Taming Rafe Read online

  Yes, tonight had the makings of the perfect evening.

  John Kincaid stared at the blinking light of his answering machine and knew that in two weeks life as he knew it would end. He pushed Play. The voice detailed the time and place everything would change, and a cold sweat trickled down his spine.

  He’d always anticipated this day. Especially with the string of good fortune he’d experienced over the past few years. However, with the good came the compromises, the secrets.

  John sat down in his leather chair and drummed his fingers on the glass-topped desk, staring at the picture of his father, the late John Senior.

  “You’ll always be a rancher, Son. Get that through your head.”

  But John refused to end up like his father.

  He smiled and slowly lowered the picture facedown. Then he opened the desk drawer and pulled out a small velvet box. Opening it, he stared a long time at the simple brilliant-cut solitaire diamond in a white gold setting. He’d had it for years, just tucked away in the drawer, waiting for the right words. For a man whose life revolved around words, the task seemed idiotically impossible. Will you marry me? Simple enough, but the first and only time he’d asked, Lolly had shaken her head and run off crying.

  If that didn’t scream a big no, he didn’t know what did. Since then, she hadn’t breathed a clue as to why. Being a Montana man, a rancher, and patient at heart, John didn’t push. Obviously, he’d have to find a different set of words if he hoped for a yes.

  John took out the ring and slipped it over his pinkie, holding it in the light and imagining what it might look like on Lolly’s long, elegant ring finger. He closed his eyes and let her image fill his thoughts—her playful smile, the way her dishwater blonde hair spilled over her shoulders, the twinkle in her hazel eyes. For all Lolly’s charm and flirtation, she still seemed a mystery to him. As if her life had started the day she arrived in Phillips, a twenty-year-old wanderer.

  He’d watched her that day from his pickup in the feed store parking lot, the wind catching her hair, dust kicking up around her blue jeans, her hands in her back pockets as she stared at the vacant lot on the corner. Right then, something happened inside his chest. Not a lightning bolt zinging him with love at first sight but a soft and breathtaking peace that someday, if he bided his time, she’d be his wife.

  Maybe this time when he asked, she’d say yes. Please, God.

  John swallowed back the rush of too many emotions and closed the box. It felt small and soft in his work-worn hand. Sort of like his dreams.

  But the blinking light on the machine told him that some dreams came true. And when they did, nothing would ever be the same again.

  Sitting in his pickup, staring at himself—all twenty feet of glowing hot neon in the center of Times Square—Rafe Noble realized what a fake he’d become. The image shone for thirty seconds, then flipped to an advertisement of America, Now! magazine, on which Rafe’s face graced this month’s cover.

  They’d airbrushed the growl right off of him, made him look downright tame. But Rafe knew the truth. Inside that GQ image of a man who wrangled two-thousand-pound beasts for a living was a rough-edged, broken cowboy just trying to keep up with his press. He’d been living for the last six months on the notion that if he rode hard enough, played fast enough, even risked enough, he could drown out the howl inside and fool everyone into thinking he was fine.

  Even himself.

  But no matter how many women, bulls, cars, or even occasional shots of Jack Daniels filled his life, he could still hear Manuel Rodriguez’s low moan of pain as he lay dying in the dirt.

  Manuel hadn’t even lasted long enough for the other bullfighters to corral PeeWee, the killer bull, and send the medics out with a stretcher. By the time they took him away, Manuel’s blood covered Rafe’s hands, his chaps, his soul.

  He knew he’d never, ever be fine again.

  Rafe ran a hand through his dark, unruly hair and stared at himself in the rearview mirror. He needed a shave. And if the guy behind him didn’t lay off his horn, he might just get out and—

  The light changed, and he surged forward into traffic on Forty-second Street. Heat slithered into the cab of his 1984 Ford pickup, the air conditioner barely able to stay ahead of the furnace outside. It was the heat wave of the century in New York City, and he’d agreed to appear at some hoity-toity charity event.

