Читать книгу Coulda Been a Cowboy - Бренда Новак - Страница 9

Grandpa Garnier: Good judgment comes from experience,

and a lot of that comes from bad judgment.

IT WAS THE FIRST TIME Dakota had ever been inside Gabe Holbrook’s cabin. She’d brought him a homemade carrot cake when he’d been holed up out here a few years ago, but he hadn’t invited her in, hadn’t even answered the door. That was before they’d become friends. Ten years older, he’d been one of the best quarterbacks in the NFL by the time she reached high school—already a legend, and the best and brightest Dundee had to offer. Until the car accident that had robbed him of his ability to walk.

She remembered the details of that earlier visit as she carried Braden outside and walked around the property with him. Gabe had left her standing on the porch holding her cake, even though she knew he was home. She could feel him watching her from inside.

His lack of response didn’t offend her, though. She hadn’t expected a warm greeting. Adamant that the doctors were wrong about the permanency of his condition, he spent every minute of every day doing therapy in his upscale weight room, and was scarcely willing to talk to his own family. So she’d set the cake on the patio table for him to enjoy when he felt safe enough to retrieve it, and hoped he understood the gesture for what it was—not the hero worship he’d encountered so often in the past, not the pity that others expressed in hushed tones whenever his name came up, not the gawking of those who remained fascinated by the tragedy, but rather, a simple, “I understand.”

Their situations were very different—she had no idea how horrible it’d be to lose the use of her legs—but she could relate, at least to a certain extent, to what he’d been feeling in the months immediately following the accident. She’d had to put a brave face on her own misery. She was just less visible, which made it easier, and she’d been doing it longer. Experience had already taught her how to smile serenely to cover her pain: I’m fine. Really. We’re doing okay, don’t worry.

“Da-da-da-da,” Braden cooed, shoving his fist in his mouth and gnawing on it.

Dakota pressed her lips to the baby’s soft round cheek. “You are the cutest thing I’ve ever seen,” she told him. His father wasn’t bad, either, but she admitted that only grudgingly. The rest of the world made a big enough deal about Tyson Garnier. Nearly six feet four inches tall, he had greenish-blue eyes, golden skin and dark brown hair with a cowlick that made it stand up on the right side of his forehead. But it was his high cheekbones and strong jaw that really set him apart. And his body, of course.

She remembered the layout she’d seen in People magazine a year or so ago. Some movie director had been offering Tyson the lead in a romantic comedy, which had brought him into the Hollywood spotlight. He’d eventually refused—saying he was a football player, not an actor—but that only made this director, and others, want him more. The photographer had shot him on the beach, coming out of the surf like some sort of water god. His eyes, in stark contrast to the darkness of his hair and eyelashes, matched the green-blue of the waves in the background, and his teeth gleamed in the sun as he laughed. He looked like leading-man material, all right, and contrary to what Dakota had expected, seeing him in the flesh was no disappointment.

But she suspected he wasn’t a very nice person. He seemed rather standoffish. And she’d read all about his situation with Rachelle Rochester. Because she couldn’t leave her father for any length of time, Dakota escaped the drudgery of her life through magazines—fan magazines, decorator magazines, food magazines, even science magazines. Most recently, she’d read an interview with poor Ms. Rochester in The Lowdown. Braden’s mother was upset that Tyson didn’t love her as much as she loved him. She also said she couldn’t believe how vicious he’d become during the custody battle: “How can I stand up against a man with the kind of money and influence he’s got?” At that point, according to the journalist doing the interview, she’d broken down in tears. “He won’t let me be part of my baby’s life. Can you imagine anything so cruel?”

Dakota couldn’t. She knew Gabe liked Tyson, and she trusted Gabe’s opinion, but friendship could be as blind as love.

Kissing Braden again, she shot a dirty look at the window to the office where she’d left Tyson a few minutes earlier. As far as she was concerned, taking a child away from a loving mother was unforgivable.

“OKAY, OKAY—YOU WERE RIGHT,” Tyson told Gabe on the phone.

Relaxed for the first time in three weeks, he leaned back in the leather office chair and stretched his legs in front of him. He’d considered going to bed—his eyes felt so grainy he could barely open them, and his knee was aching again—but he was afraid he’d encounter Dakota and Braden on the way. Then she might want to talk about what he expected of her, and how could he tell her when he didn’t know what a baby’s care entailed in the first place? Maybe, like the rest of the world, she understood that he was new to parenting Braden full-time. But Braden was nine months old. At a minimum, she’d expect him to be prepared for his son’s most basic needs.

He just wanted her to keep Braden healthy and happy. That was all there was to it.

