Where the Heart Leads (6 page)

Rafe set Delilah down and touched Moira's arm to get her attention. She jerked as if he'd been wiping his feet on a nylon carpet.

Goddamn! If she was that sensitive when he barely touched her, how would she react when he kissed her? When he held her close against him again like he had at Omar's honky-tonk, but this time, without everyone in Bosque Bend looking on?

Save that till later, cowboy. Right now you've got to take care of the horses.

“Moira, I'd appreciate it if you'd stay with Delilah while I saddle everyone up.”

Moira nodded and took Delilah's hand while he walked over to Dakota's stall and led the tall gelding out, being careful to avoid Bella, who was rolling her eyes at the sight of the saddle Rocky had lifted from the rail.

The next time Rafe looked up, Rocky was riding Bella out of the barn.

He couldn't help but smile. Rocky and Bella—those two were a lot alike—both fair-haired and both spirited. But the beautiful Bella was dangerous. He'd have gotten rid of her by now if it weren't for Rocky. She didn't need to have her favorite horse sold out from under her at the same time her husband was playing footsie with his old flame.

He walked Dakota over to Astrid, and she swung herself into the saddle like a pro.

“How do the stirrups feel?”

“Spot on. You guessed right.” She picked up the reins. “I'll go on out and get acquainted with Rocky.” She clucked at Dakota and walked him out of the barn.

Rafe led Star out of her stall, trailing a hand along the side of Moira's waist as he passed by, which was all he could manage with Delilah pulling at him again.

“Can I ride Star, Daddy? I want to ride Star.”

“Sorry, Sugar. Miss Moira's our guest so we'll let her ride Star.” He hung the mare's halter on a hook outside her stall, and like the sweetheart she was, Star dipped her nose for the bridle. “You can sit in front of me on Sarge.”

Delilah looked like he'd promised her a second Christmas. “On
Sarge
? I get to ride
Sarge
?”

“Sure thing, but let's get Miss Moira into the saddle first.”

Star was bombproof, but he'd stay close to Moira anyway—as if he hadn't planned to do that already.

Moira swallowed hard as she looked at the dark brown horse with the splotch of white on its forehead that Rafe had saddled for her. Astrid had won horsemanship awards in summer camp, but her own equestrian experience was limited to that week she'd spent at Southfork and a month of playing an Indian girl in a really rotten movie, which thank goodness, no one ever saw.

Sending up a little prayer, she hooked her toe in the stirrup and threw her leg over the horse's back.

As soon as she picked up the reins, Rafe left her to lay a pad across the back of a big pinto who looked like he'd been splashed with war paint, added a blanket and saddle, then lifted Delilah up on top of the stack. The four-year-old grasped the pommel as if she'd been riding since she was born, which she probably had.

Then, with single fluid movement, Rafe lifted himself onto the horse behind his daughter.

Moira gasped. Rafe McAllister was cowboy incarnate.

And he was for real.

A strident whinny came from outside the barn, and Moira caught flashes out the door of Bella rearing up, her mane and flowing tail whipping to and fro as she tried to toss Rocky off into the dust. But no matter what twists and turns Bella maneuvered, Rocky stayed on board.

Suddenly the white horse dropped her head, accepting her fate, and Rocky walked her over to Astrid. The two of them started talking as if nothing had happened.

Moira waited as Rafe closed the pasture gate and swung back up on his horse.

“We'll go at a walk most of the way,” he explained to her. You can see more, and there's less chance of your horse ending up with a broken leg.”

She could hear Astrid and Rocky talking back and forth behind them. From what few words she could make out, they were comparing their fingernails—an interesting way to bond—but she and Rafe rode in an easy silence.

Moira looked around automatically to check the position of a camera crew, but all she saw was an endless sweep of land and a gathering of puffy white clouds in a pale sky. No traffic noise, nothing needing her immediate attention, no reason to hurry, hurry, hurry. Everything was at its own pace.

She could get used to this.

She cast a quick glance at Rafe and was jolted back to reality.

Was that a gun stock sticking out of the leather scabbard hanging from his saddle?

“What is that—a rifle?”

He patted the scabbard. “Heavy-duty shotgun.”

A shotgun? For a pleasure ride on his own property?
She tried for corny humor. “You expectin' to run into rustlers, podnuh?”

