Beauty and the Brit

by Selvig, Lizbeth

  “Who’s that?”

  “No idea.”

  “Should we lock the door?”

  How ridiculous was that? Rio thought. She’d come from a gang-infested city where she’d walked the streets in inkier darkness than this. Here she was, in the quietest place she’d ever been, scared of one car.

  “It’s probably Don. He said he’d keep an eye out while we settled in.”

  The headlights blinked off.

  Seconds later the dome light shone weakly as the driver’s door opened. She couldn’t stop the irrational fear, despite her assurances to Bonnie, that Jason’s hockey mask was about to glow into view. Then the passenger door followed suit. No one said a word. Both doors closed at the same time.

  Bonnie screamed first.

  “Dawson? My gosh, it’s Dawson!”

  She leaped the three steps to the ground and flew toward the car. Dawson? And then a face did appear out of the colorless night. No hockey mask, just a familiar perfect smile and a smile shadowed by a handsome, unfamiliar tan cowboy hat.

  “I don’t expect a welcome anything like that one, but maybe a hullo?”

  She muffled a gasp with one hand, and Thirty-one jumped from her hold to the blanket. She sprang to the porch railing and rubbed against David’s shoulder. He snorted in amazement.

  “Get that, will ya? What did you do to the cat?”

  Pure joy freed itself inside of her, and she began to laugh. In one stride she picked up the cat and moved her out of the way.

  “David,” she whimpered, leaning over the low railing and wrapping her arms around his neck, knocking the hat back on his head in her eagerness.

  “Hey you, rancher girl. There are a few things I realized I didn’t get to say to you before you left.”

  “Yeah? No, wait, don’t say them yet.” She broke away, crossed to the stairs, and followed Bonnie’s lead by leaping onto the lawn. He was beside her in less than a second and lifted her off the ground so she could wrap her legs around him. “Now,” she said.

  “I love you. I told Kate. But I never said it to you.”

  She laughed again. “You came all this way just for that?”

  “Just for that. And a few other things.”

  “What’s with the cowboy hat? No, shhh. My turn first.” She kissed him, long and a little desperately. If this was a dream, she wanted to be sure and get it in. She pulled back, taking his bottom lip with her between her teeth and letting it go with a soft scrape. “I love you, too.”

  “You do?”

  “I loved you the minute you clotheslined my brother the first night at Crossroads. And then you opened that gorgeous mouth and spoke like a fairy-tale prince. I was a goner.”

  “I only loved your hair.” He laughed and kissed her—one quick taste. “And your eyes. And that feistiness and stubbornness. And bravery. The rest I took my time with.”

  “So what are you doing here? And . . . hold on, where did the other two go?”

  “They don’t want to see this. We’re the old farts. They’re off snogging behind the house.”

  “I don’t want to hear that.”

  “Then hear this. You asked why the hat. You’ve always wanted a cowboy, and even though I’m far from one, I’ll stay here with you, Arionna Montoya. I don’t care about some stupid ten-year plan I made. I don’t care about Bridge Creek if giving it up would mean I could keep you in my life. It took an army, a scrawny horse, a gorgeous redhead, and ten long years to show me I don’t need more money as much as I need you. If this is your dream, then it’s my dream. I’ll start over.”

  “I hate my dream. My dream stinks.” She laughed again.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I didn’t know. I’d never been alone. Do you have any idea how lonely being alone is? I don’t need solitude—not like this. Security—that’s what I found with you. We were in turmoil, but the ground was rock steady. Your family is crazy, but at least it isn’t going anywhere. I found people who don’t leave you because there’s trouble. They don’t take advantage of you. They want you.”

  “Will you be my family, then?”

  “Will you be mine? I’ll even try to get along with Crazy Carter.”

  “Carter was an idiot. He’s packed off back to Florida. I’m back to having debt up to my eyeballs, so you have your scrimping and saving work cut out for you.”

  “Finally. Something I’m good at.”

  “Madam, you are good at so very many things.”

  He squeezed her to him. Heat sluiced through her veins. “I don’t think we can do this here. Not with those two in this little place. It’s cute, but far from soundproof.”

