The Rancher and the Rock Star

by Lizbeth Selvig

  “Well,” he said. “I’ve definitely just learned the meaning of sight for sore eyes.”

  Her heart skittered and slipped in her chest like Roscoe on the linoleum. Gray’s robin’s-egg eyes glistened with enjoyment over his surprise, and she couldn’t take him in fast enough. Kim screeched with joy and launched herself across the room. The world righted itself. All she saw was how his thousand-dollar jeans rode his hips like paint on a master’s canvas, and how a form-fitted, navy-blue T-shirt hugged his pecs and biceps the way she longed to do. He didn’t take his eyes off her until Kim threw her arms around his waist in a bear hug.

  “I’m so glad you’re back!” she cried.

  There was something gratifying in the unabashed greeting, so different from the anxious disbelief the first time Kim had seen Gray. He gave her a squeeze and smooched her crown.

  “Hey, Kimmy. It’s nice to see you, too.” He pushed her to arm’s-length and peered up and down at her, giving a wink. “I think you’ve grown.”

  “Very funny.”

  He let her go, and Abby’s heartbeat zigzagged. “I wondered why you didn’t call. How did you get here so early?”

  They remained across the room from each other, and even though Abby wanted to run to him just as Kim had done the anticipation was somehow more exciting.

  “They cancelled tomorrow morning’s flight. No way in hell . . . sorry.” He glanced at Kim. “No way in heck was I waiting until Saturday. That’s our birthday. We finished the last concert, I ignored Chris’s temper tantrum, and David Graham rebooked his flight when nobody was looking.”

  “You know, David is one of my very favorite people.”

  “I’m going to go change,” Kim said. “I’ve been helping at church all day, and I’m gross.”

  “Dinner’s in forty minutes,” Gray told her.

  “Okay.”

  “I think I’m in love.” Abby closed her eyes. “A man waiting with dinner ready?”

  When she looked again, Gray was craning his neck to make sure Kim was gone. He turned back, and they moved at the same instant, meeting in the middle of the kitchen.

  “Abby, Abby,” he murmured as his embrace swallowed her. Every sadness of the past two weeks evaporated like a ghost in a bad dream. “Does it make me certifiable that I missed you like a lost hand?”

  “If it does, I’m headed to the padded room right along with you.”

  His mouth covered hers with a kiss as familiar as if she’d always known it. Its soft insistence and sweet succulence nourished her like vital nutrients.

  “So,” she said against his cheek when they peeled apart. “You’ve been having fun?”

  He dropped a kiss on her neck, another behind her ear. “Not until now.”

  “You’re smooth, Mr. Graham.”

  He arched back and looked her up and down. “You and I need to talk.”

  “About . . . ?”

  “This. Us.” He gripped her upper arms. “I’m old, Abby. I’ve been through so much junk in my life that I know whatever you and I are developing is not normal. Not for me.”

  Abby’s heart thumped so crazily she was certain it had divided in two and fought itself—one half praying Gray would say something white knight-ish and happily-ever-after-like, the other half scared to death. She was struggling to stay afloat these days, but she wouldn’t give up that struggle or the things she’d worked so hard to build. The struggle was not Gray’s. She couldn’t—she wouldn’t—foist it on him or let him feel sorry for her.

  “You’re right,” she agreed. “What’s happening is not simple.”

  “Maybe it could be.” He stroked her cheek.

  She put a finger against his lips. “It’s never been simple for one second.”

  “Do I need to tell you two to get a room?”

  Abby jumped. Gray landed a full two steps away from her in a quarter of a second. She’d forgotten about Dawson, and the boy rolled his eyes, laughing. Wasn’t this completely backward, she thought, as he sauntered to the refrigerator.

  “Give it up, Dad, it’s no secret you kissed her a long time ago.”

  If Abby hadn’t been thoroughly mortified, she would have laughed at the look of panic on Gray’s face. “Does Kim know this secret too?” She eked out the question, and Dawson gave a genuine shrug.

  “How should I know? Why would we talk about our parents kissing? Dude, no thanks. Just remember, I not only don’t want to talk about it, I don’t want to see it.”

