The Rancher and the Rock Star Page 9

  “We’ll figure it out, okay? I’m not about to promise you anything I can’t deliver. And I’m furious at you for running away again. That was stupid. But I am glad you came here and didn’t disappear.”

  She released him, and he spoke to the porch deck. “I like it here. Even when you’re furious.”

  Taking her turn to sigh—a great, sad release of concern—Abby closed her eyes. Something deep inside warned her to hang on. Maybe for dear life.

  HEADING BACK DOWN the rabbit hole to Jamawonky Ranch. This was just brilliant.

  Gray pictured his reunion with Abby and swallowed against the knots twisting in his gut. He glanced at the bouquet on the seat beside him. Flowers? They were too easy and cliché. The mark of a desperate man. What he needed was a bouquet of miracles.

  He pulled into Abby’s driveway in a drab brown Outback—a four-wheel-drive vehicle this time, to assure he wouldn’t be seeing the back of Ed or his archaic Massey Ferguson again. The warm evening air calmed him only slightly when he exited into the yard. He had no idea what he was going to say to the woman who kept winding up with his son. He’d been monumentally arrogant about Dawson, and a rock-and-roll prima donna to Abby. She’d paid him back by being nothing but kind last night on the phone, when he’d called praying Dawson had gone back to her. The lame flowers were all he had as a peace offering. Unless he counted the even lamer bar of chocolate.

  Roscoe lay outside the familiar back door and thumped his tail as Gray approached. It was a completely different kind of day from the last time he’d arrived. No storm clouds, no thunder. He inhaled the fragrance of grass, dirt, sun, and fresh breeze. Why did Minnesota smell like freedom? Roscoe shifted his eyebrows and hoisted himself to his feet. The simple act of squatting to touch the golden’s velvety head soothed Gray from fingertips to nervous heart.

  “How is everyone, buddy?” he asked. “Are they all mad at me?” Roscoe nosed his hand, stood, and led him to the door.

  ABBY HEARD THE knock at 6:33. Not that she’d been checking the clock. She’d kept herself from looking out the window, however, and now her heart raced until she felt like it might reach the door before her legs did.

  Such nerves were hardly called for. She had no reason to expect anyone at her doorstep but a suave celebrity with, perhaps, a dash of annoyed father. The trouble was, the person she’d dwelled on for eight days was not the celebrity or the father. It was the soaking-wet Gray Covey tossing hay bales as if they’d been toys, and the handsome, caring Gray Covey who’d left a soft, unexpected kiss on her lips.

  She reached for the knob, promising herself she would not be hurt by his mannequin smile or his smooth confidence. She’d just call his son from upstairs and let the fireworks go off.

  He held flowers in his hands.

  And had the farthest thing from a mannequin’s smile she could imagine on his face. He looked miserable. A tremor spread outward from her stomach, found her toes, raced for her cheeks as a flush of pure attraction, and settled in her core as unexpected desire.

  “Hey,” he said, his voice devoid of bravado but sexy and rich.

  “Hey.”

  “I’m with the lame gift society. Are you interested in seeing anything in our line today?”

  She clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh then removed it to speak. “I don’t know. There’s a real trick to good lame gifts. I’m kind of picky.”

  “Roses, daisies, fake blue carnations, and some green stuff. Very unimaginative. Doesn’t come close to apologizing for being an ass.”

  “I think you’ve failed miserably.” She got a strange sense of power from watching his eyes fill with distress. “In fact, I don’t think you have a very good sense at all of what makes a lame gift. That bouquet has pink roses in it.”

  The relief on his face was so touching it wrenched her heart. She wondered what it would be like to kiss away his discomfiture, but banished the thought.

  “I guess it’s remedial gift school for me.”

  “Why don’t you come in and tell me what else you’ve got?”

  She ushered him into the kitchen. Bird appeared and astounded Abby with a cliché cat-act, rubbing and purring against Gray’s ankles. Gray bent and stroked the big cat from head to tip of tail.

