by Nicole Snow
“Grace—”
“You’re such a flipping idiot, Ridge Barnet! Are you trying to get yourself killed? Because that’s what your little stunt will do.” Shaking my head, I walk to the back of the truck.
Little, my ass.
It’s actually a ginormous reckless stunt.
I truly can’t fathom what’s running through his head.
“My stunt? Excuse the fuck out of you, darlin’, I wasn’t born yesterday. I see what you’re up to. Pretending to be on the run? Showing up at the almost-deserted Bobcat in the middle of a blizzard, that bald asshole, your stuntman. You’re a fine actress, Grace. Hats off to you and the rest of your crew. Shit, that scene in the alley in town was worth ten Oscars.”
“Oscars? What are you talking about? I don’t—”
“This!” He roars, holding a phone in front of me.
It’s one of the many ugly articles I’d read this morning.
I’d searched his name so many times the past few days that it auto-appeared in my Google interests. There wasn’t even a need to go looking.
As soon as I’d looked at my phone to check the weather report this morning, the page was full of breaking news about Ridge Dane Barnet, scandalously living with a pumpkin farmer nymph in Dallas, North Dakota.
Nymph! That’s what a few of those trash pieces called me, making it seem like I’m not even old enough to drink, much less date a famous movie star.
“That’s not even the best one,” I mutter, swatting the phone away from my face. “The one where my face is photoshopped on some lady’s body in a bikini is a real doozie. I hope you aren’t paying whoever you’ve got doing your dirty work too much. Two of the pictures they lifted off my old social media page aren’t even me!”
They were, in fact, ancient photos of my mom that I’d uploaded and posted after she died. Pictures from when she was young and alive. That was enough to trigger hot, angry tears before I’d even scanned through three of those twisted PR pieces.
“Bastard!” I add, tottering a step backward.
“Me? Fuck, you...you think I’m the one who did this?” He blinks like he’s straining to comprehend his own question.
“Who else? Unless you’re going to tell me Cornelius can pick up a phone and speak backstabber-ese...” I walk to the back of the truck and start cranking up the trailer hitch.
“You’ve lost it. Why the hell would I broadcast where I’m staying to the entire world? Much less your business. The whole fucking point of moving here was to get away.”
I flash him a vicious look that tells him I’m past done with his lies.
“I wish I knew,” I huff out. “Because if you pulled this crap trying to save your career, congratulations. It’s enough to get you and Tobin killed before you’re ever cast in another film!”
His brows pull together into angry, thick thunderheads. “You can’t even come up with a motive before you point your finger? Bullshit, Grace.”
“Is it? There must be a hundred articles online calling you disgraced, desperate, saying you had some kind of breakdown and trashed your career.” I take a deep breath, wondering who’s saying these words.
Oh, he’s got me hotter than a pistol, but I know my words hit him straight in the balls.
He gives back dagger eyes. I fold my arms, ready to stand my ground.
“It’s too perfect. A hot little scandal you can control. A kept woman, maybe. Someone to smile and look pretty and make you marketable again. Maybe that’s why you stepped up at that bar and implied we’re engaged. Some of those articles, they said you’re...” I lose my nerve.
“What?” he snaps. “Spit it out, woman. Let me fucking have it.”
Deranged. Disturbed. Crazy.
I can’t force it out because I don’t want to believe it.
He moves a step closer, an image of walking stone.
“You know why I stepped in that night at the Bobcat. I saved you from that ogre-fuck—and I hope it was real. Christ. I’ve seen crazy fans before and media traps, but you’re delusional if you think I’d marry you for a story, a payoff, whatever the fuck you’re after. Delusional!”
“Marry you? You’re the delusional one!” Furious, I push my hair back out of my eyes after it’d fallen in and ask, “Is your ego so huge that you think you’re untouchable, Ridge? Newsflash: you’re not! And you’re a bigger fool if you think I’ve done anything underhanded.”
“Gracie?”
I glance over at Dad standing in the barn door. World’s worst timing.
