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I sucked in a breath at the words that hit me like a physical slap. “There’s nothing good about a beating,” I mumbled, stalking toward the pile while tugging on my leather work gloves.

  The old lady had managed to insult both me and my father. He’d been the strongest guiding male figure in Charlie’s life and he’d been a good one. The boy’s father was rarely around—and even more rarely a good influence.

  Fueled with anger I was determined to get that hay loaded and get the hell gone before I said something we’d all regret.

  A good beating. Humph!

  I jumped up into the bed of the truck so I could reach the top of the pile and tossed a bale inside.

  Jaw clenched, turned back for another, my mind racing as fast as my pulse rate.

  I’d never hit my son and I didn’t intend to start now. It was much more effective to threaten to turn off the WiFi.

  Stupid old woman wouldn’t know proper modern parenting if it slapped her in the face.

  Living in the last century, she was.

  I reached for the twine on another bale. Each of my angry thoughts was accompanied by the thud of the forty-plus-pound bale hitting the bed.

  Tossing the hay helped, but it would be more satisfying to toss it at old lady Winters’ face.

  I caught a glimpse of my father as he grabbed a bale with each hand.

  He looked good and pissed too. Apparently the insult hadn’t gone unnoticed by him either and I had a feeling it was going to come back to bite me in the butt later.

  Worse, Charlie was in for it when he got home from school today. No doubt.

  I moved deeper into the truck bed and started stacking as my father tossed the bales inside. We got the hay loaded in no time mainly due to the anger-fueled adrenaline surge pumping through my veins and no doubt my father’s as well.

  But as we drove away beneath the glare of the angry Mrs. Winters, I realized we’d never gotten to the discussion my father had mentioned.

  I was as reluctant to bring it up as I was curious. Finally, curiosity won out.

  “What did you need to talk to me about?” I asked.

  “The home equity line of credit we took out a few years back is coming due shortly.”

  “What home equity line of credit?” I frowned, my heart speeding.

  Were we in financial trouble? And why hadn’t he mentioned it to me before now if we were? This place might be in his name, but I helped run it. One day it would be mine. We weren’t partners on paper but still . . .

  “I took it out back when your mom was still alive.”

  Maisie’s eyes widened. “Dad, that’s not a few years. That had to be like twenty years ago.”

  “Yup. Just about.” He nodded. “It was a twenty-year term, which is why it’s coming due.”

  “So what are we going to do? How much do we owe? Can we pay it?” Renewed panic set in.

  My father insisted on handling the books, but after this scare, I might take that duty away from him. Or at least ask that I get to see what he was doing.

  Jeez. A loan I knew nothing about. Due. Now. That was a frightening concept.

  And, God forbid, what if anything happened to my father? What else wasn’t I aware of? How could I take over both a loan payment and running the farm alone if I didn’t know half of what was going on behind the scenes?

  “Maisie. Relax. We’re fine. There’s not that much left on it. We’ve got good credit. I can get another loan if I want to, but it got me thinking.”

  Relieved but not feeling all that forgiving after the scare he gave me, I pulled my mouth to the side unhappily. “You’re thinking? That sounds dangerous.”

  “Watch that smart mouth of yours, missy.” His voice was low in warning.

  I scowled but couldn’t bring myself to apologize.

  He continued, “Anyway, I’m thinking maybe it’s a good time to downsize. I’m not getting any younger. If we sell off some acreage, we could pay off the balance on the loan and have plenty left over. Maybe do some updates around this place.”

  Downsize? What was he talking about? I wanted to expand. My dream was to take the farm to the next level. Turn it into something more. Something special.

  My plan would insulate the business against everything that currently threatened the farming industry—weather, ups and downs in hay market prices, increases in operating costs, water shortages.

  It would make it so I wouldn’t have to haul horses all the way to Hollywood and spend the whole day being looked down upon by the beautiful rich people while waiting to shoot one damn scene.

