The Rancher and the Rock Star

by Lizbeth Selvig

  “This is quite a hideaway, Mrs. Stadtler.”

  “That’s why there’s an oath. There are, maybe, five or six people who know of this place, and all of them are sworn to secrecy. One is your son. Are you as trustworthy as he is?”

  The sharp tingle of photo chemicals swirled pleasantly in his nostrils. He lifted his right hand, stiffening the middle three fingers. “I do solemnly swear, as the sixth or seventh person to be granted access here, that the existence and location of your sanctum will forever remain secret within the confines of my brain—puny as that space is.”

  “Do you have to make a joke of everything?” Her chestnut hair shimmered bronze beneath the darkroom lights. In a thick curtain, it hung past her shoulders, and Gray wished with every accelerating heartbeat that he dared to reach out and sift the silk through his fingers.

  “Yeah,” he replied. “Otherwise I get too serious.” He waggled his brows Groucho-style. “But, I am serious about keeping your secret. Can I ask just one question?”

  “Is it impertinent?” Her eyes narrowed like a Siamese cat’s.

  “Oh, I’m sure it is. My questions seem to end up that way.”

  “Then ask, but I may or may not answer.” Her cat eyes morphed back into gorgeous, aquamarine mirrors, and their lids fluttered in a tease.

  “Why, Abby? Why hide this? I think I’ve seen the art that comes out of this room, and it feels to me like you’re not hiding the place as much as you’re hiding yourself.”

  She wandered across the twelve-foot space toward a wooden stool. “Just the opposite. I come in here to find myself.”

  “Do you lose yourself very often?” He followed her.

  “No. And I don’t like it when I do. Like tonight in the driveway.” Her smile was only half-strength. “Justified as I was, I don’t usually get that hot.”

  He didn’t know about that. He’d seen several flare-ups the past week, but they were moments of passion and conviction he admired. The kinds of things others might hold back because of who he was.

  “You weren’t that hot. Under the collar, I mean.” A flush warmed his face, because he badly wanted to tell her she was very hot.

  “Thank you.” Her deep breath was visible, as if she had to gather resolution for her next words. “And thank you for the gesture today. For paying Dewey. But I will pay you back.”

  Gray’s own resolution hardened. “Abby, I don’t want you to.” He held up his hand as she parted her lips to speak. “You won’t let me pay you anything for the privilege of staying here, and the shavings bill was something that fell into my lap. I thought taking care of it was a way I could contribute for both Dawson and me. Please, it wasn’t planned. It was no more than one of those random acts of kindness.”

  A blush crawled onto her cheeks. “I was embarrassed enough that I got behind with him. I’m mortified that you paid my bill for me.”

  “Do not be. Good gosh, Abby. Who doesn’t have to prioritize bills? Stuff happens and eventually we take care of things.”

  “Water heaters die. Feed prices go up.” Her voice was small. “Dewey was next on the list.”

  He cupped the deceptively delicate curve of her shoulder. It hid so much strength. A buzz of electricity penetrated his guitar string–toughened fingertips. “Let me cross him off the list this one time.” He massaged her shoulder gently. “It’s no big deal for me.”

  “I can’t tell you how much that pisses me off.” At last she lifted her gaze. Color still stained her cheeks. “Don’t you dare make a habit of this. But . . . thank you.”

  He stared for longer than he intended, and the pink in her face turned a beautiful rose under the warm, red lights. A tug low in his groin forced him to drop his hand and breathe again.

  “You’re welcome.”

  She reached back to gather her thick hair and sweep it behind her shoulders. The pretty bulge of her feminine bicep and the swell of her breast beneath her pale-green tank top set more desire wheeling through him. He would have stuffed his hands in his pockets but there were none in his running shorts. He settled for clearing his throat.

  “So, show me the magic in this room that helps a stressed-out mom find herself.”

