Taming Rafe (12 page)

She could kill that B. J. King for evoking in her the exact emotions she’d been trying for twenty-plus years to escape. Helplessness. Fear. A misplaced guilt. It was as if he—or she, the author’s gender wasn’t listed—had crawled inside her heart and knew her story.

Once upon a time, she’d had a dream. Like Mary, she’d been sidetracked by a man. She hadn’t dreamed of ranching, however—far from it. Her dreams had bright lights and fame attached to them. They even had a name: Hollywood.

The thought of her back then, idealistic, packing her bags for California, made Lolly nearly nauseated. The closest she’d ever
come to Hollywood was her collection of movies stacked under her DVD player. Movies with heroes like Jonas.

In her wildest dreams such a hero walked into her life. Loved her enough to rescue her from her dreary world.

She hadn’t harbored those kinds of dreams for a long time. Nowadays, she simply hoped to live out her life in Phillips and keep Bobby’s daughter from falling in love with a man who could derail her life.

Lolly set the book on the coffee table, turned out the light, and tiptoed to bed. She watched the darkness pass into light, afraid to sleep, sure that the nightmares would come . . . and with them, the memories.

CHAPTER 8

“W
HERE ARE WE GOING?
” Not that Kat really cared. She raised her face to the sun as she followed Rafe across the open field. In the distance, a bull bellowed what sounded like a painful moan. The first time she heard it she’d nearly screamed.

Rafe had laughed, a low, rumbly chuckle that sounded real. It gave worth to the three days she’d spent trying to pry the image of the broken, smelly cowboy at the Breckenridge Hotel from her mind, in hopes of seeing the man behind the magazine cover.

The man who had begun to trust her.

Today she’d even brought along the pictures of her trip to the clinic, just in case he didn’t believe her, and a well-thought-out game plan.

If he didn’t bite, she’d hang up her hat as Kitty—how she’d grown to like that name—return to New York, then begin plan B or perhaps C, which she’d figure out on the way home.

“I want to show you something,” Rafe said.

Rafe looked devastatingly charming today in a black GetRowdy
T-shirt with a bull on the front, his ratty straw hat, a pair of jeans, and chaps that ended above his knees. He’d called them chinks. It wasn’t lost on her that he’d dumped the neck brace and discarded the crutches in some manly attempt to act less incapacitated. She hoped he’d be in shape in plenty of time to help her make enough money to save lives.

Lord, please help me find the right time, the right place today. . . .

“What field are we on?” Kat asked.

“Lizzy’s field. We keep the bulls here during the summer.”

“Who’s Lizzy?”

He didn’t look at her when he answered. “My mother. This land belonged to her family.”

She watched his jaw, now covered with a few days’ dark whisker growth, tighten. Something inside her chest tightened too.

Three days and everything about Montana had seeped into her soul, starting with this beautiful land. She could name the flowers that colored the fields—the pink prairie roses, the purple pasqueflowers, yellow bells, and blue flax. The wild blue irises and white yarrow that Rafe said could be turned into herbal medicine. She even found beauty in the cactus, the prickly pear that grew close to the ground, wide and dangerous yet beautiful with its yellow blossoms. In the air, she smelled the bite of the black sage and the fresh alfalfa growing in the far-off field.

She knew that a contented cow lay upon the ground, swishing her tail, and an agitated, unhappy cow wandered, bellowing. And that if a cow and calf were separated, they’d return to the last place they nursed to find each other.

“I think you have plenty of cowboy in you,”
Rafe had said. That had found all her vulnerable places. Today she believed it too.

Her trek out west had been a good idea—even if Rafe turned her down. She wished she could figure out how to bottle this healing magic and sell it back home for the good of Mercy Doctors.

Rafe urged his horse to a trot, then a canter, and Kat followed, liking how she eased into the motion, rode with the animal. A thousand times better than Hornet. The thought made her smile.

Rafe glanced back now and again, and once his lips twitched, as if hiding a grin.

They slowed, riding along a trickle of stream, then up a grassy hill covered with tall grasses, a stripped and whitened fallen tree, a tumble of rock. To their left, a grove of fragrant overgrown trees—not pine but something else she couldn’t place—caught the breeze and the dark green heart-shaped leaves shimmering in the sun.