No, not standing. Holding himself up. Barely.
Oh, no.
“Dad!” I leap over the trailer hitch and run to him.
Ridge reaches him first and catches his other arm just as Dad starts slipping to the ground.
“It’s all right, Nelson,” he says, the fury in his voice gone. “We’ve got you.”
For a second, our eyes lock, and I hate that he can see my naked fear.
“We have to get him in the house,” he tells me, looking over Dad’s bobbing head.
Ugh, he’s right.
I’ll have to hold the urge to sink my teeth into his stupid handsome face and find out if he tastes like a filthy liar.
Ridge does most of the muscle work, carrying Dad more than supporting him into the house, straight to the posh couch in his living room.
“H-hell. I’m sorry,” Dad says, gasping loudly. “I...I was feeling so much better but...”
“It’s okay, Dad,” I say, sitting beside him. “Don’t worry.”
Easier said than done.
Guilt gnaws at my insides in huge, monstrous bites.
I’d pushed him too hard this morning.
This half-baked plan, this reflex, to run away on a whim.
“What were you two yelling about?” Dad asks, leaning his head against the back of the sofa and sucking in air.
“Nothing.” Ridge says it without skipping a beat.
I pat Dad’s knee. “He’s right. We were just trying to get the horses ready.”
“Don’t lie to me, Gracie,” Dad says, his face miserably pale. “I heard you screaming about...about being killed.”
Crud.
Busted.
My concern doesn’t override my anger at Ridge, or my fear for him. If he thinks I faked him out to thieve a story for the press, he’s going to get himself killed.
Clay Grendal and his men are very real. And now I’m sure he’s seen the headlines. He knows where we are and who’s been helping us.
“We’ve had a leak. Someone blabbed to the media that you and Grace are staying here, Nelson,” Ridge says with soldier precision, delivering the facts. None of the rage he’d shown earlier.
“The media?” Dad echoes.
“Yes, leaked. I haven’t told anyone.” Ridge looks at me with disdain. “I wouldn’t have told anyone.”
“Neither would I,” I snap, glaring back.
This isn’t the time or place, but holy hell. I’m so not letting Mr. Snarlypants Actor tread all over me.
Dad looks at me slowly. “It’s him. That’s what he does...gets to you by using the people you love, and anyone who’d dare help you. Pete and his minions know we’re here. I knew he’d come. Come back and find us.”
A chill rips up my spine at how he says find us.
I know he’s right, though. That’s exactly what Clay did to Noelle and her husband. Got to her so we couldn’t go there.
Now, he’s targeting Ridge, and since direct threats won’t work with him, he’s trying a different tactic so we’ll leave.
“Want to give him a name, Nelson?” Ridge asks, shifting his gaze.
“Satan himself.” Dad bows his head and shakes it hopelessly.
“If you’re right, he’ll have to do better than a few cheap tabloid tricks,” Ridge says, undaunted. “I have security. High-tech cameras. A direct line to the Dallas police. You’re safe.”
“No!” Dad heaves in a breath, his eyes bulging out. “And neither are you. Not
if he knows who you are.”
He breaks into a new coughing fit. I’m more concerned than ever because he can’t seem to stop.
“Here,” Tobin says, appearing at my side with a glass of water.
Dad stops long enough to take a sip, coughs again, then leans his head back, straining to fill his lungs. He’s a statue of pain, suffocating in his own body.
“Dad, forget him for a minute,” I whisper quietly. “We need to get you to the doctor.”
“No, no.” He heaves out a rattling sigh. “It’s...it’s too dangerous, Gracie. I just need some more medicine you bought me and then we’ll...we’ll...”
He looks at me with blank, confused eyes.
My heart leaps into my throat.
Tobin touches Dad’s cheek, then his forehead. “He’s burning up. We have to get this man immediate medical attention.”
I press a hand to Dad’s forehead and see how right he is. My hand feels like I just put it on a stove burner.
“Jesus,” I whisper to myself. “Where should we take him?”