  He had a hard time thinking of her as anyone’s mother at the moment. Vulnerability mingled with strength left her looking soft, youthful, different from any woman he’d been close to physically or . . . Or nothing. Hell, there hadn’t been anything more than the shallow and physical in so long he hardly remembered.

  “Jack always said he built this room for me, but it was his studio.” She led Gray to the far end of the darkroom, where two file cabinets and a wide cupboard with nine shallow drawers stood. “He created so much beauty in here. We both poured our hearts into our work, but he was the master. When I come in here it isn’t sad or nostalgic, it just makes me remember how worthwhile it is to work hard for your goals.”

  She pulled open one of the shallow drawers to reveal a stack of poster-sized enlargements. Gray recognized the stark, melancholy lines. “Jack’s work?” he asked. She nodded. “Where’s yours?”

  “Mine? I have stacks of old crap filed away. I rarely look at any of this.”

  “Let me then.”

  “Gray, I . . .”

  “C’mon Abby.” He pleaded, eliciting another laugh. “One artist to another.”

  “One artist . . . right.” A scoffing little snort escaped from behind a curled lip, but she pulled open a file cabinet drawer packed with colored folders. With a sweeping gesture, she stepped back. “Knock yourself out.”

  Several minutes later, forty or fifty black-and-white prints papered the counters, and Gray stared, star-struck in love with the array before him. “Who did you say was the master?”

  He held up an eleven-by-fourteen print of a young child spying from behind the wide trunk of a tree, while a large, black dog circled the front, searching. Simple, funny, a whole story in one image.

  “Pictures of my kids.” Her right shoulder hunched, blowing off the work.

  “Animals, sunsets, landscapes . . .” He flipped picture edges one at a time. “Abby. These are incredible.”

  “Thanks.”

  He shook his head at her. “Seriously. Wonderful. One artist to another.”

  “Oh, Gray, that’s nice of you.” Pensively, she stroked one of the pictures. “I like them. I’m proud of them. But Jack did the spectacular stuff.”

  “Jack did the depressing stuff.”

  “Huh?” Genuine confusion pulled her face into a tight question mark.

  “His stuff is polished, yeah, and I hope I’m not dishonoring his memory, but every picture is empty. Full of lines and contrasts. Yours are full of life, Abby. Every picture tells a story. Each one is a song.”

  “That’s a huge compliment coming from you. But it’s a lot harder to write a song than snap a shutter.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with hard or easy. It’s about something inside a person that comes out in a way nobody else can imitate. I couldn’t take these pictures. And it’s obvious to me that Jack couldn’t either.”

  “Jack’s pictures sold well. Mine didn’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We met in a photography class my first year of college and his last. I was in a little over my head. Jack had already been featured in a small gallery exhibition. He turned out to be a better teacher than the teacher, and one thing led to another. ” Abby smiled, but there was neither sadness nor joy in it. “I married young, but we planned to make the photography a joint effort. We did two shows together—a little arrogantly on my part, because I wasn’t really ready. Jack had the commercial success. Some interior designer bought a whole series of prints for a couple of office buildings. That gave us the down payment for this place. I sold half a dozen little prints over the years. I have a couple at a little restaurant in town, for example. Bu
t . . .”

  “Why did you give up trying?”

  Incomprehension clouded her eyes. “There wasn’t anything to try. I was sort of left without a partner.”

  “Did you ever consider that, maybe, the main partner was not the one who died?”

  She actually laughed, despite the blunt words. “You’re sweet, but no.”

  Biting thoughtfully on the inside of his lip, Gray assessed the room. Wide trays sat next to the sink. Neat rows of taut wire stretched over the far counter with little clips ready to hold negatives or prints. A set of metal canisters were lined neatly on a center island, and two enlargers sat beside them. Gray had been in darkrooms enough to know this one wasn’t all that far from being useable.

  “When’s the last time you used this? As a darkroom I mean?”

  “Gosh, a couple of years maybe. Digital photography is faster. This is time-consuming and expensive. There’s no point.”

