Taming Rafe (22 page)

She poured herself a cup of decaf and leaned against the bar. Waited. Sipped. The second hand clicked toward ten o’clock.

She put her cup down. Coffee sloshed onto the counter. “John Kincaid, where are you?”

As if summoned by her very words, a dark figure crossed the plate glass of her diner, outlined by the neon lights. Finally.

She turned her back to him, not wanting him to see her expression. The fact that after twenty years of friendship seeing him could still induce feelings of joy should tell her something.

Yeah, that she was turning into a silly romantic. She grabbed a rag just as the door clanged open. “’Bout time you got here. Your Reuben is getting stale.”

“I wasn’t aware I ordered a Reuben.”

Lolly turned, but even the sight of handsome Lincoln Cash couldn’t replace the grin that had vanished from her face.

He slid onto a stool. “What’s the matter? You look upset.”

“I’m fine.” She smoothed her apron, dredged up a smile. “We’re closed.”

“Not even a piece of pie for your favorite patron?”

She waggled her finger at him. “If you weren’t voted one of America’s sexiest men, I’d boot you out in a second.” She slid him a piece of cherry pie and filled a cup with coffee.

He dug in. “Delicious, Lolly. I’m telling you, no one makes pies like you.”

She managed to keep her smile, but as the clock ticked past ten, she knew John wouldn’t be joining them. Again. She felt like crying, but she blamed it on that stupid book and the way she had wanted to yell at someone all day. She wiped up the coffee she spilled, then dumped the cup into the sink.

“Seriously, Lolly, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” She turned on the faucet hard, and the water splashed
her apron as it ricocheted off the cup. “Oh!” She stepped back, and her eyes filled as she lunged for the faucet. She missed and got a spray full in the face. “No!”

Then arms came around her, and deft hands turned off the faucet, stopping the deluge. She covered her face as Lincoln turned her into his chest and held her.

She felt foolish sobbing, but she couldn’t stop.

“Shh,” Lincoln said, rubbing her back. “Shh. It’s okay. I promise.”

“No . . . it’s not.” Lolly stepped back from him, wiping her face with her apron. “It’s really not.”

Lincoln apparently didn’t have to search far for his on-screen charm, because he took her hand and pulled her to a booth.

She sat opposite him, grabbed a napkin, and blew her nose. “Sorry.”

Lincoln shrugged. “Women. Crying. I get it.”

“You don’t understand. I’ve made a complete mess of things. I think. But I don’t know. . . .” Her words ended in a sort of wail.

Lincoln took her hand.

“I’m emotional because . . . well, you’re going to think this is so silly.”

“Try me.”

“I’m still reading
Unshackled
—”

“Say no more. I’ll bet you’re at the part where Mary marries Erland. When I read that scene, I suggested the book to my producer. He liked it enough to commission a screenplay by the author. At least it turns out—”

“Don’t tell me!” She slapped the table, and he laughed. “Did you cry at that part too?”

He frowned at her. “Uh, it’s still a romance. And I’m a guy.” But he winked.

Lolly shook her head. “The thing that gets me is that after all this time, she
knows
who she’s supposed to marry, yet . . . she still chooses the wrong guy.”

“But she hasn’t heard from Jonas in years—even before the war. He might be dead.”

Lolly shook her head. “No, she’d know if he was dead. His mother would have told her. And she’d feel it in her heart.”

“I just can’t get why she didn’t write to Jonas sooner, ask him to come home.”

Lolly wadded up the napkin. “Because she didn’t want to drag him into trouble. What if the sheriff decided to enact some payback? She loved Jonas enough not to want him hurt.”

“Don’t you think he deserved to make that decision?”

Lolly shrugged.

“Even more incredible, after all this time, Jonas loves—”

“Don’t tell me!” She lunged for him, as if trying to cover his mouth.

He laughed. “Okay, okay. But seriously, he hasn’t heard from her for what, twelve years and he
still
loves her?”

“So I take it he’s not dead, then.”

Lincoln made a face. “Sorry.”

Lolly held up a hand. “No, that’s okay. I figured something had to happen—I still have fifty pages left.”

“What gets me,” Lincoln said, “is that she honestly believes she doesn’t deserve to be happy. That somehow her mistake in marrying evil Matthias should doom her forever.”

Lolly stared down at the wadded-up napkin.

“That’s not true, you know.”

