Taming Rafe (7 page)

Mary thought he might grab her case from the jump seat, but he marched into the house without so much as a glance backward.

She had no time for tears. Rosie needed a home. She needed work. Mary eased open the door. Weakness rushed through her, a ripple of despair that had the ability to crumple her. She couldn’t do this. A tear squeezed out, and she wiped it against Rosie’s head, brushing her lips against her daughter’s skin.

“Mary!” Thatcher stood on the porch, the preacher behind him.

She saw anger in his eyes and stiffened.
Please, Lord, help me.

“Can I get your case for you, ma’am?” The voice beside her, a soft drawl, seemed calm against her racing heart.

She looked up, way up, into the blue, shadowed eyes of one of Thatcher’s hands. He tugged on his work-worn cowboy hat with a gloved hand. Wearing a dark blue, long-sleeve shirt pushed up at the forearms and a pair of faded brown canvas work pants, he looked about twenty-two, just a couple of years older than her.

He lowered his voice. “You okay, ma’am? It’s awfully hot out here.”

She managed the slightest nod.

“It’s going to be all right,” he added.

Mary closed her eyes, suddenly angry that he might have the slightest inkling of what it felt like to bury a husband and marry another in one day. “Go away,” she whispered.

But he didn’t move, was still standing there when she opened her eyes. In his expression she saw a compassion that found all the bleeding places inside her.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said quietly. “I promise.”

Perhaps it was his solemn tone or maybe his honest eyes. Maybe it was the way he picked up her case and put his hand under her elbow to help her across the dusty yard. Or maybe it was the way he met Matthias’s dark eyes with a look of his own. Whatever the case, Mary believed him. And that belief gave her the courage to go inside with the preacher and marry the man who had killed her husband.

Katherine ejected the CD from her player and sighed. Poor Mary. How horrible to be so desperate you had to marry for necessity instead of love. What were Mary’s choices, really? Back then, women didn’t have careers, couldn’t get an education. What would Katherine have done? She hoped not the same thing.

Tapping her brakes, Katherine took the Jeep off cruise and turned west off Highway 59, following the signs to Phillips, thinking of the unnamed ranch hand in the story. Obviously, he knew something of Thatcher, probably even how his first wife had died, but he hadn’t stopped the wedding. Maybe he couldn’t. If it had been Bradley, he would have simply paid old Matthias off or brought him up on murder charges.

But did that make Bradley any different from Matthias? The thought chafed her as she drove into Phillips. She was being too hard on him.

Katherine found the tiny Main Street quaint, with its old grocery store hosting coin-operated rides out front, a bookstore, and a corner
saloon. She slowed for the light and saw a community park, then the bleachers of a school stadium and the low building of what she assumed to be the county school. To her left, the cutest diner fashioned from an old railroad car advertised the best pies in Montana.

Katherine pulled into the diner lot, parked next to a pickup that made her Jeep seem like a gnat, and got out. She stretched, and the fresh air tasted clean and pure. Maybe all she needed was a clear schedule without the foundation and her grandfather to dodge and even Bradley hovering over her.

The last thought sent a twinge of guilt. She’d call him tonight as soon as she got settled in with her uncle Richard.

The door jangled as she opened it, and she entered a small room that sucked her back in time to a bygone era—soda fountain stools along a Formica counter, orange booths along the wall beneath the windows. Two guys sat at the counter, their hats pushed back, boots resting on the bar rail. Another sat at the far end, dressed in oily coveralls, nursing a cup of coffee. And a woman and a young boy sat in a booth sipping malts. A jukebox spilled out country-western tunes, and the smells of french fries and hamburgers filled the space.

Presiding over it all at the counter stood a woman with her blonde hair captured in a high ponytail. She wore a pair of jeans and a bright pink T-shirt.

The woman glanced at Katherine, and for a second she looked like she’d seen a ghost. Her face drained of color, and her mouth opened. “What are you doing here?”