  “I think there’s a big point. This is special.”

  “You seem to have developed,” she grinned, “a prejudice for your landlady.”

  “You have no idea.”

  Their eyes and smiles held for another long second before Gray tore his gaze away. “So, you don’t develop film here, yet you have the low light on, and I see bottles of chemicals on the shelves.”

  “It truly is ambience. If I do look at pictures, there’s something elemental about seeing them under this light. They look just as they did when they were emerging from the developer.”

  “Like playing a song with my acoustic guitar. No frills; just the way you created it.”

  She turned back to him, her brows arched with delicate wonder. “Exactly.”

  “What did you take these with?” He pointed at the photos.

  She moved to another cabinet and opened one of its double doors to an army of cameras and lenses. Gray let loose a low whistle. She reached for a spare-bodied, silver-and-black camera and handed it to him. It was heavy like a little tank.

  “My ancient Minolta,” she said. “Has no auto anything. Can’t find them anymore.”

  Did she have a clue how rich the timbre of her voice had become? Almost as if she spoke of a lover. There was more wistfulness for the camera than for Jack.

  “Is there film in this?” He handed the sturdy camera back to her.

  “Old film,” she acknowledged.

  With slender fingers she stroked the rectangular body, reminding him of the way he touched piano keys or coaxed a melody from his old clarinet. A wayward fantasy of those fingers combing his hair slithered through his imagination. When he pushed it aside, an actual unselfish thought followed it.

  “Take some pictures,” he said. “For me.”

  “Now? But it’s dark in here.”

  “There’s a lamp right there. I want to prove you can make anything look good through a camera lens, even in very low light.”

  Her genuine laugh, warm and easy, sent a shiver through his belly, like someone tickling him gently. “I think you’re actually proud of being crazy.”

  “Don’t argue with a crazy man. Just take pictures.”

  She wanted to argue, he could see it in her reluctant eyes, but something inside of her was stronger than whatever tried to hold it back. He reached to switch on the work lamp, and after a moment Abby hefted the Minolta to her eye and set the stops and shutter speed. The sibilant click of the shutter filled the space. Two more clicks followed. He had no idea what she was shooting, but he smiled to himself.

  “I don’t know what you think this is proving,” she said from behind the lens. “We can’t see these pictures to test your theory.”

  “We can if you develop them.”

  “Right.” She aimed the camera at his face and clicked. “How silly of me.”

  “No fair.” He stuck out his tongue, and she clicked again, and then again when he puffed out his cheeks.

  “Could I make a fortune if I sold these?” A giggle escaped her.

  A flash-thought of Elliott caused a moment of panic. He ignored it. “If you were that kind of girl.”

  “You have no idea what kind of girl I am.”

  She was more than right. From behind the camera, she revealed a side he’d had no idea existed. Flirty, free. After she’d snapped four or five more shots, he darted his hand out and stole the camera. “You’ve proven you belong behind the viewfinder; now let’s see you work it for the photographer.”

  “No way! Give that back.” She shrieked in protest when he snapped the shutter. “Gray!”

  “C’mere.” He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her to his side, then held the camera at arm’s length, facing them. “You’re in a photo booth. One, two, three, cheese.” He snapped again and Abby sputtered.

  “These won’t work. Your hand isn’t being nearly steady enough, and I have the shutter speed at one-fifteenth and the f-stop at one point four.”

  “I have no idea what that means, but if it means we’ll look blurry and mysterious so much the better.” He wound the film and held the camera out again, pulling her close. “Ready?”

  “No.”

  He snapped. Her protests stopped, and Gray grinned. “See how easy it is to unwind after a hard day at the office? Why isn’t this camera always within reach, Abby? I’m a dense man and I can see this is who you are.” Without warning, she was weeping. His heart plummeted to his toes. “Sweetheart, what? I’m . . . God, Abby, what’s wrong?”