He supposed he could say that much, but if she asked specific questions—what to feed the baby, how his meals should be prepared, what his naptimes were, whether or not she had his permission to administer medication if needed—he wouldn’t know what to tell her. They’d have to figure that out, as well as her hours and her duties, as they went along. He was enjoying this brief respite too much to risk losing it.

“I knew she’d be ideal,” Gabe said. “Dakota’s great. And unusually smart. There’s no telling what she could’ve done with a college degree.”

“She doesn’t have one?” Tyson doodled on the clean, white desk calendar, which was turned to February instead of May. According to Gabe, he’d been too busy to visit the cabin over the past few months, but Tyson knew his friend hadn’t worked since finishing coaching high school football last season. He’d been traveling all over the world, hoping to find a specialist who could help him regain the use of his legs—something no one had been able to accomplish yet.

“Family problems.”

Tyson drew a football in a man’s hand. He could understand family problems. Since his grandfather died, his mother hadn’t been the same. Neither was he. “She mentioned that her father is unable to work.”

“He was in an accident something like fifteen years ago. She’s been taking care of him ever since.”

“What kind of accident?”

“Hang on a sec.”

As Gabe took care of whatever it was that had called him away from the phone, Tyson added a Super Bowl ring to one of the fingers he’d drawn, and an arm tattooed with the words The Duke. Grandpa Garnier had loved the old John Wayne movies. Tyson was thinking of getting such a tattoo on his bicep in memory of his grandfather. Problem was, his grandfather had never really liked tattoos. “Why’d you do that?” he’d said when he spotted Tyson’s only tattoo—his jersey number etched on the inside of his forearm. “Think y’might forget?”

The entire team had done it before a big game, but Tyson didn’t bother to explain. Grandpa Garnier didn’t understand following the crowd. He also didn’t understand why Tyson wanted to play football—something that would afford him such a short career—instead of becoming a cowboy like him.

Some days, Tyson thought he would’ve been better off taking over at the ranch.

“Sorry,” Gabe said, coming back on the line. “Hannah needed the car keys.”

“You were telling me about Dakota’s father,” Tyson reminded him, still curious about his new nanny.

There was a brief pause. “Actually, I think I’ll leave it up to her to tell you more about Skelton.”

Tyson didn’t have high hopes about that. Dakota didn’t seem very forthcoming on the subject. “Did she crash into him with her car or something?”

“No.” Gabe chuckled softly. “That’s my story, remember?”

How could Tyson forget? Gabe had married the woman who’d crippled him, which was almost as shocking as what had happened to him in the first place. “Do you ever find it hard to forgive Hannah?” he asked. He knew he shouldn’t pry, but he’d been curious about it ever since Gabe and Hannah had gotten together. A lot of people were.

“No,” Gabe responded immediately. “The accident wasn’t really her fault. If her ex hadn’t taken the boys, she wouldn’t have been on the road that night, trying to chase him down. Besides, if she hadn’t hit me, I wouldn’t have moved home, and I never would’ve realized that she—and Kenny and Brent—are all I could ever want.”

Tyson couldn’t imagine the kind of marital bliss Gabe seemed to enjoy. After nearly falling in love with Rachelle, only to learn that she cared more about his money and status and what it could provide than she did him, he wasn’t sure he was any better suited to marriage than he was to fatherhood.

“Doesn’t Dakota have a sibling or two who can help her with her father?” he asked. “It’s gotta be tough to be his sole support.”

“She has some relatives in Salt Lake, an aunt and uncle and a few cousins, but as far as I know they don’t have any contact. That’s it.”

“What happened to her mother?”

“She went back to Chile, where she was from.”

That explained Dakota’s coloring. “Does Dakota ever hear from her?”

“Sometimes. I know Consuela has asked her to visit, but Dakota won’t go. She can’t leave Skelton for that long.”

“How did her mother and father meet?”

“I’m not sure exactly. I know Consuela worked in Boise, where Skelton went to school. But once they were married, she was unhappy.”

Tyson sketched a pair of shoulders, complete with pads, and a helmet. “Why didn’t she take Dakota with her when she left?”

“She couldn’t. Dakota’s an American citizen. That was the sacrifice she had to make in order to go home.”

Tyson couldn’t help feeling sorry for his dark-eyed nanny. It didn’t sound as if she’d had many breaks in life. “I guess marriage isn’t for everyone.”

“Are you talking about yourself?”

“I wasn’t, but I might as well be.”

“It’d be easier to raise Braden if you had a wife.”

Rachelle had forced too many changes on him already. But he knew he and Gabe would disagree, so he veered away from the subject. “Fortunately, I have the help I need now.”