Rafe's face turned to granite and his voice hardened. “We do have rustlers from time to time—usually penny ante—but right now I'm on the lookout for feral hogs. Coyotes and rattlesnakes too. The hogs tear up the land, and we lose a couple of calves a year to coyotes and rattlers.” He squinted up at the thick canopy of trees they were passing under. “Lately, we've been having trouble with panthers.” He gave the landscape a narrow-eyed 180-degree survey.

“Panthers?”

“Panthers, cougars, mountain lions, pumas—whatever you want to call them. They'll go after anything they can get, us included.” He scanned the horizon again. “This is raw land. You have to respect its danger.”

Rafe looked back as he heard Rocky's laugh—he'd know it anywhere. She and Astrid had been talking pretty much the whole ride. Good—the way things were going with Micaela and Travis, Rocky would need all the friends she could get.

He settled back in the saddle and moved Sarge a little closer to Moira. “You'll be seein' some cows as soon as we cross the rise. We got a river that cuts through all the pastures, and they like to spend the afternoon in the shade down in the wallows.”

Moira looked around at the close-cropped winter grass and rocky terrain. “A river?”

“Not really a river. It's a tributary of the Bosque. Doesn't even have a name.”

“Why do you have multiple pastures?”

He paused and looked around himself as if counting acreage. “We have to keep the herds movin' to avoid overgrazin'. In good years, we need about three acres per cow-calf unit, four acres if we haven't had enough rain. Also, we keep the bulls in a separate pasture and rotate them to be sure we don't have inbreeding—it weakens the stock.”

The foursome descended into a scattered herd of cows, which gave them questioning looks, then totally ignored them.

Delilah, who'd been slumped against her father with her eyes half-closed, suddenly leaned forward and pointed toward the herd. “Look, Daddy—deer!”

Moira followed her finger and saw a trio of delicate heads lift themselves above the grazing cattle and twitch their overlarge ears. She turned to Rafe. “Why are deer in with the cattle?”

“Mom says the deer are tryin' to protect themselves from hunters, but Uncle Omar's theory is that the cows are so dumb they think the deer are cattle, and the deer are so dumb they think the cattle are deer.”

Moira laughed. “I like your Uncle Omar. It must be nice to have so many members of your family nearby.”

Colin rarely visited his mother and father, she remembered. She'd met them only once—two ordinary ducks totally in awe of the swan they'd somehow managed to produce. She'd always wondered if something about the way they'd raised him had caused him to turn out the way he did, or maybe it had been whatever he'd experienced when he first hit Hollywood. Rumor had it that his first wife, a screen siren about fifteen years older than he was, had dabbled in “exotic” sex. But maybe Colin had just plain been born with a screw loose.

Whatever, he shouldn't have imposed his hang-ups on her.

The old guilt nagged at her.
And she shouldn't have let him.

She watched as Rafe maneuvered Sarge to avoid a big cow who saw no reason to give way to a mere horse before he answered.

“Yeah, I think the McAllisters stick around because they want to make sure I'm doin' right by them. The C Bar M has been passed down from oldest son to oldest son for four generations, and everyone who's in the bloodline gets a share of the profits.” He glanced behind them. “When Travis and Rocky have kids, the Colby bloodline will disappear into ours.”

Moira heard another bell-like peal of laughter behind her and looked back. Why in the world was Travis straying when he had such a magical creature as Rocky at home? Dear God, she hoped whatever was going on with Travis and Micaela didn't hit the fan until after the show closed.

Which reminded her, she'd better check with Rafe about the rehearsal schedule.

“Will you be able to attend the adult cast meeting tomorrow night?”

“I'll be there this time, but I can't guarantee every Monday—it depends on whether Rocky or Mrs. Goodrich—she comes twice a week to clean up the house—can stay with Delilah. Tuesday through Thursday are out, but I can usually be there Friday and Saturdays. My mother kidnaps Delilah for weekends.”

They moved away from the herd, and he gave her a speculative glance. “When you gonna be in town tomorrow?”

“All day. I'm talking to the Fontaines at nine—they set up the appointment, but I would have contacted them soon enough anyway—and after that, I'll go over to the museum to see what the theater rooms are like.”

A pickup drove up to the other side of the river and turned around, then started honking and tossing out loose hay.

“That's Jimbo Crane, our neighbor's son. Works for us part-time. He's luring the cows into another pasture.”

“By blowing the horn?”

“Cows are curious. They'll follow an interesting sound anywhere it leads them, especially if they associate food with it.”

And sure enough, the cattle began lumbering across the shallow stream after the truck.

“Jimbo left a leg in Iraq so he's got a prosthetic, but you'd never guess it. We have a couple of other hands on the payroll too—local guys who go home at night. The place is too big for Travis and me to handle by ourselves.”

