The Rancher and the Rock Star

by Lizbeth Selvig

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I mean, Gray, that I asked several times for those people to leave my flowers alone. That’s the only thing I asked for in the five minutes I stood here. Your manager blew me off, and so did you.”

  “I did not.”

  “You did nothing. Same difference.”

  “Now wait a minute. I told them no many times. It did no good. They don’t listen to me, either.”

  Color crept up his neck, whether in anger or embarrassment Abby couldn’t tell, but for once she didn’t care. Watching him struggle, she realized her anger stemmed as much from Gray failing to protect her flowers as it did from feeling invaded.

  “Okay. Did you go sit in there and have your picture taken?”

  “I had no choice.”

  “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” Her voice raised a notch. “You couldn’t have refused? You could have told them to take your picture by the tree, or even next to the garden, but you did it in the one, the one, place I asked them not to go. If you can’t stand up for that much, how am I supposed to believe you want to protect us from all the bad things you keep saying could happen because you’re here?”

  “That’s not fair,” he said. “You sound like my son. I’ve tried to keep Chris off my back and still on my side, yet when I asked him to reschedule this shoot he came anyway. I’m trying to keep Dawson happy and you and my mother out of the spotlight, yet everything is unraveling the longer I stay. My band thinks I’m crazy. I have a friend turned saboteur. What exactly does everyone expect from me?”

  “I expect you to stick to the path you choose. If you want to stay here because it’s private, then keep it private—no matter who shows up. You know what? I would have felt like a queen if you’d just stuck up for me about the darn flowers.”

  “Screw the flowers, Abby.” He glared at her now, his pale eyes flashing. “What’s this really about?”

  “About feeling safe. Just like you’re always talking about.”

  “It’s about not being a wimp.” Dawson moved from his quiet corner and stood beside Abby. “I think you’re afraid of Chris. I think he can tell you something is important for your career, and you’ll do it. I’ll bet he even told you to put Grandma in a nursing home, so you wouldn’t waste so much time taking care of her.”

  “That does it!” Gray’s hold on any kind of calm burst like a broken dam. He pointed at Dawson and stepped to within inches of his face. “You’ve said one thing too many, and you and I are going to settle this once and for all. I want you to get in the house and start packing your bag. I’ll be up to talk to you in five minutes.”

  “Dad! I, no—”

  “Don’t talk back. You get no say in this decision.”

  He turned back to Abby, and her heart jumped to her throat. She’d seen him irritated to the point of gruffness and angry at circumstances beyond his control, but this tight, self-righteous fury was new.

  “I’m sorry I disappointed you.” His eyes still sparked but his voice calmed slightly for her. “I wouldn’t hurt you for the world, Abby. You’ve done more for us than I ever had a right to expect. But it’s clear I need to take Dawson on my own before I have to start the tour again. There are some things he needs to understand.”

  “You’re going to uproot him over something like this?”

  “This is a big deal.” He started to reach for her cheek but pulled his finger quickly away. “If anyone tracked Chris, it’ll be better for you if I’m not here. And now you know exactly what I mean.”

  “Oh, Gray, c’mon . . .”

  “I’ll let you know exactly when we’re leaving. I have to make a couple of calls.” He turned for the house, but then looked back. “I’m paying for the damage to the flowers, too. And I’ll tell you just like I told Dawson, you don’t get a say in the decision.”

  If she’d been ready to forgive him anything, he wiped out her sympathy in that second. Of all the egotistical, unfeeling, pig-headed, cliché rich boy . . . Abby seethed as he headed for his son. He didn’t get it. He probably never would.

  STANDING IN THE elegant lobby of the Bridgeport Care Complex in Richmond, Virginia, Gray set his hand on a subdued Dawson’s shoulder and rubbed against the tension. “Okay?” he asked.

  “Grandma has a giant garden. She grows amazing flowers. She has a cool house. Why does she have to live here?” His voice was tiny.

  Gray nodded. Laura Covey had been a fiercely strong woman who’d owned her own land long before marrying Neil and had protected it fiercely since his death five years before. For her to be in a place like this, however ritzy, was unjust.

