Gray laughed, too. The Sisters seemed to have worked a little magic.
“Well, Captain von Trapp here thanks you,” Elliott interrupted. “But he and Maria have to hightail it over the mountains to Switzerland. Come on, Gray, you got a reprieve, but they aren’t the only mercenaries looking for you.”
“When did you get to be my master and commander?” Gray’s words held no animosity.
“Since I overthrew your old regime. Until you find a new boss, I’m the best inside source you have.”
Gray looked at him for just a moment, then stuck out his hand. “Okay.”
Abby followed them through the kitchen and out to the car. A twisted knot of relief and jealousy roiled in her gut. They’d gotten away, Chris had been exposed, Gray was on the verge of making peace with an old friend. But she hadn’t done anything Elliott hadn’t done—and not a single word of reconciliation was offered to her the entire drive back to the farm.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
THE BAND’S FOUL luck returned with a vengeance. Misty contracted laryngitis fifteen hours before show time in Winnipeg. Miles and Wick, who’d never disagreed in their lives, blew up over a technical issue involving a broken amplifier. Spark broke two strings onstage, and Micky popped a snare. Dawson, forced into accompanying the band in spite of full-on arguing and foot-dragging, was barely civil. The fans cheered as wildly as ever, but it only galled everyone with proof Chris was right: disaster sold. By the time the Lunatics returned to Minnesota for their St. Paul concert, Gray felt like they’d all walked a hundred miles uphill, on ice, with heaters in their shoes.
Things didn’t start auspiciously in Minnesota. His bandmates had quit sniping at each other, but in addition to a light array that had come out of the truck smashed, Chris had shown up briefly, putting everyone on edge.
“I thought we were friends, Chris. How can you ask why I’m upset?”
“Friendship is all well and good, Gray.” Chris had bitten off his words with steel teeth Gray had never noticed before. “But this has always been about business. You wouldn’t be in this filled arena without the excitement I generated.”
He’d generated? As if no talent was involved at all. Gray didn’t know whether he was angrier at Chris for the vile backstabbing, or at himself for having been blind to what so many people had tried to tell him.
Spark called it a rape. Everyone had been friends with Chris—he’d represented them all. But the extent of his sensationalistic PR dealings was just starting to get unearthed. Spark and, to everyone’s surprise, Elliott turned into de-facto leaders, but the whole band was wounded.
To make matters worse, he’d lost Abby, too. Anger still coiled in his gut when he thought how she’d used him against his wishes. He wanted to talk to her, work it out, but she wouldn’t answer his calls.
The only bright spot in any of it was watching Dawson forget his anger when he sat at the mixer console with Corky. He still blamed Gray for the demise of the relationship with Abby, and he was angry Gray hadn’t yet dealt with the private-school issue, but when the sound checks began passion took over.
Now, preparing to take the stage at the Excel Center, Miles clapped Gray on the shoulder. “You doing okay? About ready?”
He shook himself and focused on his bandmates. The arena was sold out, and they’d learned a frantic scalping business had gone on outside, far more than usual. Rumors that Gray had been spending time in the state were fueling hyper-interest. Once again, it flew in the face of his anger with Chris, but at least it made for a lively audience.
“Sorry.” He set his game face firmly in place. “I’m ready. Did you find everyone?”
“Got ’em all directly stage right,” Spark nodded. “Kim is ecstatic. Ed brought ear plugs and said to tell you he’s wearing your sweatshirt.”
Gray couldn’t help but laugh even while his heart broke at the thought of losing Ed and Sylvia right along with Abby. And Kim. Dang her little hormonal hide. “Ed Mertz is downright mean,” he said.
“Two minutes.” Spark’s announcement was the signal for adrenaline to start pumping.
The onstage lights were down. Only the glowing indicators on amplifiers, electric pianos, and sound pedals lit the way. The unique odor of electricity, metal, wood, and hot lights filtered through him, familiar as oxygen. All six bandmates slapped his palms as they headed one-by-one to the stage, leaving him to wait. His heart rate steadily accelerated until it stopped dead for just that second before he was assured of The Sound. He never believed it would come, and it always did. Tonight it was a tsunami of cheering, screeching, and stomping as the band struck the first chords of Gray’s new opening song.
