Taming Rafe (9 page)

“I’ll be back in the morning,” she’d said.

Yeah, he’d show her around the ranch. Maybe lose her in one of the back fields.

“Are you going to ride bulls again, Uncle Rafe?” CJ asked, climbing into the chair next to him, yanking his thoughts away from the fact he’d been betrayed by people serving pot roast.

“Don’t ask him that,” Maggy chided him. “Sorry, Rafe.”

Rafe ignored her and reached over, tousling CJ’s hair. “You bet, kid. I’ll be back on a bull before you know it.” As fast as he could, in fact. Plenty of riders rode injured. And apparently, he needed the cash.

Nick looked up from where he was slicing meat at the end of the table. His mouth tightened.

“Go easy with the roast, Nick,” Cole said, bringing in a pitcher of water. “What did it ever do to you?” Now that Maggy’s husband, Cole, and Nick were on speaking terms again, they’d combined lands and worked them together, hoping to keep both their operations in the black. Their reconciliation after years of hatred still surprised Rafe, and he could admit it rankled him that they’d left him cleanly out of the operations of the Silver Buckle.

“Rafe’s got some mending to do first, CJ,” Stefanie said, pulling her chair out beside Rafe. “He’s in no shape to be riding bulls.”

“Yeah, but I’ll bet he’ll be back for the championships in Vegas, won’t ya, Uncle Rafe?”

“For sure. I’ll be back long before—”

“That’s enough!” Nick stood and dropped his knife with a clatter onto the plate.

Stefanie and Maggy jumped.

Piper put a hand on Nick’s shoulder. He shrugged it off. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

“Sit down, Nick,” Stefanie said quietly. “Let’s just give Rafe a chance to—”

“No. He’s got to admit it—he’s done. It’s over. He’s back on the ranch, where he belongs.”

Rafe stared at his brother, at his wide stance in the place where Bishop used to sit, and the emotions he’d been trying for years to deny—to
expunge
—came roaring at him.

Sometimes Rafe hated Nick, and he knew the feeling was mutual. Hadn’t Nick said that very thing on more than one occasion when they were growing up?

“Thanks, Nick. I appreciate the show of support.”

Nick braced his hands on the table, breathing hard.

Silence filled the room, and Rafe could hear in it the pity, the word
failure
. Nick was wrong—he’d never belonged on the Silver Buckle.

“I’m not hungry.” Rafe started to wheel himself away, but the chair hooked on the table, bringing with it the tablecloth. His mother’s plates crashed on the floor at his feet, a hundred shards that in no small way resembled her shattered hopes for him. His hopes for himself.

Biting back his frustration, he wrestled himself out of the cursed chair to his feet. Maggy made a move toward him, but he pushed her away with a glare. Then he hobbled out of the room.

“What’s wrong with Uncle Rafe?” CJ asked in his wake.

“Nothing that time won’t fix,” Stefanie said softly.

As Rafe rounded the corner and dragged himself upstairs, he knew that no amount of time would fix the broken places inside him. Because a man couldn’t fix something that had never been whole to begin with.

Bracing himself on the hall walls, he worked his way down to his old bedroom, the one he once shared with Nick, while white-hot
pain shot up his leg, nearly blinding in its assault. He pushed the door open and half lunged, half fell onto his twin bed.

He rolled onto his back and ripped the sling from his arm. He wanted to do the same to the neck brace, but the doctor’s warning rang in his ears.

Rubbing his shoulder, he stared at the posters of legendary bull riders Lane Frost and Bobby Russell on the walls, the ribbons over his dresser, the dusty trophies. He’d seen Russell in action during a charity event in Billings once when he’d been about six. Bobby Russell had been the greatest bull rider to ever live, with three PBR championships and not an ounce of quit in him. One season he’d even ridden a bull with a broken leg. If Bobby could do it, Rafe could do it.

Of course, Bishop had called the man a fool. Rafe had a sneaking suspicion he did it in some warped attempt to curb Rafe’s idol worship. But whom else did Rafe have to pin his gaze on?

And, no, Rafe didn’t listen to the voices inside that taunted him with what had happened to both Frost and Russell. What could so very easily happen to him.

