She hadn’t fainted. She’d been a little weak from hunger and heat . . . and shock. What was that thing he’d been driving, anyway? Part truck, part bull?
The pictures of the event confirmed the damage she’d seen only briefly. The entire lobby had been ruined—glass columns and windows shattered, the carpet and the furniture destroyed by water. Thankfully, no one had been seriously hurt—just one attack of angina and three ladies who’d sprained their ankles. But even twenty-four hours later, the threat of lawsuits made Katherine want to put the pillow over her head.
“What is wrong with me that everything I touch turns out a chaotic mess?”
“I hardly think it’s your fault Rafe Noble drove his pickup through the front door of the hotel.” Cari plopped down on the end of the bed, flipping off her sandals and smoothing out her black skirt. “It’s just too bad it didn’t happen about four hours into the night—you could have had headlines and donations.”
Katherine rubbed her temples. “How is he?”
“Noble? Gorgeous, and if you want confirmation on that, I dug this out of your trash.” She tossed a magazine on Katherine’s lap.
The guy she’d seen last night bore little resemblance to the one on the cover of America, Now! complete with danger in his brown eyes, a slight smirk over his whiskered face, and dark hair curling out from under his black cowboy hat. The editors hadn’t had to Photoshop in those muscled arms or wide chest, barely hidden by his black protective vest. He had trouble written on every inch of him, and he’d brought it right to her doorstep, or rather, through her doorstep.
Katherine tossed the magazine to the floor. “Please. So he cleans up well. If you forgot, he eviscerated my event. I can’t believe this is happening.”
“Speaking of, the board wants to meet with you. Half your donors walked.”
“Of course they did! Because who’s going to support an organization so far under they have to use spelunking equipment to find their way out?” She rubbed her eyes, hoping to dispel her headache. “He lives near my uncle, you know.”
“What? Who?” Cari got up, poured a glass of water.
“Rafe Noble. His family has a ranch near my uncle Breckenridge. Uncle Richard sent me a box of my mother’s things right after the funeral. One of the pictures was wrapped in the Phillips Journal, and Rafe Noble had made front page for donating a bunch of money to something.”
“Maybe he’s stalking you.”
“Yeah, that’s it. He’s been after me for years, just waiting to crash his truck into my fund-raiser. It’s a textbook scenario.”
“The guy in the paper doesn’t sound like the guy who decimated your event.” Cari handed Katherine the water.
“Eviscerated.” She took a sip. “And people change.”
Cari raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow, folding her hands over her chest. “Maybe not so much. He did fall at your feet.”
“Not in repentance. He was hurt.” The memory of Rafe Noble—and she had recognized him immediately, thanks to his Kong-size image in Times Square—falling out of his truck, windshield glass in his forehead, holding his knee as he writhed on the ground flashed through her mind. If she never saw a man in pain again it would be too soon. Still, the way Noble had looked churned up all those feelings she experienced at the Seventh Street shelter—pity, fear, and helplessness.
Then she’d gotten a whiff of him, which was probably what had made her woozy and sent her to the hospital. The drunken sot had destroyed not only her event but century-old architecture. So what that the police report came back clean—she’d asked Bradley to check—she knew what she’d smelled. And what Noble had cost her.
“I’m trying not to desire his suffering.”
“Well, suffering he is. According to the papers, he’s holed up in his hospital room, not taking visitors,” Cari said. “The lawsuits are pouring in, and he has a few charges tallying up. His press agent issued a formal apology, but it hasn’t done much to calm the lynch party outside the hospital, some of whom want to string up the Breckenridge Foundation beside him.”
“That’s just beautiful. Did we get any pledges at all?”
“I don’t know yet. Maybe you should put the covers over your head, because the board has decided to audit our accounts. You’ve been cordially invited to a meeting this afternoon to hand over our books.”
Katherine closed her eyes, feeling the faintest brush of pain in the back of her skull. Not now. The last thing she needed was another migraine. “That’s probably a good thing.” She hoped they could figure out where she went wrong. Why she couldn’t seem to find the black hole where a half million charitable dollars had vanished thanks to the recent plunge of the stock market. “Sometimes it seems that the harder I try, the more overwhelming life becomes.”
