When Lindsay had insisted he read the then-current bestseller, Living with Grace, he’d done his best. He’d made it through twenty pages. The woman obviously lived in a bubble and knew nothing about actual relationships. But Lindsay thought Bethany Grace was a genius and that Happiness Is a Choice solved every issue.
Meanwhile Lindsay had consistently ignored his input regarding the business and had reminded him in many subtle ways that because she had the money, he was little more than a stable boy. It had been death by a thousand cuts. And the more angry and miserable he’d become, the more often she’d chirped that mantra: Happiness Is a Choice.
He was so lost in thought that he nearly missed the turnoff to the Triple G. The weathered sign was small and low to the ground. At the last minute he noticed it and took the turn too fast. He sent up a rooster tail of dust and avoided taking out the pathetic little sign by inches. A good thing, too. His mission involved protecting property, not destroying it.
If he’d thought the Last Chance road was poorly maintained, it was a superhighway compared to this collection of potholes. He slowed down in an effort to save the truck’s alignment. Any teenage trespassers who’d braved this road might be sorry when the deep ruts did a number on their precious first car, or worse yet, screwed up the family SUV.
Because he had to concentrate on the miserable road in front of him, he couldn’t take stock of what was causing the smoke. The stench reached him long before he arrived on the scene. Finally he pulled into the weed-infested clearing surrounded by a collection of dilapidated buildings that made up the Triple G Ranch. Then he put on the brakes and stared.
In the bare dirt area that constituted the ranch’s front yard, a leather recliner was on fire. Even more curious, a dark-haired woman dressed in heels, a short beige skirt and a matching jacket stood watching it, butane lighter in hand. She seemed to be the only person around, and was most likely the citified daughter.
A red SUV was parked beside the house, a fairly safe distance from the blazing chair unless a spark caught the weeds on fire. If Nash were to guess, he’d say she’d arrived in that vehicle, but he couldn’t imagine her motivation for setting the chair on fire.
That had to be deliberate. And difficult. Those chairs were usually treated with flame retardants, which explained the god-awful smell. Gasoline had probably been involved. Sure enough, he spotted a can lying about twenty feet away from her.
She gave him a cursory glance before returning her attention to the chair. The flames had died down, leaving a blackened, smoldering mess. She seemed to have it in for the chair, but if she intended to destroy it completely, she’d have to douse it with more gasoline and relight the fire or run over it with that shiny red SUV. Both options made Nash wince.
He decided to intervene before she proceeded to do either of those things. Emmett had asked him to check things out, so he’d do that. In the process he hoped to satisfy his curiosity, because this recliner-torching was the damnedest thing he’d ever seen and he wanted to know the reason behind it.
Climbing out of the truck, he tried not to breathe too deeply. No telling what toxic crap was in that smoke. She should smother the fire for environmental reasons, if nothing else.
At the metallic sound of the truck door closing, she looked at him again. This time she held his gaze as he walked toward her. She’d seemed pulled-together and neat at first, but the closer he came, the more that impression shifted.
She’d torn the left shoulder seam of her tailored beige jacket, and the front of her white blouse and short beige skirt were smudged with dirt. Her nylons were a mass of runs and her beige heels were scuffed beyond repair.
Apparently, despite being dressed for a day at the office, she’d dragged that chair outside before going for the gasoline and the butane lighter. Judging from her streaked makeup and the way her short dark hair was plastered to her forehead and neck, the job had made her sweat. Her mascara was smeared and she looked as if she’d been crying—either from anger or because of the foul smoke. Maybe both. His eyes stung, and he’d only been here a few minutes.
He paused when he was an arm’s length away from her. Her gray eyes might be pretty if they weren’t so red. When faced with a situation like this, where someone was obviously upset, Nash usually tried to lighten the mood a little. “On a redecorating kick?”
She stared at him as if he’d said something terminally stupid, which of course he had, but that was the idea. She didn’t seem inclined to joke around, though. Too bad.
Swiping at her eyes with the back of her free hand, she looked him up and down. “Who are you and why are you here?”
“The name’s Nash Bledsoe. I work at the Last Chance, and the foreman saw smoke and asked me to investigate. He thought trespassers might be causing a problem.”
“Oh.” She gazed up at the smoke spiraling into the blue sky as if only now realizing that it might be noticed by others. “Sorry about that. Everything’s fine. I’m not a trespasser. I own the place. Lucky me.”
She probably was the daughter, then. He could have left it at that and headed back to the Last Chance, but he decided not to. The smoke was a pollutant, and he still didn’t know why she’d set fire to the chair. “Look, it’s obvious that you want to get rid of this piece of furniture, but your method is spewing bad stuff into the air.”
“I didn’t think of that.” She glanced at the smoke and the blackened, shriveled leather. “I’ll bet there’s not a working fire extinguisher around this place, either.”
“I happen to have one in my truck. I’ll get it.”
She hesitated, as if reluctant to accept his help.