  He palmed a can of Mountain Dew from the refrigerator and closed the door, a cute little smirk on his face. He clearly thought he had the upper hand, and Abby couldn’t find a way to deny him the moment.

  “Hey . . .” Gray took a breath deep enough to find his voice. “Don’t wreck your supper.”

  “Hmmm.” Dawson raised his eyebrows. “I’m not sure you’re in a position to lecture me, young man.”

  “Smart-ass kid. Were you raised in a barn?”

  “No, an English boarding school. I would think you wouldn’t want to send me back after seeing what a bad job they’ve done.”

  “Maybe they just aren’t finished yet.”

  He sobered. “I’m kinda trying to be serious here. You’ve told Mom I don’t want to go back, right?”

  Gray’s features tightened. “I’ve tried, Daw. She isn’t inclined to discuss serious things these days, when I can reach her at all. She’s a little PO’d at me because of the media still hounding her.”

  The moment of Dawson’s role-reversal passed, and he kicked his toe at a scuff mark on the kitchen floor, looking every bit of sixteen.

  “I’ll call her at the end of the week,” Gray promised. “She’ll be back in London. There’s still time before decisions have to be made.”

  “The decision has been made, Dad,” Dawson said with a little too much eerie calm. “Mine has, anyway.”

  “If we don’t do this by the book, we could both be up crap creek, buddy.” Gray’s voice was firm yet gentle. “I’ll talk to her, but you know it never works to give your mother an ultimatum.”

  Dawson didn’t look appeased. He shrugged with such apathetic eloquence Abby wondered if teenagers would ever be able to make themselves understood were they to lose the ability to lift shoulders to ears.

  “What am I supposed to promise, Dawson? There are a lot of problems associated with you changing schools. You don’t get to act like you’re going to be here. This isn’t your home.”

  “It’s more of a home than you’ve ever given me.”

  For an instant the room went silent, and the air thickened with palpable tension. Father and son stared in a revival of their original anger, but this time Gray didn’t retreat into the fear of making Dawson angrier.

  “I know you feel that way. I grant you it’s true of the past few years. But it doesn’t mean you can stay. It just means we have some stuff to figure out.”

  “You know what? I heard that line a hundred times when you and Mom split. I think it’s been long enough for you to have gotten your shit together.”

  “That,” Gray pointed his finger and took a step forward, “requires an apology. You can have your opinion, but you keep words like that to yourself in company like this.”

  Dawson stared a second, his defiance warring with his emotions. “Sorry Abby,” he said without looking at her. His lip quivered as it curled into an angry sneer. “So, fine. You just let me know when you’ve figured out my life.”

  He all but stomped from the room, just barely avoiding five-year-old behavior. Abby almost smiled until she saw the defeat on Gray’s face. She turned into his arms instead. “Sucks to be the grown-up doesn’t it?”

  “What happened? How’d I blow that so fast?”

  “Blow it? You did great. He can’t always have what he wants, Gray. That’s the rotten part of your job. But it’s also imp
ortant. He’s good at getting his demands met.”

  “Like his old man.” Gray grabbed her into the hug she’d started. In it she found warmth, security, and mutual need.

  “What does his old man want?”

  “How ’bout a ride off into the sunset? I’ve been imagining it for two weeks.”

  She smiled into his shirt, kneading a long, slow line down his back. “Is that right?” His quiver played through her fingers as she extended her stroke toward the pockets of his jeans. “Let’s see how the weather holds. Maybe that could be arranged.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  THE WEATHER DIDN’T hold.

  After they stuffed themselves with Gray’s amazing beef stroganoff and cleared the aftermath, the skies opened and there was no sunset to ride off into.

  “Stupid, rainy summer,” Abby said, fighting childish disappointment. Gray just held her and laughed.

  “Don’t give up. I’ve seen these summer storms pass quickly. Meanwhile, I have an idea for normalizing things with my Kimmy-fan. C’mon.”