  “He doesn’t like people,” she said, bemused.

  “I hate to think what that says about me.” He straightened and handed her the bouquet. “I did think these were pretty unoriginal.”

  “There’s a reason they’re unoriginal. They always work.” She sniffed the perfectly perfumed roses.

  “I have one other attempt at lame.”

  “Let’s see.”

  He reached into his pocket—not the leather jacket this time, but a brown, suede blazer that draped from his shoulders. “For the next batch of hot chocolate,” he explained, and handed her a candy bar. It wasn’t fancy, just a Hershey’s Symphony bar, available in any grocery store in the country. Abby’s mouth went slack.

  “But . . .”

  “I think my arteries are still running slow from the cream in that hot chocolate drink you gave me. This won’t equal the expensive stuff you used, but it’s my pathetic favorite. I couldn’t stop wondering what it would taste like made into your magic potion. Sometime when you try it, you can think of me wearing your bathrobe.”

  It was the most ridiculous thing to weep over Abby could imagine, but a tear rolled down her cheek and she pinched back more with her fingers.

  “Aw, Abby. I told you it was lame.”

  “I didn’t think you’d even noticed. The chocolate I mean.”

  “Oh, I noticed.”

  She drummed up the courage to perform half her fantasy and closed the distance between them. Rising on her toes to bridge the half-foot gap in their heights, she placed a kiss on his cheek. “You lose—this isn’t lame either. But I’d like to keep it anyway.”

  “In any other place but the land of Jumbawonka, it would be lame.”

  He’d butchered the farm name several times, and she had no idea why it didn’t irritate the heck out of her. She was defensive about the name. “You have to stop making fun of my farm name.”

  “I don’t think that’s possible.”

  Above her head a floorboard creaked and Gray looked up the same time she did. Their reunion atmosphere immediately turned tense.

  “Does he know I’m here?”

  She nodded.

  “And he didn’t run?”

  “He doesn’t want to run. He wants you to find him and notice him.”

  “Damn it, Abby. I did. I . . . I enjoyed having him with me. It was really pretty great. I don’t know what else to do for him.”

  “Does he know you think it was pretty great?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Don’t get irritated right off the bat. That won’t help.”

  “Don’t get . . . ?” His gaze turned incredulous. “You bet I’m irritated. I’ve followed him here twice now, and I don’t have time for this.”

  “Then leave him here until you do have time.” Her annoyance matched his. Couldn’t he see that his son was shouting for attention?

  “What gives you the right to keep telling me what to do?”

  “I didn’t suggest Dawson run away again, but he did. He could have gone anywhere, but he didn’t. Your son came to my house, and now he officially affects me, too. That’s what gives me the right.” She shouldn’t be irritated, but his stubbornness was maddening. Still, the steel in his eye sent a shaft of desire through her body, giving her the ridiculous longing to grab him and kiss his anger away rather than fight. Unnerved, she put a step between his sexy anger and her continual, annoying, lust-filled reaction to it.

  “For crying out—” He cut himself off. The hardness melted from his face, leaving exhaustion in its place. “Oh, Abby, I’m sorry. I came here w
ith gifts in hand hoping to beg for your help. You seem to be right about him. I don’t know why he ran away again.”

  “Then you should ask him. Is that really so hard?”

  “Hell yes, it’s hard. I’m his father. I should know things about my son.”

  “Under the best of circumstances it’s hard to understand teenagers.” She curled her fingers around his bicep, remembering the solid bulge from their dance on the hay wagon over a week before. “Come on. I’ll put these in water quick, and then I’ll call Dawson. He’s upstairs.”

  “I don’t know what’s going to happen.” He clasped both her hands around the flowers, and a silver-flash of excitement numbed her fingers when he squeezed. “I haven’t said it, and I should have. Thank you. For everything.”

  “You’re welcome.” She smiled, and gently withdrew her hands, her cheeks heating at his touch. “We’ll figure this out. I promise.”