Lolly didn’t look at Lincoln. “Sometimes you can’t escape your mistakes. They show up, and just when you think you might redeem yourself, you make them worse. Like Mary did when she married Matthias.” Like she did to Kat when she called Bradley. Because deep in her heart, she knew something wasn’t right. Something about the way Bradley looked at Kat. . . . It couldn’t be just her imagination, her past rising to haunt her, could it?

“I guess it’s getting away from the stress back home, but it’s as if I’ve been freed from a cocoon,”
Kat had said. Lolly had felt the same way when she’d arrived in Phillips, but she’d been running from a life gone bad. What was Kat running from?

It was time for the running to stop.

She cleared her throat. “Lincoln, I can’t accept your offer. Not yet at least. I have some unfinished business. Then maybe I can consider it. Let me think about it, okay?”

“I don’t know how I’ll live without you,” Lincoln said. “But, yes, take your time.”

“You’ll manage.”

He chuckled and got up, heading for more pie. “By the way, if you want to know the ending of the story, you should ask John.”

Lolly froze. “Why would I ask John? He hasn’t read it.”

Lincoln opened the pie case. “Of course he’s read it. He wrote it. And the screenplay, which is incredible.” He cut himself a piece of pie.

“John . . .
John
wrote the book?”

Lincoln put the pie back in the case and reached for a fork. When he caught her expression, he stopped. “You didn’t know? I thought you knew. . . .”

Lolly was already halfway to her trailer. She threw open the door and crossed the room to the kitchen, where she retrieved the book and opened it.

B. J. King. Big. John.
Kincaid.
Could she be more blind? And no picture, of course, but a short author description:
B. J. King, author of twenty novels, lives on a ranch in Montana.

Twenty novels. One for every year she knew him.

Or rather, didn’t know him.

Lolly threw the book across the room again.

CHAPTER 15

N
OT EVEN SEEING
the wife and child of his best friend could lift Rafe out of the black hole that consumed his life. He stood on the driveway watching Lucia and Manny climb out of the small Cessna that Nick piloted, and as he smiled and opened his arms, he felt strangely sapped of joy, of hope.

Manny wrapped his skinny arms around Rafe’s neck as Rafe lifted the boy off the ground. “I’m so glad to see you, Uncle Rafe!”

Rafe hugged him back, meeting Lucia’s eyes as she walked toward them. “Me too, Manny.”

How would he ever tell them that he couldn’t keep his promises to pay for Manny’s health care? His legal bills had soared to crushing heights, and he’d had to put his Texas ranch up for sale. Soon he’d have nothing but a pair of old boots, his bull rope, and his Stetson.

He put Manny down and gathered Lucia in his arms. “Welcome to Montana, Lucy.”

A petite woman, Lucia laid her head against his chest and seemed even more fragile than he remembered.

Nick came up behind them, toting their duffel bags. “I’m putting them in your room, Rafe, right?”

Rafe nodded, aware of the pitying smile Nick gave him. In the last two weeks he’d been the recipient of much pity from his family, who seemed to dodge him or treat him with a sort of he’s-ill-so-keep-your-voice-down mentality.

He wasn’t ill, for pete’s sake. Just . . .

He wouldn’t call it heartbroken. Maybe angry. Or even sad. But not heartbroken. Because a man had to have been in love for his heart to break. And he hadn’t loved Kitty.

He wasn’t the type of guy who could fall in love in two weeks.

“How’s your knee?” Lucia asked as they turned toward the house. She’d seen him on crutches plenty of times over the years, and he appreciated the casual way she asked, as if it had simply inconvenienced him between events.

“Good. I can walk on it now, and the doctors expect a decent recovery.” Sort of a lie. No one knew that each night he wrapped it in ice, gritting his teeth against the pain. That any recovery would be less than what he needed.

“Are you going to talk to the sports doc, get an athletic knee brace?”

They’d reached the house, and Rafe kept a straight face as he climbed the porch stairs. “Dunno.” A brace would mean that he planned on riding again, which he didn’t. Yes, deep inside he hadn’t really thought his career was over, but after Kitty . . . well, maybe he wanted it to be. He wanted that Rafe to die and had no desire to resurrect him.

“How’s Manny feeling?” He caught sight of the boy standing at the corral, his hand out to one of the horses, feeding it an alfalfa
treat. His black hair blew in the gentle wind, and he laughed as the horse’s lips tickled his palm.