  “Then how soon can you quit your new job? There’s actually one room in my house you’ve never seen.”

  “Your bedroom.”

  “Precisely.”

  “How did your mum decorate that?”

  “I wouldn’t let her near it. It’s painted beige. It’s got some store-bought greenish, bluish, stripy curtain things on the window, and it’s an unholy mess.”

  “Does it have a bed?”

  “King-sized. Quite comfortable, actually.”

  “It sounds heavenly.”

  She kissed him again. This one took off on a timeline of its own, leaving them both out of breath.

  “Can you two knock it off?” Dawson’s voice barely fazed them. They both turned their heads, cheek resting against cheek. “We want to go inside, it’s cold out here.”

  “It is?” David asked.

  “Hadn’t noticed,” Rio added.

  “Blech,” said Bonnie.

  “You two go right ahead.” David straightened their kiss back out. “We’re still discussing the future.”

  Epilogue

  * * *

  THE CHRISTMAS TREE sparkled against the picture window in the living room, its backdrop a postcard-perfect fall of fresh snow. Rio never tired of the lights in every shimmering color, and the glass ornaments, discount-store frugal but richly colored and plentiful. Her favorite decoration was the long garland of popcorn and cranberries they’d spent three nights stringing.

  Cinnamon wafted from the kitchen where the rolls still baked for brunch in half an hour. A bayberry candle burned on the mantle, and the tree still offered up its sprucey fragrance.

  Bonnie tore into a present, her fourth of the morning, with the maturity of a five-year-old and squealed when she revealed a pair of paddock boots just like the ones Rio had opened minutes before.

  “Thank you, David. Thank you so much!”

  “You’re official now. Helmets, boots, breeches. No excuses not to be on the next Olympic team.”

  “Okay. Sure.” She rose and gave him a huge hug. “Thanks, soon-to-be brother-in-law.”

  Rio grinned and stared at her present—the tangible sign Bonnie’s statement was true. The promise of hundred Christmas mornings to come, according to the note that had lain in the box beside it. The diamond on her ring finger caught the brilliance from the tree lights and made a tiny Christmas rainbow on the wall. It still took her breath away.

  “I have one more for you.” David leaned across the couch and kissed her.

  “No, David, you’ve given me too much already. I—”

  The peal of the doorbell cut off her protest.

  “Paul!” Bonnie jumped up, still clad in her pajamas and robe, and raced to the door. Five minutes later, their brother stood in the room, slightly sheepish, but smiling.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “It’s a long drive in the snow.”

  He’d been out of prison for three weeks. Hector, on the other hand, wouldn’t be celebrating Christmas outside Stillwater Correctional Facility for ten to fifteen years. Boyfriend was awaiting trial without bail.

  Rio hugged her brother tightly. David shook his hand. Paul held out a bag with three gifts in it.

  “Not much,” he said. “Thanks for letting me come.”

  “Don’t be silly. You didn’t need to bring anything.”

  The
y hung his jacket on the banister and ushered him to the armchair. Bonnie opened a set of notebooks and a fountain pen. David unwrapped a scarf with a Union Jack on one end and an American flag on the other, which made him crow with delight. Rio’s box was a fair amount bigger.

  “What on earth?”

  She unwrapped it slowly, savoring the moment with her family as much as the gift, until the box was open. Several wads of newspaper later, she covered her mouth and muffled a cry. In her hands was a vintage Breyer horse, exactly like the one she’d lost in the fire.

  “Oh Paul. No way! Wherever did you find one?”

  “It’s not a random one,” he said. “It’s The One. It’s yours.”

  “Mine? But . . . how?” Bewildered, she lost her words.

  “I meant it when I told you there was never supposed to be a big fire. I didn’t know he was going to use gasoline. It was just going to be a little paper fire to scare you and get Bonnie out so Hector could find that money clip. But I had a bad feeling. I snuck into your room before the time Hector was supposed to start the fire. I couldn’t get all the horses, but I got about a dozen. The others are in the car outside.”

