The Rancher and the Rock Star

by Lizbeth Selvig

  She hadn’t brought the hot pie, but a solid two-thirds of this one remained, thick with pale, sugar-glazed apples spilling from the double crust. She set no plates but simply handed Abby a fork and slid her curvy figure into the bench across from her. Karla was far from fat; still, the fact she was willing to sabotage her latest dieting effort in the name of solidarity filled Abby with gratitude. “You guys just holler if you need something, okay?” Karla called to the Sisters, and then leaned forward. “What gives?”

  “Just a very long day at work.”

  Abby dug into the heart of the pie. The luscious filling melted against her tongue in a tart-sweet explosion, and she closed her eyes as her shoulders finally gave up their tension.

  “Long? Or bad?”

  After sucking the cinnamon-laced sugar from her lips, Abby sighed. “Okay, it was pretty much as bad as it gets.”

  “Oh, honey. What happened?”

  “Mitch is closing the office in Faribault.”

  “What? When?”

  The fresh shock in Karla’s eyes was gratifying. Her friend knew how much she relied on the twenty-hour-a-week administrative assistant’s job with Mitch Wagner’s small architectural firm. The job wasn’t rocket science, but it paid good money for part-time work.

  “In four weeks.”

  “Holy cow, that’s crazy! And today of all days. Abby, I’m sorry.” At thirty-nine, Karla was two years Abby’s senior, a native Kennison Falls girl who’d left to attend college and travel Europe before returning to marry her Kennison Falls high school sweetheart.

  “How many times have I threatened to quit that stupid job and not really meant it?” Abby asked, miserable. “I mean, a trained monkey could do it some days, but my zookeeper was paying me twenty bucks an hour to be that monkey. It’s the kiss of death to lose that salary.”

  She’d kept tears of panic at bay during her drive from work, but they pressed hard behind her eyelids now. She almost lost control when Karla covered her hands briefly and didn’t tell her automatically that everything would be all right.

  “You work your little tush off, Abbs, and I know you’re struggling. You’re sure Mitch isn’t just being a diva—going through male menopause or something?”

  Abby laughed, despite the ache in her stomach, and shook her head.

  Karla chewed a fingernail, her eyes scrunched in thought. Finally she shrugged, too. “How ’bout I get you a slug from the cooking sherry?”

  “I’d love it. Unfortunately, I can’t sit here long enough for it to wear off.”

  “Stay as long as you need to. Kim will be fine.”

  “Yeah, that. So, I have more news for you.” She hesitated, considering what she could safely tell. “Dawson’s back. He ran away from his dad again and came back here. He refused to leave, so his dad is staying.”

  “Abby?!” Karla lunged forward to grab her wrists.

  “I know, I know.”

  “Is he cute?”

  “Karla!”

  “Wait, what am I thinking?” She sat back, smirking. “I suppose he’s married.”

  “Divorced.”

  “Abby!!” She grabbed for another vise grip.

  “Will you stop that?” She twisted free and flicked her friend on the knuckle with a middle fingernail, which only elicited a giggle. “Having an extra body in the house to feed is the issue here. Doesn’t matter what he looks like.”

  “How the heck long is he staying?”

  “Maybe a couple of weeks. It’s complicated.” She hedged her answer. “Dawson would have to go back to England if he left. His dad usually . . . travels a lot.”

  “I dunno. Sounds a little crazy. ”

  Abby flexed the tension from her shoulders. “You have no idea how crazy. But,” she took a fortifying breath. “Dad is cute.”

  Much more than cute.

  A naughty spark dawned in Karla’s eyes. “You like him.”

  “He wouldn’t be there if I didn’t.” That admission was easy enough.

  “This is sweet, Abigail.”

  “Don’t start—”

  Lester let out another wolf whistle. Karla looked toward the café door. A male voice followed. “Howdy, stranger.”

  “It’s Dewey.”

  “Oh, great.” Abby’s stomach dropped in dread, and she buried her head in her arms again. “I owe him for shavings, and I simply haven’t had the money to pay him. Don’t tell him I’m here.” Abby rolled her eyes. “Jeez, listen to me. What am I, thirteen?”