In that moment, he looked so much like his father that it took away Rafe’s breath.

“He’s tired. And they’re still looking for a bone marrow donor. Seems as though we are always on our knees, praying for something.” Lucia gave him a small smile. “But Manuel is looking out for us; I know it.”

Rafe never exactly understood their religious beliefs, but the thought that Manuel might be in heaven rooting for them . . . well, that might be a comfort to Lucia, but it made him want to slink away in shame. “Yeah,” he said.

Nick came down the stairs. “Your suitcases are upstairs, second door on the right. We’re glad to have you, so make yourself at home.”

Lucia touched Rafe’s cheek, a gesture she’d often used to reassure Manuel that she believed in him as he dodged bulls for a living. “Just being here is enough.”

Rafe gave her a half smile and stepped away from her touch.

Piper had planned a cookout for Lucia and Manny’s first night at the ranch, with barbecue ribs and biscuits that seemed to be an inside joke among her and Nick and Stef. They grilled the ribs over a grate and cooked the biscuits in a cast-iron pot. Sparks shot into the inky, cloud-covered sky.

Rafe made out only one or two determined stars as he leaned back against a log, his stomach churning with hunger. “How long before it’s ready?”

Piper stood above the fire, armed with an oven mitt, a barbecue fork, and a don’t-push-it look. Apparently dinner would be ready when it was ready.

Manny sat down next to Rafe. “I found this in your room,” he said, handing him an arrowhead. “Where did you get it?”

Rafe took the arrowhead, rubbing his thumb against the sharp points. He’d forgotten that Kitty had given it to him after their first ride. “There’s an ancient Native American burial ground on our land. I can take you there, if you want.” He pushed the point into his thumb. Pain shot down his hand.

Manny nodded. “Remember you said last time that you’d teach me how to ride a bull. Can we do that too?”

Lucia sat down on the other side of Rafe. “I don’t think that’s the best idea right now, Manny. Wait until you’re feeling stronger.”

Manny’s chest rose and fell with a dramatic sigh. “I might never feel better. And I don’t want to die without knowing.”

Manny’s words hit Rafe right in the center of his chest.

Lucia reached across Rafe and took Manny’s hand. “You’ll learn, Manuel. I promise you’ll have time.”

Manny gave her a long look, then a soft smile. “I’ll just watch Uncle Rafe then.”

Lucia glanced at Rafe.

“Uh, the thing is, I’m not riding . . . right now.”

“’Cause of your leg?” Manny asked.

“Yeah, ’cause of my leg.” Rafe dropped the arrowhead into Manny’s palm. “We’ll go hunt for those tomorrow, okay, pal?”

Manny nodded as he climbed to his feet and skipped off toward Dutch, who had just pulled out his harmonica.

“That’s not true, is it?” Lucia’s voice, so soft he could barely hear, made him wince. “You quit riding because of Manuel.”

Rafe glanced at Piper, hoping it might be time to eat. She had
drawn the pot of biscuits off the metal grate and was now slicing them. “That part of my life is over. I don’t want it anymore.”

“I’ve been watching your headlines, Rafe.”

Rafe threw a piece of grass into the fire.

Lucia turned to face him, her long, dark hair shiny in the firelight. “I know you’re . . . upset. But do you want to know what I think?”

He looked away.

“I think that you were born to ride bulls. That it’s a gift God gave you, just like He gave Manuel a gift to fight them.”

“I hardly think that God gives the spiritual gift of bull riding.”

“Do you think that anyone can get into a ring with a bull and hang on . . . even enjoy it?”

Rafe glanced at Piper, his stomach growling as she pulled the ribs from the fire. “Bull riding doesn’t change people’s lives . . . at least not in a good way.”

“Now you listen to me, Rafe. Manny needs you to be his hero, and I don’t care if you never get on a bull again, but he does. So, if you care at all about my son, about Manuel’s son, you’ll give him the courage to fight, even if it’s only for the next few weeks.”

Rafe stared at Lucia. Behind her words, he heard Kitty.
“I just wish I could do one amazing thing that would . . . I don’t know, make me feel like . . .”

He mattered. That God had been right in sparing him.

“It’s no small thing to have the Creator of this big sky at work in your life, on your side, giving your life purpose.”

Rafe watched the flames spark into the dark vault of night.