“We’ll call a doctor,” Ridge says, giving Tobin a sharp look. “Find one who’ll drive out here. I don’t care what it costs, tell them I’ll pay it.”
“Right away.” Tobin rushes out of the room, his immaculately polished shoes hitting the floor loudly.
“I’ll go to the cabin and grab the medications you bought,” Ridge tells me, rising to his feet. “There has to be something to tide him over before we can get a pro out here.”
I nod while standing up.
“Here, Dad, just lie down. Don’t move.” From decorating, I know they keep pillows in the huge linen closet in the laundry room. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to get you a pillow and a nice cold washcloth.”
The way he flops into the cushions, without argument, his delirious eyes pinched shut, proves just how sick he is. I haven’t seen him so helpless since the day I found him shot and bleeding.
God. Things can’t possibly get any worse...right?
A heavy haze of fear, frustration, and dread shrouds me by the time I’ve gathered a couple of pillows and a washcloth that I run under cold water for Dad’s forehead.
I need to call an ambulance and take Dad to town, wherever the nearest hospital is. Tobin isn’t going to find a doctor to drive out here for a house call.
Both Ridge and Tobin are at Dad’s side when I return, which surprises me, because I wasn’t dilly-dallying.
It also makes it that much harder to hate him when he’s stooped over Dad’s frail figure, concern blazing hot in those starry blue eyes.
Why is it the guys who have souls also hulk out and transform into such screaming assholes?
“The doctor’s on her way,” Ridge tells me, glancing up. “Should be ten minutes or so.”
I’m stunned.
Nodding, I lay the cool cloth on Dad’s forehead.
“Rest easy. Everything’s gonna be okay,” I whisper, stroking his brow.
I can’t bear to look at Ridge because it hits me then.
Whether I like it or not, he’s the key to our lives ever being okay again.
The numbing blur of fear lingers for the next few hours as the doctor, a middle-aged no-nonsense woman, gives Dad a thorough exam.
Finally, she delivers a diagnosis—pneumonia.
At first I’m so scared I can’t breathe.
But she assures us that hospitalization isn’t our only option and recommends hiring a home health company to oversee his care for the next few days.
In hours, I’ve signed a contract for a home health agency. Ridge insisted, telling me I shouldn’t waste a second worrying about the cost.
There’ll be time for that later, I guess, but for now...
I’ll swallow my pride and put Dad’s health first.
The RN arrives later. We transfer Dad to the cabin, get him situated in bed with a portable oxygen condenser and an IV of saline solution and antibiotics. He’s out, sleeping relatively peacefully in no time.
Big relief.
It’s all been such a whirlwind that I’m dizzy, but also so thankful it hurts.
Dr. Abrams is an amazing woman. She promises she’ll be back to check on Dad the day after tomorrow, and we’ll go from there. She has a small clinic in Dallas, but she only works a few days a week.
Tobin had seen her last fall—more to scope her out as a suitable care option rather than for any real issue, I suspect—and put her on retainer as their private on-call doctor.
It’s easy to think of everything when you’ve got a full-time valet, apparently.
Tobin knew they’d eventually need a doctor out here, though, and he was right.
Now for the hard part.
I owe Ridge so flipping much, including an apology for thinking he’d been behind those media lies.
For thinking he’d ever be so ugly, so selfish, when he’s proven otherwise today a dozen times.
“He’s sleeping like a baby,” Nurse Jackie Owens says, smiling as she steps out of the bedroom.
She’s an older woman with dark curly hair, bright-green eyes, and so far hasn’t taken one bit of crap from Dad the few times he worked up the energy to fuss.
I give it a day. He’s never liked being coddled.
“I can take him, easy,” she assures me with a wink. “I’ve knocked sense into country boys from around here missing fingers and toes and still insisting all they need is a Band-Aid and a shot of Jack.”
I hope she’s right. I’m glad she’s been a nurse for thirty years and swears she’s seen it all.
“Thank you.” I truly don’t know what more to say.
It’s all coming down on me like an avalanche right now.
