Was he dreaming? Or was someone knocking on the door?
Prying his eyelids up, Nash tried to rise from the couch. He failed.
The tap-tap-tap came again.
Great. Just great. His presence had already been discovered.
Hopefully not the press.
Or his agent.
But who else?
He let his eyelids fall.
Maybe if he didn’t answer, the visitor would decide he wasn’t in the house after all and leave.
“Nash,” a familiar female voice called through the door, “are you okay?”
His eyes popped open.
Harlow?
She already knew he was here. He needed to let her in and convince her not to say a word to anyone.
Had he already done that? He couldn’t remember.
Using all his remaining strength he called, “Door’s unlocked.”
He let his eyes fall closed again.
Nash heard Harlow enter, heard the door snick shut behind her. His head hurt too much to look at her.
If there was one person on earth he trusted not to post a social media photo of him lying on a dusty couch, covered by a throw rug, wet and shivering and half dead, it was Harlow. But he had to ask. He had to be sure.
A cold hand touched his forehead.
“You’re roasting. Why didn’t you go to the ER?” She sounded gruff, scolding him with the same tone his sixth-grade teacher had used when Nash had seen the boys’ bathroom flooding and hadn’t said a word.
What was Harlow mad at him about? Was it because he hadn’t been in contact in so long?
“Can’t,” he mumbled.
She moved her hand, which had felt really good. Weird, considering how cold he was.
“Can you make it to your bed?”
“No.” He probably could, but he didn’t want to.
He heard her huff, as if his ailment annoyed her.
It sure annoyed him.
He pried one eye open to see Harlow leave the living room. The scant light nearly blinded him.
She returned with a pair of sweats and a stack of blankets. They probably smelled musty, but he wasn’t in any situation to be particular.
She plunked them on the coffee table. “You need to change out of those wet clothes. Can you eat or drink anything?”
“No.”
“Can I call anyone for you?”
“No.” But you could stay awhile and act a little friendlier.
“Fine. I have work to do.”
Nash’s eyes flew wide open. A rocket launch of pain shot through the top of his head, but he couldn’t let her leave just yet. “I need a favor.”
She huffed another annoyed breath and perched a hand on her blue-jeaned hip. “What is it?”
“Don’t let anyone find out I’m here.”
Her nose, that cute little nose of hers, wrinkled in distaste. “You’ve already made that clear. Several times.”
He had? “I can’t go into town.”
“There you go then. You won’t be discovered.”
She wasn’t making this easy.
Drawing on his remaining reserve, he muttered, “There aren’t any supplies in the house. No food. No medicine.”
When he’d roared into town, he’d still been too riled up to think of supplies. He just wanted to hide out and think.
Her eyebrows shot up. “Are you asking me to go shopping for you?”
His eyelids wouldn’t stay open any longer. “Would you?”
“Of course. Shopping for you would be a privilege.” Was that sarcasm he heard in her voice?
Before he could muster up the energy to ask what he’d done, other than getting sick and becoming a nuisance, to upset her to this extreme, the front door opened, then closed with a decided snap, and he was alone again.
By the next morning, the rain had stopped, although Harlow knew the reprieve was temporary. More rain was forecast.
Last night’s encounter with an inert, sick Nash and his request that she be at his beck and call like one of his groupies had so enraged her that she’d had a hard time sleeping.
At dawn, she’d risen to push a pencil on the ranch’s finances, trying to figure out how to rake up the money for two mortgage payments. Monroe and Poppy knew they were in dire straits, but she refused to worry them with exactly how dire those conditions were. Neither was in any shape to do anything about them.
The responsibility rested on her.
After a worrisome hour of staring at figures that refused to change, it had finally occurred to her to pray. She did, not expecting much. The Lord helped those who helped themselves, didn’t He?
Harlow considered her liquid assets. The only things she personally owned of any value were her horse and her mother’s rings.
At one point, she went to her top dresser drawer and took out the small, white jewelry box. Antiques, the engagement ring and wedding band had originally belonged to her mother’s grandmother, who’d married into an oil rich family. Though the family wealth was long gone, the diamond and platinum wedding set remained. After her parents’ deaths, each of the sisters received a piece of their mother’s antique jewelry. Harlow’s gift had been the rings. She treasured them, had dreamed of someday wearing the set as a bride just as three generations of women before her had done.
Though it hurt to consider selling, she wondered if Mom’s rings were the answer to her prayers.
Stewing, gnawing her bottom lip until it felt raw, she put the rings away and shoved the drawer closed.
Not yet. There had to be another way.
Selling more livestock was out of the question. They’d already sold off as much as they could without giving up the “seed” as Poppy termed the young cows and calves. Any more and there would be no Matheson Ranch.
She couldn’t let that happen to Poppy. This ranch was in his blood. Cowboying was all he’d ever known.