  He set the camera on the counter and turned helplessly. To his astonishment, she wrapped her arms around him and burrowed her face against his chest. With no words, he gathered her close and let her cling as her slender shoulders shook. He searched his brain desperately for what he’d said to make a laughing woman burst into tears.

  At last, a shallow snuffle marked the end of her crying jag, and she pulled away. Gray let her go, although he liked the feel of her in his arms more than he’d imagined he would. It had little to do with the shape of her body or his thoughts from earlier. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted to protect something this desperately.

  “I am sorry.” She wiped her face with both hands, pressing her pretty index fingers into the corners of her eyes.

  “Tell me, Abby. What did I say?”

  “Oh, no! It wasn’t you.” She squeezed his forearm with warm, certain fingers, and he saw as he had once before when she’d first told him about Jack, the telltale signs explaining her true sadness. “It’s a bunch of ridiculous stuff all put together. It’s the day. It’s this room.”

  His heart sank.

  “This was a room with a specific purpose. Nothing as irreverent as wasting film by playing photo booth ever happened.”

  “I’m sorry if I wasted film.”

  “Will you stop? This isn’t about you.” Finally, the corners of her mouth twitched, and when she wiped her eyes a last time she left the smallest sparkle behind. Still, there was the tiny, protective lift of her chin, and a tight, low quality to her voice. “I’m trying to tell you, very inadequately, that I needed to hear you liked my pictures. I needed to laugh tonight.”

  “It’s a sad day today, isn’t it?” An inner heaviness had disappeared, however briefly, from her eyes and face while they’d played with the camera. It was back now, masked by her smile. “Something with your husband? Your son?”

  She gaped at him and swiped her nose with the back of one hand. “Why would you guess that? I don’t tell anybody.” She scrubbed self-consciously at the legs of her jeans. Those wonderful jeans with the rip in the thigh.

  “I’ve been paying attention.” He wrinkled his nose. “You’re strong, but not the last two days. Today I see it in your face and hear it in your voice.”

  “Are you for real?” She touched his cheek tenderly and sighed. “It’s Will’s birthday.”

  “Abby, I’m sorry.” There wa
s nothing else to say. He couldn’t tell her he really understood.

  “Time helps. Hugs help. I know, because yours did.”

  “Maybe you’ve needed a hug for a while.”

  The atmosphere in the dark red room changed in a heartbeat. Tension eased. Comfort swirled in like a misty cocoon and tightened like an electrical force to bind them together. Electricity and mist. Locked eyes and elevated pulse rates. Gray spanned her slender waist with his hands. She yielded, her spine rolled softly inward, and her hips rocked against his.

  “Hugs I can do.” He murmured the promise into the earthy-sweet smell of her hair.

  She melted against his torso and sent her hands up his back in a slow expedition. Each inch of progress sent a chill careening along his spine. He slid his hand beneath her fall of hair and closed his eyes to play in the chestnut silk. It was everything he’d imagined, like stroking a mink or sifting through down feathers. Her sigh vibrated against his throat.

  “You do them well. Hugs.”

  Gray arched back and drew his hand around her cheek, until his thumb rested on corner of her mouth. Banishing caution, he lowered his lips to hers, intending the shortest of tastes, the briefest of comforts. But her lips surrendered beneath his, her mouth opened the tiniest fraction and then closed on his bottom lip. A soft tug set off a deep internal reaction that enflamed and weakened him.

  “Abby,” he whispered against her mouth.

  “A hug,” she replied. “And a kiss.”

  He sealed their mouths while her hands went on roaming his back. Her tongue pulsed against his thumb resting on the corner of her mouth, just before its sweet, warm tip penetrated his lips. A rainstorm of shivers raced through his belly. His hand slipped to her rounded bottom, where he cupped one cheek and tugged, eliciting a mewl that swirled its way into their kiss.

  He knew exactly how to kiss her, when to draw back and when to seek more, as if he’d done it a hundred times. He lost breath, he lost time. A soul-deep tranquility that he’d never known was there to find filled him to overflowing.