  How he hated this town and the smells of grilling beef from the gyro stands, cigarette smoke, trash fermenting in the piles of black bags on the sidewalk, bus exhaust fouling the air. He hated the sounds of brakes squealing, cabbies arguing for space, the cheeps of pigeons fighting for crumbs. The few times he’d been here, he cut his trip short, needing open spaces like the rest of the city needed air-conditioning.

  He cut a left at the next light, then slammed on his brakes before he plowed over a couple of fast-walking suits arguing into their BlackBerries.

  Rafe took a deep breath and wrapped his hands around the steering wheel. The truck still smelled of hay and dust, despite the fact that it hadn’t been on Manuel’s farm since Rafe had traded it for his late-model Silverado with Manuel’s widow, Lucia. She needed something dependable. He’d spent a month there after the funeral, helping Manny Jr. cope with his father’s death. At least Manuel had lived long enough to see his son’s leukemia go into remission. Trading the truck felt like the least Rafe could do, especially if he hoped to purge from his mind the haunted look in Manny Jr.’s eyes.

  “I know that you’ll be the man I taught you to be. A Noble man.”

  Rafe felt so far from his mother’s prophecies that it made the hollow place inside him throb. He found solace only in the fact that she hadn’t lived to be disappointed.

  Fatigue put a rasp into his voice, betraying the way he’d spent the better half of the night remembering the premonition he’d had the night Manuel had died. He should have forfeited his ride, but he’d wanted the prize—again—the proof that he was the best. Apparently, it was something he’d never prove to anyone, not his sister and brother and especially not himself.

  The light changed, and he drove past Radio City Music Hall, hoping he was headed in the right direction. But he’d rather be dragged behind a herd of rampaging Angus before he’d ask for directions.

  For a month or so after Manuel’s death, he’d entertained the idea of going home, of pitching in at the ranch and investing in the life that the rest of his family loved. But a trip home to his brother’s wedding fixed that. One look at Nick’s beautiful life—his wife, Piper, who obviously adored him, not to mention his dreams to resurrect and rebuild the Silver Buckle—and Rafe knew he could never return. Especially now that Nick had claimed his throne.

  It was quite possible Rafe had never belonged in the kingdom, anyway.

  But Rafe didn’t belong in the bull-riding arena anymore either. Deep in his gut, he knew that he’d killed Manuel. No, not directly perhaps, but he’d endorsed Manuel’s abilities to GetRowdy, encouraged him to be a bullfighter, and practically pushed him under PeeWee’s hooves. Rafe had been trying to be a friend, but in the end, he killed the best one he’d ever had. Right in front of his son’s eyes.

  The grief pushed Rafe out of bed every night, made him stare at the bright lights of whatever city he happened to be touring and wish that he’d been awake enough to wrestle Manuel out of the way.

  He slammed his brakes, stifling a blue word as a taxi driver cut him off. He’d never been the swearing type, but a lot had changed in six months.

  He’d also never been the whiskey type, but this morning he’d tossed an empty pint in the trash. Then he’d tried to ease his headache with four aspirin and a beer. Only that hadn’t helped in the least. Despite an entire pot of coffee and another beer, he felt soggy and cranky at best. Some hero.

  Spotting an opening in traffic, Rafe cut into the clear lane. He’d never driven in Manhattan before, and the traffic irked him. Not to mention the double takes by other drivers at the two long horns attached t
o the front of his truck’s hood. So he was from out of town. He—or at least Manuel—had worked hard for this truck. And he’d like to see any one of these people go head-to-head with a one-ton killer.

  He barely missed a red light and sped through to honks and the screech of tires. He looked up at the sign and cut a right on Fifty-seventh Street. The next light was yellow—or pink, the reckless inner voice taunted. As he came up to it and the traffic cleared the intersection, something inside Rafe snapped.

  Maybe it was the concoction of beer and coffee playing with his courage, maybe the aspirin deadening the pain. Maybe it was Nick’s return to the Silver Buckle to take over the family ranch. Probably it was little Manny, staring at him in the rearview mirror as Rafe had driven off in his daddy’s truck.

