The Rancher and the Rock Star (11 page)

Roscoe led him ecstatically past the house and up the driveway toward the Mertzes’ log house. The dog’s carefree joy, tongue flapping and ears streaming behind him, infected Gray and turned his earlier melancholy into relief. He usually got to run several times a week, but while on tour it took slightly less planning than a presidential motorcade. Here he ran with abandon, unconcerned with the public, relishing Roscoe’s companionship and the way he checked back periodically to make sure Gray was still with him.

After forty-five minutes of winding down multiple back roads, basking in the heat and sweat and in the pure scents of grass and gravel, he guessed he’d gone almost five miles, although they’d passed like two. By the time he got back to Ed and Sylvia’s he was far more invigorated than out of breath, and restlessness had been ditched along with any nicotine cravings from an hour before.

When he slowed to a walk, he spotted Sylvia, kneeling on a foam pad beside the same flower garden where he’d first seen her. He hadn’t met or spoken to her since their meeting in the barn. He cowered at the thought of doing it now.

She lifted her head, and Roscoe, drooling like a St. Bernard, galloped toward her, forcing her to stand or be knocked over.

“Mangy mutt.” She gave the golden a firm scratch, not a hint of annoyance in her words.

“Sorry.” Gray stepped onto her perfect lawn.

“He lives here half the time.” She pushed the dog aside. “Guess I should say welcome back.” Gray flinched beneath her laser stare.

“My son and I are building a questionable reputation around here, aren’t we?”

“That scalawag. So which one of you has the right name?” She got lithely to her feet.

“Neither.” He extended his hand, and she clasped and released it with no ceremony. “I’m Gray Covey, Mrs. Mertz. I’m sure Abby’s told you Dawson is a Covey as well. It’s a long story, but it’s nice to make our introduction official.”

Her strong, Scandinavian face remained implacable. He was under a scrupulous assessment of some kind, but he had no idea how to pass muster. “You might as well call me Sylvia. Your boy does. As long as our Abby is all right, I’m willing to keep my eye on you without fussing. So far she seems all right.”

“You’re very close to her, aren’t you?”

“Ever since she and Jack bought the farm from us, we love her like she’s our own.”

Ahhh. That explained the relationship and the Mertzes’ new, modern home. “I’m learning she inspires that love in a lot of people.”

Sylvia’s eyes bored into his. “Just remember that if you have a single thought of looking for it yourself, you’d better earn it.”

His eyebrows shot up, and he studied her right back. Her piercing gaze held a strange combination of warning and challenge. “I won’t be taking advantage of her hospitality for long, Mrs. . . . Sylvia.” He acknowledged her with as sincere a smile as he could muster. “In the meantime, I won’t hurt her.”

“No.” She ended the conversation by turning back to her weeding. “Because if you do, you’ll answer to me.”

Chapter Eleven

E
VERY MOVEMENT OF
a horse had its sound. A snort. A soft stomp. The shake of a large head causing metal halter fittings to clink against snaps. The sounds soothed as always. Abby allowed her shoulders to lower away from her ears. Finally, her mind calmed as she swept a soft body brush along Gucci’s sleek sides.

Although it was still light in early June at eight o’clock, it was late to be saddling up. But she was better off here than in the house. From the dire rumors that had circulated at work all week, to the knowledge that tomorrow would be no more than a day to survive, life pressed in like heavy weights tonight, and she needed a haven. The house was far too full to provide it.

Far too full of one person.

“Hey, there you are.” At the sound of his voice, she leaned into Gucci’s mane, hiding her face, expecting the turmoil he always carried in his wake. “Abby, is everything okay?”

Instead of causing her heartbeat to speed up, however, Gray’s appearance brought an unexpected calm. Unlike the house, the barn seemed big enough to hold her emotions and him at the same time. She looked up and found it easy to smile. “Everything’s always fine in a barn.”

“But things weren’t fine before?” Gray stopped on Gucci’s far side and stroked the stallion’s neck.

Abby sighed. She hadn’t meant to give away any part of her mood, but the concern in his eyes was genuine. “Some days the office is just too stressful a place,” she admitted. “Gucci is my therapy.” She hoped her generic answer would suffice. To her relief, his lips eased into a warm smile.

“You have a wonderful home, and a good life. I’m messing with that, and I’m sorry.”

“Oh, Gray, please don’t think that. You and Dawson are model guests. In fact, you’re hardly guests anymore. You’ve been working like slaves.”

He’d mowed the lawn the day before, mended two broken gates the day before that, and helped muck stalls every morning. She’d never have bet a pampered celebrity would be so handy.

“It’s hardly enough payment for the generosity you’re showing. I appreciate it more than I can say. But I know this is wearing on you, Abby. It’s hard having strangers in your house. It’s hard knowing the world could invade at any moment. I met Sylvia today, and I know she’s concerned—you’re lucky to have her and Ed nearby. But, Dawson and I need to think about making our way home so you and Kim stay safe here.”

