A Cowboy For Christmas

Slowly Rory released her.

She wondered if she was imagining his reluctance in the way he let go. At last she couldn’t escape the need to step back.

He smiled at her when she dared to open her eyes, then used a forefinger to tip her chin up. “Thank you,” he said, and bent a bit to brush another kiss on her lips.

Abby sighed, wanting to grab him and draw him close, but knowing instinctively that would be the wrong thing to do. For both of them. A night of romantic play wouldn’t resolve anything for either of them. In fact, it might only complicate matters. Man, she hated being sensible right then.

“Good night.” Then he was gone.

A few minutes later she heard quiet music issuing from the living room piano. Much more peaceful than earlier. Maybe even a bit happy?

But no, she hadn’t done anything to make him happy. No point in deluding herself. Too many clouds hung over his head.

* * *

Conard County: The Next Generation

A Cowboy for

Christmas

Rachel Lee

www.millsandboon.co.uk

RACHEL LEE was hooked on writing by the age of twelve and practiced her craft as she moved from place to place all over the United States. This New York Times bestselling author now resides in Florida and has the joy of writing full-time.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

From the outside, the ranch house appeared ordinary. Large, from the days of big families, sided with freshly painted white clapboard, with a wide front porch. Inside, the house was anything but ordinary. It looked as if it might have come out of the pages of an interior design magazine.

With Christmas still ten weeks away, at least Abby didn’t have to deal with decorations. And by Christmas, she hoped to have better plans for her future than this.

Abby had spent more than a week cleaning the house, erasing the last detritus of the remodeling, removing dust from every nook and cranny, making sure polished wood gleamed and mirrors provided perfect reflections.

It had been a lot of work, and she was certain she’d used some muscles she hadn’t needed in a while, but at last the house was ready for its new resident.

She wasn’t.

She’d never met her employer. Being hired by someone who worked for Rory McLane had been unusual for her, but probably not for him. He was a big country music star, after all, and could probably afford people to do everything for him, maybe even dress him.

The thought made her giggle, easing a bit of her tension as she waited for her new boss to arrive. She certainly had little enough to giggle about these days.

She didn’t mind the hard work at all. In fact, she’d enjoyed it. Not many jobs provided such a sense of accomplishment that she could actually see. What she minded were the circumstances that brought her here.

And she was uneasy about Rory McLane. With all his fame and money, he was probably puffed up and demanding. Egotistical. She clenched her fists for a moment and reminded herself that it didn’t matter what he was like. She had to put up with it because the alternative was unthinkable. Her husband had run away with her former boss, leaving her jobless and then essentially homeless when he’d sold his family house. Whatever McLane was like, she had to endure it.

Behind the house was a barn that had been refurbished, too, turned into a recording studio that she had only glimpsed. A special crew had been sent in to set that up and clean it. She guessed it required an expertise no housekeeper with a dust rag and mop could provide.

All of it blew her away when she thought about it. She reached out now and touched expensive woods no one around here could afford. She had stepped into a barn that housed not only a top-of-the-line recording studio but a kitchenette and a sitting area. She wondered if McLane might spend most of his time out there.

She hoped so, because she didn’t expect to like him. She couldn’t imagine how having all that money, all that success and all that adulation could fail to go to a person’s head.

She saw dust down the driveway and realized he must be arriving. She’d heard he was flying in his own small plane, but she had no idea if he was coming alone. She half expected to see a stretch limo come up the drive, but instead there was nothing but a brand-new beige pickup truck.

One of the neighbors, maybe?

She drew closer to the front window and watched. Just one truck. And when it pulled to a halt in front of the porch, just one man climbed out.

Abby didn’t follow celebrities, but curiosity had led her to look up Rory McLane on one of the multiple computers scattered throughout the house, and there was no mistaking the man who climbed out of the driver’s seat.

Tall, lanky, wearing jeans, a blue shirt and well-worn cowboy boots. Dark hair a bit on the shaggy side. He turned and pulled out a cowboy hat that didn’t look like any of the ones in his photos. This one had seen some mileage. He clapped it on his head.

This was not what she expected from his publicity photos. Instead of looking like a star, he looked like any rancher coming home.

No entourage. No gorgeous beauties, no stream of people. Just him, looking like an ordinary resident of this county.

Then he walked easily around the truck, dropped the tailgate and pulled out a couple of heavy suitcases. She watched, her mouth growing drier as he brought them up to the porch. Then he went back to the truck and pulled out a guitar case.

Nothing, absolutely nothing, had prepared her for the impact of this man in real life. His face looked a little careworn, but he was built like a stud. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, strong chin, straight nose...and when he looked toward the window he did it with eyes as blue as the Wyoming sky.

She could have stared at him forever. Odd, because he wasn’t perfect. His attractiveness ran deeper than looks.