Shrugging the tension out of his shoulders, he inhaled a full breath and sprinted up the stage stairs. With precision timing he let the music lead him to dark center stage. Stepping to his mic, he pulled a guitar strap over his head. White hot light blazed in his face and everything but the stage, the band, and the screaming disappeared. Even as the words to his first song flowed like life’s breath from his mouth, and he acted the part everyone came to see, he strained to look stage right and pierce the overwhelming light. Of all the fanatic, chanting people in the arena, there was only one he wanted to see.
ABBY’S BREATH HUNG suspended in her throat when she caught sight of him, a shadowy form slipping onto the stage, visible only to those in the rows closest to him. He moved with lithe grace—the lion at his home watering hole. Kim’s fingers tightened around Abby’s bicep like a clamp, each intake of her breath sounding like a sob.
“Forever,” she managed to say. “My gosh, he’s singing it.”
Abby recognized the song. He’d sung it at her piano, saying he never performed it live. Now he sang it for her daughter. She glanced at Ed and Sylvia to her right, unable to believe they’d come. Spark had brought the set of new tickets that morning and offered two of them to the Mertzes. The sight of Ed in a dapper gray sport coat with her stupid Barn Goddess sweatshirt underneath it was a sight she’d never imagined in her craziest dreams. Sylvia looked properly pained for a woman past seventy at a rock concert, yet her eyes shone with anticipation.
The band hit a crescendo, and when three spotlights fired at once onto the man she loved, the man she had loved, she gasped. Kim screeched. Ed whistled. Sylvia grinned.
And the rest of the crowd erupted.
Wavy-haired, long-limbed, sure-handed. Lord, oh lord, he was beautiful. He usually wore a sequined blazer over a bright, matching T-shirt. Tonight he was magnificent in solid red with fitted black pants that flared over sexy, Beatle-y boots. Fascination overtook her as Gray leaned into the microphone and swayed his hips into the rhythm of the joyful backbeat. She scanned the band and thrilled to the little leaps of excitement flittering through her at the sight of Spark, finessing his guitar, and Miles, setting his beat onto an assortment of African bongos with sure hands, and Misty swaying in a gorgeous beaded dress of olive green.
Abby had a hard time seeing the performers. She tried to feel the fan worship, see Gray as the others in the arena saw him, but what she saw was his thick hair and knew, intimately, that it was heavy as velvet. She saw his fingers nursing chords along the neck of his guitar and knew how they could coax little moans from her throat.
The sadness slammed her. Ninety-into-a-brick-wall pain, deep and sorrowful, pulled a gasp and a sob from her throat, while Gray continued his siren song.
“Oh, Mom,” Kim moaned in her ear, startling her. She turned to see tears streaming down her daughter’s face. “I love him sooooo much.”
Abby closed her eyes. The melodrama was too over-the-top, yet she wanted to weep right along. “I know you do, sweetheart.” She kissed Kim’s head. “I know you do.”
THE ST. PAUL Hotel was known for its ritzy elegance, and there was no lack of glitz or elegance in the small ballroom where Gray and his band met with the local movers and shakers who’d paid me
ga-bucks for the chance to clasp hands and have pictures taken with him. But in spite of the hoity-toity attendees, the after-party was infused with laughter and joking camaraderie.
Kim and Dawson had greeted each other like separated twins, and Abby hadn’t given her adopted son any choice in the huge hug she’d bestowed on him. Ed had gotten to shake hands with the mayor of St. Paul and was suitably impressed. He had no end of admirers of the sweatshirt and delighted in telling its story to anyone who’d listen. Sylvia had struck up a down-home conversation with a state representative’s wife, and, as with the Sisters, Abby could only marvel at the depth she’d never guessed existed in her neighbors.
The ballroom looked like an elegant saloon girl, decked out in finery, surrounded by food and admirers. It smelled like beer and roast beef. It sounded like a midway. Abby wanted to hate it, but she couldn’t.