  Tears flowed so hard she couldn’t speak.

  “I know you thought we were never a family, Rio, but we were. We are, I hope. Thank you for not hating me.”

  She wiped her eyes and wrapped herself into his embrace. When he released her, David shook Paul’s hand again, then took Rio back into his embrace.

  “Okay, my last gift. I told you once that I didn’t understand why anyone would get a tattoo, but I’ve fallen for a woman with half a dozen of them. They are as much a part of you as your red hair, your blue eyes, and your brave, unfailing heart. I know now exactly why you have them—because they keep parts of your life alive. Am I right?”

  She nodded. He held out his left arm and slowly rolled up the short sleeve. Rio gasped. Encircling his bicep lay a tattooed band created from interlocked red, white, and blue infinity symbols.

  She leapt into his embrace, and he held her, as closely as the brandchapter-new promise on his arm. “David, you did this for me?”

  “The symbol centers are all connected love. No broken futures. Crazy families, crabby cats, rescued palominos, and all, Rio, this is forever.”

  She covered her eyes and the tears of joy she couldn’t stop, but David gently pried her fingers free and held them tightly. Thirty-one meowed and twined in a figure eight through their legs as a long, endless kiss sealed the promise.

  Continue reading for an excerpt from

  THE RANCHER AND THE ROCK STAR

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  RESCUED BY A STRANGER

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  An Excerpt from

  THE RANCHER AND THE ROCK STAR

  FATE WAS A nasty flirt.

  Gray Covey dropped his forehead to the steering wheel of his rented Chevy Malibu and sighed, a plaintive release of breath, like a balloon with a pinhole leak. He had no idea what he’d done to her, but Fate had been after him for months. After this last wrong turn in her twisted maze, he knew she’d finally trapped him.

  The long, pitted road before him wasn’t described in the useless directions scribbled on the slip of paper in his hand. Neither were the two branches fanning left and right fifty yards away. And being lost wasn’t enough. Oh-ho, no. On top of everything, Fate had hung an angry, bruise-colored sky about to unleash enough water to terrify Noah.

  He lifted his eyes, rubbing the creases above his brow. As he prepared to admit defeat, the edge of a small sign to the left caught his eye, and his first small hope sparked. Inching the Malibu over the washboard road, he pulled up to the hand-lettered sign he’d been told to look for. Hope flared into gratitude.

  Hallelujah. Jabberwicki Ranch.

  Still unable to believe someone would give a piece of property such a stupid-ass name, he stopped short of laughing. Half an hour ago, a dour attendant named Dewey at the only gas station in Kennison Falls, Minnesota, had made it clear nobody in the town of eight hundred souls laughed at anything Abby Stadtler–related. The woman Gray sought was no less than revered.

  And yet . . .

  The saintly Abby Stadtler was harboring a missing child.

  His.

  He rolled past the Jibberjabber sign, stopping at side-by-side black mailboxes. A. Stadtler—Jabberwicki and E. Mertz. Ethel Mertz. What?

  Alice in Wonderland meets I Love Lucy?

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” He spoke out loud without meaning to. Out of habit he checked over his shoulder to make sure he hadn’t been followed and overheard.

  This explained why Dawson had been so hard to find—he’d fallen down a friggin’ rabbit hole. The sophomoric humor helped him remember he was only half serious about throttling his runaway son to within an inch of his life. And it kept him distanced from emotions that had been scraped raw in the past weeks. His current jinxed concert tour aside, between his mother’s worsening illness, moving her to the care facility, and Dawson’s disappearance within days of that, life lately had been sorely lacking in humor.

  Except, maybe, for Ariel. In his ex-wife’s case, all he could do was laugh. “They’ve found Dawson,” she’d announced on the phone the night before in her clipped British accent. “But unless you want the authorities to fetch him, you’ll have to pick him up, darling. I can’t leave Europe with the baby.”

  Of course not. After all, only six weeks had passed since their son’s disappearance—nobody could make arrangements for a two-year-old on such short notice.

