Where the Heart Leads (2 page)

“I had a wonderful time as a child actor, but as an adult, I prefer being behind the scenes.” What choice did she have? Sure,
The Clancy Family
was top of the rerun heap, but her family couldn't survive off residuals.

Pen nodded understandingly. “Johnny said you would be perfect for us. He told me that as well as your years of practical experience, you have a drama degree from UCLA.”

“Yes, when
Quark Kent
folded, I decided to take a break from acting and go to college. Theater seemed the logical choice.” What else did she know?

A long-necked, long-beaked woman with over-rouged cheeks and unbelievably black hair leaned across the table. “I'm Xandra Fontaine, and we're so happy to have you with us, Mrs. Sanger.”

Moira gritted her teeth and gave Xandra her best fake smile. “Farrar, please. I've reverted to my maiden name—for professional purposes, of course.” She paused for a second, then softened her voice. “Besides, I don't want to trade on Colin's name.”

In fact, she'd erase every vestige of Colin from her life if she could. If Robota hadn't finished off her acting career, Colin had. His insistence that she stay home had seemed romantic at the time—until she learned what he really wanted from her.

Xandra's black eyes glistened with interest. “I just adored Colin Sanger. And he was so right for the role of Rhett Butler in the remake of
Gone with the Wind
. Tall, dark, and handsome—and that voice! It sent shivers down me each time he opened his mouth.”

Moira lowered her lashes as if hiding a secret sorrow. “Everyone tells me that.”

Yeah, Colin was a heartthrob. The women wanted him, the men wanted him—she would have had to sweep a pile of adoring fans off the doorstep every morning if they'd lived in a normal house rather than Colin's massively built mansion with an eight-foot-tall wall around it. The wonder was that he hadn't dug a moat and stocked it with alligators.

But that wasn't what his fans needed to hear. To them, Colin was every role he'd ever played—brave, noble, and upright. And she wasn't going to be the one to tell them otherwise.

Image was everything.

The short-necked, pug-nosed woman sitting next to Xandra, who seemed to have dyed her hair out of the same pot as her neighbor, moved her head forward like a hissing snake. “He died so young.”

Moira struck one of her better grieving widow poses. “It's been two years, but I miss him still.”

Xandra took over again. “Too bad there were never any children.”

The twosome stared at Moira accusingly.

Moira sighed dramatically and gave the same crap answer she'd given countless tabloid reporters. “We were both busy with our careers and thought we had all the time in the world.”

The door opened and the people seated around the table bobbed their heads up long enough to identify the newcomer, a plump, grandmotherly-looking woman in a peacock-blue squaw dress cinched with a copper medallion belt. Her flyaway hair looked like an abandoned bird nest.

Pen gestured toward her. “That's Vashti Atherton, our accompanist. Musical genius. She scored
Gift of the Magi
. Her younger daughter, Micaela, will play Della, the wife. Phil Schoenfeldt—the towhead at the end of the table who's waving his hands around—has been cast as the husband. And Travis McAllister will sing the part of the Dreamer. He's the one talking to Vashti right now.”

“Pen, I really do need to see a script.”

“As soon as our chairman gets here, my dear. He's bringing us all photocopies of the latest revision.”

The door opened again, and a middle-aged woman with a graying Afro walked in, waved at Pen, then passed by to take a seat farther on down the table.

“Lucille Benton. She has two teenagers in the show,” Pen commented.

Xandra leaned across the table again. “Her daughter has been taking classes with Sister and me since she was a toddler. Fleurette and I choreograph all the numbers and train all the dancers—even the ones who don't patronize our studio.”

Pen beamed at the duo. “The Fontaine sisters have been very generous in contributing their talents and expertise to our theater productions.”

Moira commented the only way she could. “Wonderful!”

Vashti Atherton, Phil Schoenfeldt, Travis McAllister, Xandra and Fleurette Fontaine, Lucille Benton.
She repeated each name to herself and glued it to a face so she didn't accidentally snub anyone in the grocery store. After all, these people would determine whether she stayed in Bosque Bend in triumph or slunk back to Pasadena in disgrace.

A masculine voice rang out from the end of the table, where most of the men seemed to have congregated. “Hey, Pen, what's holding up our chairman? Did his photocopier break down again?”

The room roared with laughter. Apparently it was a running joke.

Pen gave him a quick comeback. “You know more than I do, Travis. He's your brother.” He turned to Moira. “We're not very formal—no elections or anything—but Rafe McAllister runs the show. Great guy.”

“Rafe McAllister? I saw some items in the museum that he'd donated on behalf of the C Bar M Ranch.”