“Join the human race, honey.” Cari picked the magazine off the floor, studied it for a moment, then tossed it back onto the bed. “The guy’s cute, though. And all this press won’t hurt his marketability. A couple months and a few donations and everyone will say this is our fault for having a hotel in his traffic pattern. It’s all about spin.” She gathered up the newspapers. “My take is that you need to escape for a few days.”
“I’m not running, if that’s what you’re suggesting. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“No, I mean . . . go on vacation. Get away from the pressure for a while. The Breckenridge chain has a hotel in the Bahamas, right? Get some sun.”
“It’s June in New York, Cari. I have sun galore.”
“Isn’t there a Breckenridge hotel in Paris? When’s the last time you were in Paris?”
“I don’t like Paris.”
“Who doesn’t like the city of romance?”
“I have romance: Bradley.”
Katherine watched as Cari tried to find words. Apparently she came up blank because a simple “Oh” emerged.
“Don’t start.”
“Did I say anything?”
“I . . . love him. You know, Bradley couldn’t be a better match for me if I picked him out myself. So what if my grandfather introduced us? Besides, Bradley has every reason to be overprotective—can you imagine losing your wife only a month after your wedding? He’s just . . . wounded.”
“And I know your soft spot for wounded souls, Florence.”
“He’ll make a good husband.”
“I only want you to be happy. Maybe find true love.”
“What makes you think I haven’t?”
Cari’s eyes lit up. “Wait—I know! Doesn’t the Breckenridge San Francisco have that spa addition? I’m calling to make you a reservation right now. You’ll come back a new woman, I promise. Maybe one who wants to live life on the wild side.” She held up a finger and dug into her purse for her cell. “Let me take care of it.”
“I don’t do wild—!”
“That’s your problem.” Cari got up and disappeared out the door.
Two weeks at a spa. Aside from the fact that Katherine could use a decent massage, the idea seemed like a colossal waste of time and money, especially when she was trying to raise money.
Still, she could use a dose of rest . . . and peace.
No, what she could use was about five hundred thousand dollars.
She glanced at the magazine on the bed.
And she might know just where to get it.
“You’ve really done it now, Rafe.”
The voice brought Rafe out of the place of shadowy quiet into the harsh realities of a sterile hospital room. Sunlight slanted in through the venetian blinds, striping his white cotton blanket. Blocking Rafe’s perfectly good view of the Manhattan skyline was his clearly miffed brother, Nick. He stood with his arms folded over his black T-shirt and wore a white Stetson just like the hero everyone called him. But if Rafe was hoping for sympathy for his injuries, he’d have to find it in some other Noble because Nick’s dark eyes could chill him to the bone.
“Good to see you too, Nick.” Despite his neck brace, Rafe tried to look the other
way, only to find assailant numero dos in his beautiful twin sister, Stefanie. Her black hair tumbled down her back, her eyes sharp, as she tucked her hands into her jeans and shook her head. “Hiya, Sis.”
He thought he saw a glistening of tears and knew he was right when she gritted her teeth and turned away. “I suppose I should just be glad you’re alive.”
That was nice. Rafe gazed at the ceiling, since it seemed to be the only safe place, and sighed. “I didn’t ask you to come out. I don’t—”
“Need help?” Nick cut in. “Well, let’s see. Aside from the barrage of telephone calls and reporters camped outside the hospital, you’ve been charged with reckless driving, you have a manager who says he’s suing you for breach of contract claiming that you jeopardized your marketability, which is true because you’ve been dropped by your sponsors, and I’ve counted four lawsuits for damages from the hotel and property. You’ve shattered your knee, dislocated your shoulder, barely missed losing an eye, and have a hairline crack in your third cervical vertebra. One lower and you’d be in a wheelchair. Your doc says he’s amazed you aren’t bedridden with a tube down your throat. You may as well kiss your career good-bye because you might not be able to walk again, let alone get on a bull.”