  “Let me see what he wants.” Karla patted her arm and slipped from the booth.

  Bereft of her friend’s stabilizing presence, Abby’s mind whirled, desperate ideas for replacing her job mixing with images of opening cans of Beefaroni for Gray and Dawson every day for the next month. How long was Gray going to stay? How long could she hide the fact that gas prices, broken fencing, and wood shavings were limiting the choices she could offer for dinner?

  “Hey Abby, how’s it going?” Dewey called out and ambled past Karla, clearly ignoring her attempt to seat him nearer the door. She followed, mouthing a heartfelt “I’m sorry.” When he reached her, Dewey leaned comfortably against the side of the bench. “Saw you and had to stop over.”

  “Nice to see you,” Abby fibbed.

  His real name was Duane, but few people ever remembered. Working at the station and co-owning the feed mill gave him double access to as much town gossip as any old woman. Fortunately, he was nice enough that he rarely used it. In fact, the appealing, teen-jock smile he wore signaled this as a be-ultra-nice-to-Abby moment. It wasn’t necessarily a welcome sign.

  “Wanted to tell you I was out at your place a coupla hours ago. I dropped off the shavings.” His handsome, auburn mustache lifted.

  “You did?” Abby lowered her voice. “Oh, Dewey, thank you. I know you’re waiting for the last two payments.”

  “Well, no. You’re paid in full now. Your new . . .” his smile faded, “. . . barn help? Remembered to give me the payment you left.”

  “What? Who?” Suspicion sprouted in her stomach.

  “Yeah. David isn’t it? Kinda familiar looking. It isn’t really all that safe to leave your place and money in the care of a stranger, Abby. He seems a little possessive already. Still, he handed me the cash you left.”

  “Uh . . .” Suspicion turned to sick certainty. “So, it’s paid—the whole bill?”

  “Three hundred thirty dollars. Left the receipt with him, although I didn’t want to.”

  “I appreciate your concern. I do,” she forced herself to say. “But you don’t need to worry. He’s a good guy.”

  “Well, maybe you and I can go to dinner again sometime soon? It’s been a while.”

  “Oh, Dewey, thanks. Maybe sometime.” She never knew quite what to say when he asked her out. She didn’t want to hurt him, and they had to live in the same tiny town.

  Impassive, Midwest affability took over his wide features, and he nodded. “Just you let me know if you need anything out there at your place. Wish I’da known you needed help.” He gave a regretful nod and headed back to a table in the front of the restaurant.

  Karla leaned toward Abby with wide eyes. “Wow! I think you found a white knight.”

  “White knight?” Abby glared, Dewey forgotten, her heart heading for arrhythmia, her breath nearly choking her. “This is the most arrogant thing I’ve ever heard. How dare he?”

  She grabbed for her purse on the seat beside her and yanked on the zipper. A moment later, wallet in hand, she dug for cash while Karla protested.

  “What’s the matter? Isn’t this a godsend, Abby?”

  “No, it isn’t a godsend. He has no business knowing about my outstanding bills, and he has no business paying that much money without asking me. Godsend?” Her voice squeaked. “It’s showing off!”

  “
Sounds like he can afford to show off a little. And he’s not Jack’s father. This doesn’t have to be a threat.”

  “That,” Abby slapped a five dollar bill onto the table, “is entirely beside the point. Thanks for the pie, and the ear.”

  “Keep the money, Abbs, you didn’t order the pie, it was just left over from this morning.”

  “What’s this, charity for Abby Stadtler day?” Her harshness was unfair, but the day had just fully imploded. “I can afford a piece of pie. I don’t need you paying for things, too.”

  To her credit, Karla only smiled. “Fine. Go get ’im, girlfriend. Just don’t be too hasty. White knights are hard to come by.”

  Abby wheeled into the driveway eight minutes later and threw the Explorer’s shift lever into park hard enough that the red SUV lurched to its halt. There was no sign of life except the annoying drizzle. Her trip from The Loon had given her eight minutes to settle down, but she needed eight more. Or maybe eighty more. In fact, eighty more days might not be enough. She exited the car and searched her yard. It would be far wiser to calm her emotions before hunting him down and opening her mouth, but in truth she wished Gray was right in front of her so she could blast him.

