sent Ed down to double check I hadn’t axed you overnight, and we got to talking. It’s that simple.”
His explanation at least proved he knew she was uncomfortable.
“Pork chops?” She softened her voice and received a broad smile. Lord, he had fantastic teeth.
Okay, admiring his teeth was going too far.
“Big ol’ thick ones. With Granny Covey’s famous jerk sauce and corn stuffing.”
“I think I’m in love with Granny Covey.”
“As well you should be. Go wash up, you two. This’ll be ready in ten.”
SCRUMPTIOUS. ABBY COULDN’T think of a more appropriate word, nor could she have ordered better food in a gourmet establishment. The pork melted in her mouth, and the heat of peppers and allspice dazzled her tongue. She had no idea how to thank either Dawson or Gray when she stood from the table once the meal had been demolished.
“It’s been a long time since someone took care of us girls without asking.”
“Remember that, Son.” Gray winked at the boy. “Make ’em believe you’ve never heard the word chauvinist.”
“I’ll remember.”
“You guys go ahead,” Abby said. “Kim and I can clean up.”
“Naw, let the kids go. I’ll finish what I started.”
Once they were alone, unexpected nerves assailed Abby full force. She was used to being in control, and lately, even before Gray’s appearance in her life, control had been slipping from her grasp. This perfect man was not helping. Today he shared far too many traits with a fantasy Prince Charming she’d created long ago. She couldn’t afford fantasies, much less a living, breathing reality.
“If you’re trying to impress me, it’s working,” she admitted.
“Good.”
“I hope you don’t feel like you have to keep trying so hard.”
“What makes you think this was hard?”
“I just mean you and Dawson are welcome here, Gray. I don’t need you to pay your way.” She swallowed against the specter of reality, but letting him be anything more than a guest was unthinkable.
He cocked his head and studied her. “I don’t feel obligated. I want to help.”
“I appreciate it. But I . . .” She got no more of her protest out.
“Mom! Gray! Come see this!”
At the urgency in Kim’s voice, Abby and Gray exchanged quizzical looks and trotted for the living room. Kim perched on the edge of a couch cushion, her eyes glued to the full-screen visage of a popular TV entertainment-show host. Dawson sat in the neighboring armchair, his face a shuttered window.
“Officials at the Scottrade Center in St. Louis say their information was not detailed,” said the host into a microphone. “Gray Covey’s manager, Christopher Boyle, called the cancellations necessary because of a serious family emergency and promised the concerts would be rescheduled. No word as to when. Meanwhile, sources hint two more concerts scheduled for Phoenix and two after that for Kansas City have also been cancelled, but that is still unofficial.”
As he continued, a disturbing picture filled the screen. Abby peered hard to see if she really was seeing what she thought she was: Gray, arching out of a chair, wearing a smile of surprise, his hands splayed on the back of a woman’s head buried in his lap. She turned to the living, breathing Gray beside her.
“It isn’t what it looks like.” His voice, dull and rough, sounded defeated.
“There is speculation that Covey, who has dealt with drug-related issues in the past,” the reporter continued, “is once again facing substance abuse issues due to a difficult road trip. Pictures such as this now-viral shot of the singer ostensibly caught in a compromising position with the fiancée of legendary producer Ron Revers have been appearing in tabloids. Covey’s manager insists the picture is a fake designed to embarrass the singer. Other sources say the photo was taken at a party earlier this month.
“Fiancée?” Abby raised her brows.
“Fiancée?” Gray asked at the same moment. “I never . . .”
The picture disappeared, replaced by side-by-side portraits of two beautiful women, both blond and fashionista slender. “Amanda Rogers, the ex-Victoria’s Secret model who’s been seen with Gray most recently, had no information about the sudden cancellations or Covey’s mental or physical state. His ex-wife, Ariel Wyatt, who lives in England with the couple’s teenage son, could not be reached for comment.
“What the f—?” Gray choked off his vulgar expletive, his color deepening.
“Christopher Boyle refused to disclose Covey’s
whereabouts, asking that the public respect his privacy at this time. We’ll keep you up-to-date right here.”
“Great, just unbelievable.” Gray pressed his palms into his eye sockets. “I said Chris could tell them what he wanted, but this? They harassed your mom?” He blinked at Dawson.
Stunned, Abby glanced around the room. Shiny-eyed Kim was the only one who seemed unruffled. Dawson looked as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. For a moment, she couldn’t get the dreadful picture out of her mind. What kind of man was he? Juxtaposed with the red flags and alarms going off in her mind was the humiliating fact that the mention of a Victoria’s Secret model had shot her last shred of self-confidence. “Is that . . . that picture really a fake?”
“She tripped.” His voice held such heaviness. Even so, his stooped shoulders warred with an angry fire in his eyes. Was this how he lived? In a nightmare, having his life invaded without being able to defend himself? “We all laughed ourselves silly over the stupid, accidental picture. Now it’s proof that I’m drugged out? And she’s no fiancée of Ron Revers. She works for him.”
“They’ll all be embarrassed when they find out the truth,” Kim said firmly.
“Those few who want to believe the truth. As far as half the population is concerned, I’m a cheating SOB back in rehab. For them, any story that comes out now is just a cover-up.”
“But that’s stupid.” Kim set her jaw. “So you did rehab twenty years ago. All your fans know you’re, like, totally anti-drug now.”
A spot of color returned to Gray’s face. He purposefully walked to Kim and planted a kiss on the top of her head. “Thank you, sweetheart. For the kindest thing you could have said.”
Kim grinned, but Dawson still hadn’t said a word.
“Abby.” Gray turned his eyes to hers. “You asked if the picture was faked. No. It wasn’t even planned. I can’t make you believe me, but—”
“I hardly know you,” she sighed. “But, of course I believe you.”
Did she?
The Rancher and the Rock Star Page 11