Thinking of cowboying, she put away her pen and paper and headed out into the cold, rainy morning to search for the missing cow-calf pair. With daylight breaking, she saddled Burr and took Ollie the collie along. The well-trained cow dog would assist in finding and bringing in the cattle, if they were still alive.
As she rode the pasture, over rises and along the wooded creek, her gaze repeatedly moved northward toward the Corbin Ranch. Another worry she couldn’t resolve.
After an hour of searching with drizzle dampening her already damp mood, Ollie disappeared into the underbrush and yipped, a sign that she’d found something.
After a brief tussle, Harlow won the battle to toss the new, still alive but wet, shivering, newborn calf over the saddle knowing the mama would follow her baby to the barn. If the cow balked, Ollie would get her moving.
“Thank you, Lord,” she whispered.
Maybe God felt sorry for her, considering she had enough disasters on her hands without adding a dead cow and calf.
Stepping inside the back door of home, the warmth, along with the smell of bacon, welcomed her.
The Matheson house was an older frame farmhouse from another era. Nothing fancy in the least, but the place was homey, cozy and filled with love and the people who mattered. Other than Taylor who, at last text, was somewhere in Montana hiking the mountains with friends. People Harlow didn’t know. Taylor knew her propensity for making friends with anyone and everyone drove her big sister up a wall.
“You’re just in time.” Poppy stood over the stove, dishing up breakfast. He glanced at her over one shoulder. “Feed bag’s on. Sit.”
Harlow washed up at the sink, poured a mug of coffee, and joined Monroe and Davis at the scarred kitchen table. On special occasions, she covered the old wood with a tablecloth, but mostly, she liked the table as it was. Generations of Mathesons had eaten here, leaving their marks—literally—in the wood.
“Cow and a healthy bull calf are in the barn.”
Poppy scooped the final fried egg onto the platter. “Praise the Lord Jesus.”
“I already did.”
“Never can do it enough.” Poppy plunked the platter of food onto the table next to Monroe’s biscuits. Monroe wasn’t much of a cook, but she baked great biscuits.
They offered grace and ate in silence for a few minutes.
When Poppy had polished off two eggs and several slices of bacon and was in the process of adding strawberry jam to a biscuit, he said, “I figure you need to look in on the Corbin boy again this morning.”
Monroe and Harlow exchanged glances. Harlow didn’t say anything even though she was thinking plenty. Poppy knew how she felt. No point in hurting his feelings again.
She was still mulling the unwanted shopping trip.
If Nash felt better, he was probably hungry. If he wasn’t better, he still needed sustenance and medicine.
She didn’t want to care whether he got well or not, but she did.
Her grandpa must have noticed the instant tension in the room because he looked at Monroe and then at her for several uncomfortable seconds. Quietly, he finished his breakfast and then went for his Bible, as he did every morning.
“Got some interesting reading in today’s devotional,” he said. “Matthew 5, the Sermon on the Mount. Jesus’s best sermon, I’m thinking.”
Poppy patted the top of Davis’s hand and spent several minutes painting an elaborate word picture for the little boy about Jesus sitting on top of that big old mountain surrounded by folks who’d sit and listen to him all day without a bite to eat.
“Now, that’s devotion, Davis. They knew he was giving them more than natural food.” Poppy patted the striped shirt pocket that covered his heart. “Food for the soul.”
“I like Jesus,” the boy said, bringing smiles to the faces of every adult.
“He likes you, too.” Monroe wiped a jelly smudge from the corner of the three-year-old’s mouth.
“Now,” Poppy went on, “on this particular day, Jesus was talking to his disciples, a bunch of rabble-rousing hardheads who had a lot to learn. And He said something important that just about blew their hats in the dirt.”
Smoothing a weathered hand lovingly over the thin paper, he read, “‘But I say unto you, love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you; That ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven: for He maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.’”
He glanced up. “Now, this next part is even more important. ‘For if ye love them which love you, what reward have ye? Do not even the publicans the same? And if ye salute your brethren only, what do ye more than others? Do not even the publicans so? Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect.’”
Sliding a bookmark into place, he patted the page. “You get that, son? Even if someone does a cowpoke wrong, we got to treat ’em good. That makes us perfect in God’s eyes. Now, perfect here don’t mean never messing up. It means mature. Grown up. We act like a grown-up because it’s what Jesus would do. We do the right thing, the Jesus thing, even if others do us wrong. His way is always right even when we don’t like it.”
He clapped the Bible shut, rose from the table and limped out of the room.
Davis might not be able to understand, but Harlow certainly got the point. From Monroe’s contrite expression, so did she.
Nash had hurt them, done them wrong, caused them many problems, but Jesus commanded that every wounded Matheson rise above their personal feelings and show Christ’s compassion and forgiveness.
Which meant a shopping trip for the enemy next door.