Rafe gazed at the ceiling, the dust layering the lantern light fixture, and the old memories flooded back as clearly as if he were again six-years-old and bedridden.

“He can’t go, Lizzie. He’s too fragile.” Bishop’s voice had drifted up from the kitchen, waking Rafe from his slumber. He stayed still, listening. “I don’t want him getting hurt.”

“The doctor says he’s fine. He spends every hour in bed, dreaming of being out there with you and Nick, working the cattle. You even take Stefanie. Rafe needs to learn to ranch.”

“He’ll learn soon enough. When he’s strong. Better.”

Rafe had traced the neat, bright red scar on his chest. Six months old, it was just starting to fade, but it felt funny when he touched it. Like it was numb or something. He
was
better. Although his mom was right about him feeling fine, she had it wrong about him lying in bed all day.

Most days he sat at the window, waiting for Nick and Dad to ride out—wishing he were going with them—then he snuck down to the barn to help Dutch, the ranch boss, feed the bums—the orphaned calves. Sometimes he worked on his roping. Most often, he dreamed about riding the Black Angus bulls in the field above the house. Sometimes he wandered up to the fence and studied them as they raised their massive heads and watched him with their glassy eyes, chewing grass that hung out of their mouths. Once, he’d ventured into the field. When one ambled toward him, his six-year-old courage fled, and he’d hightailed it back to the fence. As he’d dived into the dirt, he knew it wouldn’t be the last time he got near a bull.

Too bad Nick had been coming out of the barn and seen the entire thing. At eleven, Nick was already winning roping championships and driving the truck. He nearly split his side laughing at his kid brother sprawled in the grass and dirt. He laughed at him that night and the next day. In fact, Rafe couldn’t remember a day until he hit about ten when Nick hadn’t laughed at him.

They all laughed at him, really. The skinny kid with the hole in his heart. The fragile twin. The sickly one of the litter.

Bishop’s runt.

Rafe clenched his jaw at the words. He hadn’t believed the truth, that his father was ashamed of him, until the day—he’d just turned ten—his sheepdog Chigger gave birth to five pups. The last was born blue, and only because of Dutch’s ministrations did the little
runt start to breathe. Rafe sat with the pup in his lap throughout the night and tried to get him to latch on to Chigger’s teat, but the little guy didn’t have the strength.

The next morning Bishop came into the barn, stood above Rafe, his shadow cold as it blocked out the sun. “He’s not going to make it, Rafe.”

Rafe didn’t look up.

Bishop crouched beside him, his big hand on his son’s shoulder. He had always seemed huge to Rafe. Only later, when Rafe had grown up, did he discover that he was taller and wider than his father. Somehow, however, Bishop still seemed gargantuan.

“He’s suffering, Son. You need to put him out of his misery. Look at Chigger—she’s agitated, knowing he’s not latching on. Take him down to the crick.”

Rafe stared at him, horror sluicing through him. “No. He’s . . . fine, Dad. He’s going to be fine.” He ran his hand down the pup’s hairless, shivering body.

Bishop took a deep breath, and for a moment, Rafe thought—hoped—he might sit down beside him, help him nurse the pup to life. Instead, Bishop stood and retrieved a burlap feed sack. Bending down, he eased the pup out of Rafe’s hands, then put the animal inside the bag.

“No, Dad—please—”

Bishop had seemed nearly . . . well, if Rafe didn’t know better, he would have thought he saw tears edge his father’s eyes. But Bishop Noble didn’t cry. Not for a runt puppy.

“It’s for the best. He’s just a whelp.” Bishop stood and, with a small shake of his head, walked away. “He’s more trouble than he’s worth.”

A knock came at Rafe’s door, yanking him from the past to the present throbbing in his leg, his empty stomach growling from the delicious smells downstairs. Sometimes he still felt—and apparently acted—like a little kid. “Come in.”

Stefanie appeared, carrying a plate of food, a napkin, and silverware. “We can’t eat all this. You gotta help.” She stood there, waiting to be invited in, her dark eyes shiny, as if she might have been crying.

“Thanks, Sis,” Rafe said, sitting up.

Stefanie sat down next to him on the bed and handed him the silverware. “He’s just worried about you, you know.”