Pen nodded. “The Colbys—they're the
C
in C Bar M—established the ranch in 1855, but couldn't make a go of it until the McAllisters—they're the
M
—came on the scene. The Colbys have pretty much died out, but the current generation of the McAllisters is going strong and has been quite generous to Bosque Bend. Now that Rafe's got the museum up and running, he's arranged for us to buy the old Huaco Theater just off the square and restore it as a permanent home for the theater guild. He thinks we can get a historical marker for it too.”

Moira's eyebrows went up. “That's quite an undertaking.”

Pen shrugged. “Rafe's an architect so he knows what he's doing. He wants to get the theater guild on a more professional footing so we can draw audiences from Waco and some of the smaller towns around here. That's where you come in. Donna Sue Gomez-Sweeny, the Eisenhower Consolidated drama teacher who started us out five years ago, said that we've reached the point where we should hire somebody full-time.”

Moira glanced around the table. “Which one is she?”

“She's not here.” Pen retrieved a card from his shirt pocket and handed it to her. “Donna Sue's having to step back—a new baby—but she wanted you to know how to reach her.”

The door opened again and all the heads bobbed up again, but this time, they stayed up. A smile spread across Pendleton Swaim's face. “Rafe!”

Moira turned to see a tall redhead with a cardboard box under his arm enter the room. He gave the group a familiar easy smile, and his eyes twinkled like summer sparklers.

Nooooo!

Big Red started passing scripts down the table. “Sorry to be late, folks. It was that dang copier again.” Moira froze in place as his piercing gaze moved down the table, then traveled back up and settled on her. “Glad to see our new director made it.”

She forced the corners of her mouth to curve up, but her blood ran cold.

Wet autumn leaves slushed under her tires as Moira backed out of her parking space. The mid-October temperatures in Central Texas seemed to be as mild as back home in Pasadena, but this intermittent rainfall was driving her crazy. Pray God it wouldn't get too cold later on. She and her sister didn't have a heavy coat between them.

Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel as she waited at the street for a break in the traffic.
Damn!
That was Rafe McAllister standing at the curb in front of the museum, and he was looking her way. She'd like to run the jerk down.

No, Moira, play the game. Your sister is depending on you. Your brother is depending on you. Gram and Gramp are depending on you.

She'd thought she was off the financial hook when she married Colin and he arranged for Gramp to receive a monthly allowance. But after Colin died, not only did the allowance come to a screeching halt, but she was also left high and dry—Colin had never changed his will in her favor, which meant his ex-wife was now enormously wealthy, the Screen Actors Guild's coffers were overflowing, and she needed a job.

She mulled over her meeting with the theater guild as she cut over to Austin Avenue, Bosque Bend's main drag. Apparently the major purpose of the get-together had been for everyone to look her over, so she'd done her best, keeping a smile on her face and making sure to shake everyone's hand, even Rafe McAllister's.

And his gorgeous, cheating eyes had sparkled at her the whole time.

Rafe waved his hand as Moira Farrar drove out onto the street, but she didn't respond. Probably didn't see him—or didn't want to.

What the fuck was going on with the woman? He'd felt an immediate connection with her in the museum and followed up on it, but she went cold on him. Maybe he shouldn't have made a move on her right off the bat, but that rasping voice, which had been used for comic effect in
The Clancy Family
, had sent a wave of heat down him to right where it mattered. And she was such a cute little thing too. The sitcom cameras had never caught those high cheekbones and exotic eyes, the eyebrows that looked like they'd been painted on with a feather, the fanlike lashes, the sweetness of her smile.

He watched her car turn the corner at the end of the block. Colin Sanger had died two years ago. According to the tabloids, he'd dived into a half-empty swimming pool at night when the lights were off. So, did Moira have a current boyfriend?

Boyfriend
—a stupid term for an adult male.
Say it out, Rafe—does she have a lover?

A red Mustang pulled over to the curb, and his brother lowered the passenger window. “Hey, bro. You gonna stand there all day holding down the sidewalk?”

Rafe leaned his arms on the ledge of the car's open window. “Tryin' to think what else I can do to fix that damn photocopier.”

Although, as usual, Sissy had used her magic on the temperamental machine and gotten it working like a charm. The real reason he'd run late was that Delilah had pitched a fit when he'd tried to drop her off at Sissy's house before the board meeting. Only the promise that he would invite “the pretty lady” out to the ranch over the weekend had reconciled Delilah to stay with Baby Zoey, but he wasn't about to announce that devil's bargain.

