The Rancher and the Rock Star

by Lizbeth Selvig

  He withstood one more, long, angry assessment before Chris capitulated.

  “Fine. I’ll tell you where he is, but here’s my deal. I see any story you write, any picture you take, before it goes to press. If new pictures turn up anywhere before that, a kitten-killer will have a better reputation in this town than you do.”

  Elliott snorted. “I have no doubt someone’s reputation will end up on the chopping block, Chris. No doubt at all.”

  IT DIDN’T MATTER what control Ed thought he had over Dewey Mitchell; now that a jealous suitor knew Gray was here, the world was only moments behind. That the safe time left was limited Gray had no doubt.

  He powered his last wheelbarrow full of reeking shavings and mounded horse turds out the barn door. Ribbons of sweat bound his T-shirt to his back, and dust-tinged grit freckled his skin. He grunted and wondered how he’d come to such a lower-than-sewer-water task. And, more remarkably, how come that task had become more soothing than an arena full of adoration. He should have felt tired. He should have been cussing at the flies and the sweat smeared across his forehead from wiping it with his shoulder. Instead, the pungent horse-tailings were all that kept him from punching frustrated holes in the stall walls. He’d cleaned all eight stalls since returning from the lumberyard. He wished he had eight more.

  His band would be gobsmacked, his mother . . . annoyingly delighted.

  His mother. He wondered if he’d be in this position at all were she well . . .

  “Hi.” A soft voice interrupted his sightless musings over the manure pile. “What’s wrong?”

  He lifted his eyes to find Kim, in short jean shorts, snug yellow tank top bearing a regal, full-sized horsehead, and rubber muck boots, eyeing him from the barn door. His heart scrambled into panic. Time and again he’d shown he had no skill for handling Kimmy’s out-of-control crush, and the teasing little smile she wore now, one reserved strictly for him, proved he hadn’t made a dent in her teenage infatuation.

  “Nothing’s wrong.” He smiled. “Enjoying the view.”

  “Very weird.”

  “Hmmm, your mother says that about me.”

  She frowned at the mention of her mother but curbed it as she sidled closer. “Weird is fine by me.”

  “What do you have there?” He distracted her by pointing to a slender, rolled-up magazine under her arm.

  “A tack catalog. Hey, can I show you what I’m saving for?”

  “Sure.”

  She opened to a page filled with pictures of saddles. They all looked the same to Gray, but Kim pointed very specifically. “There.”

  “A new saddle.”

  “Yeah, a dressage saddle. See, I have a jumping saddle with these short, curved side flaps, but the dressage saddles have long, straight flaps. They keep your legs in the right position when you’re not jumping.” She pointed out the differences and explained, with excitement Gray found blessedly lacking in flirtatiousness, why she’d chosen the one she wanted.

  But he’d never have guessed a slab of leather could cost thousands—as much as a high-end Les Paul guitar. “Big goal,” he said. “How’s it looking?”

  “I get paid for teaching a few lessons, and for extra work around here. Sylvia pays me for helping in her garden. It might take years, but I’ll get it eventually.”

  Gray could detect no complaint in her voice. In fact, she shrugged with a resigned smile. She really was a good kid. Unselfish and kind. Like her mother. “Times are tough all over,” he teased, “especially for a couple of single women trying to feed eight horsey mouths.”

  Kim’s smile blinded him like a spotlight. “Too bad horses can’t eat soup and soda crackers, Mom says.”

  “You and your mom work hard. It must be a bigger struggle than it looks, keeping up a place like this.”

  “There’s always something to pay for.” Kim shrugged. “She jokes about selling horses, but she never will. I think she’d starve us before losing them.”

  “She’d never starve a great kid like you.”

  He hadn’t realized a teenager could make her eyes smolder. Or pout like a baby Marlene Dietrich. “I’m not a kid,” she said slowly.

  “Oh, yes you are.” His brain raced while he called himself every kind of idiot for letting her corner him. With high cowardice, he grabbed the wheelbarrow handles and nodded toward the barn. “I’m done here. What are you up to now?”