  Exotic-wood wainscoting and furniture in blue and burgundy brocade looked like they belonged in a Rockefeller sitting room. Plants abounded. The half-dozen elderly men and women seated in the room were well-dressed and involved in reading, knitting, or quiet discussion.

  “It’s hard.” Gray gave a last squeeze to Dawson’s shoulder.

  A young woman behind a carved reception desk smiled in practiced welcome, and then her mouth fell open. “Mr. Covey!”

  “C’mon, Brenda.” He knew all the staff. He’d insisted on meeting them so there’d be no screeching scenes. “You know it’s Gray.”

  “I do. Gray.” She flushed. “Your mother will be so happy to see you. She talks about you all the time.”

  “I’ll be happy to see her, too.” He took two visitor badges from her and handed one to Dawson. They didn’t have to sign in, however. That deal had been struck to keep pages of the register from being stolen. Sometimes he hated his job.

  The assisted living wing’s hallways were lined with oak doors, many bearing flower wreaths or welcome signs. Most stood partially open as in the case of his mother’s. Dawson remained pale and quiet as Gray rapped softly on the door.

  “Mom?”

  She sat in her favorite blue armchair in front of a sunny picture window, her nimble fingers pushing a needle through fabric in an embroidery hoop. A beautiful bouquet of roses and lilies sat on a nearby table. When he and Dawson stepped into the room, the expectant, quizzical smile, as if she were a child hoping for a gift, broke his heart, as it always did.

  “Grandma?” Dawson finally came to life.

  “Hello, dear,” she said softly. “It’s nice to see you.”

  He grinned, his eyes clearing, and glanced back at Gray. “See? She knows me.” He bent to hug her and Gray’s heart sank further knowing Dawson couldn’t see the confusion in her eyes. “I miss you. I’ve been trying to come see you for a long time, but I couldn’t reach you.”

  “Goodness.” She patted him awkwardly. “I haven’t heard that from you in ages. I’m thrilled you had time to take a break from your practicing.”

  Confusion fueled his son’s frown. “Practicing?”

  “Oh, no need to hide it, David. I know about your little band.” Gray caught her eyes, and his beautiful, sixty-three-year-old mother, with nothing but a few lovely streaks of gray in her dark hair, didn’t recognize him in the slightest. “You must be Spark. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  Dawson’s jaw dropped, and he staggered back. Gray caught his shoulders and held him.

  “Mom, I’m David. This is Dawson. He only looks like me.”

  Her brow furrowed and she set her embroidery on the table. With a slender hand, she brushed at her light blue slacks. “Dawson?” A smile blossomed. “He’s such a good baby. And your name is David, too? My son is David. Davy.”

  A small sob caught in Dawson’s throat. Gray pulled him more tightly against his chest. “I know,” he whispered. “Just talk to her. Sometimes she remembers.”

  “David told me he wants to start a rock band at Juilliard, can you imagine? I told him they’ll kick him out.” A girlish giggle escaped. “They won’t, I know, he’s too good, and he’ll probably be good at rock ’n roll too. I wish he wanted to
be a concert pianist, but . . .”

  “He’s done pretty well anyway, hasn’t he?” Gray asked softly.

  Her eyes clouded, and she stroked at her chin in obvious consternation. Then, as quickly as she’d grown agitated, she smiled and reached for Dawson’s hand. “He is amazing isn’t he?” She looked at him. “Twelve years old and they’re letting you play with the high school band. Most mothers can’t get their kids to practice at all, and you love it. I’m lucky.”

  “You always made me practice my guitar, Grandma. Just like you made Dad practice.” Dawson’s voice quavered, but Gray smiled encouragement. He remembered how awful it had been the first time his mother hadn’t known him.

  “Mom, look closely,” he said. “I brought you a surprise. This is Dawson. Remember, he ran away? I found him and he’s okay.”

  “Dawson?” She sat rigid a moment, her forehead creased in deep thought, but then she lifted her eyes and Gray had to hold back tears. Her green irises had cleared of all confusion.