“Hey, beautiful.” Spark surprised her by handing her a glass of club soda with a lime, while she stood in a corner, watching Gray sign autographs and schmooze the St. Paul dignitaries. “I’ve been watching, and this has been your drink of choice tonight. Are you a teetotaler, Abby Stadtler?
She laughed. “Hey, handsome. No, of course not. I just have to drive home.”
“That’s a long way. You should take Gray up on his offer to stay here.”
“I have animals waiting, Spark. And Ed and Sylvia don’t want to stay.”
“Chris Boyle was cruel to you the other day.” He changed subjects in a surprise right turn.
She shrugged. The subject of Chris Boyle made her furious; it was better to keep her mouth shut.
“I’m sorry,” he continued. “But there is something you should know.”
“What’s that?” She smiled wistfully. Spark was a gem of a man.
“I’ve known Gray since we were eighteen-year-old kids with more dreams than sense. He’s been through the standard rock crap—we all have. Booze and drugs, a few affairs.”
“If you’re his new PR guy, you should give it up.” Abby laughed, a touch grimly.
Spark rolled out his lazy smile in return. “Gray Covey was never destined to become a Keith Richards or a Kurt Cobain. He’s always been too ethical to end up a drugged-out rocker. He and Ariel had to get married, but he gave it a good go. Would you believe he never cheated on her? I don’t know if she believes that to this day, but it’s true. Chris couldn’t stand it—Gray wasn’t any fun at all at parties, he used to say. He did everything in his power to put Gray in compromising situations Ariel might walk in on, or hear about.”
“Why the history lesson?” Abby didn’t know if she wanted any more information. It was already too painful to think about Gray ignoring her from across the room.
“The point is, I’ve never seen Gray like he’s been the past month with you. Serious to God, darlin’, he’s a different man. When he caught sight of you in the audience tonight? The show took on a whole new feeling. He sang like Sinatra, and we played like the London Symphony. Chris saw the change before any of us. He didn’t like you on principle, Abby, any more than he liked Ariel. In an odd way, it wasn’t personal.”
She rose up on the toes of her one pair of strappy party shoes and placed a soft kiss where Spark’s mustache met his beard. Her clothing left her feeling conspicuous, a softly flared black crepe skirt that stopped four inches above her knees, a snug, white T-shirt covered in pearlescent sequins, and a multi-colored vest she’d always loved. She’d had no intention of wearing anything sparkly tonight—but Kim had dressed her and brooked no argument. She’d even done Abby’s hair—an hour with hot rollers and a curling iron—and, admittedly, it alone felt beautiful, falling in long bronze-hued curls around her face.
Unfortunately, the only ones who noticed didn’t count.
“You’re a wonderful man, Alfred Jackson.”
“I know.” He returned the gentle peck. “Give him time, okay?”
She sighed, searching the festive room and the excited faces. “I heard he’s still trying to placate Ron Revers. He wants a public apology now.”
“That’s true. Gray really could come out on top, but it’s another sleeping-with-the-devil kind of thing. This is a harsh business sometimes.”
“That’s why I don’t think time is my problem.” Abby smiled sadly. “The devils never stop coming. Ron Revers is not the first, and he won’t be the last. It’s too much for me.”
“Makes me sad, darlin’.”
“Yeah. It does me, too.”
Gray didn’t ignore her all night. He told her she looked stunning. He introduced her to friends. But she knew Gray Covey now, and she knew how gifted he was at interacting with his fans. She’d been relegated, if not to fan status, then to that of someone who needed impressing—handling. They were full-circle, back to the moment she’d laid eyes on him at her barn door, trying to impress her enough to woo his son away from her. He’d done it—impressed her. With his earnestness, his chivalry. His stupid song . . .
The song. He’d always promised to sing it to her when he’d finished it. He hadn’t even sung it tonight. It seemed he was keeping his promises to everyone but her.
She couldn’t make it to the end of the party. Spark brokered a compromise that allowed Kim to stay overnight in Misty’s room as well as allowed Dawson to skip the last concert in Richmond. Gray didn’t fight him, Abby guessed, because he was having little luck with Ariel. She expected Dawson back in England in two weeks to start school.