Rafe reined his horse, climbed down, and dropped the reins over one of the branches. Kat watched as he stripped a sprig of leaves from the tree. The fragrance smelled at once strong, earthy, and fresh. He handed it to her.

Kat took the sprig. “What is it?”

He smiled, and with him looking up at her like that with those dark eyes, a sweetness filled her. “Balm of Gilead.”

“Like in the Bible? The stuff renowned for healing?”

“It’s not exactly the same stuff as in the Bible but our American version. Native Americans have been using it for years. Only thing is, it’s not native to Montana. We’re not sure where it came from. My mother used to come out here to Gilly’s Bluff, strip off the leaf buds, and use them to make a paste. She called it Gilly salve and used it like an antibiotic ointment and sometimes on burns.”

Rafe stripped off another sprig, smelled the buds. “She even made this black paste with it, hoping it would cure her cancer. Heard of
this fellow up in Miles City who ingested it, and his stomach cancer was cured.” He shook his head. “Funny thing is, the paste hurts. But the longer you leave it on, the better it works. Gets down to the bottom of the wound, to the infection and takes it out from the roots. When it’s over, you’re healed. Or supposed to be.”

Kat watched him as he talked, the way he took a leaf in his hands, rubbing the furry underside with his thumb.

“Obviously, it didn’t work for her,” he said softly. “But she loved the smell. Cut these sprigs and put them all over our house. When I was little, she used to rub Gilly salve on my chest, and I’d go to sleep with that smell in my nose, thinking of her smile.”

Kat got down from her horse.

“The stuff probably didn’t work at all. It was just . . . the love she put into it that made it powerful,” he said.

Kat stood behind him. “Reminds me of the mud Jesus used when He put it on the blind man’s eyes. The mud wasn’t the healer—Jesus was.” She touched Rafe’s arm.

Rafe didn’t pull away, but he didn’t look at her either. “I was thirteen when she died.”

Kat said nothing, just closed her eyes.

“I like these trees,” he said.

She let herself simply breathe for a moment. “Me too.”

The wind found them and caught up the fragrance of the Gilead, mixing it with Rafe’s leather and hours-in-the-sun scent, the lilac soap she’d used this morning, and the sage and yarrow.

“May God’s grace and peace go with you,” she murmured.

Rafe tensed. “What?”

Kat startled, opening her eyes. “Oh, it’s something someone said to me as I left. Grace and peace. Sort of a blessing, I guess.”

He frowned at her, then looked at the branch. “Yeah.”

She stepped away from him and sat on the ground. “I see God here better than I’ve ever seen Him before. From the colors and delicacy of the flowers to the landscape that can’t make up its mind to the sky that seems to stretch from the first gasp of wonder to the next and beyond.” She lay back onto the grass, tracing the clouds in the endless ocean of blue. “Yeah, I like this place.”

She heard him sit beside her. Silence passed between them, but she didn’t feel the need to fill it. She just watched the wind push the clouds across forever.

“My mother said that she loved this land because she knew she was never alone. She could always see the face of God,” Rafe said quietly. “She was a believer and spent as much time in church as out, dragging us with her, even if it didn’t take.”

Kat glanced at him, hearing more in his tone than what his words said. “You can’t live out here and not believe in the God who made it.”

Rafe stripped off one of the branches and tossed it away. “I believe. Even made a confession of faith, as the preacher put it, during a revival.” He stripped off another branch. “But God’s not interested in a guy like me.”

Kat willed back the sadness that rose in her chest. “That’s not true. God has good plans for you.” In fact, she knew it, right down to the core of her being.

“You sound like my mother. Before she died, she told me . . .” He threw the entire branch away. “Nothing.”

Kat looked over at him. “Obviously it was something. You don’t have to tell me, but the thing is, your mother was right. For some of us God asks for big things—give a kidney, forgive a hurt,
ride bulls, maybe even raise millions of dollars. And the rest of us are to do the so-called small things, the unglorious things—put supper on the table, rub balm on a child’s chest, believe in the good things. It’s the same God doing the asking, which makes it all important. The Bible says to work out your salvation with deep reverence and fear, because God is at work in us, to give us the desire to obey Him and the power to please Him. It’s no small thing to have the Creator of this big sky at work in your life, on your side, giving your life purpose, regardless of what He calls you to do.”

