A Cowboy For Christmas. Rachel Lee

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