A Cowboy's Wish Upon a Star Page 3

  Right. Because of that little plus sign, Grace thought Sophia needed some stress-free alone time to decide what she wanted to do with her future, as if Sophia had done anything except worry about both of their futures for the past ten years. Didn’t Grace know Sophia was sick of worrying about the future?

  Barefooted, Sophia went to the paper bags and pulled out all the cold and wet items and stuck them in the sink. They’d already started sweating on the tiled countertop. She dried her cheek on her shoulder and faced the fridge.

  It had been deliberately turned off by the owner, a woman who didn’t want to stay in Texas and relax in her own home now that her kids were grown and married. Before abandoning her house to spend a year volunteering for a medical mission in Africa, Mrs. MacDowell had inserted little plastic wedges to keep the doors open so the refrigerator wouldn’t get moldy and funky while it was unused.

  Sophia was going to be moldy and funky by the time they found her starved body next week. She had a phone for emergencies; she used it.

  “Grace? It’s me. Alex didn’t turn the refrigerator on.” Sophia felt betrayed. Her voice only sounded bitchy.

  “Sophie, sweetie, that’s not an emergency.” Grace spoke gently, like someone chiding a child and trying to encourage her at the same time. “You can handle that. You know how to flip a switch in a fuse box.”

  “I don’t even know where the fuse box is.”

  Grace sighed, and Sophia heard her exchange a few words with Alex. “It’s in the hall closet. I’ve gotta run now. Bye.”

  “Wait! Just hang on the line with me while I find the fuse box. What if the fuse doesn’t fix it?”

  “I don’t know. Then you’ll have to call a repairman, I guess.”

  “Call a repairman?” Sophia was aghast. “Where would I even find a repairman?”

  “There’s a phone on the wall in the kitchen. Mrs. MacDowell has a phone book sitting on the little stand underneath it.”

  Sophia looked around the 1980s time capsule of a kitchen. Sure enough, mounted on the wall was a phone, one with a handset and a curly cord hanging down. It was not decorated with a goose, but it was white, to fit in the decor.

  “Ohmigod, that’s an antique.”

  “I made sure it works. It’s a lot harder for paparazzi to tap an actual phone line than it would be for them to use a scanner to listen in to this phone call. You can call a repairman.”

  Sophia clenched her jaw against that lecturing tone. From the day her little sister had graduated from high school, Sophia had paid her to take care of details like this, treating her like a star’s personal assistant long before Sophia had been a star. Now Grace had decided to dump her.

  “And how am I supposed to pay for a repairman?”

  “You have a credit card. We put it in my name, but it’s yours.” Grace sounded almost sad. Pitying her, actually, with just a touch of impatience in her tone.

  Sophia felt her sister slipping away. “I can say my name is Grace, but I can’t change my face. How am I supposed to stay anonymous if a repairman shows up at the door?”

  “I don’t know, Sophie. Throw a dish towel over your head or something.”

  “You don’t care about me anymore.” Her voice should have broken in the middle of that sentence, because her heart was breaking, but the actor inside knew the line had been delivered in a continuous whine.

  “I love you, Sophie. You’ll figure something out. You’re super smart. You took care of me for years. This will be a piece of cake for you.”

  A piece of cake. That tone of voice...

  Oh, God, her sister sounded just like their mother. Ten years ago, Mom and Dad had been yanked away from them forever, killed in a pointless car accident. At nineteen, Sophia had become the legal guardian of Grace, who’d still had two years of high school left to go.

  Nothing had been a piece of cake. Sophia had quit college and moved back home so that Grace could finish high school in their hometown. Sophia had needed to make the life insurance last, paying the mortgage with it during Grace’s junior and senior years. She’d tried to supplement it with modeling jobs, but anything local only paid a pittance. For fifty dollars, she’d spent six hours gesturing toward a mattress with a smile on her face.

  It had really been her first acting job, because during the entire photo shoot, she’d had to act like she wasn’t mourning the theater scholarship at UCLA that she’d sacrificed. With a little sister to raise, making a mattress look desirable was as close as Sophia could come to show business.

  That first modeling job had been a success, eventually used nationwide, but Sophia hadn’t been paid one penny more. Her flat fifty-dollar fee had been spent on gas and groceries that same day. Grace had to be driven to school. Grace had to eat lunch in the cafeteria.

  Now Grace was embarking on her own happy life and leaving Sophia behind. It just seemed extra cruel that Grace would sound like Mom at this point.

  “I have to run,” her mother’s voice said. “I love you, Sophie. You can do this. Bye.”

  Don’t leave me. Don’t ever leave me. I miss you.

  The phone was silent.

  This afternoon, Sophia had only wanted to hide away and fall apart in private. Now, she was terrified to. If she started crying again, she would never, ever stop.

  She nearly ran to the hall closet and pushed aside the old coats and jackets to find the fuse box. They were all on, a neat row of black switches all pointing to the left. She flicked a few to the right, then left again. Then a few more. If she reset every one, then she would have to hit the one that worked the refrigerator.