The guitar case hit the porch with a quiet thud, shaking her out of her preoccupation. He went back to close the tailgate, and she decided it was time to start her job. Such as opening the door for him?

Dreading the first encounter, she walked out into the large foyer and depressed the brass latch, opening the door wide just as he was climbing the porch steps again.

“Mr. McLane?” she queried, as if she didn’t know. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of her instant recognition.

He smiled faintly. “You must be Abby Jason?”

“Yes, sir.”

He paused just as he was about to lift one of the suitcases. Straightening, he put one hand on his narrow hips and studied her. She could imagine what he was seeing: corn-fed farm girl, a little too plump, plain, no makeup, work clothes. She hadn’t dressed to impress.

“Do me a favor,” he said, his voice a baritone that immediately suggested he’d be a great singer. “First names, and no sirs. I’m Rory. Nice to meet you, Abby. Are your rooms okay?”

“Very nice,” she admitted. She hadn’t expected to have her own small suite of rooms at the back of the house. Nicely furnished, too.

“Good. I’d love some coffee if that’s not too much trouble. Just let me carry my bags in. I should be able to find my room since I approved the layout.”

He said that with a kind of humor that surprised her. She managed a nod. “Coffee coming up.”

“Staff of life,” he said pleasantly. One heavy suitcase in each hand, he started past her.

She hesitated. “Should I bring the guitar inside the door?”

He paused. “Thanks. That’s my old baby.”

“Old baby?”

“My very first guitar. Nothing can replace it. Just set it in here, please.”

She grabbed the case, put it in the foyer, closed the door and headed to the most modern kitchen she’d ever seen. Everything gleamed in stainless steel, the kind of kitchen a chef would want. Abby was no trained chef, just an ordinary everyday cook, but over the last week she had come to appreciate the ease of cleaning, if not the ease of removing smudges.

She’d had to read the directions on the coffeemaker, since it did everything except dance, but she’d mastered it. A thought struck her and she ran to the foot of the stairs. “Regular coffee or espresso?” she called up.

“Regular. Just black and strong.”

The machine ground its own beans and measured out the water according to the number of cups she chose. Since she had no idea how much coffee he might want, she selected the strongest brew and hit the button for eight cups. At once the beans started to grind, the loudest sound in this house usually. Then the grinder stopped and the coffee began to drip.

Well, she thought with a rare burst of humor, at least she couldn’t screw up the coffee.

Rory returned a few minutes later. Abby stood leaning against the counter, unsure of protocol. Would he be offended if she was sitting at the table when he entered? How would she know? She’d never dealt with the rich and famous before.

He strode into the room. She at once reached for a mug, but he stopped her. “Grab a seat. I can pour for myself, believe it or not. You want some?”

“Please,” she said quietly, because any other answer might have seemed rude, and sank nervously into a seat at the kitchen table, a very nice creation of wood and a tile top with some kind of Native American pattern.

To her surprise, he brought two cups over and sat across from her.

“Quit looking so nervous,” he said. “I never bit an employee yet.”

Again she managed an uncertain smile. So far he’d been okay. She kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“I don’t know what my manager told you when he hired you.”

“Very little. I’m to cook and clean, I get one day off and whatever other time you choose to give me.”

He nodded. “You’ll get more than one day off. I’m not exactly incapable of looking after myself. Okay, ground rules.”

She tensed.

“I came here to be alone. Since I’m considered an artist, I get to call it my reclusive period.”

At that she felt another smile flicker over her face.

“Anyway, I really do want to be alone. I need some time away, time to work and find my voice again. I’m not looking for sympathy, just solitude. Get the creative juices going again. So don’t expect me to have a lot of guests. In fact, I plan to avoid that as much as possible, although I’ll probably get stalked by my agent and manager.”

Abby blinked. “Why would they stalk you?”

“They make money when I’m touring. This is not making them money. They’re also worried that my career might wind down if I stay away too long.”

“Oh.” She looked down. “A little mercenary?”

“In all of our interests. I’m not really criticizing, just warning you. They may show up even though I told them not to. Other than that, I’m not expecting anyone. But that doesn’t mean I want to cut you off from everyone, so if you want to have friends over, well, you’ve got your own space, okay?”

She thought that was generous of him, considering he’d just told her he wanted solitude. “Thank you.”

He nodded, took a long draft of coffee. “I’m not easy.”

At that point she stiffened, sure she was about to meet the arrogance she expected.

“I keep weird hours when I’m composing. You can’t plan meals around me. I may wander out to the studio and not be seen again for days. I realize that makes it tough on you, but if you can just make sure there’s stuff in the fridge I can heat in the microwave or oven, we’ll be fine. I might occasionally want to eat like a human being, but if so I’ll let you know in advance. As for the groceries...” He shrugged. “I’m not a picky eater. If I want something in particular, I’ll put it on a list. You got your housekeeping account, right?”