  But something grabbed ahold of Rafe. With a growl he punched the gas to the floor and hung a left. This late in the day, pedestrians clogged the street corners, but prudence kept them from streaming out into the crosswalk. He heard screams, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

  Even when he’d turned the wrong way on the one-way Fifth Avenue.

  Rafe stifled another blue word and dodged a cabbie, who switched lanes for him. Another car plowed into a hot dog vendor on the side of the street. Horns chased him as he searched for escape.

  Then he saw two grade-schoolers crossing the street, laughing as they ate ice cream cones. They were coming right toward him.

  Rafe slammed his brakes, turning the wheel left. A trash can rocketed into the air as he blasted through a plaza, scattering pigeons, loungers. He bumped toward a green canopied entryway of a tall building. Bellboys leaped for safety.

  Rafe aimed for the brakes but missed. The pickup hurtled through the side glass door, and glass waterfalled over his truck. Rafe threw an arm over his head, ducking, as the truck bounced through the lobby. He cranked the wheel, then slammed his brakes.

  The truck careened down the stairs that circled a two-tiered fountain.

  Adrenaline, hot and too familiar, rushed his veins. In that moment, he knew he’d escaped it. The pain. The grief. The howl inside.

  The truck dead-ended at the fountain, toppling the sculptured tiers, the cherubs with their pitchers of water, and scattering the pennies cast in hope.

  As pain exploded in his knee, his shoulder, his head, something new filled the vacuum left behind.

  Despair.

  CHAPTER 2

  LOLLY STUART’S MOTHER had taught her two things in life. One, a perfect pie crust includes a half teaspoon of vinegar. And two, never trust a man wearing a suit on any day but Sunday.

  Which was why, when John Kincaid walked through the door of her diner, decked out in a sleek, black two-piece Brooks Brothers suit, a white shirt open at the neck, and a pair of shiny black boots, Lolly knew she couldn’t trust him as far as she could throw him.

  And John was a big man. Not easily thrown.

  She flashed back to Piper Sullivan and local ranch owner Nick Noble’s wedding, when she’d been John’s date. For a moment, she’d wondered what it might be like to be the bride to this handsome man. But she’d told him no once, and he’d never asked again.

  Still, Big John Kincaid, owner of the Big K Ranch, cleaned up well.

  John nodded at her, giving her that smile that always filled her with longing, and slid onto a stool at the counter.

  She said nothing as she set a piece of key lime pie down in front of Egger Dugan, then refilled his coffee and handed a menu to Libby Pike at the end of the row.

  Libby had her nose buried in a book. “I’ll take a burger and an order of o-rings,” she said, ignoring the menu.

  Lolly tipped her head down to look at the book and made a face. “Don’t tell me you read that trash. Everywhere I look in town, people are reading a B. J. King romance.”

  Libby turned the page. “It’s not trash. It’s fascinating—set in the 1930s during the dust bowl years—”

  “Spare me the details, really.” Lolly took out a glass and poured Libby water.

  “Unshackled is a really great book,” Libby continued, unfazed. “I’m nearly finished, and I can’t put it down. I think this is B. J.’s best one yet. It’s about this cowboy who’s a singer, and he’s been in love with this rancher lady for years and years, and she doesn’t know it, yet he’s loyal to her anyway—”

  “Oh, sure, that’s real life.” Lolly shook her head, a little surprised at her jaded tone.

  She caught John’s strange expression as she turned away. He’d been acting odd lately. He still came around every night, just as he had for the past twenty years, helping her clean after hours, walking her home to her trailer behind the railroad dining car she’d turned into a diner so long ago. Two nights ago he’d asked her if she’d ever thought of living someplace else, maybe farther west. His words had jarred her.

  “Of course not,” she’d answered, probably too abruptly, because he stayed silent a long time after that, his arm around her as they sat in her old metal glider and stared at the stars. Perhaps once upon a time she’d dreamed . . . but that didn’t matter anymore, did it? Her life was in this little town of Phillips and in keeping a promise to herself.

  Lolly turned to John, set a cup and saucer down in front of him, and poured him coffee. “You going to a funeral? You’re sure dressed up nice.”

  He gave a slight smile and sipped the coffee. “Got a meeting in Sheridan this afternoon.”