Ever since Manuel’s death, he’d been riding for the eight seconds in time that he might pay back the grace Manuel had given him in saving his life.

Only, he could never quite fill his account. And he certainly wasn’t using his
gift
for good. Sure, he impressed his fans, but when he really had the chance to impress someone, to do something good and decent with his life . . .

He put his hand on his face, right where Kitty’s hand had left its imprint. He wasn’t going back to that life. Not now, not ever.

“I believe in you. . . .”

For pete’s sake, would she get out of his head?

“I’m not sure what kind of encouragement I can give him, Lucy.”

“But you’ll try, right?” Funny, the expression on her face matched Kitty’s right before he acted like the jerk of the century. Relief? Hope? It didn’t matter. Not anymore.

He got up to fetch his plate of ribs.

“Katherine, I can’t believe you’re wearing those again.” Cari came into Kat’s penthouse office carrying a stack of files. She plunked them down on the cherry table Kat used as her desk and pointedly stared at the red cowboy boots. “They don’t go with anything.”

“I like my boots,” Kat said. Wearing them helped her believe the time she’d spent in Montana hadn’t been a dream and that she had changed, become stronger, despite the cavern inside her that grew with each passing day. “And call me Kat.” She pulled the stack of files toward her. “What are these?”

“Donor reports, the latest accounting figures, two possible sponsorship leads, and your schedule for this week.” Cari set her bag on her desk.

Kat scanned the figures. She’d returned home to find the auditors
still neck-deep in her files and to bear Cari’s cool reception. It took a bowl of popcorn, a couple of yogurt shakes, and hours on the sofa describing every juicy detail for Cari to forgive her.

Bradley, despite his victory, treated her as if she might have been recently released from Attica. It made the ring on her finger seem cold and clunky. Especially when her grandfather called and offered his congratulations. He’d triumphed in his efforts to turn Kat into the society girl her mother had run from. Yet she’d run to the same life Kat longed for.

But unlike her mother, Kat had been living a fantasy. Rafe Noble would break her heart—one way or another—and prudence demanded she turn back to the one man who made sense.

“What happened to the Roosevelt grant? It comes in every year about this time,” Kat asked, shuffling through the files.

Cari shook her head.

“And the Winchells always do their year-end giving in July.”

“Kathe—Kat, while you were on your jaunt, the press wasn’t friendly. Although two donors have stepped up after your engagement announcement . . . well, maybe I should draft a letter to Mercy Doctors, telling them not to expect funding for this quarter.”

The children in the clinic in Guadalajara filled Kat’s thoughts. She pressed her fingers to her eyes. So much for her not being a gigantic failure. “Do you have any ideas?”

“I don’t know. Your grandfather called this morning. He wants you to attend a board meeting this afternoon.” Cari hitched a shoulder, her expression offering little in the way of encouragement.

Swell. Kat sighed, opted to ignore the accounting, and instead opened a file on possible corporate and private sponsors.

The Breckenridge Foundation needed a leader who knew how
to ask for help and get it. Someone who could speak for those who didn’t have a voice. Apparently that wasn’t her.

She closed the file, pushing away the image of Rafe at the rodeo, helping a six-year-old hold on to a sheep. The way Rafe picked up the child, dusted him off, tickled him to make him smile. Make
her
smile.

“Stop.”

Kat frowned at Cari.

“You’re doing it again. Thinking about
him
.”

“I’m not. I’m just—”

“I see the look in your eyes.” Cari perched on the side of her table, one trim leg swinging. “And I saw you surfing the Internet for his name yesterday.”

Kat rubbed her forehead, feeling that nagging headache like residue in the back of her head. Two weeks at home, and she felt nearly as old and exhausted as when she’d left. “I saw something in Rafe that made me believe he was more than just an arrogant bull rider.”

“You wanted to bring it out. Save him. Give him a second chance.”

“Is that so terrible? To want to make a difference in someone’s life not because I’m a Breckenridge with a bank account but because I’m . . . me?”

Cari folded her hands over her chest. “You can’t change people—especially a surly guy with an attitude.”

“He changed me.” Kat stared at her hands, the calluses there now beginning to fade. “I never felt more like myself than when I was with Rafe.”

“You never felt more like the girl you have always wanted to be.”
Cari took her hands, running her finger over Kat’s calluses. “But you’re not that Kitty girl. You’re Katherine Breckenridge.”