Moira squinted at the cattle. “What are those yellow things hanging down from the calves' noses?”

“We're testing a Canadian method of weanin' for A&M. The plastic flap lets a calf drink water and eat and get plenty of socializin', but keeps it from nursin'. That way we don't have to separate the cow and calf till we take the calf to market—and by then neither one of them cares. We used to use a shock treatment—separating the calves and the cows by a fence line, and they'd spend the next week runnin' up and down the fence, tryin' to break through to each other, bawlin' like lost souls. Sometimes a cow—they can weigh over a thousand pounds—would smash through the fence and we'd have to start all over again.”

“A mother trying to reach her child.”

Rafe nodded. “I grew up with the racket and didn't think much about it, but it made Beth cry so she and Delilah moved in with her mother when it was weanin' time.” He looked at the herd again. “Far as I can tell, those little plastic flaps are a godsend.”

The sky murmured behind them and Rafe looked back, then reined in his horse and waited for Rocky and Astrid to catch up.

“Y'all, we need to head on back to the house. Sounds like we've got a storm on the way.”

The thunder rolled again, louder, and Rocky rode up beside Rafe. “Gotta go. Left the top down on the Jeep.” Without waiting for a reply, she slapped Bella on the flank and galloped across the field, jumped a fallen log, and disappeared behind a stand of trees.

“Me too!” Astrid called out as she dug her heels into Dakota's ribs.

Moira wished she actually
did
have a camera crew with her. First, the white horse running across the meadow with the fair-haired woman on her back, then Astrid, her black braid flying behind her. It looked like a scene Fellini might have staged.

Rafe gave Moira a reassuring smile. “No need to join the speed demons. A slow trot will get us to the barn before the rain comes, and it's a lot safer. Rocky would dare the devil.”

M
oira followed Sarge through the barn door. No rain had fallen yet, but navy blue clouds had gathered at the edge of the sky and the air smelled of ozone. She looked around the barn. Rocky was nowhere in sight, but Astrid was leaning against Dakota's stall, waiting for them.

She pushed off the stall and walked over to them. “Rocky had to take care of her car, so I rubbed down both horses and put them in their stalls. Rafe, that Bella horse tried to bite me. I've never had a horse do that before.”

Rafe shook his head. “Bella's vicious—bad to the bone. I'm surprised you could handle her at all.”

He swung off his horse and reached up for Delilah. As he lowered her to the ground, a thunderclap shook the barn, and she buried her face against his leg.

Astrid stepped forward. “Rafe, how about I run Delilah into the house right quick before the rain starts while you take care of Star?”

“Good idea.” Rafe knelt down to his daughter's level. “Miss Astrid is going to get you to the house before the rain starts, sugar. She'll take care of you till the pretty lady and I come in.”

As Astrid and Delilah started up the road, Moira swung her leg over Star's back to dismount, but before she could reach the ground, Rafe's arms were at her waist and he was turning her to face him.

Her heart pounded, and she grasped his shoulders. She wasn't expecting this.
And she didn't want it—or maybe she did.

He slid her slowly down his body, tight against his hardness, and she felt the heat rise in her cheeks. Her breathing turned to a soft pant and the barn was suddenly much too warm.

Oh God, she did want it.

He kissed her—softly, gently, lingeringly.

She felt faint. She felt happy. Her ears rang. She could live in this moment forever.

His voice was a whisper in her ear. “Have lunch with me tomorrow in town.”

Moira nodded, so full of wonder she could hardly speak. One syllable was all she could get out, but it was enough.

“Yes.”

The rain came in spits and spatters, first a polite pitter-patter, and the next minute, a windshield-blinding maelstrom, then back to the droplets again. Moira gazed out the window of the car at the sodden landscape, but didn't really see a thing.

Good thing Astrid had volunteered to drive. She'd have run them off into a ditch.

What had Rafe McAllister done to her?
Her pulse was thumping and her nerves humming, and she felt like she was floating on air. God help her, that was exactly what it had been like when Colin kissed her the first time.

Remember that, Moira, and don't let yourself get caught in another spiderweb. Forget about love.
The windshield wipers backed her up with each swish—
sex only, sex only, sex only
.

Astrid shot her a quick look. “Okay—spill. What happened with you and the cowboy? You've been in another universe ever since I left you two alone in the barn.”

Moira couldn't help but smile. “He kissed me, and I'm meeting him for lunch tomorrow.”