  “He shouldn’t be in that school Ariel put him in, but he shouldn’t have run away.” She turned. “You shouldn’t have run away, young man. You scared me to death.”

  “Grandma? Grandma, do you know who I am?”

  A flicker of sadness crossed her features, but she stroked his cheek when he knelt beside her. “I do, Dawson. Are you all right?”

  “I came to see you, but they wouldn’t tell me where you were. I went to Minnesota to stay with a friend.”

  “I knew David would find you.” She looked to Gray. “Hi, handsome.”

  “Hi, beautiful.”

  “Do not run away again.” She kissed Dawson’s head.

  “I won’t, Grandma.” He choked back tears and clung to her hand. Gray bent and kissed her temple.

  “Minnesota? That’s a long way away,” she said.

  “I was working for my friend’s mom. She’s really great, right, Dad?”

  “She is. Very special.” Gray swallowed against the lump in his throat and ignored the hole in his heart.

  His mother looked at the pair of them for a long time, and Gray held his breath. There was never any telling how long her moments of lucidity would last. “So? What’s wrong?”

  “Wrong?” He exchanged looks with his son and let his shoulders slump. “She’s quite angry with me at the moment, and I feel badly about it.” He could never explain to her what an understatement that was.

  “Why is she angry?”

  “It’s all mixed up with work, Mom.”

  “What is her name?”

  “Abby.”

  “Abigail. One of my favorites. Work doesn’t matter, David. You said she was special, and you don’t say that often. That’s what’s important.”

  She looked down at Dawson’s hand, still clutching hers, and lifted it to her lips.

  “Sweet boy,” she said. “I adore you, you know. And I always will in here,” she touched her heart, “if not here.” She did the same to her forehead, and tears finally spilled from Dawson’s eyes.

  He swiped at them with the back of one hand. “I love you, too, Grandma. Get better so you can go home, and I’ll come and help you.”

  “Pretty flowers, Mom. Who are they from?” Gray tried changing the topic, but her brain didn’t follow the new course. He saw it before she even answered.

  “Flowers?” She glanced around the room till she found the vase. “Oh, of course. They’re from Davy. He was by yesterday.”

  “No, don’t go away yet, Grandma, don’t . . .” Dawson buried his head in her lap, and the confusion returned to her eyes.

  “Mom,” Gray said, forcing his own voice not to break. “We’re going to go get you a strawberry milkshake from downstairs. And some French fries, just like you love. C’mon Daw.” He pulled the boy to a stand. The tough teen had been reduced to Jell-O and Gray knew he now needed a break. “We’ll be right back and have a little party. Then we’ll go down and you can show us the birds in the lobby.”

  “That sounds lovely. I’ll get some plates and napkins.” She rose with them and headed for her small kitchenette, where she kept paper plates, a few canned goods, and some sodas in the refrigerator.

  “It’s all right,” he said to Dawson, when they’d left the room. “It is.”

  “It’s not,” he cried. “It’s never going to be all right.”

  “If there is anywhere she can get help, it’s here, Son. I just needed you to know. I didn’t stuff her away. Moving Grandma here was the hardest decision I’ve ever made. But Pauline couldn’t take care of her at home anymore. It was just too hard.”

  To his shock, Dawson threw his arms around Gray’s waist and sobbed. Even though he pulled away, embarrassed, after only moments, Gray felt his own eyes well as he thumped his son on the back.

  “Please can we go home to Abby’s?” Dawson asked.

  Gray hadn’t made much peace with her before they’d left. He’d set another hundred-dollar bill on Abby’s counter this morning before walking out the door, and now the memory of that alone appalled him. It was just another thing she’d asked that he’d ignored. He didn’t understand her aversion to help, but he should at least respect it. And he missed her. But he’d cleared out of her life—how could he go back and put her right back in the same position?

  “We’ll stay here one night and visit Grandma again tomorrow. Then we’ll decide what to do, okay?”