  How dare he? People’s bills were private matters, and casually paying one for somebody defied common sense. She’d give him a piece of her— A series of muffled crunches on the gravel made her turn. Gray, flushed and soggy from running, pulled up beside her. A pair of lightweight, navy-blue running shorts had molded to his planed hips. Her mouth went dry mid-swallow.

  Damn. She raised her eyes. Sorry Lord.

  The shorts hung to mid-thigh, leaving the rest of his upper leg and long, muscular calves free for her to . . . enjoy? There was a joke. Not even anger could penetrate her enjoyment.

  “Hey there!” A joint-weakening grin didn’t help—or quench the drought in her throat. “I waved, but you were leaving too big a mud tail to see me. Welcome home.”

  She’d missed him? Looking like this? In her own driveway? A dark vee of sweat stained the front of a faded, red T-shirt, the anemic rain had wet his wide shoulders, and moisture clung to the little spiked ends of his dark curls. His splattered white shoes bore a familiar black swish. She’d heard he was a runner, but not that he was this incredibly attractive a runner.

  “The kids helped Sylvia in her yard all afternoon, and because it was wet, nasty work she’s feeding them pizza. I told her I’d feed us. And, I just had the best run of my life.” His Peter Pan smile spoke volumes. “Didn’t see a soul for five miles. You have no idea how cool that is. How can I thank you?”

  He was breathing harder than normal between his chopped-up news reports. Her eyes fixed on the pulse ticking beside his throat, and she struggled again to swallow when he braced sinewy hands on his thighs and bent forward for a deep breath. Why she should be surprised by the perfectly proportioned legs when she’d seen them before . . .

  Oh, no. You don’t get out of it this easily. “You can thank me by keeping your nose out of my finances.” She winced at her own brusqueness.

  His gaze rolled up first, and a quizzical knot formed above his nose as he straightened. “Excuse me?”

  “You paid the shavings bill. Of all the presumptuous . . .”

  “Wait, I—”

  “. . . things to do. That’s not your business.”

  “Abby, for crying out loud, hang on.” He reached to touch her upper arm, and she stepped deftly out of range.

  “What? You think you have something to say?”

  “I . . .” He puffed in exasperation. “Yeah, I do. I . . .” He stopped, cocking his head like Roscoe did when he was trying to figure something out. “How did you know?”

  “This is a small town, Gray. Not Hollywood, or New York, or, or Nashville.”

  “Nashville?” A side-sparkle of mirth lanced his confused eyes.

  “Whatever.” As quickly as her roiling anger spiked, it was sucked from her body like the tide rushing out after a tsunami. An embarrassing urge to weep swept over her, and, mortified that he’d see the tears forming behind her lids, she spun away. “I’ll pay you back.”

  “No, Abby, this was nothing. I didn’t mean—”

  “Nothing?” Her anger sparked anew. She held up one warning hand. “I will pay you back, Gray. Just act like the welcome guest you are, all right? Do not try to help with things that are my business.”

  Staying anywhere in his immediate vicinity was no longer an option, and Abby left him stammering behind her.

  “For God’s sake, Abby.” His voice faded, so she knew he wasn’t following her. “This is just not a big deal. I only wanted to help . . . you . . .” He paused. “You do know Nashville is country music?”

  The ridiculous, bewildered question tugged at her, made her want to turn and run back. The farther she walked, the more solidly anger spun itself into embarrassment and settled like lead in her stomach. It wasn’t having Gray pay the bill that actually annoyed her. It was the fact that the payment, obviously easy for him to make, had been exactly the godsend Karla suggested it was. She was supposed to be strong, a survivor, even on what would have been her son’s seventeenth birthday. Twelve years ago, she’d gone to court to prove she didn’t need help from anyone to care for her daughter.

  When had her life plan shattered beyond the point of being fixable?