“Cool. Rafe sends out good vibes. And that Rocky—she's a riot. If everyone in Bosque Bend is like those two, I think I'll hang around a while.”

Moira heated up the skillet to make pancakes for supper while Astrid took an old beach towel outside to dry off Ivanhoe, who apparently didn't know what a covered back porch was for. Through the sliding glass door, she could see him bark with joy, spin around like a top, then knock into Mrs. Fuller's aluminum ladder. It went down with a loud crash that set off another round of barking.

Astrid folded the ladder, leaned it against the porch, and ushered Ivanhoe into the house.

“You'd think we've been gone a week,” she grumbled as she grabbed the pink leash and collar. “I'd better return this stuff to Mrs. Fuller while the rain is letting up. I'll take the ladder too.”

Moira waved her spatula at her. “Don't be too long, I'm starting to cook.”

The first stack of pancakes was on the table when Astrid came bursting through the door. “You won't believe it, but when I told Mrs. Fuller that we'd just come back from a tour of the C Bar M, she stiffened up like I'd just blessed the devil and said to tell you that Rafe McAllister's never shown up in church since his wife was killed. Has he said anything about that to you?”

Moira shrugged. “No, and I'm not going to ask him. He's still wearing her ring.”

Rafe sang Delilah's nighttime prayer with her, then walked over to the window and stared out at the stand of trees in front of the house.

The bright moon illuminated the profile of the tree house his father had built for him and Travis when they were kids. It wasn't anything fancy, just a sturdy platform up in the branches of a big live oak—looked more like the beginnings of a deer blind than anything else.

He hadn't thought about it for years. He and Travis had lost interest in tree houses when they'd discovered girls. No one had kept the thing up, and the platform must have rotted out by now.

Maybe he'd rebuild it for Delilah when she got older, but with girl-type embellishments. No—the tree was in a straight line to where he'd found Beth's body, and lightning might strike twice.

But right now his plate was full up with other projects—the theater guild, the play, the Waco project…Moira.

He sat down in his chair, crossed his arms behind his head, leaned back, and smiled.

All in all, it had been a good day. He'd gotten Moira out to the ranch, which had been a biggie, and she'd liked his house and the barn. She also seemed to enjoy the ride around the ranch. And she hadn't shied from that kiss that was more than a kiss in the barn.

He closed his eyes.

Moira was different from the other women he'd dated since Beth was killed.

And face it, cowboy—you're a lot more attracted to her than she is to you—or than she wants to be to you.
On the other hand, she'd loosened up in Good Times after a couple of beers and hadn't objected when he held her so close on the dance floor that she must have known he was aroused. But the second he stopped at the fireworks stand, she went bat-shit crazy on him.

He frowned. Moira had grown up on soundstages, so who knows what might have happened to her along the way. Whatever it was, being married to Colin Sanger must have made up for it. So why was she playing him hot and cold?

He'd known he was risking getting his face slapped for the way he slid her off her horse today, but wonder of wonders, she not only accepted the kiss, but also accepted his invitation to lunch.

All systems seemed go. He took one last glance at the tree house and closed the shade.

Moira searched through her wardrobe for just the right dress—cute, casual, and a little flirty. How about that Zulily number she had hiding somewhere in the back? The charcoal, ginger, and tangerine one with the off-center zigzag design that folded from left to right across the front? And she'd wear heels too, not the I-mean-business pumps she'd worn to her meeting with the board, but slingbacks with delicate leather butterflies lightly affixed to the vamp, shoes that whispered, “Catch me if you can.”

She paused.

What did she really know about Rafe McAllister? That he had a nice family and a big ranch? That he was involved with theater? That just thinking about him made her tingle all over?

But appearances could be deceiving and so could her hormones. What was he like in the darkest dark of night when no one else was around?

A cold shudder raced through her, and she returned the Zulily and the fanciful butterfly shoes to her closet. A skirt and short jacket over a linen blouse would be safer, and she'd wear her sensible black pumps again. After all, she needed to look professional—and not just for Mr. McAllister. Before toddling off to lunch with him, she was meeting with the Fontaine sisters. then and driving over to the museum to get acquainted with its head docent and pick up the keys to the theater rooms.

The woman had sounded like a martinet on the phone and would probably require a picture ID, fingerprints, and DNA swab before she handed them over.

Moira parked her car in the concrete parking lot, squared her shoulders, and walked around to the front entrance of Xandra and Fleurette's studio. Their choice, their territory, their advantage. What in the heck could they want to talk to her about that was so important and so private that they'd asked her to come to see them as soon as possible?