Travis laughed. “Bro, give up and buy a new copier. You got the money—if you haven't driven yourself into bankruptcy paying for that little cutie-pie director to come to town.”

“You noticed too, huh?”

“I'm married, not blind.”

“Speakin' of bein' married, I hear tell Rocky's not too happy about the amount of time you been spendin' with Micaela Atherton lately.”

Travis snorted. “Rocky's on my back if I so much as hold the door open for a little old lady.”

“Rocky's your wife, Trav, and Micaela's not a little old lady. A whole roomful of people saw you cuddlin' up to her at Good Times last weekend.”

“Lay off, Rafe. Micaela and I were singing a love song and had to make it look good. For God's sake, we had a spotlight on us and everyone in the damn honky-tonk was singing along.”

“Just be careful. Rocky's a damn good shot.”

Travis grimaced and ran a hand through his hair. “You don't know how it is, bro. Rocky's after me again to hang up the band. Hell, all I need is a decent break and I could hit the big-time, maybe make the Grand Ole Opry.” His face lit up. “Hey, how about you corralling Miz Farrar and bring her out to Omar's Good Times tonight so she can hear me? That woman has showbiz connections out the wazoo, and I want to be in her address book.”

“Don't think she likes me, Trav.”

“Rafe, every woman on the face of the earth likes you. It's those damned eyes of yours. You hypnotize them.” He glanced around as the light changed, and the traffic started moving behind him. “Gotta go before I get myself rammed up the ass.”

Rafe stepped back from the curb. “Later, cowboy.”

Good Times.
It just might work for him as well as Travis. He'd tell Moira he needed to discuss her ideas for the show, and maybe Omar's beer and ribs would warm up Hollywood's ice princess for him.

M
oira picked up a late lunch at Hardy Joe's, a hamburger drive-in down the highway that sported a neon fisherman on its roof—she'd never seen
that
in Pasadena—and made the turn into Lynnwood, an upscale subdivision to the east of the Bosque River. Two streets down, one street over, and she'd be at the brick-fronted ranch-style house that had come with the job.

Johnny Blue may have left
Quark Kent
high and dry, but he'd continued to keep tabs on his little robot girl, checking on her from time to time when she was in college, and even after she married Colin. Then, when the Bosque Bend opportunity came up, he'd not only negotiated a nice salary for her, but also persuaded the board to throw in a three months' lease on a partially furnished house.

Located at the back of a cul-de-sac, the residence was about ten years old, in relatively good condition, and wired for Internet. The appliances weren't stainless steel and the floors weren't hardwood, but the living room had a couch and an armchair in it, and the family/dining area came equipped with a Formica table and four matching chairs. On the other side of the house were two full bathrooms, a laundry room, and three nice-sized bedrooms. And most amazing to Moira, who'd lived her whole life in Pasadena where land was at a premium, there was a huge fenced backyard.

She eased into the double-car garage and cast an evil eye on the pile of luggage and household items that she and her sister had unloaded from the U-Haul trailer when they drove in yesterday evening. God, now they'd have to schlep it all into the house. But maybe a little manual labor would help her clear a certain redheaded Texan out of her head.

Damn!
Why couldn't she stop thinking about Rafe McAllister?

His eyes, of course—the irises looked like they'd been pieced together out of shards of sparkling glass—and the sweet way he interacted with his daughter, and not that she was in the market, but the man was a walking pheromone.

She got out of her car and slammed the door shut as hard as she could to end the matter.

A joyous fanfaronade of barking broke out in response.

God, no.
She knew what that meant. Somehow, within twenty-four hours of their arrival, her sister had acquired a dog—probably a flea-bitten mongrel that would give them both the mange. The barks grew more frantic the nearer Moira got to the kitchen door, and she opened it to high-pitched yaps of canine excitement.

Astrid stood just inside, holding a large, golden-furred, black-faced dog on a bright pink leash.

“Ivanhoe! No! Don't bark at Moira!
Sit!
”

Ivanhoe sat. Of course, he did. Canines always obeyed Astrid. It was as if she were goddess of the hunt. And she certainly looked like it in those skinny pants and long leather vest. Tall, slender, and dark-haired, just like their mother, Astrid made anything she put on look good.

Moira deposited her portfolio on the kitchen counter and gave the dog a once-over.
Cripes
, he was big—and drooling out of both sides of his mouth. “Is he a mastiff?”

Astrid's ponytail brushed the floor as she bent down to throw her arms around the dog's neck. He washed her cheek with a swipe of his long pink tongue.

“Yes, and he's just a puppy—I'm guessing about a year old.”

Moira sat down on one of the dining chairs and stared at her sister's darling. “Where'd he come from?”