“That’s all you want?” Gabe asked. “A nanny?”

“That’s all I can afford,” Tyson said ruefully.

There was a slight pause. “You did the right thing, Tyson. Braden’s worth every dime.”

Tyson didn’t regret the money. Once he’d found out what was going on, he’d had to do something. His sense of responsibility was too strong to allow the child to be neglected. But he still lamented that he’d been fool enough to allow a gold-digger to change the course of his life. “Thanks for stocking the kitchen,” he said. “I got in too late last night to hit a grocery store.”

“That was Hannah.”

“Thank her for me.”

“You bet. How’s the knee?”

“Healing.” I think. It wasn’t as strong as he’d hoped it’d be, but he had two months to strengthen it. “The equipment you have here will help.”

“The whirlpool should be good for it, too. And I’ll send the trainer I work with at the high school to meet you. He’ll get you on a good therapy program. He’s one of the best.”

Tyson finished drawing his football player and started on a cowboy. His grandfather had lived a solid, clean life. A simple life. Which seemed damned enviable at this point. “So what’s he doing in the mountains of Idaho?”

“He’s also the town vet. Loves it here.”

Tyson shaded the face of the cowboy he was drawing to reflect the craggy nature of Grandpa Garnier’s features. God, he missed the old man. Had his grandfather still been around, Tyson could’ve taken Braden back to the ranch.

But those days were over. The ranch was now owned by Tyson’s uncle, who refused to sell it to him. And Grandpa Garnier lived only in Tyson’s memory.

At least in Dundee he had someone to help him with Braden, a trainer to get him ready for the start of the season, top-of-the-line therapy equipment and—best of all—some privacy.

For the moment, that would have to do.

DAKOTA STARED at the light beneath the door in Tyson Garnier’s office. He’d been in there since he’d hired her more than five hours earlier. She’d occasionally heard his voice as he talked on the phone, but the cabin had been deathly quiet for at least ninety minutes.

Should she knock? He’d mentioned that she needed to stay four or five hours, which meant she could go home at eight. But it was past eight-thirty and nearly dark, and he hadn’t come out to take the baby, make arrangements for tomorrow, anything.

She shifted Braden onto her other hip and double-checked her watch. Sure enough—eight thirty-five. She had to get home before her father headed to the bar. He often grew restless after dark, wanted to go out and join his friends. And he wasn’t the same when he was drunk.

“Mr. Garnier?” She knocked softly. He must’ve fallen asleep, she thought, but he proved her wrong when the door swung open almost immediately.

“Yes?” He towered over her by at least ten inches, appearing even more unkempt than he had before. His brown hair, although short, stood up all over, as if he’d pushed his fingers through it a few hundred times. The shadow of beard on his jaw and chin had darkened. And his eyes were bloodshot.

Except for the hard, flat stomach beneath his T-shirt, he looked like her father after a drinking binge. She couldn’t smell any alcohol, but maybe he was on some kind of drug. Who else would promise someone five hundred dollars for a few hours of babysitting?

“It’s time for me to go,” she said and tried to hand him his son.

He stepped back as quickly as a vampire would from a Christian cross. “It can’t be eight o’clock already.”

She pulled Braden’s hand away from her hair before he could get another fistful. “It’s past that. And I really need to go.” Or she’d have to track down her father and drag him home. They’d recently taken his driver’s license away from him, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try to drive that old clunker truck of his. And if he did get on the road, and the police picked him up, she’d have to bail him out of jail again. They were already so deeply in debt they could barely scrape by.

“Of course,” he said but made no move to take the baby. Instead, he gave her the sexy smile she felt certain had garnered him the attention of Hollywood in the first place. “Any chance you could get him…er, Braden…down for the night before you leave?” he asked hopefully. “I’m pretty busy in here.”

Dakota would rather have stayed in the elegantly appointed cabin than return to what she called home, but she felt too much pressure. Although her father had once been a kind, responsible, loving man, the pain he suffered from the accident and the alcohol he drank to battle it had changed him. She scarcely recognized him anymore. “I don’t think Braden’s ready for bed. He had a late nap and could probably use a bath.”

“You didn’t give him one?”

“I would have,” she explained, a bit defensive at his tone, “but I couldn’t find the baby shampoo, and I didn’t want to disturb you in case you were sleeping.”

Tyson also intimidated her. On television, he seemed very cocky—the kind of guy who might stride into an event late and unapologetic, wearing an expensive pair of sunglasses and an “eat your heart out” smile. But he didn’t seem very confident right now. “Isn’t all shampoo basically the same?”