Lolly had spent her life wishing for this moment and then revoking that wish, burying it deep inside, hoping it would never resurface.
She wasn’t sure whether to cry or leap the counter and crush to her chest the beautiful Katherine Breckenridge. She was here, in the flesh, Felicia and Bobby’s daughter.

Lolly could hardly breathe.

“What did you say?” Katherine frowned and approached the counter.

Egger Dugan, the local salvage-yard owner, set down his coffee cup. Quint and Andy, ranch hands from the Silver Buckle, looked up from their plates of burgers and fries, and Maggy St. John glanced at her from where she and her son, CJ, sat.

Oh no, had she really spoken her thoughts aloud? Lolly swallowed, forcing away those wishes, those buried hopes, because once upon a time she’d promised . . .

“I’m sorry, ma’am. You just don’t look like you’re from around here.” Lolly put on her best Western accent and a wide smile, hoping it hid the thumping of her heart. “C’mon and sit down. What are ya hankerin’ for? I’ve got my best rhubarb pie today.”

Katherine was even more beautiful in real life with her dark brown hair—probably from her father, only on Katherine it looked like mink’s fur, all shiny and sleek—and big hazel eyes. She had the Russell genes in her curves, long legs, and elegant fingers wrapped around the leather bag at her shoulder. She wore a pair of jeans, red cowboy boots, and a brown, cap-sleeve, cotton prairie blouse that made her seem like she’d walked off the streets of Robert Redford’s Sundance Film Festival.

If only. But those had been Lolly’s dreams—to be among the beautiful and famous of Hollywood—not Katherine’s. It hit her that she didn’t have the foggiest notion what Katherine’s dreams might be.

Katherine sat down on a stool, then stared up at the menu board on the back wall. “What’s good here?”

“Everything, of course.” Lolly laughed, and her heart gave a small leap when Katherine smiled.

“How about a piece of that key lime pie,” Katherine said. “And a glass of milk.”

Lolly felt a strange sense of pride as she poured Katherine the milk and cut her the pie. She’d turned out all right. Beautiful, articulate, smart.

Seeing Katherine sitting in her diner, enjoying Lolly’s cooking—well, it filled Lolly’s throat. Never in her wildest, most hopeful dreams had she ever truly believed that sweet baby Kitty-Kat would grow up and find her way to Phillips.

Which brought her back to—“So, what are you doing here? Phillips isn’t a regular stopping-off place.” Lolly kept her tone light while filling Andy’s glass of root beer.

“Staying at my uncle’s place.” Katherine glanced up at her. “Maybe you know him—Richard Breckenridge?”

Lolly didn’t flinch. “Oh, sure. Everyone has heard of the Breckenridge Bulls. They’re famous for their breeding. R. B. also raises sheep.” She waved at Maggy and CJ as they left the diner.

Katherine dug into her purse and pulled out what looked like a folded page ripped from a magazine. She smoothed it out on the counter, and Lolly recognized it as the article detailing the incredible story of Nick Noble and Cole St. John. It also advertised the Silver Buckle’s fledgling—and now nonexistent—dude ranch business.

“I’m looking for the Silver Buckle dude ranch,” Katherine said, taking a bite of pie. “By the way, this is divine.”

Lolly tried to ignore the way Katherine’s words found soft soil
and took a deep breath. “Thank you. And, uh, the Buckle . . . well, I’m not sure that they—”

“We work at the Silver Buckle,” Quint said, wiping his mouth. “It’s about ten miles out of town. You can follow us out if you want.”

Lolly swallowed a strange spurt of panic. Not that she didn’t trust Quint. No, her fear ran deeper. Katherine shouldn’t be here, around these cowboys, this life. She was young—twenty-five by Lolly’s knowing count—young enough to not know better.