  Gray had not been about to let the police “fetch” his son, nor had he wanted to alert Dawson and send the boy running again. So here he was in Jabbitybobbits, Minnesota, despite the monumental nightmare he’d caused by leaving his manager, his baffled band members, and eighteen thousand fans in the lurch.

  Well, what the hell? It was just Fate adding another hilarious disaster to the worst tour in rock history. Re-focusing, he looked left toward a homey log house, then right into a thick stand of pine and oak. Which fork led to Ethel Mertz and which to The Jabberwock’s ranch?

  Eeny, meeny, miny . . . He couldn’t get lost if he stayed right. Slowly he drove toward the trees and didn’t see the diminutive, elderly woman staring at him until he’d drawn even with where she stood in an opulent flower garden near the road. For a moment he considered stopping, but her assessing glower and the stern set to her square-jowled face convinced him to settle for an impersonal wave and continue around the gentle curve through the woods. He hoped the dour watchwoman wasn’t the much-adored Abby Stadtler.

  The house he hoped belonged to Jabberwocket . . . Ranch? didn’t appear until he was in its front yard—an old, two-story farmhouse painted non-traditional Guinness brown with windows and doors trimmed in blue and white. A disheveled patch of shaggy, colorful wildflowers, much less immaculate than the garden he’d just passed, stretched along one side.

  The growl of thunder greeted Gray as he exited the car, and he looked with concern at smoke-bellied thunderheads piling high. The end-of-May breeze smelled wet and thick. In front of a small garage stood an older, red Explorer, and on his left a short stone path led to a porch wrapping two sides of the house.

  After mounting two loose steps, he faced a pair of dusty saddles, the kind with big, sturdy horns in front, sitting on sawhorses, and several flowerpots in various stages of being planted. A small square of black electrical tape covered the doorbell. He knocked, got no answer, then knocked again. Several minutes later he returned to the driveway, searching his surroundings. Down another gravel slope, a couple hundred yards away, stood a vintage barn, its white paint worn and the haymow window boarded-up from the inside. He sighed and climbed back into his car.

  Heady scents of hay, sawdust, and animals hung in the heavy air when he left the Malibu once again. To his delight, a golden retriever loped toward him with lolling tongue and giant doggy smile. “Hey fella.” Gray scratched the dog’s ears. “Got a boss around here somewhere?�
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  A muffled thunk answered. Ahead, backed up against the open door of the barn, stood a flatbed trailer loaded high with spring-green hay. The golden led him to the wagon front, and a pair of small, gloved hands emerged from inside the barn, grabbed the twine on one bale, and yanked it out of sight. Intrigued, he watched until the owner of the hands popped from the dim barn interior. She placed her palms on the flatbed and, in one graceful movement, hoisted her long-legged body to a stand. Reaching for a top-tier bale, she dragged on it, toppling the entire stack. Gray’s brows lifted in appreciation.

  “Afternoon,” he called.

  Her startled cry rang more like a bell than a screech of fear, but she stared at him with her mouth in a pretty oh and her chest heaving. “Jeez Louise!” she said at last. “You scared me half to death!”

  Flawless skin was flushed with exertion, and her round, bright eyes flashed uncertainty. A thick, soft pile of chestnut made a haphazard bun atop her head, but long wisps of hair had escaped and swung to her shoulders. Her face stopped Gray’s thoughts dead. It was not the toughened visage he’d have expected of a woman who chucked hay bales like a longshoreman. The elegant, doe-eyed face belonged in a magazine, not a barn.

  “I’m really sorry,” he said.

  A rumpled, hay-flecked, flannel shirt hung loose over body-hugging, faded jeans that had suffered one nicely-placed rip across her left thigh. He braced for the inevitable squeal of recognition.

  “Can I help you with something?” She squinted at him for a few seconds, but rather than squeal, she shook her head and pulled down another stack of hay.

  “Are you Abby Stadtler?”

  “Yes.” She continued dragging bales, and he sighed in relief.

  “I’m looking for my son.”

  That stopped her. “Son?” Her eyes took on a glint of protectiveness. “Who are you?”