Rafe got up, paced away from her, then turned, pinning her with his eyes. “Not sure my life has a purpose, Kitty.”

Everything inside her wanted to tell him how yes, his life could have a purpose. She could even see it—not the polished tuxedo-wearing, wide-shouldered guy but the man hunkered down with the kids treated by Mercy Doctors, telling them a story, encouraging them to fight the good fight. She took a breath, met his gaze, and put it all right there in her eyes. “I’m sure it does. One day at a time, it does.”

Rafe stared at her. “It doesn’t matter anymore, anyway. I’ve lived my life my way, and that’s the way it’s gotta be.”

Kat watched as he turned and ran his hands over his horse’s neck. She sat up, drew her knees to her chest, aching right down to her toes. If only he could see what she saw—a man who could be so much more than he believed of himself.

“Even when my mother was so weak she could hardly walk, I’d find her on the porch in the morning, watching the sunrise. Said it gave her peace.”

“I would have liked your mother,” Kat said, surprised at the sud
den wetness in the corner of her eye. “My mom, she sorta slipped out of my life right after my dad died. I’m not sure why.”

“How old were you?”

“About six.”

He crouched, picked up a rock, and tossed it in his hand. The movement seemed so natural, and it hit her that she’d begun to know him. Sense his moods, even his restlessness. For all his lazy wandering around the ranch, answering her inane questions, he had a vibration about him, an ever-present hum that told her he liked a challenge. He’d just gone down for a short count; that’s all. She had bigger challenges in store, if he just stuck with her.

“My dad died about a year ago. But our family really crumbled long before—when Mom died. Nick took off for college, and I started rodeoing. Life was never the same.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He lifted a shoulder and threw the rock in a high arc.

“Thanks for being so nice to me, Rafe,” she said quietly.

He flashed her a smile. “Anything to get out of writing a big, bouncy check.”

Even though she knew he meant it in fun, it made her throat tight because she’d seen a big crack in Rafe’s spit and polish. Under his charm and even despite his growls, she’d found a man worth knowing. A man who needed a friend.

She wanted to be that friend so much it scared her.

“Rafe, do you want to hear my bright idea?”

Kat knew she had his attention by the way he sat down beside her.

“I’m listening.”

She took a deep breath. “I read about this new pastime in
Hollywood. All these actors and rich people are enamored with the West. It’s all the rage for urban cowboys to come out and experience a real-life roundup.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but she held up her hand. “Maybe we could invite your bull-riding friends—if they would be willing to come and do an exhibition—and I’ll invite my donors. They’ll have a real-life dude ranch experience—learning to ride horses, searching for arrowheads, and even taking home a balm of Gilead sprig—whatever it takes. It’ll be better than any gala dinner because they’ll taste and feel like real cowboys, just like you showed me this week.”

Again his mouth opened, but she put her hand on his arm to stop him from interrupting before she got it all out. “All you have to do is say yes. I’ll put the whole thing together.” She couldn’t help but glance in his direction. “Please?”

Rafe sat there, rubbing his fingers over the rim of his hat.

She saw—no,
heard
—him swallow.
Please, Lord, help him see the vision.

“I’m not so sure I shouldn’t just stay in hiding.”

She saw embarrassment on his face, and it made her hurt deep inside where she’d begun to care for him. “Listen, we both need good press right now. It’s all about spin. Please?”

Rafe tapped his hat on his leg. “I don’t know. Let me soak on it for a while. I’m not so sure that bringing New York to Montana is going to work.”

Disappointment weighted her chest. She’d wanted him to say it was a great idea. But at least he wasn’t running her off his land. “Thank you, Rafe. I can’t tell you what it would mean to me, to Mercy Doctors. I promise you’ll be glad if you agree.”

He smiled, and she noticed something unfamiliar and sweet in
his eyes. “If I say yes, will you take back what you said about bull riders being jerks?”

“You remember that?”

He put his hat on and winked.

“I think maybe I could bring myself to do that. But I don’t want you to get too confident, cowboy,” she teased. “You’d still have to earn your keep to impress me.”

His smile dimmed, and she saw a hint of challenge in his expression. “C’mon then. I’ll teach you how to gallop.”

She needed that, just so she could catch up with her foolish, disobedient heart.