  For once Dawson didn’t argue.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ABBY GAZED SADLY at her wildflowers standing straight and strong in the steamy sunshine, dancing almost imperceptibly in a tiny, ineffectual breeze. She’d been such an idiot, raging over the garden. These were wildflowers, tough despite their fragile appearances. They sprang back after every frigid Minnesota winter, and they withstood ninety-degree days like this every summer. It was why she loved them.

  And why no sign remained of the abuse they’d taken two days ago.

  She stroked the heavy camera hanging from its strap around her neck. She hadn’t ever really worried about her flowers; they’d been an excuse. An excuse to unload all her fears and hurt on Gray, when he’d been just as upset as she. She was still afraid. All she’d wanted was for him to stick up for her, and it had hurt that Chris and the photographers were more important to him. That’s what frightened her—the possessiveness she’d felt after less than two weeks with him. He didn’t belong to her; but she’d treated him as though he did.

  The flowers swished, and Abby focused back on the garden, lifting the camera and squatting. A moment later Roscoe emerged and Abby snapped her shutter. She duck-walked backward, getting off four quick shots of the advancing doggy nose and drooling grin before he started barking like a maniac and she ran smack dab into a solid mass, toppled onto her butt, and screeched when a pair of hands reached to haul her up.

  She scrambled to her feet and stared at the boy, who looked like he’d actually grown in forty-eight hours. “Jeez Louise! Dawson?”

  “Hi.”

  He smiled, but his eyes were dull, his face drawn. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong? Are you all right?”

  A heartbeat later he’d wrapped his arms around her and laid his head on her shoulder. She held him with all her might, tears beading in her eyes at the emotions and need tensing the wiry, teenage body. She took a quick glance over his shoulder. Her heartbeat somersaulted with joy and relief.

  “Hi,” Gray echoed. His hesitant smile grew slowly, but his eyes shone more clearly than his son’s did.

  “I could kiss the pair of you. What happened? Where have you been?”

  At the threat of kissing, Dawson pulled away, but his features were still wrapped in pale sorrow. “Grandma. We went to see her. She mostly doesn’t remember us.” He chewed his lip at the difficult admission.

  “Honey.” She pushed at a lock of his caramel-colored hair, and he allowed
that fussy gesture without a flinch. “I am so, so sorry. Tell me about it. Did she remember you at all?”

  “A couple of times. But she kept thinking I was Dad and Dad was Spark.”

  “Oh, dear . . .” She trailed her fingers down his cheek, searching for words that would help, when she knew nothing would. “What did she say when she did know who you are?”

  “That . . .” His gaze flickered between hers and his father’s. “. . . I’m not supposed to run away anymore.”

  She tried to smile without the ache in her heart showing through. How could she care so much about a family she didn’t know? “Then you need to take comfort in knowing your wise grandma isn’t gone yet. She’s absolutely right.” Dawson didn’t look at her. Abby touched his cheek again. “Isn’t she?”

  That got her a nod and, finally, a half-strength smile. “She always was a little bit bossy.”

  “And you wish she could be bossy all the time, right?”

  He rubbed the heel of his palm across his nose as he nodded, like the child he still was pushing back his tears. Abby grabbed him into a hug again even though, this time, he squirmed.

  “You don’t have to let her go, Dawson,” she said. “You don’t have to be afraid of being sad. Start writing to her now. All the time. Tell her everything you’re doing. We’ll take lots of pictures of you so she can remember as long as possible.”

  “Really?” The whispered word barely made it past the emotion clogging his throat.

  “Of course, really.” She let him free and held up her camera. “I’ll take them myself, okay? Have I told you how awfully glad I am you’re back?”

  He straightened and took a minute to compose himself. “I talked Dad into coming.” He glanced again at Gray, who stood patiently a half-dozen steps away, a mix of confusion and, maybe, wonder on his face. Then Dawson shrugged. “But I didn’t have to talk very hard.” He stepped back. “I’m gonna go . . . put stuff away and . . .” He shrugged again. “Thanks.”

  “Sweetheart, nothing to thank me for.”

  Her heart danced through her chest as the boy passed his father, who laid a hand gently on his shoulder. They nodded almost imperceptibly at one another before Gray let him go and faced her. Her heart pounded in earnest.