  They knocked on Kim’s open door, and she greeted them with joy. “Hi,” Gray said. “Got a little time?” She nodded. “Do you remember when I offered clarinet lessons?”

  “Yeah.” The word emerged slowly.

  “I’m thinking now’s a good time.”

  “Oh, no I . . .” Her joy turned to panic. “I’ve hardly practiced.”

  “Perfect, a fresh start.”

  “But—”

  “Meet me downstairs by the piano in ten. Chop chop!” He didn’t give her a choice, and as they walked away, Abby laughed.

  “You’re tough.”

  “I’m hoping she’ll see me as an authority figure for a change. May not work, but it’s worth a shot.”

  She kissed him on the cheek as they walked. “Good plan, Mr. Covey. Good plan.”

  Exactly ten minutes later, Gray held Kim’s sheet music in his hands. He didn’t recognize the piece but played the melody line in his head. Its relative difficulty impressed him. If Karla Baxter thought Kim was capable of this, the girl was talented.

  “This is an awesome piece,” he said. “Have you played it at all?”

  “Yeah, we worked on it the end of this year.”

  “How often do you practice?”

  A rise in her cheek color answered for her. “Do I? Or should I?”

  Gray laughed. “I think that answers my question. So, my mother never yelled at me to practice, and I won’t yell at you. She always said, ‘It has to come from inside, David, or you might as well find something you love better.’ Still, she was firm. I had to finish what I started. That’s all I’m doing—making you finish what you started.”

  For the briefest instant she looked properly put-in-place, but then she grinned. “Fine.” A minute later she had her clarinet assembled and held a wafer-thin reed in her mouth. While she waited for the wood to soften, Gray took the book to the piano.

  “You want me to play the accompaniment?”

  Her eyes lit. “Would you? Yeah, sure!”

  “Just tell me when you’re ready.”

  She was shaky at first, but her effort impressed him. A clear, mellow tone carried through her nervous wobbles, and her only mistakes were matters of practice. When she finished, Gray turned on the piano bench.

  “Not bad, my girl.”

  “Ach, I blew it.”

  “You don’t know the runs yet, that’s all. Eight, ten hours a day till camp. No sweat.”

  Her expression, as if she’d just been told she had to play in front the world wearing donkey ears, made him laugh. “Aw, Kimmy. You know I’m not serious. Give it an hour, even half an hour a day—you can whip this thing.”

  “Thanks, give me a heart attack why don’t you?” She sobered. “Gray? Would you play it once?” The question was shy but determined. “I want to hear what it should sound like.”

  “Wow, I . . .” It had been a long time since he’d sight-read clarinet music, but after admonishing her about nerves, fair was fair. “Okay. Hand me a fresh reed and I’ll give it a whirl. It won’t necessarily be that pretty.”

  “Oh, it will be.”

  He popped the new reed into his mouth, and looked past Kim’s shoulder, nearly dropping the little sliver of cane from his lips at the sight of Abby in the doorway. She stared at his mouth. “Lucky little reed,” she said. “Make sure you suck on it long enough.”

  His pulse throbbed into his groin. “Ooo-kay, I’m pretty sure this is long enough.” Refocusing with difficulty, he reached for the clarinet, propped the reed against the mouthpiece, and tightened the ligature screws. A sense of familiarity soothed the heat inside of him. He lifted the instrument and blew a scale. “What the heck, here goes nothing.”

  He liked the music. The pretty melody would make the challenges worth practicing. His performance was far from stellar, but he was able to show some of the dynamics he wanted Kim to hear. When he finished, she stared in admiration, but Abby spoke first. “Gosh, I think that’s the definition of blew me away.”

  “Thanks.” He’d long before been taken down several notches from vanity, but impressing Abby swelled his head and chest just enough to feel good.

  “I can’t believe how you just did that.” Kim pushed close to peer over his shoulder at the music. “You only heard it once.”

  “I have thirty years of practice on you. You might not have heard all the mistakes, but there were plenty. I’ve just spent enough time faking on stage that I blow over the gaffes. No judge would have given me good marks. I expect you to do better.”

  “Yeah, you sound like a mom.” She grimaced.