  For a second, it felt like they might be an old married couple, so familiar were his hands on the cup, the wide cut of his shoulders. His brown eyes filled with a gentleness that she’d come to cherish. Those eyes had been what caught her that day when she stood staring at the vacant lot she hoped to make into her future.

  Lolly had happened upon Phillips a broken woman, holding on to life with just a promise and a wad of cash in her pocket. She’d seen John watching her from the parking lot of a feed store. He got out of his truck, crossed Main Street, and asked in that low, delicious Western drawl, “Ma’am, is there anything I can do to assist you?”

  She wasn’t sure how to answer him. Especially when she looked into that handsome, square-jawed face shaded by a white, flat-topped Stetson and saw a smile that curved sweetly up on one side. She’d wanted to like him, oh, so very much. But she’d trusted a man once, and she wouldn’t let herself make that mistake again. So she’d thanked him politely and sent him on his way.

  But John had returned over and over, until seeing him sitting at her counter for morning coffee seemed as natural as watching the sunrise. He was a strong man, so much like her big brother had been, over six feet tall, with a frame used to hard work on the range. But he didn’t have her brother’s wildness, his bravado, and most of the time that filled her with relief. Over the years their friendship had healed her jagged wounds.

  All but one. The one that hadn’t allowed her to say yes to John’s only proposal years ago. The wound that would always keep her from really finding freedom and a life with this man or any other.

  John looked away from her and ran the handle of the cup between his thumb and forefinger. “See, I was thinking that, well, maybe you could come with me—”

  “I have the diner—”

  “Cody can run it.” He looked up at her, and her world tilted a little. Something in his expression—need? vulnerability?—scared her, like it had the night over a year ago when fellow rancher Cole St. John had nearly died. For the first time, she’d realized she might lose John, like she’d lost Bobby, and then . . .

  Well, she’d have no one, would she?

  She swallowed back the taste of grief and glanced at Cody, working at the grill. “He’s still pretty green.”

  “He’s been here for a year. I think he can handle it.”

  “No, John.” Lolly reached over and opened the donut case, took out a nut-sprinkled bismarck, put it on a plate, and slid it toward him. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

  His smiled faded. He nodded, and life righted itself.
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br />   See, this was why John, in all the important ways, was the perfect man for her. He didn’t push and was content to leave things as the status quo between them. Simple. Safe.

  Even though sometimes she wondered what it might be like to be John’s wife, to have more between them—something the town had believed for years and she had never corrected, despite John’s attempts—Lolly knew she could never accept his proposal. She should be thankful he never asked again.

  “Stop by when you get back,” she said softly, needing to affirm that they were okay.

  “Yep,” he said but didn’t look at her. Then, taking his bismarck, he strolled out. Something about the hitch of his shoulders, the sigh in his step made her mother’s words echo in her thoughts.

  Lolly refilled Egger’s coffee, her attention on the television and a news flash from the station in Billings. She set down the coffeepot as Rafe Noble’s handsome face flashed on the screen, followed by what looked like a gaping hole in the entrance of a multistar hotel in New York City. Lolly turned up the volume.

  “. . . the notable GetRowdy Professional Bull Riding champion was taken to Mount Sinai and listed in serious condition. Among the injured were hotel heiress Katherine Breckenridge and four others who had gathered at the Breckenridge Hotel for a fund-raiser. More news at noon.”

  Lolly turned the volume down, hearing only the thumping of her heart, feeling the world begin to tilt once more. But this time, she wasn’t sure if it might ever be righted again.

  “I look like a drowned rat!” Worse, deep inside, Katherine felt like one.

  She folded up the paper, her front-page color picture turned to the inside, and tossed it onto her bed, where it fell near a pile of books, her scrapbook, her Bible, and three other newspapers, all capturing the same beautiful image of her just after she’d been sprayed with the wall of water that the driver sent crashing over the edge of the shattered fountain. One photographer even managed to get that oh-so-lovely shot of her strapped to a gurney, pale and barely conscious, after nearly fainting into a heap of seafoam taffeta.