The Rancher and the Rock Star

by Lizbeth Selvig

“Thank you. I don’t know what else to say.” He took a resigned breath. “I need to make some phone calls. I’m sure Chris is being molested. I’ll have to give some sort of response.”

  “Why?” Dawson finally looked up, his face as defiant as his father’s was tired. “This is what they do to you. They run your life and backstab people like you and Elliott. They tell you how to feel and what to think and say.”

  “That’s enough!”

  Abby started at the thunder in Gray’s voice. He turned on his son and pointed. “I’m not upset about what I decided to do for you, but don’t you for one minute take it for granted, my boy. You think there are people running my life? You bet there are. There are such things as commitments in this world, not to mention contracts. I broke several of both yesterday and barely blinked an eye, so, whether you approve or not, I have to pay for what I did.”

  “What about your commitment to me?” Dawson shot to his feet.

  “That’s a card you can play one too many times. Watch it.”

  For several seconds Dawson stared his father down. When Gray refused to soften his stony anger, Dawson turned and left the room.

  “He does that a lot, doesn’t he? Run away.” Vestiges of anger lingered in Gray’s voice. He looked at Abby, then at Kim. For the first time since she’d met him, he’d lost the easy-going smile that always surfaced no matter what. “I think I’ll go and make those phone calls.”

  “Gray?” Abby’s chest hurt with confusion. “It’s all going to be okay.”

  “Things usually work out,” he agreed. He passed her and stopped once more in front of Kim. Her eyes were now shell-shock bright, and Abby felt sorry for her, too. A little shine had certainly been scuffed from her hero’s armor. But Gray offered her an apologetic smile that she returned without hesitation. “You were the bright penny in the room tonight, Miss Kim. Thanks for sticking up for me.”

  Her eyes cleared in an instant. “Anytime!”

  Holy cow, Abby thought. If she hadn’t just seen him rescue his reputation in ten seconds, she’d never have believed it.

  She left him alone for an hour, even though she knew Gray was the kind of man she should leave alone for good. His was a life she couldn’t come close to understanding. One she had no desire to understand. After seeing the TV report, she feared the chaos and the people surrounding him more than ever.

  To top it off, she’d let herself overlook his past. Drugs? Rehab? Victoria’s Secret models? Potential sex scandals? What had she expected? He was a rock star, made from the same cloth as every burnt-out, groupie-loving, famous rocker since Elvis. She’d given him her vote of confidence, but she honestly didn’t know what to believe. Her worst nightmare was really that the truth lay somewhere between the sensational report and Gray’s earnest protestations that he was innocent. Wasn’t there a kernel of truth at the heart of every rumor?

  Stay out of his life, Abigail. Put the pretty man down and walk away.

  It was the very best of advice from her wise and trusted inner self, and yet she still headed out the door to find him.

  Chapter Ten

  GRAY OPENED HIS eyes in the cozy yellow-and-brown guest room that had become familiar over three days. He closed them quickly against the pain of morning and tried to recapture the simple dream he’d been enjoying far too well. Sleep had come more easily the past two nights even though his system was still off, cycling on a concert tour time zone. Except for the daily doses of haranguing from Chris, life had settled into a quiet pattern of marking time.

  Dawson’s attitude had stayed civil, if awkward. Adorable Kim flirted her fifteen-wishing-she-were-twenty-five heart out. And Abby . . .

  Thinking of her finally brought back the dream—Abby, in a clinging blue dress designed by his imagination, stroking his cheek, over and over. The vision held nothing erotic, nothing that should have affected him, yet his body grew heavier—and harder in the most male of ways.

  He groaned, hung over with frat-boy desire, embarrassed, albeit pleasurably, by his body’s reaction to the remnants of his fantasy. Not that he didn’t cling to it selfishly, ready to stay wrapped in the soft homemade quilt and crisp sheets and fight his hard-on all day. But his window stood open, letting in a cool breeze scented like the mornings of his childhood, calming his body in spite of his wishes, bringing him to his senses. He glanced at the clock radio on the small stand beside him and groaned for a different reason. Ten o’clock? Dang, he was late. The days around here started right after midnight.