Two storefronts wide, the Fontaine School of Dance reigned like a queen over a side street across from the seen-better-days Spanish-style Bosque Bend Public Library. Beige draperies threaded with gold hung behind the display windows, which featured portraits of Xandra and Fleurette in their younger days—she'd guess they were in their early fifties now—as well as photos of students in recital costumes. A professionally printed poster advertised upcoming classes in ballroom, swing, and line dancing for teens and adults. Another poster listed opportunities for preschoolers on up—creative movement, tap, ballet, pointe, jazz, and hip-hop.

Moira turned the old-fashioned pressed brass doorknob and entered the lions' den—the
lionesses'
den—then stopped to look around. Gymnastic equipment, floor mats and a pair of trampolines occupied a far corner, and each of the other corners held an electronic spinet. Her eyebrows went up as she noticed tracks for folding doors that partitioned the room into four equal sections, which would allow several activities to go on at once. Apparently business was doing well enough that Xandra and Fleurette had additional teachers on staff.

She ran her hand down the ballet barre as she walked along a side wall toward the door in the corner labeled
OFFICE
. The click of her heels on the hardwood floor echoed like rifle shots. The overheads were on, but the emptiness and silence of the high-ceilinged room was intimidating.

This is the scene where the heroine discovers the dead body and screams her lungs out.
But no, Moira—you've already done that in real life, and it wasn't a shadowy practice room, but a beautifully decorated bedroom with the morning sun shining through the window. And you didn't scream.

She knocked on the door.

Xandra and Fleurette—she never thought of them as Fleurette and Xandra—were sitting close together on a spindly settee crammed beneath a clerestory window. The sun shone on their heads and shoulders, but left their bodies in shadow. Moira felt her chest tighten. In those black full-body leotards, the Fontaines looked like a pair of spiders waiting for her to fall into their trap.

Xandra leaned forward and pierced her with gimlet eyes. “Thank you for coming, Ms. Farrar. Please sit down.” She indicated a desk chair with caster feet. “We need to talk to you about something very serious.” The sisters exchanged looks. “First of all, we want you to understand that
dance
is our passion. We are professionals who have appeared—as
primas
—on many stages. She waved her hand toward the collection of framed photographs on the wall behind her. “We are also businesswomen with tight schedules. Nevertheless, we have been active in the theater guild since its inception. However,
some people
”—Xandra's face went grim—“do not seem to appreciate our contributions.” Her mouth tightened to a thin line. “We've talked it over and have decided that we cannot continue associating ourselves with the guild if this situation persists.”

Moira pressed her hand against her chest and let her face show disbelief and shock, which was pretty much real. She'd checked the Internet and the Fontaines were the only dance teachers in town.

“Xandra…” She schooled her voice to a comforting coo. “I know there are always problems when true
artistes
work together, but please give me a chance. Mrs. Gomez-Sweeny told me that you and your sister are vital to the guild.”
Well, not exactly, but near enough.
“In fact, she suggested that I have the children rehearse in your studio for as long as possible before they join the adult cast.”

She glanced from one woman to the other, her expression as sincere and caring as she could make it. And she truly did feel a sympathy for the two women. From what she'd heard, Xandra and Fleurette had given generously of their time, training, and talent, although she would bet their participation in the guild was good advertising too—
but hey, we all have to eat
.

The sisters' eyes brightened, and they both started talking at once, though Xandra quickly dominated. “We just knew that you—”

“I told Xandra that surely Colin Sanger's wife—”

“He was such a gentleman, so debonair—”

“And you were so darling as Twinky Applejack, whom I liked much better than that silly—”

“Although of course you were wonderful in both roles,” Xandra interrupted, casting her sister a shut-up look.

Moira lowered her head modestly. “Thank you. And I know Colin would want me to thank you for your good opinion of him too.” Which was true. Colin respected and valued his fans. Unlike lesser stars, he understood that his career depended on maintaining a spotless public image. “Now, I'd love for you to show me around your studio, if you have the time.”

Those were the magic words. The sisters sprang up off their settee and walked her into each quarter of the room, explaining in meticulous detail who taught what and where. Apparently, Xandra, tall and spindly, specialized in classical dance—ballet, pointe, ballroom—while Fleurette, short and muscular, preferred the more robust styles—tap, jazz, hip-hop.

Moira noticed a shadowed staircase on the side wall in the shadow of the stacked mats. “And do you have another practice room upstairs?