He gave her an encouraging smile. “That’s really the way to go. Once I’ve sprayed it with foam, we can figure out how to get it out of here and into the landfill where it belongs.”
“Maybe I’ll just dig a hole and bury it.”
“Would take a big hole.”
“That’s okay. Digging it would feel good.”
He looked into her bloodshot eyes and recognized the same kind of rage, grief and frustration he’d been trying to work off by mucking out stalls. He didn’t have to ask her any more questions, after all. She was mad at somebody, probably the person who’d spent time in this chair. Odds were that would have been her late father.
The combination of anger and sorrow could make people do strange things, and he certainly understood that. She seemed to recognize that she’d found a kindred spirit, because some of the defiance left her expression. As her gaze mellowed, she looked really nice, even with her mascara running and her hair all sweaty.
“I’ll get the extinguisher,” he said. “We can go from there.”
“Okay.” Her voice had grown softer, too. “Thanks.”
He felt a smile coming on as he hurried back to the truck. He hadn’t been any woman’s hero in a very long time, and he’d missed that.
After he slimed the chair, he’d see if she had a tarp. He didn’t want to load that gross thing into the back of the ranch truck without one, but if he could put it on something, he could drive straight to the landfill. She didn’t need to dig a hole and bury the chair. Surely there were other menial chores around this wreck of a place where she could work out her emotions.
He returned with the extinguisher. “You might want to stand back while I do this.”
She backed up several steps. Considering the uneven dirt in the front yard, she navigated well on those überhigh heels. She must be used to them.
“I guess you think I’m a lunatic for trying to burn this recliner,” she said.
“No, actually, I don’t. I know something about being so furious that you have to find a good target for your anger.”
“That about sums up my little stunt, but now it seems pretty juvenile.”
“Not at all. I think it had flair.” He pointed the e
xtinguisher at the recliner. Slowly circling it, he layered on the foam. At last he was satisfied. “That should do it.” He glanced over and noticed her tiny smile. She had a full, prettily shaped mouth. She’d probably clean up real good. “Feeling any better?”
“I am, actually.”
“Excellent.” He cleared his throat. “So you’re the daughter?”
She nodded.
“I thought so. But I’ve gone and forgotten your first name. I was a few years ahead of you in school.”
“You wouldn’t have remembered me, anyway. I was an awkward nerd back then. A certified late bloomer.” Her smile widened a little. “I remember you, though, Nash Bledsoe. You were quite the heartthrob.”
To his dismay, he felt heat rising from his collar. “I don’t know about that. Anyway, is your last name still Grace, or something else, now?” If she was married, he didn’t think much of a husband who’d send her off to deal with this situation by herself.
“My last name is still Grace.” She gazed at him thoughtfully. “I take it you haven’t heard anything about my career, then?”
“Sorry, I haven’t. Emmett just said you’d become a city girl.”
“Well, that’s humbling. But then, I lost touch with everyone back here, and my folks weren’t much for socializing, or bragging, for that matter.”
“About what?”
“I’m a bestselling author. My latest book hit number one on all the lists.”
His stomach clenched. But no, it couldn’t be. Coincidences like this didn’t happen in real life. “What do you write?”
“Motivational books. Self-help, is how most people refer to them.”
His throat went dry and his heart began to pound. “You’re Bethany Grace?” The name came out as a hoarse croak.
“So you have heard of me!” She looked pleased.
“Oh, yeah.” He felt light-headed. “I’ve heard of you. Your books made my life a living hell.”
2
BETHANY GASPED. SHE’D had many reactions to her books in the three years since she’d first hit the bestseller charts, but no one had ever said anything that awful. Nash wasn’t kidding, either. His blue eyes had iced over and his expression had turned to granite.
She’d just been thinking what a good-looking guy he’d turned into, and a kind one, at that. She’d found herself admiring the strong line of his jaw and the sensual curve of his lower lip. Because she’d outgrown her nerdy phase, she’d felt capable of flirting a little with the likes of Nash Bledsoe, if he wasn’t attached.
But instead she’d discovered that her cheerful and positive message had created such fury in him that he’d barely been able to speak her name. To know that her books had done that made her physically ill. She hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday, which was probably good, because she had nothing in her rolling stomach that could come back up.
His bitter words had sucked most of the air from her lungs, too, but she finally managed to draw in enough to ask a question. “How did my books do that?”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “I’d rather not get into it.”
“Please, don’t hit me with something like that and refuse to tell me why! No one’s ever... I’ve never had anyone tell me...” She took a shaky breath. “You look as if you hate me.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face and gazed up at the sky. “Bethany Grace.” He chuckled, but the sound had no humor in it. Then he looked at her again. “My ex-wife loves your books.”
From the way he said it, Bethany knew that wasn’t a good thing. “Okay.”
He studied her for long enough that she became very aware of how sweaty and dirty she was. And how foolish this stunt of hers must look to him, now that he knew she was the author of bestsellers such as Living with Grace and her current chart-topper, Grace Personified. She’d always been proud of her success, but given this situation, she should have kept her mouth shut. Today was the wrong time for her to be in the glare of a spotlight that would reveal her flaws.