The sweet biscuit turned bland on her tongue.
Poppy had always found a way of correcting the three sisters without lifting a hand.
An hour later, Harlow grudgingly roamed the aisles of the IGA store for anything she thought Nash might need. Considering his stomach problem, he could get dehydrated, so she tossed in a pack of Gatorade. Didn’t athletes drink that stuff by the tubful?
Soup would be good. Crackers. A few over-the-counter medicines. Mac and cheese for when he felt better. Nash loved mac and cheese. Or once had. He said Poppy made the best mac and cheese in the world, which was hilarious, considering it came from a box.
Back then, the boy next door was at her dinner table as often as he was at home. He’d eat anything and lots of it.
She tossed in a few cans of spaghetti and ravioli. Then she put them back on the shelf. Weren’t professional athletes on special diets?
She perched a hand on one hip and glared at the rows of canned goods.
What now?
With a shrug, she reclaimed the cans.
Considering she didn’t know what that special diet was and Nash was so worried about his privacy being invaded by his hordes of adoring fans, he’d have to deal with whatever she gave him.
If he didn’t like her choices, he’d have to come into town himself. Except he couldn’t right now. He was too sick.
And Poppy would be upset if she didn’t do her best by the man who’d nearly ruined them.
Mr. I’m So Important That I Have to Hide was giving her an ulcer. Why did he have to come here to escape his fame? Why not Antarctica or deep in the Amazon jungle?
After adding a few more of what she considered kitchen staples to the basket, she rolled to the cashier and began unloading the items onto the conveyer belt.
The cashier, Ashley Renner, whom Harlow had known as long as she could remember, wiped her hands on a paper towel and smiled before reaching for the first item to scan. “Hey, Harlow, how’s it going?”
“Same old, same old.” Boy, was that ever stretching the truth.
“I hear ya. This rain is something, huh?” Ashley swept the milk across the scanner.
“Sure is. Cold, too.”
“Jenna Bates was in here earlier. She said Sundown Creek is about to flood over the bridge again. She lives out that way, you know.” Beep. Beep. Beep. Her hands moved as fast as her mouth. “Sure hope the weather improves before the Strawberry Festival. The whole town will be disappointed if we have to cancel.”
Harlow plopped a giant jar of peanut butter onto the counter next to the grape jelly and a loaf of wheat bread. “Especially the kids. My church small group is building a float. So is the youth group.”
“My littles are going to be part of a garden float. Gracie’s a ladybug and Matthew’s a sunflower. The costumes are adorable, but they’ve about given me an earworm from singing ‘The Ants Go Marching One by One.’” Ashley laughed and quickly beeped five cans of soup. “Is Davis riding in the parade this year?”
Harlow frowned, remembering the dilemma waiting for her in the Corbin Ranch house. “I don’t know. He’s really little.”
“You could ride that beautiful horse of yours and keep Davis in the saddle with you.”
“Maybe.” Hopefully, Nash would be gone by then, back to his adoring fans and rich life. If she could just keep him away from Davis until that happened.
“Is Preach Beckham still trying to buy him?” Laughing, Ashley fluttered her hands above the scanner. “I mean your horse, not your son.”
Harlow laughed too, though she couldn’t help wondering if Nash would think he could buy Davis if he discovered the truth. Money was a powerful thing.
“Always. He asks me at least once a month.”
“And every time you refuse. Must be some horse.”
“Burr is from Yates Trudeau’s stock and the best I’ve ever owned.” She knew she sounded defensive, but Ashley had no way of knowing that she’d considered, if only for a second, selling Burr that very day.
Burr had listened to her sobs after Nash had left. He’d listened again when she’d discovered the pregnancy. From strong bloodlines, the golden palomino was an excellent cow horse. She didn’t know how she’d work cattle without him.
Thanks to Nash’s underhandedness, she and her family had lost a lot. But they still had their ranch, some keepsakes of her mother’s and their animals. None of them were for sale.
Nash thought he might live. But he wasn’t sure if he wanted to.
He’d awakened the next morning, still weak and feverish, but capable of changing into the sweats Harlow had left on his coffee table. All he’d managed last night was to pull both the blankets over his shivering body. After that, he didn’t recall anything until a shaft of sunlight startled him awake.
His head still pounded.
Whatever tried to kill him was a tenacious sucker.
Throat as dry as the Mojave, he was contemplating the long journey to the kitchen when a tap sounded on his door and, before he could call out, Harlow shoved her way inside, a grocery bag in each arm.
She took one glance at him before heading into the adjacent kitchen. So much for friendly greetings.
What was her problem anyway?
She stuck her head around the doorway. “I bought soup and Gatorade. You owe me sixty-two dollars.”
For soup and Gatorade? Wow, prices had escalated.
Did he even have sixty-two dollars?
“I didn’t know if you’d return.”