“I don’t think that—”

“Hey,” Katherine interrupted her, wiping her mouth, staring at the wall behind Lolly. “Isn’t that a picture of Bobby Russell?” She stood up, leaning over the counter to peer at it. “It’s signed to his sister, Laura.”

Lolly didn’t have to look at the picture to see it—Bobby, astride a bucking bull, his arm high, his legs clamped around the animal’s girth. One of his winning shots.

Katherine sat back down, eyes shining. She looked at Lolly. “Do you know my father?”

And just like that, Lolly knew she had to hustle Katherine out of town as soon as possible, or they were all in for a world of hurt.

CHAPTER 4

R
AFE USED TO LIVE FOR FANS
. Loved to hear them call his name, flirt with him, wear T-shirts with his face printed on their chests. Occasionally he took a group of them out for dinner, let them fawn over him. He wished Nick could have been there to watch.

Now, nearly a week since he’d destroyed his career, Rafe sat at the kitchen table with his laptop and wished everyone would leave him alone. From letters of encouragement to outraged parents berating him for leading their precious ones astray, fans barraged his Web site and filled his MySpace account with comment after comment, some even starting online brawls.

And if that weren’t enough, he kept hearing,
“So, you owe me. And I need your help.”

“I can’t help you,” he’d said right before he’d hung up on Katherine Breckenridge. He couldn’t remember ever being that big of a jerk. Then again, the old Rafe Noble had died, probably right beside Manuel.

Everything inside this Rafe just wanted to drop off the face of the earth.

“I’m going to catch up with Nick. He’s fixing fences by Rattlesnake Creek. Do you want to join me?” Piper, Nick’s wife, stuck her head in the kitchen doorway.

She and Nick had moved into the old hunting lodge on the hill behind the house. For a former journalist, she fit like a glove into ranch life, with the exception of her aversion to meat. According to Stefanie, Piper’s freelance writing business had kept gas in the trucks and groceries in the pantry throughout the winter. These days, everyone pitched in to keep the ranch from going under.

“Nope,” Rafe said, trying not to be sullen.

Piper gave him a sad smile. “Answering fan mail?”

“Hard to type with one hand.”

“I can help you later, if you’d like.”

Rafe shook his head. “Thanks. I think I’ll just get some sleep.”

“I have a two-way radio with me if you need anything.”

He nodded. He’d have to be on his last breath before he called Nick or any of the Nobles for help. He closed his laptop, drumming his fingers on the titanium surface.

Thankfully, he’d found a good place to hide should someone—like a nosy reporter—come looking. Hopefully, they’d stop first at his old ranch in Texas, where he and sometimes Manuel had spent their off time between events. Rafe was renting it out to one of his bull-riding friends in favor of motels and life in the fast lane and hadn’t lived there in nearly a year.

From the looks of it, that life had sped by him, leaving him in the dust. Or at least in a brace above his knee, an arm sling, and a very uncomfortable neck brace. Stefanie had the gall to get him a wheelchair, and he’d nearly rolled himself right off the porch when he arrived back at the Silver Buckle three days ago.

However, he couldn’t deny that coming back to the Silver Buckle had been the right thing to do. Stefanie had been correct in reading his need to recuperate, find a quiet place. The ranch seemed unchanged in the five years since he’d left, with its simple, two-story log home, the barns for the horses and calves, and the fences that corralled the horses. Even the carved Silver Buckle sign over the long drive had waved in the breeze, welcoming him back as if he’d left yesterday.

Only the absence of his father, leaning against the porch, arms folded in silent greeting, evidenced the changes on the ranch. Although Rafe had been back for the funeral, he hadn’t expected the silence that echoed in the house.

Or in his heart.