“Nick always thought he could tell me what to do. Those days are over.”

“He doesn’t want you getting killed.”

Rafe said nothing, cutting his roast.

“We need you around here, Rafe. I need you. Nick needs you.”

“No, you don’t.” He took a bite of meat. “Did you cook this?”

She smiled. “Piper. She’s turning into quite the chef.”

“Delicious. Nick needs me about as much as Dad needed me.”

Stefanie looked surprised. “How can you say that? Dad depended on you after Mom died. It nearly killed him to let you go off rodeoing—”

“Are you blaming me for Dad’s heart attack?”

“No! Of course not. I’m saying it devastated him to have both his boys gone. He knew he couldn’t stand between you and your dreams. What he couldn’t figure out was why you hated the Silver Buckle.” Stefanie handed him the napkin, and he tucked it in his shirt.

“I didn’t hate the Buckle. I just didn’t belong here. This is Nick’s domain and your world. I’m not a rancher.”

“Then what are you going to do? Because—and don’t take this as a dare—you really can’t be serious about riding bulls again.” Stefanie touched his arm. “I don’t want to see you end up permanently in a wheelchair . . . or worse, dead.”

Something in her tone slipped beneath the anger he’d been nursing over the past week. It scared him too, as if there might be truth in that statement.

He couldn’t give up bull riding. He figured it might be like giving up breathing. However, until then, he needed something to take his mind off his busted-up knee, his broken life.

“I know you’re still pretty worked up about my inviting Katherine Breckenridge back here, but I think there might be a way for you two to work together,” Stefanie said.

“She wants to leave me for the buzzards, Stef.”

“She didn’t look that scary to me.”

Sweet and pretty, yes. Scary, no. But looks could be deceiving. “I don’t have any money. You know that.”

Stefanie looked out his window, where the night had begun to swallow the hills. “I think you owe her something. She said she had a plan. Just listen. Maybe you two can figure this thing out.”

Rafe took another bite of dinner. “Fine. One day. She gets one day. And then I’ll put her on a horse and point her back to where she came from.”

CHAPTER 6

“D
ON’T TELL ME
she isn’t there, Angelina. I want to speak to her.” Bradley walked to the window of the penthouse suite overlooking the Potomac River and rued the day he left New York.
Katherine, what are you up to?

She’d been acting strange ever since the doctor gave her an all clear. As if she might know that something wasn’t right inside her. But leave town? She was becoming dangerously more and more like Felicia every day. Unpredictable. But perhaps he could use that to his advantage.

“She’s not here, Senor Lymon.”

“And she’s not in San Francisco. You know where she is.” He hung up on her.
Where did you go, Katherine?
He’d left messages on her cell, at the hotel in San Francisco, and on her home phone. He’d even sent her an e-mail.

In the background, the television scrolled the stock report, and his half-eaten supper evidenced his concern for her. That he’d blown off dinner with a senator to call her made him nearly nauseated.

Well, he did have a fairly productive cocktail hour, topping it off with a rendezvous with a shapely brunette he’d met in the bar last night. He stared out the window. How he liked the energy here, the feeling that everyone eyed him twice, knowing he had connections to one of the richest men in America.

Someday people would envy him for more.

He hadn’t thought it would be like this, the pressure from Breckenridge. Could he stand to be shackled to him for life?

Perhaps, what seemed like shackles actually meant freedom. A real future. Because money was freedom. It was opportunity.

An opportunity he might lose if Katherine left him. An opportunity he might have to be more creative with if he hoped to keep it.

Where are you, Katherine?

Now this was a view Kat would never find in Manhattan. Miles and miles of rolling grassland, brushed by the morning wind, broken by a rugged gully or a scattering of pine trees, backdropped by the hazy purple Bighorn Mountains. And over it all, knots of fluffy white clouds scattered over an endless blue sky.

Okay, she might find this view on her TV, but it didn’t come with the smells—grasses, loam, wildflowers, and even a tinge of sweaty, magnificent animal.

Kat closed the door to her Jeep, stood in the yard of the Silver Buckle Ranch, and just let herself breathe.
Grace and peace go with you.
She tried to let Angelina’s words settle into her bones.
Lord, please make this day fruitful. Help me convince Rafe to help.