  The scene as the two teenagers entered the living room this time couldn’t have been more different from the week before. Kim descended the stairs first with a bright smile in place. Rather than rumpled camping clothes, she’d encased her slim legs in a favorite pair of low-cut jeans with studded rhinestones and embroidered pink flowers winding up one leg. She’d topped it with a sucked-to-her-body white-and-pink knit top, its scooped neck just high enough to keep Abby from hauling her little butt right back up the stairs.

  Dawson followed, shoulders tight, eyes downcast, hiding his pained combination of embarrassment and defiance.

  “Hi, Gray.” Kim had found her fifteen-year-old confidence. They were in for teenage-trouble with her, too, Abby had no doubt.

  “Hey, Kim. It’s great to see you again.”

  She beamed.

  “Hello, Son.”

  Dawson’s scowl deepened. “Hey.”

  “Nice of you to make finding your whereabouts easier this time. On the other hand, I had to put your mother off this morning when she called to talk to you. You’d be on a plane to England with armed guards if she’d learned you’d run off again.”

  “Why don’t you just tell her and let her do it? That would make your life a lot easier.”

  “Not fair.”

  “No? You could play poker all you liked. You could do whatever Chris asked you to do and not have to worry about sending a babysitter after me. I wouldn’t embarrass you in front of your girl-fans.” He glared at Kim who rolled her eyes and sneered right back.

  “I never looked at it that way,” Gray said. “You aren’t in my way. It was nice to have you with me, Dawson. I was kind of proud to show you my life.”

  “Oh yeah? All I ever saw you do was fire a nice guy, follow a jerky guy, suck up to gushing women, and wear shiny clothes while people screamed for you. All I did was sit around, learn a few guitar parts from your songs, and talk to Spark.”

  “I’m sorry my life is such a wasted disappointment to you. Maybe Heighton doesn’t sound that awful anymore.”

  Abby’s heart went out to Gray. Dawson had inappropriately hit below the belt, but somehow they had to get to the heart of the issue, or he’d just keep running away. She held her tongue with difficulty.

  “It’s not that,” Dawson shuffled restlessly for the first time. “It’s just—it’s your life, and you don’t have time for mine. You didn’t even know I’d left. All I had to do was tell three people I was going to a different hotel room, and that was it. You didn’t care. You promised to come, and you didn’t. It’s that simple.”

  “You’re right. I messed up. Come back with me, and I’ll get it right. I care that we get it right. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

  The child disappeared, and a resolute lawyer took his place. “You’re here because it would look bad if you weren’t. If you care so bloody much then prove it. Prove I’m more important than seven girl-fans who show up on Chris’s arm. Miss work more than a day to stick around and see what real life is like for me.” His eyes glowed as if he’d just found the secret to the universe.

  “Now look . . .”

  “I tried it your way, Dad. I’m not going back on tour.”

  “Then what, exactly, is it you think you are you going to do?”

  For the first time, Dawson’s eyes met Abby’s. Her heart sank. She’d talked a big story, but did she really want the responsibility of having the boy around when his mother and father had other plans for him?

  “I’ll stay here and work for Abby.”

  “Dawson, I . . .” she began.

  “Think again.” Gray interrupted her protest. “You can’t impose on someone like that.”

  Dawson’s frustration blew the calm off his reasonable persona. He glared at his father, glared at Abby, and shot unfair darts at Kim, who watched the exchange like a witness to an accident. “Then you figure it out.” His voice doubled in volume. “When you three make it all happy and fine for you, tell me, and I’ll get used to it. It doesn’t matter what I want. It never has.”

  He stomped away before Abby, or anyone, could react to his petulance. She knew there were clues to his unhappiness in his tantrum, but the child was Jekyll and Hyde—hard to find fault with one minute and running away the next. Dawson was a kid who’d never learned to handle his emotions, and she had no idea how Gray was going to help him learn.