  “More like a dad, but yeah. So, consider the whip cracked young lady. Another twenty-five minutes. I’ll listen once more if you like.” She blinked as if she didn’t think she’d heard him right, and he took advantage of her surprise. “Switch the reed back. I’ll go get some water.”

  Kim bent to the task and Gray dragged Abby by the hand into the kitchen, where he spun her into a hard, assuaging kiss that assuaged nothing. “Cruel, Abby,” he murmured into her mouth. “No reed jokes when I’m working with your daughter.”

  She sputtered against his lips. “Couldn’t help it, it was the sexiest thing I’ve seen in a while.”

  He placed his hands on either side of her hips and leaned forward. “Wait for me?” he whispered.

  “Oh, I dunno, you won’t even know I’ve been gone.”

  The rain spent itself, and the sky lightened to a gorgeous purple-and-pink twilight, as Abby tidied the kitchen and listened contentedly to Kim’s clarinet solo grow more confident under Gray’s patient teaching. Worries that normally sat just below the surface of her emotions ready to overwhelm her were held in check by the rare calm of the evening, but they were still there. The well had been the tip of an iceberg.

  The house roof wasn’t far from failing, and, while she had next month’s mortgage money in the bank and enough for a half a month of horse and basic people-feed, she couldn’t absorb another major disaster.

  She’d been sure Maggie Watson at the Faribault Library would take her on part-time until she could find another higher-paying job, but budgets were tight everywhere, and Maggie had no money for another assistant. It had been the same story at the nursing home where Abby had worked ten years before. And three offices who’d advertised for help had already hired.

  She watched the sky continue to brighten as the clouds blew away on the breath of a fresh breeze. She opened the chocolate cupboard and allowed ten seconds for her wave of guilt. Yes, she should stop indulging in the extravagant chocolate bars—but she never would. She’d figured out once that about five dollars a month went to her vice. If one day she lost everything because she was sixty dollars short at the end of the year, she’d give up her addiction.

  This batch of hot chocolate, she told he
rself, was to celebrate Gray’s return. Engrossed in melting the chocolate, she jumped when a light touch shimmied up her spine.

  “What’s the occasion—happy or sad?” Gray leaned in behind her, his whisper causing shivers.

  “Happy. You’re back safely.” She giggled and then sighed as his hand stopped at the small of her back. “My magic potion.”

  “A love potion?”

  “I said magic. Don’t get full of yourself, buster.”

  He nibbled down her neck to a point just beneath the collar of her polo shirt. First wetting the spot with his tongue, he worried at it gently with his teeth. She groaned and pushed him away. “No hickeys, the kids are home.”

  “If this were a movie, now would be the time our hero sings to the girl and changes her mind.”

  “Ooh yeah, like in an Elvis movie.” She laughed again. “Hmm, forgot about Elvis. Maybe he’s number three, and you’re number four.”

  “Nope. I’m pretty sure I’m moving up the list, not down.” He started humming, and her skin vibrated beneath his breath.

  She closed her eyes. “I always wondered where the background music came from.”

  He straightened and winked. “Be right back.”

  He returned with his guitar, a flashy Ovation acoustic, slung across his shoulders. At his first chord, a thrill dove for Abby’s stomach. Then he sang, for her alone, a slow, gravelly version of the old “Love Potion No. 9.” He trailed her around the kitchen, leering as she added the chocolate to the pan on the stove, laughing as she pulled out four mugs. The “gypsy’s pad on Thirty-Fourth and Vine,” the “turpentine,” the “India ink” . . . all the silly, novelty lyrics took on the sultry heat of a jazz love song. His fingers mesmerized her, flexing to form chords. The knuckles slipping beneath his tanned skin were as sexy as the baritone she could no longer resist.

  He sang over her shoulder while she stirred her chocolate potion, sang in her face when she backed up, giggling, against a counter, and sang as he finished with an Elvis-worthy pelvis-waggle. Abby had never seen The King move with any more heat in his hips than Gray did when he pulled the Ovation’s strap over his head and leaned the guitar against a cabinet.