He was no longer Abby’s concern. Dawson could come home with Kim and stay through music camp, but then the boy had no choice but to spend his last week in L.A. He’d leave Abby’s life, right along with his father.
“Gray?” She interrupted him reluctantly to tell him she was leaving, her heart unbearably sad. “I have to get Ed and Sylvia home—it’s late for them. But the kids can stay. Elliott will bring them home in the morning. I think he’s a nice guy. I’m glad he’s been exonerated.”
“Yes. I . . . I am, too. But you’re leaving?” The first honest emotion she’d seen burned through his practiced smile. “You have to go?”
It was her cue to say yes, but she couldn’t get the word out. Knowing the pressure behind her sinuses would only be relieved by tears, she nodded instead.
“I’ll see you in a week, then, when I come back for the camp and to get Dawson.”
Swallowing hard, she pressed a wistful kiss on his cheek and left, Ed and Sylvia in tow. A little too much like Cinderella from the ball, except both strappy sandals stayed firmly on her feet.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
THICK, VISCOUS AIR had turned the afternoon into a sauna when Abby reached home and poured herself out of her car. The small sense of relief over finding a job at the tiny office supply store in town was overshadowed by frustration that a whole week’s new salary wouldn’t fix the dead air-conditioning in her car. Smearing her hair back from where it clung to her forehead in damp clumps, she looked for signs of life from the kids.
She hoped they were in better moods than when she’d left that morning.
Not that she could blame Dawson for being plain angry with his parents. Neither Gray nor the mysterious Ariel seemed able to converse like adults and reach any positive outcome. When Dawson had received an e-mail confirmation that his flight to England had been booked, he’d called his father in a rage. All Gray had done was say he’d fly back with him and work things out face-to-face. Dawson’s two-day temper tantrum even had Roscoe avoiding him.
Kim’s anger was more mysterious. Something had happened the night of the concert, and she refused to talk about it. Abby sighed. Dealing with one teenager was difficult. Dealing with two was like navigating a minefield on a rhinoceros.
She reached the back door, and Roscoe crawled from a cool spot under the granary, his tail wagging half-speed in the heat. “Hello my gorgeous boy.” Abby accepted a welcome-home kiss, and he ambled back to
his dug-out.
Across the field a bank of dirty, silver-gray clouds boiled low on the horizon. Above them, the sky glowed sickly olive green. A niggle of concern edged into her mixed pot of emotions. The heat, the color of the sky, the odor of ozone and overripe grass spelled tornado watch. She changed her mind and called Roscoe into the house. Once inside, she called for the kids. Silence answered.
Switching on the kitchen radio she heard only music, no warnings. Dawson and Kim had to be in the barn, and Kim knew enough to keep an eye on the weather. Abby headed for her room, punching the TV remote en route.
The work-out clothes she donned were blessedly cool—a pair of microfiber blue short-shorts Gray had once hinted she should wear everywhere, and a pink tank top. Twisting her thick, soggy hair behind her head, she stuffed two chop-sticky spikes through the knot to keep it off her neck. After slipping on a pair of ancient tennis shoes, she returned to the living room in time to hear the special weather report she’d feared.
Listening to the counties on the watch list, Abby tied her shoes and spied her camera on the end table next to her chair. The sight caused a fresh wave of sorrow. She couldn’t think of taking pictures without thinking of the darkroom. She couldn’t think of the darkroom without memories of Gray’s kiss.
Nor could she forget he was directly responsible for putting photography back in her life.
But it all broke her heart afresh every time a memory surfaced.
The TV meteorologist reached Faribault County, and Abby sighed. If there was going to be a thunderstorm, she’d put the horses in the barn to avoid hail and thunder. If there was going to be a tornado, their chances were better outside, where they wouldn’t get trapped in a falling building. A frisson of nervousness traced through her stomach.
The sky had deepened to a thrashing-ocean green, and the clouds now appeared close enough to touch when Abby headed for the barn in search of Kim and Dawson. Instead of the kids, she was shocked to find Ed bent over Kim’s new tack trunk.
The Rancher and the Rock Star Page 30