  Chapter Eight

  TWILIGHT STEEPED THE living room alcove in blue-gray shadows, and its one, tall window magnified a last spray of neon pink sunset. Gray parked himself on the bench in front of Abby’s piano. She and Kim, who’d chattered her fill with him about her favorite songs, had gone to feed horses. God knew where Dawson was. The quiet taunted him.

  He stared at the keys, so precise, so symmetric. He knew their secrets and how to unlock them as well as he knew how to put one foot in front of the other and take a step. Normally, he could stare like this and, without touching a single ivory, have a melody rush at him like wild mountain water through a gully. The deluge would flow over the rocks and boulders of rhythm and structure until, finally, lyrics—the final touch of sunlight on the water—would come. But as had been the case for six weeks, with exception of a freak stanza written in the rain, there was no rush of creativity, and he was filled with an ache rather than inspiration.

  The ache grew from the idea of accepting responsibility for his son’s anger. An immature desire to pound out his frustrations on the poor piano gripped him. He’d been self-righteous, certain of Dawson’s joy at seeing his dad ride in to rescue him. Turned out—and how could he have missed this?—he was a sanctimonious, self-centered bastard.

  The thought cut him to the quick. It wasn’t true.

  Was it?

  Admittedly, he hadn’t been around for every one of Dawson’s milestones. By sheer virtue of his notoriety he couldn’t be a typical T-ball dad or go on Scout camping trips. His very presence would have overshadowed anything Dawson did. But he’d seen his son’s first step. He’d played catch at home. He’d taught him to play music.

  To exacerbate the problem, Ariel hadn’t been a T-ball, Scout-camp kind of mom either. The impact on Dawson of having two jet-setting parents had never dawned on Gray.

  Prove it, Dad.

  A rare memory dredged itself from the depths of Gray’s past. A picture, with only the dregs of childhood bewilderment attached to it, of Roy Cooper’s face floating above his bed in a night-shadowed room. “Good night, my man, you’re going to grow up big and strong someday.”

  Gray hadn’t been quite four when his biological father had come in that night. According to his mother’s story, Roy had packed up, left the next morning, and she’d never seen him again, either. Gray would never know why, since five years later, Roy Cooper had died in a hunting accident. Now, the only reason the man held any significance was because he’d given Gray life. He didn’t matter, because his departure had allowed Neil Covey into his and his mother’s lives.

&
nbsp; Neil. Dad. If a model for fatherhood existed, it was the man who’d been what was called on paper a stepfather. Not only had Neil never missed a school concert or performance while Gray had been growing up, but he’d flown himself and Gray’s mother up the east coast countless times to see performances all through Gray’s years at Juilliard.

  He placed his fingers on the piano keys, cooling his desire to pound on them, and eased into the intro riff of “Piano Man.” How many countless times had his dad joked to the world it was his favorite song? The day Gray had been able to introduce Neil Covey to Billy Joel was one of his proudest.

  All the things a father should teach, Neil had taught to a son without a strand of his DNA. Gray’s fingers slipped from the ivories.

  “Dad, don’t let her take me to England! Jeez you can’t get your driver’s license there until you’re eighteen.”

  Dawson still didn’t have even a learner’s permit.

  Gray spun on the bench, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. Where was Neil’s influence now? He was more like the man who’d walked away from fatherhood all those years ago. The alcove had lost its sunset glow, and the darkened shadows, purple now, magnified his remorse.

  “Shit.” The word, spoken aloud, echoed as purple as the light. His language didn’t fit in this place. But, then again, neither did he. What he was contemplating would, with his lack of parenting skills, likely turn out to be the worst thing for Dawson. He already knew it was for himself. Even so, with dread for the conversation he was about to have, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and moved slowly toward the back door. Suddenly, there wasn’t enough air indoors for what he planned to do.

  ABBY PLACED HER hand on Dawson’s shoulder as they neared the house. She’d found him in the barn shining his favorite horse’s coat to a high gloss, and now, as his steps slowed, she pushed aside the thought that Will might have looked like this and tried to tamp down her sympathy. Before she could promise him everything would work out, Gray’s strident baritone carried from the other side of the yard.