This day. This week. This year.
This life.
“Why don’t you get some shut-eye yourself, young lady? Sure looks like you could use it,” Jackie says, patting my shoulder. “He’s in good hands.”
A burning ache scratches my throat.
Sure, with her looking after him, Dad will be all right. But for how long?
I pinch my lips together and nod.
Needing a bit of air, I say, “I need to go check on our horses.”
And I do. I haven’t been to the barn since this morning, when Dad collapsed and Ridge nearly carried him into the house.
I put on my coat and head outside, into the darkening purple glow of evening. A somber day for the sky to look so beautiful.
Zipping my coat, I head for the barn.
“Hey,” a gruff voice calls.
The ache in my throat burns hotter as Ridge shuts the door to his house behind him, rapidly striding my way on those powerful legs.
“Hey yourself,” I answer.
He’s been back and forth between the house and the cabin all day, the same as Tobin.
Tears burn my eyes and I turn, starting for the barn again.
Not now. I’m so not ready to face him again.
“I was just going out to check the horses,” I say, fighting hard to control my pitch.
“I’ll join you.”
Of course he will.
Lovely.
But I can’t say no. In fact, I have a whole hecking lot I need to say to him.
Starting with I’m sorry.
I’ll wait until we’re inside the barn, I guess, with the horses between us. An emotional barrier of sorts. I need one bad right now.
Cornelius struts out the door, his head bobbing, as we walk around the corner of the barn. I think nothing of it until I don’t hear Ridge’s footsteps and turn, seeing he’s fallen back.
“Was the door open all day?” he asks.
“I haven’t been here since this morning,” I admit. “Haven’t even had a chance to look out the window.”
“Me, neith—Shit!”
“What’s wrong?” I step up, heart banging in my chest, and look around him into the empty barn. “Oh, no. No, no, nooo!” I shoulder around, racing into the barn, praying to everything holy that this isn�
��t happening. My luck can’t be this bad.
But seeing the stall doors flung open and no sign of Rosie and Stern anywhere...yep, it’s atrocious.
“Grace?”
“They’re gone. Dad...he opened the stalls before he walked outside and collapsed. He said he’d get the horses ready while I hooked up the trailer.” My heart sinks into a black pit as I spin around, staring at the open door. It might as well be a sawed-off shotgun aimed at my head. “Holy hell, they’ve been gone all day.”
Ridge sweeps forward, grabbing my arm, holding me up when I’m not sure my knees will anymore.
“We’ll find them,” he growls. “They couldn’t have gotten far. The snow’s a lot less melted in these hills and fields. They couldn’t have moved much faster than turtles out there.”
His words are hardly any comfort.
A horrible flash of the horses dead in the fields hits me, their legs twisted from uneven, icy ground.
Just when I thought my heart had nothing left to break, the last piece teeters on a cliff.
If something horrid happened to Rosie and Stern, it’ll be the end of me.
It’s growing darker by the minute.
After Ridge spots hoofprints in the snow, we’re in his truck, bouncing along barely cleaned up field roads, eyes darting around in all directions for Rosie and Stern.
The urge to curl up and die, knowing it’s my fault, gnaws at my heart.
I should’ve checked up on them.
I should’ve realized Dad was going to open their stalls, getting them ready for the trailer.
I should’ve just had an effing brain.
“Grace, I’m sorry,” Ridge says suddenly, raking me with this deep blue gaze. “For this morning. Accusing you of that media leak...I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking. Actually, I do. It was Hollywood hitting me in the face, everything I wanted left behind, and I panicked. Jumped to conclusions I shouldn’t have.”
I’m frozen.
Just when I thought nothing could make me feel worse, boom, there it is.
It’s not nearly as absurd to believe I’d ratted him out when I think about it.
He’s rich, famous, and reclusive.
Who wouldn’t want everyone and their dog to know they’re staying at his ranch? What scummy gutter reporter wouldn’t want inside baseball on the tragic boy actor who’s turned into a haunted man?