  And now my father wanted to sell off part of the property? I had plans for that land. I couldn’t let this happen. “Daddy—”

  He held up one hand. “We don’t have to decide now. We have a few months yet. Just something to think about.”

  I screwed up my mouth. It didn’t sound like we would be making the decision at all. It sounded more like he would be the one deciding.

  This discussion wasn’t a discussion at all. It had been more him talking and my not being allowed to.

  Fine. He’d won this round but only because he’d caught me off guard. Next time I’d be better prepared. I’d write a business plan even.

  And next time we talked about the future of the farm it wouldn’t be on the day Charlie had walled in old Mrs. Winters.

  Even though his prank did prove he could work hard when he put his mind to it, I doubted my father saw it as a positive or a display of creativity. He was just annoyed and probably doubting my abilities right about now.

  I’d prove him wrong. I was more than capable of raising Charlie and running this farm, while making it even better.

  The memory of those bales stacked neat and tight as high as the top of the doors had me smiling again. I’d better get it out of my system now. It was going to be hard to discipline him later otherwise.

  “I see you grinning. What Charlie did was bad.”

  Damn, how did my father know what I was thinking?

  “Yes. It was.” But dang it, it was funny. I glanced up and caught the glimmer of a smile curve my father’s lips.

  Ah, ha! I knew it. He thought it was as amusing as I did.

  Turning so he wouldn’t see I was grinning as I got out of the truck, I said, “I’m going to turn out the horses. Then I’ll unload the truck.”

  “Okay. Last night’s leftover chili good for lunch?” he called back.

  “Sounds good,” I replied, happy things were back to normal between us.

  Now all I had to do was sweet talk him out of selling and everything would be perfect.

  THREE

  JAMEY

  “Where are you?” Jerry’s slow measured tone coming through my cell’s speaker seemed too serious for such a casual question.

  And why was he always asking me where I was? I frowned. "I’m in the Yukon."

  "Okay. And where is your Yukon?"

  I’d just parked across the street from my old gym but what did it matter where I was?

  Bristling, I turned the line of questioning back on the man who wasn’t my father but who was sure acting like one. “Why?”

  “You start principal photography in one month—”

  “I know.” And in one month I’d be on the set. But until then, I had a rare brief period of time where I had no contractual responsibilities. No filming or press tours or awards ceremonies.

  So what was with the inquisition?

  “You need to start preparing—”

  “I’ll know my lines by the time we start shooting. I always do.” Besides, I knew the writers would change the script at least twenty times before then anyway.

  “Lines?” Jerry laughed. “I’m not worried about your lines. I’m worried about you breaking your neck on a horse. You’re starring in a western, or did you forget?”

  “No, I didn’t forget.” Just like I was sure Jerry hadn’t forgotten his percentage of the enormous amount of the pay he’d negotiated.

  I still couldn’t wrap my h
ead around the fact I’d agreed to do a freaking western. I hoped Jerry knew what the hell he was doing pushing me into this.

  “Won’t there be like a stunt rider or something?” I asked. Surely they didn’t expect me to do the riding.

  Jerry laughed. “You don’t need a stunt rider. You just need to be able to sit your ass in a saddle and not fall off, which is why I arranged for riding lessons for you. Starting today. And judging by the very annoyed voicemail I just received from your riding instructor, you’re not there. I’m hoping you’re on your way now.”

  I frowned. “I don’t know anything about any riding lessons.”

  “I emailed you all the details a week ago. And my assistant sent you a reminder both yesterday and this morning.”

  “I haven’t been checking my email. I’m off.” What did Jerry not get about that?

  A break from work meant just that. A break from email. From business calls. From freaking riding lessons.

  Jerry mumbled something I couldn’t understand and I sighed. “I’m sorry I missed the lesson, but seriously, I don’t need it. I’m a quick learner. I learned how to be a Navy SEAL for Love Under Fire, didn’t I?”