  He threw on a pair of jeans and padded down the hall, but his son’s room was empty. As was Kim’s. As was Abby’s. It didn’t surprise him, then, that the kitchen was also devoid of activity. He followed his nose to the coffeemaker, and only after his first slug did he realize that, although the room was empty, something wasn’t right. Breakfast dishes sat in an untidy stack on the counter, two crumpled napkins swam in a puddle of coffee in the sink, a small carton of half-and-half sat open on the table. Most curious of all, Abby’s mug sat beside the cream still three-quarters full.

  Gray had lived in Abby’s house only four days, but a few things were already ingrained as The Standard. Abby was meticulous and organized—her kitchen most of all. The kids made their own chore charts for crying out loud, and she cleaned the kitchen thoroughly and without fuss after every meal, despite the fact that the dishwasher was broken and she hadn’t gotten around to fixing it yet. The disarray this morning was almost shockingly out of character.

  He’d have talked himself into believing it was a simple anomaly, but then he found the note. “Kim, Dawson, Gray. All I care about today is the horses. Feed them, let them out. Take the day off. Don’t know for sure when I’ll be home—dinner when I get there.”

  Day off? Don’t know when I’ll be home? Concern lapped at Gray’s mind, even though he didn’t honestly know Abby well enough to worry.

  But what he did know was that he found her more beautiful and sexier by the day in a no-nonsense way. She was so different from women in his real life that his fantasies were starting to overshadow appropriate thoughts. Case in point, his state upon waking this morning. Whether she had on shorts, a suit for work, or riding breeches and a dirt smudge on her cheek, she was, in a simple, unavoidable word, hot.

  The flap of a breeze-blown curtain was the only sound as he sat with his coffee and his thoughts. The kids normally had specific tasks every morning, leaving them little time to goof off until after lunch. The tight ship kept her from worrying and asking too many “what have you been doing” questions when she got home. He supposed her over-concern was understandable considering what she’d lost in her life.

  His heart still stuttered over the idea of losing a spouse and a child in one violent instant. Abby acted matter-of-fact about the past, but that only made reading her true emotions a fascinating challenge, and made the departure from her careful control this morning all the more worrisome. The strains of Rachmaninoff from his iPhone made him cringe, knowing it had to be Chris with another dose of guilt.

  Only, it wasn’t. Gray stared at the caller ID until the phone nearly stopped ringing before he slid the phone’s “on” bar. “Why, Ariel,” he said, adopting a pleasant tone. “What a shock.”

  “My, such a warm greeting. I don’t know why it’s a shock given the circumstances.”

  “How are you?”

  “Let’s say I sound calmer than I feel.” Her tight Sussex accent never failed to make him squirm, as if she planned every syllable to force a reaction. To think he’d once found that British purr sexy as hell.

  “Why, what’s happening?”

  “For one thing, there are photographers hounding my every step. I’m calling to ask where the devil you really are.”

  “Photographers?” Gray’s underlying annoyance gave way to a fresh wave of guilt. “The press found you? I’m sorry, Ariel, I am.”

  “It isn’t completely
them, darling, although they are exasperating. But they seem convinced you’re in some sort of rehabilitation center. You didn’t lie about being with Dawson?”

  “For crying out loud, why would I do that?” He stood to pace the kitchen floor, combing his hair with frustrated fingers. “You’ve talked to Dawson. I trusted you with where we are.”

  There was such a long silence Gray thought he’d either lost her or she’d hung up. “Yes, Gray, you did.” Her voice finally came out subdued. “I couldn’t resist baiting you. I’m sorry.”

  What the hell? Ariel pulling a punch? “Thanks.”

  “You really did cancel six shows to stay at some widow woman’s farm?” She said widow woman as if she imagined the witch from Hansel and Gretel. Gray didn’t bother correcting whatever it was his ex-wife was picturing.

  “I really did. Where are you?”

  “Still Switzerland. I called to make sure Dawson was all right. I don’t know where these vultures get their stories.”

  “Out of their ass—” He cut off the vulgarity that didn’t belong in Abby’s sunny kitchen.