She stiffened and kept her face calm with monumental effort. The fact that he was right—about everything—didn’t stop panic from rising in her chest at the thought of him leaving.

“And strand me without my summer help?” She smiled and swallowed her misgivings as she always did. “I love Sylvia and Ed, and I love that they guard me like I employed them to do it. But I’m a big girl, and I made a deal with your son, remember? Besides, can’t you see this set-up has been working pretty well for you and Dawson? Maybe it isn’t the most comfortable for either of us, Gray, but I believe you’re supposed to stay. If I didn’t, I’d send you packing.”

His pale blue eyes caught hers over Gucci’s crested neck, and she might as well have turned her face to the sun. His lean fingers rested on her horse’s mane, and as they played slowly through the wiry, black hairs, a hard shiver shimmied through her belly. “I just . . . don’t know how to say thank you. I didn’t mean to bother you. I’ll go and let you finish de-stressing.”

“Or not.” She lowered her eyes, inexplicably shy—something she’d never been around him.

“Are you going for a ride?”

“Want to pull out another horse and come with me?” Her heart rose at the thought.

“Oh-ho, no!” He lifted both hands away from the horse. “I’m nobody’s cowboy.”

“Hey, almost anyone can learn to ride.” She mixed a fun little taunt into her voice. “Long as he ain’t sceerd.”

“Oh, I ain’t scared.” His mock defiance gave her the chance to laugh. “I’d simply rather watch you do it right.”

“Suit yourself, lily-liver.”

There was something sensual about having him watch her ride. For the next half-hour, Abby couldn’t shake her awareness of his sculpted body draped against the arena fence, and she put Gucci through his sexiest movements—a half-pass that took him sideways across the arena, a passage that floated him around the fence line in a slow-motion trot, and showy, single tempi changes that made him look like he skipped across the sand. Gucci performed like the ham he was. When she finished and dismounted, her legs were steady as licorice sticks. She faced Gray as if facing a judge.

“How do you
do
that? It’s beautiful,” he said. “See why I’m glad I didn’t try?”

“You’d have been fine.” They walked Gucci into the barn side-by-side, and Gray’s subtle spice filled her senses more powerfully than the pungent barn smell she loved. “Besides, I hear you’ve been running lately. You should have nice, strong legs for riding.”

“I don’t think so. Watching you made me pretty certain riding and running are not the same.”

“I don’t know. Great leg muscles are great leg . . . muscles.”

They halted simultaneously, and he stared so deeply she feared their gazes would fuse. For an instant she imagined his head lowering, and for a longer instant she imagined herself lighter-than-air as she lifted onto her toes. Then an adamant shove from Gucci’s muzzle sent her rocking into Gray’s torso. He caught her firmly and sent shocks surfing through her body. She tried to push away, but his hold remained locked. He winked. He smelled like Irish Spring and coffee. Her throat constricted.

“Guess he’s ready to get undressed.” His smooth baritone rumbled against her breasts.

Her groan nearly made it past her lips.

“You have to promise me something.” She forced herself to ignore the innuendo and the new, heavy ache of desire. “Before you do leave, you’ll let me take you on one trail ride. I guarantee we can give you enough riding skill for that.” She extracted herself, slowly.

His second wink left behind a smolder. “I promise.”

T
HE NEXT MORNING,
Gray awoke to a repeat of the day before. The dishes sat unwashed, Abby’s mug sat on the table half-full, her daily list of chores was anemic, and when Gray asked Kim if her mom was all right, the quiet “she’s fine” said otherwise. More concerned than ever, he offered to clean the stalls by himself, unwilling to try hiding his tumultuous thoughts from either teen. The day drizzled from high, sullen clouds, and Gray took Roscoe for company. He needed to see if he could take in some of the calming barn atmosphere Abby talked about.

It might have worked, except she was everywhere in the space.

A new craving, far stronger than his old one for cigarettes, had him reliving their close call last night. Raw desire for Abby now replaced simple attraction. He’d come awfully damn close to kissing her, and he was pretty sure she’d come just as close to letting him.

He couldn’t allow it. Not a kiss, not whatever else desire might entail.

What’s wrong with you, Covey? She’s a beautiful woman.
Why couldn’t he just grab a chance at being normal? A chance with a woman who liked him for himself and not his fame?

Because he could never have normal. Nor had he known many women he would call normal. He’d definitely never known a woman who could settle his soul one second and send it twistering off to Oz the next like Abby Stadtler did. Somewhere along his path to superstardom, Gray had made a deal with the devils of rock ’n roll. Those demons would warp Abby’s life into the furthest thing from normal she could imagine, and judging from her behavior the past two days, he was afraid they’d already begun the job.