Nick shook his head. If Rafe didn’t know his hardheaded brother better, he would have thought he saw a flash of sympathy on his face.
Nick sighed. “You might consider letting us help you, just a little.”
Itchiness crawled over Rafe, a familiar residue of the painkiller they’d doped him up on after surgery. He clenched his jaw against the frustration boiling out of his chest. The IV pinched as he brought his hand to his face, covering his eyes. How had he gone from a guy who invested his life in learning how to handle a bull to a reckless jerk who destroyed people’s lives?
“Was anyone hurt?” he asked softly.
Stefanie sat on his bed, put her hand on his leg. “A few sprained ankles. Someone fainted. But no serious injuries.”
Oh, thank You, God. But the words, easily uttered so many times when he’d gotten off a bull or even stayed on for the full eight seconds, seemed insolent now. God had to be shaking His head, as disappointed as Rafe’s mother would be.
For a second, Rafe wondered if it might have been better if he’d just gone flying right through that windshield. At least then Manny and Lucia, his beneficiaries, would get the life insurance.
“I think you’re the worst off.” Stefanie gave him a small, reassuring smile. They’d always read each other’s thoughts, and even now he saw more concern than chastisement in her expression.
Nick, however, wasn’t finished. “Thankfully, you were under the legal limit for sobriety, so be grateful they only charged you with reckless driving. But seriously, Rafe, what were you thinking?”
He hadn’t been thinking. Just going on gut instinct, something he’d been doing pretty much all his life. That same instinct had him longing to launch himself at Nick, needing to put his anger somewhere. But pinned down by his IV and the awkward arm sling, he could only put bite into his tone.
“I was thinking that it would be great to deep-six my career, alienate my fans, and declare bankruptcy. Oh, and the added bonus is that if I so much as breathe near a bull again, I could land in a wheelchair for life.” He realized how bitter he sounded. “You haven’t a clue what it might be like to be me.”
Nick looked out the window, disgust in his voice. “Yeah, it’s so difficult to be admired by women around the world and to buy your house with your checkbook. You had it rough, didn’t you? We all feel so sorry for you.”
Rafe stared at him, a thousand memories stinging him. He lowered his voice. “It’s easy for you, isn’t it, Nick? You have the perfect life—beautiful wife, the ranch, everyone thinks you’re a such a great guy—”
Nick rounded on him, his mouth open. “Where have you been for the last ten years? Apparently not in touch with reality because who was the one who gave Dad a heart attack? Who was the one who disappointed him, broke his heart? Yeah, my life is great now, but believe me when I say it came with a price.”
Rafe gave an incredulous huff. That was the problem. No, Rafe had never disappointed Bishop Noble . . . because his father hadn’t invested enough hope in his youngest son to register disappointment when he left home at eighteen to ride the rodeo circuit.
Nick didn’t have the slightest inkling what it meant to pay a price for your dreams.
“Go home, Nick. Go back to the Silver Buckle and your perfect life.” Rafe didn’t even have enough energy to glare at his know-it-all brother. He turned to Stefanie. “Thanks for coming to see me.”
“We didn’t just come to see you,” Stefanie said. “We’re taking you home. You need to rest and get better. And the ranch could use you. We have a new crop of calves, and the Buckle has a great chance of getting back in the black if we can sell them fat and healthy in the fall.”
“Unless you missed something, I’m in a leg cast, my arm is in a sling, and I can’t move my head.” Rafe had no intention of returning to the Silver Buckle. Not now, not ever.
Only, what could he do? He swallowed back a wave of panic. He was a bull rider. At best he could teach others to ride. At worst, well . . . he’d tried his hand at announcing, and it came out in half-finished sentences and a lot of dead air. And maybe Nick was right—after this fiasco, he could kiss his sponsorships good-bye.
“You need rest, Rafe, and time to figure out your future.” Stefanie took his hand, compassion in her touch. “Let us take you home and help you find your footing.”