Wheeling himself out to the porch, he sat inhaling the breeze filled with the smells of sage and alfalfa from the fields. The Silver Buckle, eighty thousand acres of homesteaded land, sat in the shadow of the Custer National Forest, and from there, hills and meadows rolled out until they spilled into the hazy Bighorn Mountains to the west. The heifers that hadn’t calved lazed about the winter field, just down from the house, their tails swishing off flies, unaware of their impending doom. The new calves had already been rounded up, castrated, tagged, branded, and sent to Kelly’s field for the summer. Rafe remembered well the roundups from his youth and his overwhelming pride at wrestling calves into the dirt, hoping to hear his father’s praise.

It seemed Bishop always had plenty for Nick.

Rafe ran his hand through his hair. He needed a cut and a shave, but he wasn’t planning on having any interviews—at least for a few weeks. He tested his shoulder and felt hope at the minimal pain
that spiked up his arm. So maybe he wasn’t quite ready for a ride yet. But give him a couple of weeks to recuperate . . .

He spotted a plume of dust kicking up and searched for the source—Andy’s dirty pickup headed back from town with the part for the carburetor. Rafe had spent the morning supervising from the porch as the two hands had tried to put the tractor back together.

A Jeep trailed Andy. The vehicles turned up the Silver Buckle drive.

Rafe sat in the chair, feeling almost defiant. He’d had more than one fan track him down at events, his home, even his hospital rooms. If they were toting home a fan, she’d see exactly the kind of hero she worshiped: Broken. Defeated. A sham.

Andy parked near the barn.

Quint got out of the passenger side and waved at Rafe. “Someone’s looking for you.”

Rafe didn’t smile as the Jeep slowed and stopped in front of the porch. A pretty brunette sat behind the wheel, but he refused to be impressed. Instead he raised his chin.

She got out of the Jeep. She was tall and curvy, with brown hair that fell past her shoulders. Except for the aviator sunglasses, she looked like she’d just stepped out of some Western catalog with her jeans, flowery shirt, and bright red boots. Apparently, her version of Old West mystique.

A moment passed between them when he felt sure she expected him to greet her. He said nothing.

She stared at him, probably comparing the image before her with his most recent appearance in
America, Now!
Then she blew out a breath and worked up a smile.

He must really look rough.

“Hi,” she said.

Rafe would have nodded, but his neck brace kept him from being that aloof, so he said, “Hello.”

She edged around the Jeep, holding on to her handbag with what seemed like a bull-rider’s grip. She looked him over with another long perusal.

Yeah, that’s right. This is what happens when you fall off a bull.

“You okay?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Do I look okay?”

Maybe she was a reporter, wanting an exclusive on how it felt to watch your career vanish, along with your hard work and reason for living. Couldn’t she see that he just wanted to be left alone, to wallow in his shattered life in solitude?

“No, I guess not,” she said softly in answer to his question. She looked past him, toward Andy’s truck. “Oh, boy.”

Not quite the response he expected. “Something I can help you with?”

She tightened her jaw, and for a second he regretted his tone.

“I want . . .” She cleared her throat, then looked down at a torn piece of paper, as if it held a script. Then she folded it and slipped it into her back pocket with a small shake of her head. She looked up. “I know I didn’t call in advance, but I was hoping . . .”

“Oh, c’mon—just ask.”

“Huh?” She took off her sunglasses and stared at him. Big, innocent hazel eyes, hair tickled by the wind.

“Fine, you can have an autograph. But then I’m done. No interviews, no pictures. You leave, okay?”

Something sparked in her eyes. “I don’t think you underst—”

“Listen—” what more did she want? a date?—“if you can’t already tell, I’m out of the game. No more riding for me. I’m really sorry you came all this way, but I’m not in an interview mood. Now, I’ll sign whatever you have . . . just don’t tell anyone how you found me, okay?”

She stared at him a moment longer, and then anger sparked in her eyes. “Wow, you’re really a piece of work.”

Everything inside him tightened as if he’d seen his future flash before him. But he hadn’t ridden bulls since he was a kid without learning to hide his wounds. “Don’t you worry, sweet thing. I’ll be back in the game in no time.”