An engine, too low and lumbering to be a car, growled its way down the driveway, interrupting his thoughts. Gray stepped outside, thrust his hands in his pockets, and watched a white, one-ton pickup rattle to the door, its bed loaded with wood shavings and covered ineffectively with a flapping blue tarp.

The driver was perhaps mid-thirties and somehow familiar. His square face sprouted high, hamster cheeks, an offensive lineman’s forehead, and a neat auburn mustache. Once stopped, he rolled down his window, a suspicious question in his eyes.

“Mornin’ hey.” He leaned a thickly muscled forearm out the window. “I’m lookin’ for Abby.”

“She’s working in town today.” Gray stepped toward the truck.

“I see.” The driver looked like he definitely didn’t see.

“Can I help you with something?”

“I have a load ’a shavings for her. She wasn’t expecting me till tomorrow, but I won’t be able to make it then. Didn’t want her to have to wait. Who are you?”

Gray pulled his hands from his pockets. “David Graham.” He offered a shake, hoping the distrustful, Bunyan-esque delivery guy would stop eyeing him like a boxing opponent—especially since he had no idea why the man seemed to instantly dislike him. “I’ve been helping Abby the past couple of weeks.”

“Helping, huh?” The driver gave Gray a skeptical once-over before his giant hand emerged from the truck like a reluctant diplomatic flag. “Name’s Dewey Mitchell. I’ll just back the truck into the barn, then.”

The light went on in Gray’s memory. Dewey. He’d provided directions to Abby’s on Gray’s first trip—and he’d been equally suspicious back then. He backed his truck expertly through the wide door and nudged up to the double stall where Abby kept the shavings. When he stepped from the truck and rolled back the tarp, he took up half the barn.

“Got two scoop shovels in the back.” Dewey showed his teeth in a crafty smile. “With two of us, would be . . . yeah, well a snap to unload.”

“A snap, huh?” Gray mimicked the man’s earlier words and snatched one of the shovels, feeling strangely as if he’d been called out.

It was an ugly job—as Dewey had known it would be. Turned out a “snap” translated in Dewey’s Minnesotan to thirty minutes of an undeclared shoveling contest, during which it grew perfectly clear he didn’t like Gray’s presence on the farm. Still, when he tossed his shovel into the empty truck bed, and Gray followed suit, Dewey begrudgingly held out his hand. Gray slapped his palms against his thighs, finding the denim caked in coarse, sandpapery grit. He smelled like a sawmill.

“Quick as spittin’.” Dewey shook hands. “As they say.”

“Do they?” He grimaced. “Minnesotans definitely have their own way of keeping time.”

“ ’Bout right.” He sounded downright cheerful.

After the tarp was folded and shoved into the cab’s back seat, Dewey dug into the breast pocket of his navy-blue T-shirt. For the first time, he looked uncomfortable “So, I have to get this to Abby.” He pulled out a folded white slip of paper.

“I’ll be glad to give it to her.”

“It’s none’a your business.” Dewey held his gaze like he’d hooked a fighting fish. “I should bring it to her, but I’m already behind for the day, and we need for her to see it.”

“Despite what you think, you can trust me to give it to her.” Gray smiled easily. Dewey’s discomfiture was Gray’s upper hand.

“I don’t trust you far as I can throw you. Just you be careful here. Abby’s good people.”

“Yes, yes she is. Wait. Is this the bill?”

“For this load and the last two.” Dewey wrinkled his brow as if trying to figure Gray’s angle.

A lump formed in Gray’s stomach, and a multitude of signs he’d seen in the past week suddenly made sense. He’d known Abby wasn’t wealthy, but Dewey was hinting, unintentionally, that her financial issues were pressing.

He surreptitiously unfolded a corner of the paper. Three hundred and thirty dollars.

“I’m glad I thought to ask,” he said, faking nonchalance. “Abby mentioned in passing there’d be deliveries in the next few days, and I just put that together with you.” His audacity churned inside like a carnival ride, but he had money in his suitcase. It was the least he could do.

Five minutes later, a still-skeptical Dewey drove off with three crisp hundreds and three tens in his wallet, and Gray breathed easier. As he headed for the shower, satisfaction engulfed him for one of the first times in weeks. Abby had refused to let him pay room and board. She felt guilty if he cooked for her. Maybe this would make her life the smallest bit easier. And it was probably more practical than pork chops.

“A storm-eyed girl took my hand one day, and said, ‘Follow me, boy, I know the way’
. . .”

The song that had come to him in the rain two weeks ago flowed along with the shower water streaming down his face, and Gray added to the verse as he lathered the shavings dust out of his hair. Maybe he would test the song on Abby one of these days—see if she remembered it. He hummed into the water. It felt good to give back, ease things for her—especially since he was causing some of the burden.