  She harrumphed with cute disappointment. “I came to help you. It’s too hot to ride until later.”

  “Well . . .” He grasped for something, anything. “You told me when we first met you play clarinet. How come I’ve never heard you practice?”

  Her sultry pout disappeared. “I’d never practice in front of you.”

  “That’s silly. Tell me when you want to practice, and I’ll come outside.”

  She shook her head. “The only reason to practice would be for music camp in August, but that might not even happen this year.”

  “Camp?” His interest was honestly piqued. “Tell me about that.”

  “Four days of lessons with guest instructors and a contest where we play solos for a judge. At the end there’s an all-day concert. Like Woodstock. Our band teacher, Mrs. Baxter, calls it Kabbagestock.”

  “Ummm?” He laughed. “I don’t get it.”

  “It’s part of the Kabbage Festival. That’s our town celebration. Lame, I know.”

  “No.” He scratched his head. “Got it now. Sounds great. Why might it not happen?”

  “They say school budget cuts. They won’t know until the city council meets the middle of July if we did enough fund-raising to help.”

  “School budget cuts.” He tamped down a familiar anger. “Don’t get me started. Well, Kimmy, I think you should prep for it anyway. You’re playing something for the contest?”

  “Yeah, but it’s a stupid-hard piece. Mrs. Baxter is tough.”

  “I suppose I could help you.”

  “Seriously?” Her eyes morphed into saucers of delight, no lessening of her hero worship in sight. “Really, seriously?”

  “Seriously, but I warn you, I’d make Mrs. Baxter seem like a fairy godmother.” Which was perfect, he thought. He needed to be authoritative and unattractive.

  She obviously didn’t see it that way. “Oh, that’s amazing. Thank you, Gray. Thank you!” She sneaked under his defenses by wrapping her arms around his waist.

  “It’s no big deal.” He swallowed and peeled her firmly away, his heart suddenly quailing at what he’d rashly offered. You tell me when you’re ready.”

  “This is absolutely the best idea ever.” She nudged in for another squeeze and then let him go, her eyes glistening with pleasure as she backed away.

  He closed his eyes. No. On further thought, this could turn out to be the worst idea ever.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ROSCOE RELEASED A rare, sonorous bark of warning as he and Gray rounded the trees in Abby’s driveway after their run the next morning. Gray squinted toward the house and made out an unfamiliar, silver SUV next to the lawn as Roscoe took off at a gallop. He winced, still gulping air after his five-mile sprint, but trotted after the dog, concern brewing.

  His fears erupted when he reached the vehicle, and Chris appeared from behind the house. Impeccable as ever, his overly jolly face and his authoritative, self-assured demeanor, sent Gray’s stomach plunging and his pulse pounding in dismay. Dawson strode behind Chris, storm clouds in his eyes, and Kim followed, her eyes bright with excitement.

  “My dad won’t—” Dawson’s vehement objection got cut off.

  “And just like that he appears!” Chris clapped his hands together and twisted them like a satisfied Scrooge. “Right on time.”

  “What are you doing here?” Gray demanded.

  Chris waggled his eyebrows, and four more people appeared behind him as if he’d conjured t
hem from the void. Roscoe gave three ecstatic barks at the glut of potential new friends.

  “Traitor,” Gray muttered.

  “If Mohammed won’t come to the mountain . . .” Chris shot both forefingers in Gray’s direction. “Meet your album cover shoot crew.”

  “My what?” Gray’s breathing turned to wheezing. “Are you out of your mind bringing people here?”

  “They’re on your payroll, and they know it means their jobs if they divulge your whereabouts.”

  Gray drew a lungful of air and blew it out slowly. “I asked you to reschedule this shoot.”

  “I did,” Chris laughed. “To a new location. And, my God, it’s perfect. We’ve already scoped out two sites. That barn down below is amazing. And that garden behind the house . . . Dawson, you’re a genius.”

  With a warning shake of his head, Gray stopped his son from retorting. “This is a private home, Chris, you can’t just barge in with equipment and people. You have to have permission.”