“Not if it gets in his eyes. You’ve got to go shopping anyway, so you might as well pick up some.”

“Why do I have to go shopping? Hannah already stocked the cupboards.”

The muscles in his arms flexed impressively as he shoved his oversized hands into his pockets. She could tell he wasn’t trying to put on a show, but his well-toned body made Dakota more self-conscious of the twenty pounds she’d gained over the past few months. With her father behaving so badly, she couldn’t get out of the house the way she used to. It was difficult leaving him alone long enough to go to work. Now that she’d be putting in longer hours, she’d have to rely even more heavily on Mrs. Duluth. But at least the arrangement was only temporary. She didn’t think Mrs. Duluth would mind.

“Hannah did a general stock,” she said. “I think she expected you to bring your own baby items.”

“Like shampoo? That’s a baby item?”

“Gentle shampoo, yes—and diapers and formula.”

“I have diapers.”

“Not anymore, unless they’re in your luggage.” So far, in addition to the diaper bag in the baby’s room, which was empty, she’d only spotted a duffle tossed carelessly at the foot of the bed in the master. But Tyson could have diapers in there, she supposed. Or in whatever vehicle he’d brought. She hadn’t checked the detached garage.

“You used them all?”

“There were only three, and I had good reason.”

He seemed to grasp that she’d spared him a few messy changes and backed off. “Right. Okay.”

Feeling slightly vindicated, she mentally measured what was left in the can from which she’d made Braden’s last bottle. “You also need more formula, or you will in another day or two. And it’d be nice if you could get a teething ring, a couple of baby spoons and a playpen. If you brought that stuff with you, I couldn’t find it.”

“No, I—Maybe you should make a list,” he said.

Dakota’s anxiety increased as she imagined her father revving the engine of his old truck, preparing to leave for the Honky Tonk. She’d hidden the keys, but he’d found them before. And Mrs. Duluth wouldn’t stop him. She’d be in bed by now. “A list. Sure.”

This time he took the baby when she held him out, and she hurried to the desk to find a paper and pen.

“Where can I get those items?” he asked, peering over her shoulder while she wrote.

“Finley’s Market is open till ten. But it’s a forty-minute drive to town, so you’d better hurry if you plan to go tonight.” She ripped off the sheet and handed it to him. “You can follow me, if you leave right away. I drive right past there.”

“Thanks. I think I’ll do that.”

Braden squirmed and reached for her, which made Dakota hesitate. Tyson seemed tense, unsure of himself. And the way he was holding his son—out away from his body instead of cuddling him close—concerned her. What if Tyson really was taking drugs? “Are you on something?” she asked.

Two deep furrows formed between his eyebrows. “What?”

She glanced anxiously toward the door but stayed where she was. She couldn’t conscionably leave until she knew the baby would be okay. “I’m asking if you’ve been snorting coke, shooting heroin, swallowing pills…you know.”

“Of course not! Do I look like I’m on drugs?”

She refused to blanch at his angry response. “Sort of.”

His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and his eyes narrowed. Obviously he wasn’t used to hearing the hard truth. But she had a responsibility to the baby. “I’m not,” he insisted.

“Not even steroids?” Steroids affected behavior, sometimes caused undue anger, right? She’d read that somewhere.

“Not even steroids.”

She wasn’t sure he’d admit it to her even if he were. But she didn’t dare argue further. Braden was his baby. There wasn’t anything more she could do. “Good.” She headed for the door, her mind now fully focused on getting home to her father, but Tyson intercepted her.

“What time can you be here in the morning?”

“When would you like me?”

“I’ll give you a key, so you can let yourself in at dawn.”

Dawn? She almost protested. She’d have to get up before five to get back here that early. But the nine thousand dollars she’d earn working for him would stop the bank from taking possession of their home. They were nearly five months behind on their mortgage.

Hopefully, her father would behave so she’d be able to get some sleep tonight.

“Fine.” She waited for him to fish an extra key out of the desk. Then she gave Braden an affectionate pat. “If you want to follow me to Finley’s, you’ll have to keep up,” she told Tyson. “I’m in a big hurry.”

But it didn’t take long to realize he wasn’t going to fall behind. While her 1992 rattletrap Maxima could barely do twenty-five miles an hour on the winding road, Tyson’s red Ferrari had no such limitations. His headlights never left her rearview mirror.

Where he’d put Braden’s car seat in that sports car, she had no idea. Obviously Tyson Garnier wasn’t much of a family man. That Ferrari was as much of a chick magnet as he was.

“You’re some father,” she muttered. But these days her own father wasn’t anything to brag about, and she grew more and more anxious as she drove closer to home.