Too late. “I suppose you’re wondering if I’m a hypocrite.”
“It crossed my mind. I can’t figure out why a woman who tells everyone that happiness is a choice would set fire to her daddy’s recliner. That doesn’t seem like a particularly cheerful move, to me.” He was obviously enjoying pointing that out.
She flushed. “It wasn’t. I’m not proud of my reaction. It was unworthy of me to do that.”
His expression underwent a subtle change, as if that admission had soaked up some of his anger. “But oh, so very human.”
“You don’t have to sound so smug when you say that.”
This time his chuckle was a little less caustic. “Yeah, I do. Whether you know it or not, you owe me a bit of smugness.”
“What happened?”
He hesitated.
“Please. Your statement will eat at me if you don’t explain where it came from.”
He blew out a breath. “Okay. Short version. My in-laws were convinced that I’d only married Lindsay for her money. I think they finally convinced Lindsay, too, because she developed an attitude. She made it plain that a poor boy like me was lucky to be there.”
“Ouch.”
“I realize now her parents started the sabotage early and gradually turned up the heat, the way you cook a frog without the frog even noticing. I became more and more irritable. Then Lindsay found your books and felt free to remind me that Happiness Is a Choice.”
She was appalled. “That’s not how my books are supposed to be read. You can’t undermine someone’s confidence and then berate them for not being happy enough.”
“Tell that to Lindsay and her folks.”
“I will if you’d like me to. I resent that they—”
“I didn’t mean that literally. Don’t waste your time on them. But I have to admit, seeing you in the middle of a meltdown helps. Even the sainted Bethany Grace has a bad day once in a while.”
“Sainted? I never claimed to be perfect!”
“Lindsay thinks you are. As opposed to me, a person riddled with problems.”
“That’s ridiculous. We all have problems. I’ve admitted that in everything I’ve written.” Then she had a thought. “Did you ever read one of my books?”
“One chapter.”
She tried to remember if she’d admitted any problems in Chapter One of Living with Grace or the earlier books. Maybe not. “Then you stopped reading?”
“Then I threw the book against the wall.”
She winced.
“Sorry, but you have to remember this was a book recommended by the woman who, with the help of her folks, was mentally torturing me. I could only take so much of the rainbows and lollipops you were handing out.”
“All things considered, you probably won’t ever make it through an entire book of mine, and I don’t blame you. But somewhere in Living with Grace, maybe toward the middle, I admit to having a temper, and you’ve just seen me demonstrate that.”
Nash glanced at the now-soggy recliner. “Pretty impressive, too. Those old recliners are heavy suckers. How long did it take you to drag it out here?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t keeping track of time. I drove into the yard, walked up the rickety porch steps, went inside, saw the state of things in there and...lost it.”
“You didn’t know it was this bad?”
She sighed, remembering all the should-haves she’d ignored in the past year and a half. “I suspected. My parents were never savvy about the ranching business and the Triple G operated in the red quite a bit. When I started making decent money, I sent checks home.” And she should have come herself. “Obviously the money wasn’t used to maintain the ranch.”
“Why didn’t your dad get some advice from his neighbors? I’m sure anyone at the Last Chance would
have been glad to—”
“Not my dad’s style. He didn’t like to admit he was deficient in any area. That’s why he and my mom didn’t mingle. He didn’t feel equal to the other ranchers, so he kept to himself. Rejected any offer of help. I saw him do it several times. Eventually people stopped trying.”
“That’s sad.”
“Incredibly sad.” She glanced around her. “You see the result. After my mom died a year and a half ago, my dad started drinking a lot, apparently. Whenever I’d suggest coming home for a visit, he’d discourage me. To be honest, I wasn’t eager to be here without my mom. She was always the more positive influence. And my career was heating up, so...I used that as an excuse.”
“Understandable.”
She appreciated that one-word comment more than he’d ever know. Nash Bledsoe was a kind person, just as she’d decided when he hadn’t lectured her about burning the recliner. She probably didn’t have to worry about him blabbing about her circumstances, but it wouldn’t hurt to make sure.
She cleared her throat. “I’m not famous enough to have paparazzi following me around, but this would make a juicy story for somebody—Motivational Guru Let Father Die in Squalor. That kind of thing.”
“Are you worried that I’ll tell on you?”
“Not really, but after all, you have a personal grudge against me. I guess I couldn’t blame you for thinking about exposing my frailties to the general public.”
His blue gaze sharpened. “I’m not vindictive, Bethany.”
“I didn’t think so, but—”
“I’ll report to Emmett that I found you here burning trash, and after we talked, you decided to take your garbage to the landfill from now on. He doesn’t seem to know who you are. I’d be surprised if anyone in this area realizes that you’re nationally known in the motivational field. Cowboys don’t read those books all that much.”
“No need. They live a blessed life.” She smiled in gratitude. “Thanks, Nash.”
I Cross My Heart Page 2