Wouldn’t it be nice if Rafe had awakened from a sound sleep with
a burning desire to track down that very nice, needy Breckenridge lady he’d blasted off his property yesterday, apologize profusely, and offer to write her a very large check?

That was about as likely to happen as, well, as her learning to ride one of those bulls she’d passed on the drive to the Silver Buckle.

All the same, being here made her feel oddly hopeful, as if today God
would
change Rafe’s heart. She already felt better this morning—no headache—and she was energized.

Funny, she should be exhausted. What with staying up past midnight listening to John Kincaid tell her stories about Bobby.

Bobby Russell had been a real-life, flesh-and-blood man who loved hamburgers and herding cattle and had once stranded his truck in the middle of Rattlesnake Creek. John had given him a voice, and Kat went to sleep with the sound of her father’s laughter in her mind.

The only blemish in the evening had been when Kat asked how he died. Silence had finally forced John to say that Bobby had been thrown off a bull and broken his neck. Lolly said nothing and busied herself with cleaning menus. Kat felt again five-years-old and left in the dark.

Lolly fixed Kat up in a bedroom that had never made it past the eighties, with bright rose-colored floral wallpaper and a royal blue comforter on a daybed. It gave the trailer a cozy, even retro aura, and Kat slept better than she had in weeks.

The smell of breakfast from the diner had woken Kat, and she’d had a way-too-fattening and uncommon meal of pancakes and scrambled eggs. Not a yogurt in sight. She felt almost fortified enough to stand up to Rafe this morning.

As if on cue, Rafe emerged from the house and came onto the porch. No wheelchair or sling. He leaned against one of the posts, squinting into the sunlight. Although neatly dressed in a pair of jeans, one boot, and a red shirt, his hair looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed. Or as if he might be getting ready for a photo shoot. Especially the way he tapped his straw hat against his good leg.

She wanted to scream,
Get over yourself
. But his ego or longing for the limelight contributed at least in part to why her plan would work. The negative, of course, being his ever-so-sweet demeanor.

Kat straightened her hat, digging deep for a smile. “Hi,” she said, approaching him. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“Like I got hit by a bull. You?”

“Like I spent the morning at a day spa. Refreshed, relaxed, and ready to learn about life on a ranch.” She sweetened her smile.

He rolled his eyes. “Well, the first thing is—look out for manure. If you want, I can package some up for you for that spa.”

“That won’t be necessary, thanks.” Clearly, Rafe’s opinion of her hadn’t changed overnight. “I know you don’t like me—”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“Listen, I can tell you why it’s important—”

“And if you’d just listen to me—I don’t have any money. So, you can go home.”

So much for that bright and sunny day. Or changing Rafe’s heart.

But as she stared at him, at the way he shoved his hand into his pocket and looked away from her, she knew—just knew—that he was trying too hard to be a jerk.
Please, please let my instincts be right.
“I’m not here for your money.”

He looked at her.

“Well, I mean, I am here for your money, but it’s for a good cause.
A great cause. There’s this organization called Mercy Doctors that helps provide treatment to underprivileged kids—”

“There are a billion worthy causes out there. Why would I give a dime to yours?”

Kat stood, mouth open. And then, since he had the frightening ability to make her say and do things she’d never imagined, she said, “Because you crashed into my event that was supposed to raise money for said cause? Because there are children who might die because you had a beer or two for breakfast?”

Rafe winced as if she’d slapped him. For a second, she regretted her tone, her raised voice. He closed his eyes, and for the first time, she saw real emotion, even regret on his face. “I’m really sorry about that. I wish I could change it. But I can’t.”

“You can.”

He opened his eyes, gave her a look that she knew had come from honesty. “I really don’t have any money.”

Kat nodded, rubbing her hands on her arms. She was wearing a short-sleeve pink T-shirt with
Cowgirl
spelled out in rhinestones as well as her red boots and a hat. Already, the sun kissed her pale skin. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I don’t necessarily want your money.”

Rafe eyed her as if she might be an old-time snake-oil salesman and eased himself down to sit on the steps. He balanced his hat on his good knee. “I’m listening.”