In her dark eyes he saw understanding, that unspoken way they had of communicating and the uncanny feeling that she could see inside his soul. She gave the slightest of nods, as if she knew that the healing he needed wasn’t in his bones but deeper.
Nick apparently couldn’t stop himself from adding, “You can’t afford anything else. You’re going to be broke by the time this is done—”
“Nick, go easy—,” Stefanie began.
“After all he’s been given, he just throws it away.” Nick closed his mouth, a muscle pulling in his jaw, as if holding back a torrent of words.
Right then, Rafe felt about nine-years-old, watching his big brother shake his head in disappointment as Rafe failed yet again to lasso the dummy steer head in the yard.
Rafe looked away from the two of them, listening to the sounds of frustration thumping in his chest.
The phone ringing cut through the silence.
Stefanie picked it up. “Hello?” She listened, eyeing Rafe. “Uh, yeah, I guess so. . . .” She extended the phone to him. “It’s a woman. Says that she got your number from your manager, who told her to call you.”
Rafe stared at the phone. “It’s probably a fan,” he whispered in Nick’s direction as he took the receiver. “Hello?”
“Rafe Noble?” The voice on the other end had a New York accent.
“Yep.”
“My name is Katherine Breckenridge. Do you know who I am?”
Rafe tossed the name around in his head. “Uh, I don’t suppose you’re related to the, ah, hotel?”
“I am, Mr. Noble. In fact, I am the president of the Breckenridge Foundation, organizer of the event you totaled last night.”
President? How had this woman gotten his number—hit his manager over the head with something? “What do you want?”
“I want . . . I want amends, Mr. Noble. I want integrity. I want . . .” She cleared her throat, apparently not quite sure what she wanted.
“How can I help you, sweet thing?” Even though everything inside Rafe curdled at the good-old-boy disrespect he put in his tone, Nick was watching, wasn’t he?
“I’m the furthest thing from your sweet thing, cowboy.” He would have guessed a spark in her eyes accompanied those words.
“Spit it out.” Rafe’s arm had begun to ache again, and he just wanted to close his eyes, go back to yesterday or a year ago when he had been at the top of the standings, no
thing in his way to victory. To respect. “What do you want?” he repeated.
“I want . . . five hundred thousand dollars. Which will only get you started on the damages, but it’ll be enough to recover what you cost me last night—”
“What?” He didn’t really know the Breckenridge family, had only agreed to attend the event for his sponsor’s sake, but seriously, was she out of her mind?
“Let me spell it out for you. You eviscerated my event and left me hanging out for my grandfather to pick my organization apart, all before I raised even a nickel for Mercy Doctors.” She caught her breath, and for a second, he thought she might be crying. But she rebounded with both barrels. “So, you owe me. And I need your help. Five. Hundred. Thousand. Dollars. I’ll take a cashier’s check.”
Rafe winced. Behind her bold words and the anger that sizzled, he could still hear the faintest threads of desperation.
He knew all about desperation, which was why he softened his voice when he said, “I . . . don’t have that. And I’m pretty sure this is called extortion, so unless you want my next call to be to the cops, don’t ever call me again. I can’t help you.” Only, for a second, he hated being the bad guy and wished—really wished—he could help.
But a guy as bankrupt as he, in too many ways to count, couldn’t even help himself, let alone anyone else.
Rafe leaned over the bed rail and hung up the phone.
Silence hung in the room. Yet in it, Rafe heard the truth. Despite the trophies, the gold buckle prizes, the fans, the fame, and the riches, he would never measure up to the Noble men of the Silver Buckle.
CHAPTER 3
“I DON’T THINK this day could get any worse.” Katherine toed off her sandals, cradling the phone against her shoulder.
“Just tell me what happened.” Cari was on the other end.
“Where do I start? The part where instead of throwing the phone against the wall after talking to Rafe Noble, I rip his smug magazine cover into tiny shreds? Or the fact that after I tried to call back to apologize, the jerk nixed my call? Or maybe he checked out of the hospital, with no forwarding address. Hiding, of course.” From responsibility. From her.
Taming Rafe Page 4