“Yes, your manager took care of that.”

“If it’s not enough, let me know. Money is one thing we won’t have to worry about around here. If something breaks, feel free to call a repairman.”

Relief was so great she felt a little bubble of unexpected laughter rise and escape her. It had been so long since she had wanted to laugh, it felt strange. “So wrap you in cotton wool?”

At that he flashed a grin. “Just pretend I’m a bear in a cage out there. Throw in some meat once in a while.”

At that she laughed outright. “I think I get it.”

“I may get a little more sociable as time passes, but right now...” He trailed off and his blue eyes stared somewhere beyond the room. “Back in Nashville, getting enough downtime is impossible. So call me the recluse of Conard County.”

His gaze focused on her again. “You must have been a tot when I left twenty years ago.”

“I think I was five or six.”

“Couldn’t wait to shake the dust of this place off my heels,” he admitted. “Look at me now. Like a pig headed back for my wallow.”

She drew a breath and dared to ask, “Why?”

He tilted his head. “Some things can wear out your soul, Abby. Mine is worn to rags. I don’t even enjoy my music anymore. That’s got to change.”

“You think being here can do that?”

“It built me. Maybe it can rebuild me.” He sighed. “Guess I’m going to find out.”

He rose and refilled his mug. “No calls. I have a private line and only three people have the house number. Any other calls, just say I’m unavailable and take a message, okay?”

“I can do that.”

“I’m sure you can.” Then he hesitated. “Guess I should give you my cell number, too, just in case. If you stumble on the stairs and break a leg, it might be a long time before you see me. Do you have a cell that works out here?”

She shook her head.

“Get one next time you’re in town. And use your free time however you want. I don’t expect you to be making busy work to fill the hours, and I don’t expect you to be at my beck and call all the time.”

Finally curiosity overwhelmed caution. “What exactly do you need a full-time housekeeper for?” A dangerous question considering she needed the job.

“For all the stuff I let slide when I’m composing. That’ll be plenty.” He winked. “You get to be my buffer against the real world. I’m hoping to be spending most of my time with my Muse. She’s a demanding mistress.”

He rinsed out his mug at the sink, and put it in the brand-new dishwasher. “This is my hermitage and I’m the monk,” he said, facing her. “Just think of it that way. And right now I’m going to go take a walk and see what the wind whispers to me.”

* * *

His booted feet crunched on the desiccated grass of late summer and early autumn. A dry breeze blew steadily. Nashville was greener and more humid, and certainly warmer right now. As he strode out across fields covered with deep, dying grass and occasional tumbleweed, with nothing to block his view in most directions until his gaze ran up against the nearby mountains, he realized just how much he had missed Conard County.

It didn’t take him long to reconnect with the youth who had felt this place was parching his soul. Well, over the years he’d found other ways to parch it. Maybe worse ways.

Long summer afternoons came back to him, when he’d been done with his chores and had hiked out to a quiet place where he could rest his back against a cottonwood and make up his songs with his battered guitar. Hours spent lying on his back looking up at occasional wisps of cloud against a painfully blue sky, listening for whatever whispered to him.

Long winters, frigid cold, when escape had been impossible unless he sat out in the barn with the horses, freezing his fingers until he couldn’t feel the guitar strings anymore.

Surprisingly, he found himself actually looking forward to the winter that was right around the corner. He doubted his manager or anyone else would try to come out here then. By Christmas, maybe they’d accept that he was determined to stay here as long as he felt he needed it.

The breeze gusted a little, and he clapped his hand to his head to keep his hat from blowing away. The same hat he’d been wearing when he left here. Like some kind of talisman. He wondered if he was becoming superstitious.

Over the years, he’d realized how important it was to have creative friends. They’d spurred him on, creating a synergy that had benefitted them all. So what the hell had convinced him he needed to be all by himself again?

He couldn’t reclaim the freshness and optimism of the kid who had left here. Too much had happened over the years. Yet deep inside he felt there was something buried that couldn’t make its way out unless he provided the utter quiet and solitude it needed to be heard. Listening for voices on the wind seemed like a good enough place to start.

Cowboy boots weren’t made for walking, even well-worn ones, and finally he decided he’d better head back. To what, he still didn’t know.

The housekeeper, Abby, had sure caught his attention. He wondered when was the last time he’d seen a woman her age without a smidgen of makeup. Not that she needed any. Cute figure, too, from what he could tell under that loose work shirt she wore. A little plumper than he was used to from a town where everyone seemed to be trying to lose another ten pounds to compensate for the camera. He liked that plumpness. A man could cuddle up to those curves. He liked her long naturally brown hair, too, so carelessly caught up in a clip on the back of her head. It looked silky, begging for a touch. And her golden eyes reminded him of amber.