“I’m here.” She disappeared back into the kitchen to bang cans and what have you onto the worn Formica counter.
The noise hurt his head.
Pushing back the pile of musty blankets, he eased to an upright position, feet on the floor, head in hands. His brain made circles inside his skull.
Dizzy, light-headed, weak. Man, he was a mess.
Through his fingers, he saw a bottle of Gatorade appear on the coffee table.
“Thanks.” He looked up. A pulse throbbed behind his eyes. Harlow looked a little wavy. He reached for the Gatorade. It looked wavy too.
“I’ll heat the soup,” she said. “Chicken noodle okay?”
His stomach rolled. “Perfect.”
He sipped at the Gatorade until Harlow brought the soup. She perched on the chair opposite the couch, watching his hand shake as he tried to spoon the liquid into his mouth.
There was something in her expression that he didn’t understand. Animosity, maybe. Fear? For certain, she was tense as a fiddle string in the key of E, as Gus would say.
But why? He and Harlow, the whole Matheson crew, had been great friends. Was she angry because he hadn’t kept in touch?
“It’s good to see you, Harlow.”
“Why are you here after so long?”
So that was it. She was angry about his long silence. He had to admit, he deserved her anger. He should have called, texted, emailed or something.
“Personal problems,” he said.
Her lip curled. “I can only imagine how tough your life must be.”
“Everyone has problems, Harlow.” He wasn’t about to tell her of the mess he’d made of things, but the shoulder injury was common knowledge. “Tore my shoulder up. Had surgery a few days ago.”
Harlow’s bird-wing eyebrows dipped. “A few days? And you were out last night in that weather? You could have an infection in that arm.”
Fear snaked down his back, cold, icy. She was right. An infection could account for the sudden illness. With an infection he could be out of the game for an extended time. He could lose his career. Which meant he might never have the opportunity to regain the fortune his agent had stolen from him.
“You should see a doctor, Nash.” Was that concern he heard in her voice?
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
He couldn’t tell her.
“I need some time away from everyone, Harlow. Some R and R, peace and quiet. I can’t deal with media and people right now.”
He gave up on the soup and put the bowl on the coffee table. The spoon clattered against the potteryware. He leaned his head against the back of the couch, exhausted.
Silence ticked in the ranch house. His gaze found Harlow and stayed there awhile. Even in ranching work attire of boots and worn jeans, she was peachy pretty with her red hair in a long, loose sweep over each shoulder.
She caught him looking and rose from her perch on the edge of a fake leather easy chair.
“Should I leave the soup or dump it?” She reached for the bowl.
He caught her wrist. “Leave it.”
Funny how he couldn’t turn loose of her though he knew he should. Harlow glanced down and back up with a pointed look.
“Are you mad at me, Harlow?” he asked.
“Of course not. I don’t even know you anymore.”
Ah. There it was again. “I should have kept in touch.”
“You always dreamed of leaving this town and making it big. Your dreams came true.”
They had. Until they became a nightmare.
“What about you, Harlow?” he asked softly. “Did your dreams come true?”
“I have everything that matters.” She pulled her hand from his grasp and looked toward the door as if planning a prison break. “Unless you need something else, I have work to do at home.”
“Will you come back?”
“You can call if you aren’t up to taking care of yourself.”
“I can’t. No phone.”
“You don’t have a cell phone?” Her tone was incredulous.
He shook his head. It punished him by hammering his skull. “Left it behind. I wanted to get away for a while, remember?”
“Oh, that’s right.”
Did she just roll her eyes at him?
“Listen, Harlow, I—” What could he say other than, “I’m sorry. You were my best friend.”
“And you ghosted me.”
“The phone rings both ways. You could have called me.”
“I wasn’t the one who left.” She started toward the door, then turned back. “We’ll keep your secret, Nash, but I’d advise you to move that fancy car if you don’t want anyone to know you’re here.”
The sports car. In his pathetically ill state, he’d completely forgotten about it. “Thanks. I’ll move it to the barn.”
“Give me the keys. I’ll move it.”
“Can you drive a stick?” He shook his head, felt the hammer start up again. “Never mind. I know you can,” he said with a slight smile. “Better than me.”
He retrieved the keys from the jeans he’d dumped on the floor in exchange for the dry sweat pants and held them out. All without rising. He couldn’t. He was that weak.
Harlow’s face, heretofore made of stone, softened until he thought she might even laugh. “You were a gear grinder.”
“You had a need for speed.”
The smile bloomed. “Still do.”
Finally, he’d broken through her wall and gotten a glimpse of the old Harlow. Four years had made her even prettier. Was she still as sweet and kind?
“Don’t be joyriding my ’Vette.”
The smile disappeared. She snatched the keys from his outstretched hand. “I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”
She exited the house, leaving him to contemplate the sudden shift in her mood.