  “No. You learned how to look like a Navy SEAL. Big difference,” Jerry corrected. “You held the gun. You didn’t have to actually hit anything when you fired it. You sat in the boat. You weren’t steering it.”

  I scowled at the facts I couldn’t dispute. But just because I hadn’t had to actually do those things didn’t mean I couldn’t.

  “Come on. How hard could it be just sitting there on top of a horse?” I asked.

  Jerry barked out a short laugh. “Harder than you think.”

  “Oh really. Have you ever ridden a horse?” I asked, suspecting I knew the answer.

  Jerry cleared his throat. “Well, no, but—”

  Ha! Exactly as I’d thought. “Look, Jerry. I’ll be fine. I gotta go. I’ll be in touch before filming.”

  “Jamey, don’t you—”

  “Goodbye, Jerry.” I cut off what, judging by the raised volume and annoyed tone, would have been a lecture, and disconnected the call. After a second thought, I went one step further and powered down the phone.

  After a year of filming two major motion pictures back-to-back with a press tour in between, I finally had one whole month to myself and I was going to do what I wanted during it, dammit.

  But now, thanks to Jerry’s phone call delaying me, I wouldn’t be able to just duck into the building unnoticed like I’d wanted to.

  I’d hoped for a paparazzi-free day. One glance around told me they were already here.

  My vehicle was surrounded by a swarm of photographers. They circled the Yukon like flies around a dumpster.

  How the hell they’d found me, I didn’t know. It felt like they knew where I was going to be even before I did sometimes.

  For Christ’s sake, I wasn’t even in Hollywood. I was in freaking Rancho Cucamonga. Yet somehow they were here too.

  Shit. I should probably check the vehicle for a tracking device. I wouldn’t put it past them to do something sneaky like that. Selling photos was a big money business.

  I’d have to call Rick and ask him about the technology, or more accurately, how to find and disable it. If anyone would know, a former Navy SEAL working in private security would.

  Although it was more likely they were staking out my home and followed me when I left this morning. I put my plans for sweeping the Yukon for devices on hold for now. It was time to get out of the public and indoors.

  Sunglasses on, I grabbed my duffle bag from the passenger seat and drew in a breath before swinging my door open.

  "Jamey! Over here."

  "Garret! This way."

  Head down and hands safely in my pockets so I wouldn’t be tempted to or accused of shoving the photographers, I pushed between the paparazzi blocking my path.

  They followed me as I made a beeline for the old brick building across the street.

  I didn't look up. Didn't respond to them. I definitely didn't push them out of my way even though I would have loved to.

  No eye contact. No comments. No interaction. No touching. That's what I'd learned to do to save myself from fake stories, false accusations, potential lawsuits and the worst Hollywood sin of all—bad press.

  Sure, they'd snap and sell their photos anyway. And those pictures would be put out there with whatever twisted angle and lies the publisher wanted.

  The shots being taken today would end up in some grocery store rag or on a celebrity tell-all website, presented to the public in a way that would get the maximum impact and ratings.

  No privacy. No peace. No life. That's what my days had become.

  No women. No dating. No sex either. It was freaking insane and frustrating as hell—on so many levels.

  Some would say this was the price of fame. It was something I’d never thought about before. Now, I couldn't get away from it.

  I’d experienced the effects of Hollywood stardom on a very small level after my first film. But since the release of Love Under Fire, the movie I did earlier in the year with academy award winner Sierra Cox, and the buzz about my next release, Enemy Lines, which was currently in edits, things had become unbearable.

  All I wanted to do was go to the freaking gym. Have an afternoon to myself to get in a decent workout and reconnect with old friends. Couldn’t they give me that?

  I yanked open the old scarred metal door, slipped inside and slammed it closed behind me.

  Holding it shut with both hands, I hesitated, afraid to move away from the entrance.

  The building was privately owned but this was a place of business. Were the photographers legally allowed to follow me inside?