What he hadn’t liked was the weariness he saw in her. A sorrow that touched her golden eyes and full lips. The way her smile and her laughter didn’t come easily. Seemed as if they both needed some time to cure themselves.

He was curious about her, but stepped down on it. He hadn’t come out here to make new friends or get tangled up in anything. No, he’d come to find his own footing and get his own head and heart sorted out.

Sometimes he felt as if he was dancing all the time to some insane piper. He needed a breather, some downtime, an escape from a pace that never really flagged. Oh, he could get some time by himself, but never enough of it. There was always something he needed to do, friends who wanted to get together...in short a full life. Too full. With one great big gaping hole in it, dug by his ex-wife Stella and her winning custody of their daughter, Regina.

He guessed he had some holes to patch, too. Being shed of Stella was a relief. He just wished the courts hadn’t sided with her when she insisted a young girl needed her mother, not her father. He hadn’t expected that, and regret still dogged him. That was killing him.

So maybe Brian, his manager, was right when he said Rory was running away. But running away had served him once before, and it might again. If it didn’t, he could head back to Nashville in a few months and pick up the rat race again.

But the hollowness had been filling him for a while, and going through the motions wasn’t the kind of life he wanted. He needed to find his music again, the music that had given him meaning and purpose. If he didn’t, then he was nothing but a sham any longer.

He paused, listening to the wind. It had a music of its own, and once it had filled him with creative impulses. But after a few minutes, he gave up. He heard nothing in its sigh, not yet. Maybe he’d lost the ears to hear.

* * *

Abby watched his return, and wondered what to do. She’d made a lasagna that morning, figuring she could heat it whenever he was ready to eat, but Rory McLane had told her he’d eat whenever he felt like it. So what was she supposed to do?

He’d basically left her free to do as she liked, but maybe he didn’t realize how difficult that might be for her. She was acutely aware that she was being paid generously, and felt as if she ought to be earning that check. Part of her job was feeding the man. A man who apparently didn’t want to be fed, at least not on any kind of routine.

Awkward, that’s what it was. Finally, deciding that she needed her supper even if he didn’t, she popped the lasagna in the oven. She was going to take a small portion for herself, then section it up into individual servings either one of them could heat easily. It was the only way she could think to handle it.

She knew she had to try this his way, but she wondered if sooner or later they were going to need to have a more detailed talk about her role. Winging it might work for him, but already she had a million questions about how to best handle things for him.

She heard him come through the front door, and managed to put a note of cheer in her voice. “I just put a lasagna in the oven. Ready in about an hour if you decide you want to eat.”

She heard his steps stop in the hallway and tensed, wondering if he’d remind her yet again that he didn’t want to be bothered with anything.

Then she heard his approach. He stopped in the kitchen doorway. Easy to see how this man had become a heartthrob for millions. Her heart accelerated of its own accord, and she felt the first stirring of long-absent desire. Not good.

“Lasagna?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Sounds good. I may...”

She heard a phone beep and he fell silent as he pulled a cell from his pocket. “Stella,” he said with distaste. “Sorry. Give me a minute.”

He walked out, leaving her alone in the kitchen again. For a guy who didn’t want to be bothered, he was being bothered rather soon. She seemed to recall from her brief research on him that Stella was his ex. She still called him? Her own ex, Porter, hadn’t spared a word for her since the divorce.

Fifteen minutes passed. She considered bringing out the salad she had prepared earlier, then decided it was too soon. Should she set places for both of them in here? Or maybe he’d want to eat alone in his fancy dining room.

Dang, there seemed to be more questions than answers with this job. He made it sound so easy, but as she was rapidly discovering a lack of guidance was anything but easy.

At long last she heard the unmistakable steps of his boots.

“Well,” he said, “your job just got more complicated.”

She whirled to look at him. “Yes?”

“That was my ex. I’ll be leaving tomorrow to go pick up my daughter. It seems she’s too much for Stella.”

Abby could barely keep herself from gaping. “Too much?”

“Running off nannies constantly. Stella’s too busy to deal with it.” Rory astonished her with a big smile. “Hot damn,” he said. “I’m getting my daughter! And not just for Christmas.”

Abby felt her heart sink and the early stirrings of panic even as she appreciated the joy reflected in his smile. And what a smile it was, nearly depriving her of breath. The guy was clearly thrilled about seeing his daughter. That should have touched her.

Instead, the gnawing worry about how to handle this inchoate job burst out of her before she knew the words were coming. “I wasn’t hired to be a babysitter.”

His smile faded a bit. “I’m not asking you to. Regina’s ten. I’m her father. Let me do my job and you do yours.” Then he turned and left. Moments later she heard him head out the back door.

She hurried back to her suite and saw him walking toward the barn.