  “I told ’em you’d kick them out,” Dawson said, his voice trembling. “Abby will have cows.”

  “Yes. She will.” That was partly the cause of the ache growing in Gray’s gut.

  “I don’t think that will be a problem.” Chris set his hand on Kim’s shoulder.

  “It’ll be awesome, Gray.” Kim spoke for the first time. “If a few of the flowers or the barns ends up as your album cover, I’m sure Mom won’t mind. I’ll talk to her.”

  “It might not be so awesome in the end, Kimmy.” He spoke without looking at her and caught Chris’s gaze with unfettered anger. How dare he solicit behind-the-back help from a vulnerable teenager? Of course Kim would think this was a grand idea.

  “We’re not doing this now,” he said.

  “But we are.” Chris’s smile firmed, the jolliness dissipated. “Despite what you think, there are still deadlines to meet. This is an expensive compromise, so just do it, and we’ll be out of your hair in a couple of hours.”

  The deal was clearly done. As Gray watched helplessly, his son fuming beside him, a woman named Penny, who worked in his wardrobe department, pulled two large suit bags from the back of the car and toted them to the house. A make-up artist named June followed with a case large enough to prepare the cast of Cats. And the photography duo of John and Tammy hauled bags of tripods and lighting umbrellas across the lawn. Chris dug his way deeper into Kim’s heart by sending her scurrying wherever she could be of help, and she eased into the commotion like a seasoned veteran.

  “Why are you letting him get away with this?” Dawson whispered angrily.

  “Tell me how I could make it any different? You know Chris when he’s on his game.” Gray looked at his running watch. “We have four and a half hours until Abby comes home. Let’s just work on getting them out of here by then.”

  “Grow a little backbone, Dad, and we wouldn’t have to work on anything.” Dawson huffed out an exasperated breath. “Fine. I’ll go help Kim and see if I can un-brainwash her.”

  “Covey,” Chris snapped as Dawson slipped away. “Get in and take a shower. June will be ready for you in twenty minutes. She’ll do your hair.”

  Gray caught the sleeve of Chris’s favorite shirt, a striped, linen Armani. The man was not an advertisement for frugality. “You are going to make these people hurry, do you hear me? I’ll be out of the shower in ten.”

  “Yes, sir.” Chris patted his arm consolingly. “Leave it to me.”

  ABBY EDGED AROUND the corner of her house, following voices she didn’t recognize, eyeing the silver Lexus in her driveway. She heard a male laugh. She heard a lilting woman’s voice and the words, “This would be stunning if we move the umbrella into the middle here and diffuse that glare.” And just as she rounded into full view of an alarming anthill of activity, Gray added, “Damn it, no!”

  Curiosity hit her first. Anger replaced it almost immediately. Three people waded through her wildflower garden, two carrying huge, white diffusing umbrellas and lights, and the third a tripod so hefty it could have held a farrier’s anvil.

  “Excuse me, please.” She shouted above the buzz, and for an instant everyone turned. Gray’s eyes were stricken, his face literally a mask. “May I ask just what is going on here? You.” She pointed at the man with the tripod. “And you, and you. Get out of my flowers.”

  “Mom!” Kim raced toward her, hair flying and face brimming with excitement. “Wait till you hear! This is going to be Gray’s new album cover.”

  Abby’s stomach turned to lead. She stared at Gray, who only managed a defeated-looking shrug. A slim, handsome man with graying temples, crisply pressed white dress pants, and an expensive-looking, black-and-gray striped shirt rolled at the sleeves headed her way. He stretched out his hand long before he reached her.

  “You must be Abby. I’m so happy to meet you. I certainly have heard good things.”

  “Then I’m afraid you have the advantage,” she replied, more coolly than she should have. He seemed too smooth and perfect, his smile like an ad for how white your teeth could be.

  “I’m Chris Boyle, Gray’s manager.”

  For a moment she was speechless. This was the god, the magician behind the singer? She cleared her head and took his hand. “Well. Mr. Boyle. To say this is a surprise would be putting it mildly.” She lifted her eyes back to her garden. “I’m sorry,” she called again. “Was I unclear? I asked you to take that equipment out of my garden.”