“Ivanhoe's an orphan of the storm.” The dog whimpered in ecstasy as Astrid's hand moved down his back to massage his flank. “I went out into the garage to get some bath towels, and he rose up out of the shadows like the Phantom of the Opera.” She stroked the dog's head and scratched him behind the ears. “He hid under that workshop table thing when I screamed. It took half a box of your Shredded Wheat to lure him inside the house. Mrs. Fuller, that nice lady next door who met us in the yard when we drove in yesterday, lent me the collar and leash, and I used our breakfast bowls for his food and water.” She glanced toward the delicate rice bowls set out on a towel in the kitchen. “By the way, Ivanhoe really likes Shredded Wheat. We'll have to restock.”

“Maybe he belongs to someone in the neighborhood.”

Astrid gave the dog a final pat on the rump and stood up. “Mrs. Fuller said he got pushed out of a Volkswagen a couple of days ago and has been hanging around here ever since. People do that, you know, dump dogs when they don't want them anymore.”

“Yeah, I know, but I don't see how we can afford him.”

Ivanhoe walked over to Moira and grinned at her.

Damn.
She had to avoid looking into those dark, soulful eyes and be logical. “He looks like a growing boy, and we have to watch our budget. Remember, part of my pay goes back to Pasadena to pay our brother's tuition. I don't want Arne to have to change schools again.”

“I'm out of high school now. I could get a job.”

“Transportation, Astrid. We only have one car, and Bosque Bend's too small for bus service.”

Astrid gestured at the sparsely furnished room. “But I can't just sit around the house all day! We don't even have a television, and it doesn't take
that
long to do my nails.” She spread her fingers to display the smiling suns on their tips. “By the way, do you like them?”

“Very nice.”

Astrid didn't seem to care what she wore, but she was totally hung up on nail art. When Moira had left this morning, those same fingernails had been sky blue accentuated with white polka dots.

“Maybe I could turn the extra bedroom into a nail salon,” Astrid continued, glancing down the hall.

Moira shook her head. “I don't think that would work out. This is a residential neighborhood. And I bet you'd have to get some sort of state certification.”

But what
could
Astrid do? This was a nice house, much nicer than she'd expected, but Astrid couldn't stay here all day twiddling her thumbs—or collecting more stray dogs. A job did seem to be the logical solution, and it would be nice if Astrid could add to the family coffers.

“Maybe…maybe I could work out something for you with the theater people. Painting sets or something, but let's worry about that later. Right now we've got to unload the garage. Just give me a minute to change into jeans.”

Astrid sprang up. “Awesome. And I'll introduce sweetie dog to the backyard.” She led Ivanhoe toward the sliding glass door, then turned back. “Let's bring my futon in first thing,” she called out. “I don't want us to sleep in the same bed like we did last night. Do you have nightmares like that very often?”

Moira gave her a bright smile and tried to sound offhand. “I think that was because I was anxious about meeting the board today.”

But more likely it was because she went to sleep without finding the night light that had been her constant companion since Colin died.

He had brought so much darkness into her life—darkness and pain.

After liberating Astrid's foam mattress from the pile in the garage, Moira took the lead and walked backward up the garage steps into the kitchen.

“So what's Bosque Bend like?” Astrid called out as they maneuvered the mattress through the door. “I didn't get much of a glimpse of it when we drove in yesterday evening.”

“Not as sleepy as Johnny described it. The courthouse has a square of quaint old storefronts around it, but the rest of the town seems to be hustle-bustling to join the modern world. There's a nice park on this side of the river and a lineup of flashy restaurants across the bridge. According to a Chamber of Commerce brochure I picked up at the museum office, Bosque Bend now has all the necessities of modern living—Walmart, Office Depot, Home Depot, FedEx, Starbucks, a small hospital…doctors, lawyers, and Indian chiefs.”

They dropped the mattress on the bedroom floor and went back to the garage for its frame.

Astrid gave her a questioning look. “The museum office? What were you doing in a museum?”

“It's a repurposed high school. The civic theater has been using its stage for its productions.” Moira hefted one end of the frame and started walking it toward the steps. “I met with the board in a practice room across the hall from the auditorium.”

“What did you find out? When do they want the show to open?”

“The first weekend of December. It'll be a three-week run, Thursday, Friday, Saturday only. No Sunday performance. This is a churchgoing town.”

They turned the bed frame to fit through the kitchen door, then tottered it down the hall.

“Doesn't give you much time for auditions.”