  Chapter Thirteen

  THE OLD FARMHOUSE was big, but Gray wouldn’t have thought a person could actually get lost in it. He’d kept out of Abby’s way for half an hour after her tirade, but when he finally went to apologize, she’d vanished. He’d struck an angry nerve by paying her shavings bill. That much he got. Still, this was an unfair attack. If she’d let him explain, or explained her own anger . . .

  “Aw, hell,” he groused on his way back from searching the barn. When did a woman explain anything? In the cobwebbed recesses of his once-married brain was a memory. He was supposed to figure things out from clues. Or maybe it was thin air. Either way, he’d never been good at it.

  He prowled through the kitchen, living room, basement, and both bathrooms. When he took the liberty of peeking into her bedroom, concern lapped at his mind. Dusky light faded the flowers on her wallpaper into muted grays and blues. Prim lace covered her plump featherbed. But no Abby, sad or mad, occupied the silent room. Only a soothing hint of mint tinged with orange infused the air, and Gray stood motionless inside the doorway, intoxicated.

  The way he always was around her—even when she was angry.

  Back in the living room Roscoe, stretched like a lazy amber rug in front of the sofa, thumped his tail rhythmically.

  “Where’s your mistress, fella?” The dog opened one eye wider than the other as if seriously debating whether to answer. Gray laughed. “Roscoe, where’s Abby? Find Abby, boy.”

  To his astonishment, the golden heaved himself to his feet and wandered into the kitchen, stopping in front of what Gray knew was a walk-in pantry.

  “Right.” Gray opened the door, finding it empty as he’d expected. “Good dog,” he said. “Confused, but good.”

  Roscoe cocked the furry skin over one eye in a frighteningly human way and padded forward, followed by Gray’s scowl. Abby clearly wasn’t here, but Roscoe stopped at the end of the tiny space and flopped his rear down in front of the end wall. Gray had paid no attention to it before, but now a set of small, painted hinges on one side popped into view.

  “Are you kidding me?” He bent over the dog whose luminous eyes said “I told you so” as clearly as a human voice.

  Before he could lose the nerve, he rapped firmly on the door. Nothing happened. He shot Roscoe a skeptical look, and then a sliding lock clicked and a knob turned. Seconds later, Abby stood in the half-opened door. The light behind her glowed eerie-red, like a movie version of the guts of a submarine.

  “Traitor.” She scowled at Roscoe, who only let his t
ongue fall out of his mouth and whacked his tail on the floor.

  Gray waited, nervous as a kid at the principal’s office door. When her eyes finally met his, he saw only melancholy, not anger. His heart hiccupped in concern, but his relief soared.

  “Good hiding place,” he said. “But we found you, so tag, you’re it.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d just go away?”

  He made a show of looking over her head into the room. “I would. But you know, finding your hidey-hole is like hearing a punch line. Now I really want to know the whole joke.”

  “Maybe I’m not a clever enough comedian to tell jokes.”

  “Hey. I’m a clever enough audience. I laugh at pretty much everything.”

  He couldn’t resist reaching out to lift her chin with his forefinger. The smallest glint of laughter in her huge, aqua eyes ignited a burn of excitement around his heart.

  “No dogs allowed.” She opened the door a few inches wider. “Meddling men allowed only when their lines are smooth enough.”

  She closed the door behind him.

  “Yeah,” he said. “About the meddling. I am sorry if I overstepped the bounds.”

  “You did.” A conciliatory note graced her voice, but when he faced her in the weird, red hue, the puffiness around her lower eyelids stood out clearly. Guilt for his part in causing it pinched deep in his belly.

  “The last thing I want to do is make your life tougher, Abby. My motive was truly just the opposite.”

  He thought her shoulders sagged as she turned. “I know that. It was a long day, and you stepped into the crap left over from it. That’s all.”

  “As long as I didn’t cause the crap.” He grinned at the back of her head and was rewarded when she looked back at him over her shoulder.

  “Only one scoopful.”

  “Can I make up for it by letting you talk about your long day?”

  “No. You can make up for it by taking The Oath.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  She led him from the small entry into a large, square room lined with tables, a sink, and counters covered with pictures. An acrid-sweet odor gave away its purpose. A darkroom? Images of the photographs Gray had seen in the living room flashed into his mind.