  “We’re very nearly finished,” Chris said solicitously. “I apologize for intruding. This shoot was scheduled months ago, and rather than make Gray travel, we came to him.”

  Intruding? Abby stared at the rivers of extension cords, the small mountain of equipment cases and bags, the three tables set up for holding miscellaneous tools. This was less an intrusion than an enemy occupation.

  “Mom, seriously, this has been so cool,” Kim broke in. “You should see what they have to do to get Gray ready for this. And John lets me look through the camera lens to see what they’re shooting.”

  “It sounds really fascinating, honey.” She barely looked at her daughter. Instead, she focused on Gray, coming toward them like a felon turning himself in.

  “Abby, I’m really sorry. I swear I had no idea this was coming.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t.”

  She clung to her angry resolve even though he was a sight to behold. A pair of jeans even tighter and sexier than his thousand-dollar Levi’s skimmed his long legs. A black chambray shirt draped his shoulders, buttons open to his mid chest. His hair had been sprayed and molded to look naturally windblown. But the most distracting thing about him was the mask, courtesy of at least half a dozen bottles-worth of makeup caking his face.

  “They’ll be out of here in half an hour. I promise.”

  “That’s fine,” she said calmly. “But they’ll be out of the garden in half a minute. I’m going in to change. If any of my wildflowers are damaged . . .” She smiled and left the threat unspoken. She didn’t really have one she could back up, anyway. What was she going to do? Sue Gray Covey’s manager?

  “Abby.” Gray caught her arm as she turned. “I really am sorry.”

  “Hey.” She gently slipped his grasp. “You warned me this was going to happen, didn’t you?”

  The photographers took closer to half an hour to vacate the garden, and the entire entourage took nearly an hour and a half to leave. Abby never returned to watch the proceedings. She would have said things she couldn’t take back. Glancing periodically out the window gave her all the sense she wanted of a photo shoot’s painstaking nature. It was probably impressive, but she missed a lot of it because of the red haze fogging her eyes.

  Finally, the back door opened and closed. Abby waited at the kitchen sink but the only one who approached her was Dawson. “The dickheads are gone.”

  For the first time, Abby felt a genu
ine smile slip into place. She faced Dawson’s angry visage, grasped his temples between her palms, and made him bend over so she could kiss him on the crown. “I could tell you were on my side. Thank you. Where’s your father?”

  “The wimp? He went to wash the gunk out of his hair and take off his drag-queen face.”

  Abby actually laughed. “Here now, be respectful.”

  “Why? He was a gigantic jerk.”

  “Yeah,” she nodded. “He kind of was. But, they’re all gone now, and that’s what I care about. Is Kim in the barn?” He nodded. “She’s afraid of me now?” He grinned. “Good. I’m going out to check on my flower garden.”

  “I’m not sure you want to.”

  She sighed and stroked his cheek. “Face it head-on, kiddo. That’s all I can do.”

  One obvious path of partially trampled flowers led to the middle of the garden, where someone had made an attempt to revive a small, flattened patch. Upon closer inspection, she found a few broken stems and a couple of gouges in the dirt. Mostly, the delicate anemones and coneflowers, wild bergamot and her favorite purple blazingstar simply lay dazed and bruised. She knelt and tilled the hard soil with her fingers, coaxing slender stems and knowing she shouldn’t be angry. She’d asked for this when she’d talked Gray into staying.

  “Abby?” His voice actually made her start. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

  She leapt to her feet and spun, her anger bubbling. “Stop saying that.”

  “Okay.” Taken aback, he waited for her to speak again, but she didn’t give him the satisfaction. His hair was damp but natural once more, and he’d removed the dreadful make up. Shuffling uncomfortably, he looked over the garden. “Chris showed up without so much as a phone call and with everyone in tow,” he said. “There wasn’t anything I could do.”

  Abby caught sight of Dawson, listening by the corner of the house, before she muttered, “Obviously.”