“First . . . do you run a real ranch or is it just for show?”

He shook his head. “You sure know how to make friends.”

What was wrong with her question? She inched closer and saw that despite his growl, curiosity ringed his eyes. And he had gorgeous dark molasses eyes with long lashes. . . .
Honestly, get a grip
. “I was wondering because my plan includes cattle.”

“What plan?”

“I don’t want to tell you until I know if it will work. So . . . how many cows?”

“More than three thousand head.”

“Is that a lot?”

“Depends on your point of view. The Lock-T out of Billings has nearly a hundred thousand and their own private city. We’re sort of a one-family operation.”

Kat sat next to him but not too close. “You ever taught anyone how to ride?”

“Hmm. You have anyone in mind?” Rafe flashed her a smile. “Sweet thing?”

“Stop. Really.”

He gave her a long look, something he probably used on his female fans to make them swoon. “I’m not sure what to call you then. Annoying? Stubborn?”

She would hardly wobble under the smoldering looks of Rafe. Even if he did have a nice smile. But it wasn’t like she was going to fall for him. She had Bradley, a man every inch as gorgeous as Rafe, not to mention his more substantial qualities, like patience, faithfulness, and a sense of responsibility. “How about Katherine?” she said, hating the hitch in her voice.

Rafe gave her another long look. “How ’bout Kitty?”

“Kat?”

“Kitty’ll do.” Rafe stuck out his hand and grasped hers.

She felt the calluses from his bull rope, the strength of his hold. Katherine might have melted under the pressure of his dark gaze, but
Kitty
only smiled. “Glad to meet you, Rafe Noble.”

“I guess if I’m going to hear about this plan—and I’m not saying
I’m agreeing—I should show you around the ranch. At least Stefanie will be happy.”

After three hours, Kat had learned exactly three things about Rafe. First, he had an enormous tolerance for pain. He refused help, stumbling along the fence line for support, then grinding his teeth for the few steps it took to get to the barn.

Second, Rafe loved animals. He might ride bulls, but he had a soft spot for anything with four legs that didn’t have horns. He picked up the barn cats, petting them absently as he told her about their cattle, what the different pens in the barn were used for, the kind of horses they owned. He even told her about his former pets—a sheepdog, a mutt, a lamb, various chickens, and a hamster. The whole time, the cats rubbed themselves against him, purring. Apparently he was used to the attention because he didn’t even notice. Purring—from all kinds of creatures—was probably second nature to him.

As the morning grew long, Kat got the sense that he’d morphed into media-tour mode, including turning the charm on overdrive. Clearly, if he couldn’t scare her away, he’d sweet-talk her brain into knots. Deflect her from her goals.

Too bad for him, she was one step ahead of him. She put on her best smile and listened. After all, listening led to trust. Which would lead to him agreeing to her brilliant idea.

His demeanor led to the third thing she learned about Rafe: he oozed charisma. She noticed it in everything from the tease in his voice to the twinkle in his eyes. This made Rafe not only a bull rider but a star and the perfect candidate for his new job as a Breckenridge fund-raiser.

“Hungry? I think my sister-in-law’s cooking lunch.” Rafe leaned against the corral, arms propped on the rails, the wind in his hair. He’d shaved this morning, and his cologne, mingled with the scent of hay, gave him a real cowboy aura. Another weapon in his knock-’em-dead arsenal.

Oh, this plan of hers could work. It could
really
work.

“A little. I ate this morning at Lolly’s. After my lodging fell through, she offered to put me up.”

He raised an eyebrow as if waiting for her to continue.

Kat just looked at him.

After a moment Rafe said, “Lolly serves good food. You won’t starve.”

No. In fact, Kat couldn’t believe her providence. Not only finding a place to stay but also someone who knew Bobby Russell. “Thank you for showing me around this morning.”

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

“You make a great spokesperson.”

“So when do I hear about Kitty’s ‘great plan to redeem the world’?”

Kat laughed despite herself. “Patience, cowboy.”

Rafe looked at her, and for a second, he smiled. A real smile that went all the way to his eyes. As if he might be enjoying himself just a little.

Perfect.