Moira shrugged. “No need. The parts have already been cast, and the accompanist will play through the score for me tomorrow morning. I have no idea who the costumers and scenery people are, but I'll call a meeting of the adult actors Monday evening. The play requires a large cast of children too so that means I'll have to set up a meeting with them—and their parents—probably on Tuesday evening. And I'll also have to deal with—never mind…”

Astrid lifted a suspicious eyebrow. “You didn't finish what you were saying, Moira. What else will you have to deal with?”

Crap.
She hadn't meant to say anything about Big Red. Rafe McAllister was just a passing hormonal fancy that her good sense would soon convince her was bad news.

Or it damn well better. No way she was getting involved with a married man—or any man at this point.

She tried for careless flippancy. “The chairman of the board made a pass at me, and I think he's got me in his crosshairs.”

“Killer!” Her sister gave her a wide smile as they pushed the frame into her bedroom. “You need to start dating. And don't try to tell me you're still in mourning for Colin. I don't know what happened between you two, but it wasn't good.” They lifted the mattress into place, and Astrid took a sheet out of the stack of linens in the corner of the room and flapped it open. “What's this guy look like?”

“He's a redheaded cowboy with gorgeous eyes, but it doesn't matter. He's not available, and I'm not interested. End of story.” Except for the sudden rush of heat she refused to acknowledge.
Damnit! Had her libido no sense of decency?

Her cell phone buzzed, and she raced back to the kitchen, then stared at the caller ID.

Rafe McAllister.

“Moira?”

Every nerve in her body vibrated to the sound of his voice.

“We need to talk business, and I thought we might as well get somethin' to eat along with it. How about I drop by your place at six thirty and take you to Good Times. It's our local honky-tonk. Best ribs in Texas. That work for you?”

She could scarcely refuse the chairman of the board, and he knew it. Looked like she'd be going out for drinks with Red Rafe after all.

At six thirty sharp, Ivanhoe notified Moira that her gentleman caller had arrived.

The murmur of polite conversation drifted down the hall as she stared at herself in the long mirror on the inside of her bedroom door. God, she hoped Red wasn't putting the moves on her little sister, not that it would get him anywhere unless he owned a fifty-dog kennel.

She tucked her tee into her jeans to see how it looked, then pulled it out again. Astrid had wanted her to wear a V-necked sleeveless top with large sequin butterflies fluttering diagonally down from the shoulder to the waist, but she'd decided on a loose shirt advertising Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles. She didn't want to look like she was trying to entice the head honcho.

Besides, there wasn't any reason to dress up for a country honky-tonk. Red would probably have on the same jeans and long-sleeved white shirt he'd worn earlier in the day.

Her sister's voice fluted down the hall. “Moira? Rafe's here.”

“Coming.”

Big Red rose from the couch as she entered the room, earning him a grunt from Ivanhoe, who'd been resting his huge head on Rafe's leg.

Moira stopped in mid-step and her jaw dropped in surprise. Those jeans may have been the same ones he'd been wearing this morning, but pings of light bounced off the big silver buckle on the belt that held them up, his boots looked like Picasso had had a bad day—or a very good one—and that maroon bib-type western shirt played like fire against his red hair.

Oh God—they were a classic pair. He was a strutting peacock, while she was a wimpy-looking peahen. She should have opted for the butterflies.

“Ma'am,” he said, giving her an easy smile. “You look lovely.” His eyes fastened on her shirt and lingered on her breasts. “And Roscoe is a lucky man.”

Behind him, she could see Astrid give her a thumbs-up, then clutch herself dramatically in the area of her heart.

Okay, Rafe McAllister may have won her sister over, but Astrid was at a romantic age and still believed in knights in shining armor—and cowboys in boot-scootin' finery.

She smiled politely, picked up her bag, and threw a light sweater over her arm just in case the weather turned cool. All the time, her brain was going eighty miles an hour.

What did he mean by that crack about Roscoe?
It had to do with her boobs, she knew. Was he making fun of her? She couldn't help it if Astrid had inherited Gram's sexy Japanese eyes while she'd gotten Gram's small Japanese breasts. And anyway, it was no business of his. He'd never see them.

Moira steeled herself as Rafe escorted her out and bade Astrid good-bye. This would be a very difficult evening.

Her eyes went wide.
Oh my God!

Waiting at the curb was the biggest, baddest pickup she'd ever seen.

Rafe's truck looked like nothing so much as Cinderella's coach on steroids, and it was waaaay too much. It had a generous backseat, an extra-long truck bed, four wheels on the rear, and a big hook thing on the wraparound back bumper.
COLBY-MCALLISTER RANCH
was stenciled in gold on the door.