The Rancher and the Rock Star Read Free

have any idea what a gust of wind could do with one of your stupid ashes?”
    “Oh, damn, Abby, Mrs. . . . Abby. I’m sorry.” Contrition twisted his gut.
    He hadn’t considered the danger before lighting up. Her gaze drilled into his, and regret gave way to a slow roll of deep, unexpected attraction. Earlier they’d been separated by hay and irritation, but now they were separated by nothing but five inches of steamy, sultry air. An asinine string of thoughts ran through his brain: how smooth her cheek was up close; how the middle of her pupil was soft and calm like the eye of a hurricane; how much he wished he had a breath mint.
    “It won’t happen again.”
    Along with his sudden, inappropriate desire came an image of Fate laughing as he got pummeled by Mr. Abby Stadtler—who probably always carried breath mints. Then, without warning, Abby’s face drained of color. Slowly, she covered her mouth with one slender hand.
    A BBY PRESSED SO hard against her lips she could almost feel pulses in her fingertips—ten runaway jackhammers. Every clue, every suspicion, crashed over her as she stared at the earnest-eyed man before her. How in the world had she missed it? What was he doing in her farmyard?
    When he said, “It won’t happen again,” his thick brows furrowed in honest apology, his rich baritone was suddenly, obviously, as familiar as her daughter’s voice. And his pale blue eyes were ones she’d seen as many times as she’d entered her child’s bedroom, only this time they mesmerized in person, not from a dozen posters on Kim’s walls.
    He’d given it away himself. “Dawson Covey.”
    Oh, Lord, she’d slapped a cigarette from Gray Covey’s mouth.
    Strangled laughter caught at her throat. This was far from the meeting fantasized by ten thousand adoring women at any given time. What did you say to a rock legend after you’d called him a liar? She dropped her hands from her mouth. “You—”
    His face changed. The instant before she’d recognized him, he’d shown honest contrition. Now his mouth slipped into a strange, plastic smile, automatic, a little self-satisfied. Her annoyance sparked. It reminded her why, despite his knee-weakening looks, he’d irritated her with his assumptions and attitude. All at once, she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of fawning over his identity.
    “Sorry.” She forced herself to spin away and pull off a fib. “I just got a mental picture of my barn going up in flames. I accept your apology. But know this. If it does happen again, I won’t be knocking the cigarette out of your mouth. I’ll be drowning it with you attached.”
    Ignoring his celebrity left her uplifted, as if she was going against nature—something her practical streak rarely allowed. She half-expected him to protest with wounded pride but, in fact, he remained silent until she was back at the hay wagon.
    “You’re funny even when you’re mad,” he said. “I guess I consider myself lucky.”
    “My daughter wouldn’t say I’m funny.” She half-grinned, although her back was to him.
    “Speaking of your daughter and, by association it seems, my son. I don’t suppose there’s any way of getting them home early? I was hoping to take him with me tonight.”
    Irritation seized her again, and she glared over her shoulder. Her breath caught now that she recognized who he was, but she shook it off. “Dawson’s been living here for almost six weeks. Won’t it be kinder to give him time to adjust?”
    “You do understand he’s a runaway, right?” His voice lifted a notch in irritation. “You have no claim to him. Not to mention, a lot of people have been put out by your . . . employee.”
    “Put out? How about worried? Has anyone been worried in all the time it took to locate him?” Immediately Abby regretted the thoughtless words. Gray’s features stilled, and his eyes iced. “I’m sorry. That was rude of me . . .”
    The first plop of rain hit her dead on the nose,