  Then, as if in response to a silent cue, the back door opened, admitting a shuffling Dawson. When he realized he wasn’t alone, his eyebrows puckered, and Gray mouthed the word Mom.

  “Look,” he said into the phone. “You know where reporters get their lies.”

  Her purr turned into an appreciative, kitten-like snort. “All right, darling. So, when do you think you’ll need to send Dawson back?” She sounded as if she cared about the answer, but whether she wanted him back, or was calculating how long she had left to play, he wasn’t sure.

  “He can stay as long as he likes as far as I’m concerned.”

  Dawson’s eyes lit with delight.

  “Now that’s bloody brilliant, Gray, so like you. Just where would he stay, may I ask?”

  “With me.”

  She laughed with no hesitation. “That’s ridiculous. School starts in August, and he should be back early enough to settle in.”

  Gray’s stomach recoiled. August was only six weeks away, and the thought of sending Dawson to England suddenly made him desperately sad. “Hold on. You have to know he hates that school. Why do you think he ran off?”

  “Dawson is a child, Gray.” Her tone would have sounded imperious if hadn’t been typical. “We don’t expect him to know what’s best for himself. Heighton Academy is a fantastic school, and he can live with Mother if he really dislikes the dormitories.”

  “What? Dad, what’s she saying?” Dawson pushed closer, his features twisted in anticipation. Gray held up a finger.

  “C’mon, Ariel, that makes me want to run screaming.”

  “Very funny,” she replied. “Dawson needs to come back soon. We’ll sort it here.”

  “We are not deciding this now,” Gray said, the slightest touch of newfound conviction in his voice. “I’ll talk to him about it. I want you to plan on him staying here through July—”

  “July?!” Dawson shook his head vehemently. This time, Gray raised a forefinger to his lips.

  “You and Klaus will get more time alone with Danielle. I’ll get my turn for . . .” he said, glancing at Dawson, “. . . a little time with our son.”

  “Let me talk to her.” Dawson reached for the phone.

  “Wait,” he whispered.

  “You’ve lost him once already. Why should I trust he’ll stay with you?”

  “I think we’re pretty even on that score.” He tamped the hackles on the back of his neck down, wishing he dared say more, but Dawson stood with his hand still out for the phone.

  Silence came across the line once more. Finally Ariel sighed. “Fine. He’s yours through July. Will that make you happy?”

  “Yes. Yes, for now, but . . .”

  “There’s always a but isn’t there?”

  “I was simply going to ask you if you’d consider keeping our whereabouts a secret.”

  “Oh. Well. For goodness’ sake, I’m not an idiot.”

  “It’s not for me. This is a nice family he’s with. I’d hate to see her—their—privacy invaded before we can leave.”

  “Well, if that doesn’t sound perfectly intriguing, my darling!” Her laugh, amused and knowing, broke the tension. “Okay, must run. Kiss my baby for me. I’ll talk to him and see him in August.”

  He opened his mouth and closed it again. There was no point in arguing. She’d made a huge concession—it was all he’d get in one shot.

  “We’ll discuss it. Ariel? Thanks . . . for the discretion.”

  “He’s my son, too. Good-bye, darling. Oh, and do see if you can manage to get rid of the lions at the door won’t you?”

  The line went dead. Gray pushed the off button and stared at the pile of breakfast dishes in the sink.

  “Why didn’t you let me talk to her?” Dawson demanded.

  “Trust me. She was in martyr mode and you’d have wasted perfectly good arguments on her.”

  “Just like always, I’m not old enough to find that out for myself.”

  “Knock it off.” Gray turned, irritated. “I’m pretty tired of that argument myself. She wanted you home in six days, and I got you six weeks. I’m on your side here.”

  “Whatever. Not like I should get to say hi to my mother or anything.”

  Well he was right about that, Gray thought, although wanting to talk to Ariel would be a first. So, fine, let him nurse his anger. God knew he felt pretty petulant himself at the moment. “Where’s Kim?”

  “Probably on her way from the barn.”

  “Good. When she gets here, you guys can clean up this kitchen.”

  “But Abby said we can have the day off.”