  I wasn’t sure but I made a mental note to find out.

  My To-Do list for my time off continued to grow.

  I mumbled a curse under my breath as I flipped the lock to keep the press out until I brushed up on local trespassing laws.

  When I turned away from the door I saw Walt standing there.

  The old man’s chocolate gaze moved from the locked door to me. “I ain’t gonna get a whole lotta business that way.”

  Walt was right, but I didn’t see that I had a lot of choice in the matter.

  I scowled over the impossible situation. “I’ll pay you to close for the morning.”

  I didn’t miss the irony of my willingly throwing money at the very problems that were brought about by my having the damn money in the first place.

  Man, I missed the old days. Back before I knew or cared what irony was.

  Fame wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. I’d had more freedom when I’d been so poor I had to beg or borrow equipment before I could get in the ring to spar.

  My old friend’s bushy salt and pepper brows rose on his caramel-colored forehead. “I don’t want your money. I can’t have a steroid pumped, pissed off fighter breaking down my door trying to get inside for a workout because I’m supposed to be open.”

  I needed just a couple of hours peace and quiet and I was willing to do just about anything to get it, but Walt was right, it couldn’t be at the expense of others.

  “I’m sorry. I’ll unlock it.” I was about to pivot back toward the door when Walt’s hand on my shoulder stopped me.

  “Hang on.” Walt glanced toward the back room. “Hey, kid!”

  A boy, probably in his mid-to-late teens, about the same age I had been when I’d first started working for Walt, peeked out of the back room. “Yeah, Walt?”

  “Forget about cleaning the locker room for now. I need you to watch the front door.”

  The kid’s eyes brightened at that reprieve from what I knew personally was a horrible job. “Sure thing, Walt.”

  “Let in anybody you recognize. Nobody else. You hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.” The kid jogged forward, stumbling to a stop when his gaze landed on me. His eyes widened further as they cut to Walt and back again to me. “You’re—he’s—Are you—”<
br />
  “Yeah, yeah. He’s famous. A big Hollywood star, he is. A big pain in my ass too,” Walt grumbled as he gripped the back of the kid’s neck and gave him a push toward the door.

  I’d been the recipient of Walt’s not so gentle guidance back when this place had been my escape from my foster home.

  I’d come back today hoping it still could be my escape, but the crowd on the sidewalk being held at bay by a vintage lock and a lanky teenager proved I’d misjudged that.

  Walt’s steely fingers on the back of my neck brought me out of my wallowing. The man had been a champion boxer back in the day. Long before mixed martial arts was even a thing.

  He might be old but in his hands I could still feel the remnants of the man’s former power. “Come on back to the office.”

  I lifted a brow, feeling that same familiar sense of dread in my gut that I had almost a decade ago when Walt would summon me to the office. “Why? Am I in trouble?”

  The old man coughed out a laugh made gravelly from years of cigars and shouting at the fighters he coached.

  “No, you’re not in trouble. I thought you might wanna get out of view of the assholes parked in front of my window thanks to you.”

  “I’d rather hit the heavy bag. Or even better, get in the ring—if you’ve got somebody around I can spar with without killing him.” I glanced at the immediately visible choices for sparring partners.

  An old man and a skinny kid. It didn’t look promising.

  Walt scowled. “I could still take you and don’t you dare think otherwise. Ha! Especially now. Look at ya.” The old man’s gaze dropped down my body.

  I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That you’ve gotten soft. You might’ve been good once, but Hollywood knocked all the tough out of you, kid.”

  I caught sight of myself in the streaky wall of mirrors.

  My dark brows were drawn so low in a frown I could barely see my eyes. It was an expression ripe with emotion and worthy of a close-up. Any director would love it.

  Unfortunately, this was real life. My life. This time the frustration was real and my own, not written in a script or prompted by a director.

  My expression might be Hollywood-worthy, but as for the rest of me, Walt was wrong. I was in great shape.