“I’m not your sweet thing.”

And right then, like he’d been kicked in the head, he heard the voice, the one that had been haunting him. The one that still made him feel like he’d up and run off with her daddy’s gold.

“It’s you.”

Katherine Breckenridge—she looked a lot less like the snarling coyote he’d imagined on the other end of the phone and more like a spooked filly.

As if to confirm his accusation, she turned as red as his father’s Ford pickup. “Okay, I thought I could do this, but you’re . . . such a . . . such a . . . I knew I shouldn’t have felt sorry for you. You really are as nasty in person as you sound on the phone. Are all bull riders jerks, or do you have the corner on that market?”

So much for spooked filly. “I can’t believe you had the gall to fly all the way—”

“Drove. I drove.”

“
Drove
all the way from New York just to—”

“Actually, I flew to Rapid City and—”

“I don’t care how you got here. You get back inside that Jeep, turn around, and head east.”
And don’t look at me that way.
He stood, hoping to put oomph to his words.

“If you’d only listen—”

“I’m calling the cops.” He turned, bumping into his wheelchair. Pain shot into his brain, and he started to fall. His hand went out, hoping to catch the wheelchair, but it rolled back, and he missed.

He landed on his knee, his shoulder, his back. It slapped the breath straight out of him. He lay there, openmouthed, feeling as if he’d been kicked by a bull.

“Are you okay?” Katherine Breckenridge stood over him, with what looked like real concern on her face. “Let me help—”

“Go away!” Where the volume came from, he didn’t know, but he pushed her hand away. “Get away from me!”

She recoiled. “You’re hurt—”

“You just figured that out?” He pulled himself up, gritted his teeth as he staggered to stand.

“I just . . . I thought—”

“I’m flat broke. So you can do your vulture picking somewhere else.” He stood, grabbing the porch beam to keep from falling.

“Can I help you?” Stefanie rounded the corner of the house.

Katherine glared at Rafe. Then she smiled and turned to Stefanie. “Yes, please. I was wondering if I can hire someone to show me ranch life.”

Rafe glanced at Stefanie. “Hey, she’s not—”

Stefanie held up a hand, wearing the same expression she’d had when she volunteered him to take her best friend to junior prom. “Yes,” she said with a slow smile, “I think we can accommodate you.”

John walked into the diner at his usual time, thirty minutes before closing, slid onto his regular stool, and ordered his usual, a Reuben.

Lolly gave him a smile before making change for the customer at the counter.

He’d lost count of how many years he’d been doing this, helping Lolly sweep up, then walking her over to her trailer, where they’d sit under the stars while she shared gossip she’d heard that day. He’d put his arm around her and lull himself into thinking that they were really married, that she wouldn’t eventually shrug out of his embrace and disappear into her trailer while he drove home alone.

Back in the days when he had high hopes for them, he’d steal a kiss or two. Lolly had never truly yielded to him, however. But, strangely, although he spent quite a few years trying to stamp out the flame of illicit rumor, she did nearly nothing to defend her honor.

As if she didn’t care.

It took him years to understand why and to accept the fact that she’d probably never say yes to his proposal. So John bought Reuben sandwiches instead.

She set down a piece of rhubarb pie in front of him and poured him a cup of coffee. “Did you get the truck fixed?”

“Nope,” he said, cutting the pie. “Fixed the hole in the fence, though.”

They could be talking about the weather for all the intimacy of their conversation. Or maybe, in ways, their conversation resem
bled true marriage, caring about the intricacies of the day, embracing the mundane, bearing witness to each other’s lives.

“Lolly had some interesting company today,” Egger Dugan said from the other end of the counter. He had the uncanny ability to know everything that happened in Phillips within moments, and Lolly’s Diner was his personal dispatch center. He started his mornings with a cup of stiff coffee and ended his days eating the leftover pie. John had never seen him out of his coveralls and oily canvas jacket.