  “Abby’s not here, I am. She doesn’t need to come home to this mess.”

  “Why don’t you help, then?”

  “Because I’m famous, and I don’t have to.”

  Dawson’s eyes went wide, but then a wry twist of his lips gave away his reluctant amusement. “Guess I know what I want to be when I grow up.”

  “Darn right. Nothing but perks. I’m going to see what needs to be done outside.” He left before Dawson could get another whatever out of his mouth.

  Bird slipped into the yard with him, rubbed once around and his ankles, and disappeared into the wildflowers. Gray longed to follow him. He was so tired of his life being full of turmoil and guilt. If the paparazzi were so hungry they were gunning for Ariel, how long before they doped out where he was? He tried to picture the tranquility of Abby’s secluded farm shattered by shouts from money-grubbing photographers and the locust-like clicking of their shutters. The thought of careless feet tramping through the wildflower garden turned his stomach. He had no business being here.

  He couldn’t talk to his kid. He couldn’t keep anyone happy. He reached to his back pocket for his pack of cigarettes and shook one out without thinking. As he put the slender tube to his lips, however, the memory of Abby slapping one like it from his mouth loomed like a specter, followed by his waking nightmare of her classic barn engulfed in a ball of fire. Nauseated, Gray snapped the cigarette in two.

  “Damn it, Abby,” he mumbled.

  How many times had his mother tried cajoling, lecturing, shaming him into quitting? Abby Stadtler, in one livid-eyed moment, had come up with all-too-effective aversion therapy.

  “Don’t do it,” he warned himself out loud. “Don’t make reasons to get close. You should be getting your ass out of Dodge.”

  Tonight would have been the first Kansas City concert. Gray’s fingers itched for the cigarette pack again, and again his stomach made a queasy roll. Were he not here, he’d have slept until one with no guilt, and, after waking, he wouldn’t have had the aggravating talk with Ariel; he’d have ordered room service and taken Wick and one of the security guys to the nearest park for a quick run. He took a de
ep breath of the clean morning air. A run . . .

  He’d never thought of it here, but . . . Why the hell not? His restlessness stilled for the first time. He wouldn’t need bodyguards on the country roads. Could peace really be as close as the time it would take to change his clothes? He stole into the house, not willing to engage Dawson again. Five minutes later he’d donned a pair of blue running shorts always in his bag and an old black T-shirt, along with a New York Mets cap pulled low over his eyes.

  “Hey,” he said when he returned to the kitchen. “Will you tell Kim I’m going running and I’ll help when I get back?”

  “Sure.” Dawson turned his head slightly and called out. “Hey, Kim! Dad’s going running.”

  Kim, wearing cut-off jeans, a ratty sweatshirt, and ankle-high, lace-up boots with dusty pink socks, appeared in the kitchen from the living room as if she’d been shot from a circus cannon. Her eyes scoured him, wide and interested as always.

  “You run?” she asked.

  “Now and again.” He sneered at Dawson and granted Kim a smile-and-a-wink, and she flushed to match her socks.

  “Do you ever have to run for your life? From fans and things?”

  “Nah,” he laughed. “I’m not exactly Beatles popular.”

  “Oh, yes you are.” She smiled eagerly.

  “Hey.” Dawson looked fully over his shoulder. “I have an idea. You should dry these dishes.”

  “Hey, I have an idea. You should get some Nice pills next time you go to the store.”

  Dawson let out an exasperated sigh. “Girls.”

  “If you two decide to murder each other in the next hour, finish the dishes first and then go outside so the gory mess is easy to clean up, okay?” Gray slipped him a wink too, got an incredulous stare, and left before the boy could reply or Kim could gush again.

  Roscoe led him ecstatically past the house and up the driveway toward the Mertzes’ log house. The dog’s carefree joy, tongue flapping and ears streaming behind him, infected Gray and turned his earlier melancholy into relief. He usually got to run several times a week, but while on tour it took slightly less planning than a presidential motorcade. Here he ran with abandon, unconcerned with the public, relishing Roscoe’s companionship and the way he checked back periodically to make sure Gray was still with him.