  It made no difference. The refrigerator was still dead when she returned to the kitchen. The food was still thawing in the sink. Her life still sucked, only worse now, because now she missed her mother all over again. Grace sounded like Mom, and she’d left her like Mom. At least when Mom had died, she’d left the refrigerator running.

  What a terrible thing to think. Dear God, she hated herself.

  Then she laughed at the incredible low her self-pity could reach.

  Then she cried.

  Just as she’d known it would, once the crying started, it did not stop.

  I’m pregnant and I’m scared and I want my mother.

  Sophia sank to the kitchen floor, hugged her knees to her chest, and gave up.

  * * *

  Would he or wouldn’t he?

  Travis rode slowly, letting his mare cool down on her way to the barn while he debated with himself whether or not he’d told the sister he would check on the movie star tonight, specifically, or just check on her in general. He was bone-tired and hungry, but he had almost another mile to go before he could rest. Half a mile to the barn, quarter of a mile past that to his house. A movie star with an attitude was the last thing he wanted to deal with. Tomorrow would be soon enough to be neighborly and ask how she was settling in.

  The MacDowell house, or just the house, as everyone on a ranch traditionally called the owner’s residence, was closer to the barn than his own. As the mare walked on, the house’s white porch pillars came into view, always a pretty sight. The sunset tinted the sky pink and orange behind it. Mesquite trees were spaced evenly around it. The lights were on; Sophia Jackson was home.

  Then the lights went out.

  On again.

  What the hell?

  Lights started turning off and on, in an orderly manner, left to right across the building. Travis had been in the house often enough that he knew which window was the living room. Off, on. The dining room. The foyer.

  The mare chomped at her bit impatiently, picking up on his change in mood.

  “Yeah, girl. Go on.” He let the horse pick up her pace. Normally, he’d never let a horse hurry back to the barn; that was just sure to start a bad habit. But everything on the River M
ack was his responsibility, including the house with its blinking lights, and its new resident.

  The lights came on and stayed on as he rode steadily toward the movie star that he was going to check on tonight, after all.

  Chapter Three

  Travis couldn’t ride his horse up to the front door and leave her on the porch. There was a hitching post on the side that faced the barn, so he rode around the house toward the back. The kitchen door was the one everyone used, anyway.

  The first year he’d landed a job here as a ranch hand, he’d learned real quick to leave the barn through the door that faced the house. Mrs. MacDowell was as likely as not to open her kitchen door and call over passing ranch hands to see if they’d help her finish off something she’d baked. She was forever baking Bundt cakes and what not, then insisting she couldn’t eat them before they went stale. Since her sons had all gone off to medical school to become doctors, Travis suspected she just didn’t know how to stop feeding young men. As a twenty-five-year-old living in the bunkhouse on canned pork-n-beans, he’d been happy to help her not let anything get stale.

  Travis grinned at the memory. From the vantage point of his horse’s back, he looked down into the kitchen as he passed its window and saw another woman there. Blond hair, black clothes...curled up on the floor. Weeping.

  “Whoa,” he said softly, and the mare stopped.

  He could tell in a glance Sophia Jackson wasn’t hurt, the same way he could tell in a glance if a cowboy who’d been thrown from a horse was hurt. She could obviously breathe if she could cry. She was hugging her knees to her chest in a way that proved she didn’t have any broken bones. As he watched, she shook that silver and gold hair back and got to her feet, her back to him. She could move just fine. There was nothing he needed to fix.

  She was emotional, but Travis couldn’t fix that. There wasn’t a lot of weeping on a cattle ranch. If a youngster got homesick out on a roundup or a heartbroken cowboy shed a tear over a Dear John letter after a mail call, Travis generally kept an eye on them from a distance. Once they’d regained their composure, he’d find some reason to check in with them, asking about their saddle or if they’d noticed the creek was low. If they cared to talk, they were welcome to bring it up. Some did. Most didn’t.

  He’d give Sophia Jackson her space, then. Whatever was making her sad, it was hers to cry over. Tomorrow night would be soon enough to check in with her.

  Just as he nudged his horse back into a walk, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, Sophia dashing her cheek on her shoulder. He tried to put it out of his mind once he was in the barn, but it nagged at him as he haltered his mare and washed off her bit. Sophia had touched her cheek to her shoulder just like that when he’d first approached her on the road this afternoon. Had she been crying when she’d hung on to that heifer?

  He rubbed his jaw. In the car, she’d been all clenched fists and anxiously bouncing knee. A woman on the edge, that was what he’d thought. Looked like she’d gone over that edge this evening.

  People did. Not his problem. There were limits to what a foreman was expected to handle, damn it.

  But the way she’d been turning the lights off and on was odd. What did that have to do with being sad?

  His mare nudged him in the shoulder, unhappy with the way he was standing still.

  “I know, I know. I have to go check on her.” He turned the mare into the paddock so she could enjoy the last of the twilight without a saddle on her back, then turned himself toward the house. It was only about a hundred yards from barn to kitchen door, an easy walk over hard-packed earth to a wide flagstone patio that held a couple of wooden picnic tables. The kitchen door was protected by its original small back porch and an awning.

