Free The Rancher and the Rock Star by Lizbeth Selvig

willingly.”
    Spark shook his head. “Kids.” He tapped Dawson on the shoulder. “Hey you, juvenile delinquent, good to see you.”
    “Spark!”
    With a twinge of envy, Gray watched the embrace between his son and his best friend. They hadn’t seen each other in over a year, but in the early days Dawson had spent a great deal of time at the Jackson home with Spark, his three kids, and his wife, Lindsey. At the moment, Gray was the bad guy, but Spark wasn’t.
    “Hot dang, you’ve grown a foot,” Spark said.
    “You sound like a grandma.”
    “I’m just old. So, you gonna hang around and play with us?”
    “I dunno. I guess.” Dawson’s smile dimmed again, but Gray took heart that it didn’t disappear.
    A camera shutter whirred at close range and Gray found himself staring into Elliott’s Nikon. He laughed, but then the first strange thing of the reunion wiped the laughter away. Chris strode to the photographer and grasped the camera by its wide, expensive lens.
    “I told you to put that goddamn thing away.”
    “Just doin’ my job.” Elliott smiled. “Welcome home to the crazy farm, Gray. Things fall apart when you leave.”
    “Oh? What’s going on?”
    “My, my. I didn’t realize it was bring-your-child-to-work day.” Chris ignored the question and turned raised brows on Dawson. “Hi, kid. How’s my favorite reason to cancel a concert?”
    “Good.” Dawson paused only a moment. “Came to wreck one in person.”
    A smattering of laughter punctuated his cheeky response. Once again his quickness surprised Gray.
    “Nice boy.” Chris winked, but Gray caught the sarcasm. Chris had never been a kid person. Never been a marriage person or even much of a dating person. He was, in truth, slightly humorless, but he was a hell of a businessman.
    “Now back to my question.” Gray studied the abnormal wariness in Elliott’s eyes and patted his cheek. “Am I sensing a wittle bitty tiff between friends?”
    “You’re an ass,” Elliott growled.
    A chuckle escaped from Dawson, who offered the photographer a high-five. “Hey, Elliott,” he said, his eyes lighting up once more.
    “Hi Dawson!”
    “And you’re an ass, you ass.” Gray ignored their greetings. “Talk to me.”
    “You were right, it’s just a tiff.” Chris stepped between them. “You don’t have time now; we’re pushing this a little close.”
    “It’s only six thirty. We have time.” Gray stood firm. He didn’t like dissension in his ranks, and joking hadn’t eased the tension wafting through the room. Gray stared down his band members, his manager, and Elliott. “I was gone one friggin’ day.”
    Spark rummaged in a pile of papers behind an amplifier and returned with a folded tabloid. “Make of it what you will, but you are in the news.”
    “What now? Can’t be any worse than the stupid pratfall pictures and embarrassing moments that have been appearing—” He saw the picture and flicked his eyes to Elliott. “What the hell?”
    “I didn’t send it to them.”
    Gray had been friends with Elliott St. Vincent since they’d met at a New York hot dog stand probably fifteen years before. Elliott had actually negotiated a candid photo with Gray, impressing the hell out of him. If Elliott wasn’t now an official paid staff member, he was close. He’d always been a nice guy, and as close to an ethical paparazzo as one could get. Along with that, he was responsible for a lot of great publicity. Lately, everyone knew he’d been taking advantage of his close ties to the band, but pictures sent to the rags so far had been harmless, embarrassing moments from the doomed tour. He’d claimed to have sent one, an innocuous trip onstage captured by every contraband camera at that show. Four others had been tension-breakers more than anything. But this . . .
    “Bullshit.” Chris jumped in. “Who else could send it? It’s your picture.”
    “It is. Everybody knows that. I’m telling you, I didn’t send it