  A hundred yards was far enough to give Travis time to think about how long he’d been in the saddle today, how long he’d be in the saddle tomorrow, and how he was hungry enough to eat his hat.

  He took his hat off and knocked at the back door.

  No answer.

  He knocked again. His stomach growled.

  “Go away.” The movie star didn’t sound particularly sad.

  He leaned his hand on the door jamb. “You got the lights fixed in there, ma’am?”

  “Yes. Go away.”

  Fine by him. Just hearing her voice made his heart speed up a tick, and he didn’t like it. He’d turned away and put his hat back on when he heard the door open.

  “Wait. Do you know anything about refrigerators?”

  He glanced back and did a double take. She was standing there with a dish towel on her head, its blue and white cotton covering her face. “What in the Sam Hill are you—”

  “I don’t want you to see me. Can you fix a refrigerator?”

  “Probably.” He took his hat off as he stepped back under the awning, but she didn’t back up to let him in. “Can you see through that thing?”

  She held up a hand to stop him, but her palm wasn’t quite directed his way. “Wait. Do you have a camera?”

  “No.”

  “How about a cell phone?”

  “Of course.”

  “Set it on the ground, right here.” She pointed at her feet. “No pictures.”

  He fought for patience. This woman was out of her mind with her dish towel and her demands. He had a horse to stable for the night and eight more to feed before he could go home and scarf down something himself. “Do you want me to look at your fridge or not?”

  “No one sets foot in this house with a cell phone. No one gets photos of me for free. If you don’t like it, too bad. You’ll just have to leave.”

  Travis put his hat back on his head and left. He didn’t take to being told what to do with his personal property. He’d crossed the flagstone and stepped onto the hard-packed dirt path to the barn when she called after him.

  “That’s it? You’re really leaving?”

  He took his time turning around. She’d come out to the edge of the porch, and was holding up the towel just far enough to peek out from under it. He clenched his jaw against the sight of her bare stomach framed by that tight black clothing. She hadn’t gotten that outfit at any Western-wear-and-feed store. The thigh-high boots were gone. Instead, she was all legs. Long, bare legs.

  Damn it. He was already hungry for food. He didn’t need to be hungry for anything else.

  “That’s it,” he said, and turned back to the barn.

  “Wait. Okay, I’ll make an exception, but just this one time. You have to keep your phone in your pocket when you’re around me.”

  He kept walking.

  “Don’t leave me. Just...don’t leave. Please.”

  He shouldn’t have looked back, but he did. There was something a little bit lost about her stance, something just unsure enough in the way she lifted that towel off one eye that made him pause. The way she was tracking him reminded him of a fox that had gotten tangled in a fence and wasn’t sure if she should bite him or let him free her.

  Cursing himself every step of the way, he returned to the porch and slammed the heel of his boot in the cast iron boot jack that had a permanent place by the door.

  “What are you doing?” Her head was bowed under the towel as she watched him step out of one boot, then the other.

  “You’re worried about the wrong thing. The cell phone isn’t a problem. A man coming from a barn into your house with his boots on? That could be a problem. Mrs. MacDowell wouldn’t allow it.” And then, because he remembered the sister’s distress over the extremes to which the paparazzi had apparently gone in the past, he dropped his cell phone in one boot. “There. Now take that towel off your head.”

  He brushed past her and walked into the kitchen, hanging his hat on one of the hooks by the door. He opened the fridge, but the appliance clearly was dead. “You already checked the fuse, I
take it.”

  “Yes.”

  Of course she had. That had been why the lights had gone on and off.

  She walked up to him with her hands full of plastic triangles. “These wedges were in the doors. I took them out because I thought maybe you had to shut the door all the way to make it run. I don’t see any kind of on-off switch.”

  The towel was gone. She was, quite simply, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Her hair was messed up from the towel and her famously blue eyes were puffy from crying, but by God, she was absolutely beautiful. His heart must have stopped for a moment, because he felt the hard thud in his chest when it kick-started back to life.

  She suddenly threw the plastic onto the tile floor, making a great clatter. “Don’t stare at me. So, I’ve been crying. Big deal. Tell all your friends. ‘Hey, you should see Sophia Jackson when she cries. She looks like hell.’ Go get your phone and take a picture. I swear, I don’t care. All I want is for that refrigerator to work. If you’re just going to stand there and stare at me, then get the hell out of my house.”

  If Travis had learned anything from a lifetime around animals, it was that only one creature at a time had better be riled up. If his horse got spooked, he had to be calm. If a cow got protective of her calf, then it was up to him not to give her a reason to lower her head and charge. He figured if a movie star was freaked out about her appearance, then he had to not give a damn about it.

  He didn’t, not really. She looked like what she looked like, which was beautiful, red nose and tear stains and all. There were a lot of beautiful things in his world, like horses. Sunsets. He appreciated Sophia’s beauty, but he hadn’t intended to make a fuss over it. If he’d been staring at her, it had been no different than taking an extra moment to look at the sky on a particularly colorful evening.