Brenda Novak - Coulda Been a Cowboy

If only his body would cooperate.

As long as he could play, the endorsements wouldn’t matter, he told himself. He’d still be gainfully employed. And if he played well, he could outlast the scandal over Rachelle’s accusations and, eventually, maybe he’d win a few of them back.

But that wasn’t very realistic, and he knew it. By then, he’d be older and that much closer to retirement. It was the young guys the big names wanted—the ones with a perfect reputation.

“Damn her,” he said aloud. Then, unaccustomed to the altitude, he finally stopped and bent over to suck some cool, mountain air into his burning lungs.

He had to go back to California, he realized, had to meet with Rachelle. Maybe he could talk some sense into her. He knew it wasn’t likely. She had no conscience or she wouldn’t have done what she’d done in the first place. But what other option did he have? He wouldn’t relinquish Braden. He was convinced taking the baby had been the best thing to do. How else could he be sure his son would be raised right?

But he couldn’t stand by and let her destroy his reputation and possibly his career.

“I can be back tomorrow,” he promised himself and headed for the cabin.

TYSON’S VISIT to California didn’t turn out to be the quick trip he’d intended. He couldn’t get a flight out of Boise until the following morning, and when he reached L.A., Rachelle wouldn’t respond to his attempts to contact her. After three days, he finally showed up at her place unannounced, only to be confronted by a man who claimed to be her bodyguard.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave, Mr. Garnier.” The giant Samoan left the security chain in place and spoke through the crack. “You can get in a lot of trouble for being here.”

Garnier wasn’t intimidated by the hulky bodyguard. He faced men who weighed one and a half times his weight for a living. “Why? All I want to do is talk to her.”

“I’m sorry, but you’re violating a restraining order.”

“A what?” Tyson cried in confusion. Restraining orders were for dangerous, violent men. He’d never struck a woman in his life.

The man shoved some papers through the crack. “Consider yourself served.”

Tyson stared down at the official-looking paperwork.

“You can’t come within two city blocks of Ms. Rochester or you could be arrested,” the bodyguard informed him. “The hearing is in six days.”

Disbelieving, Tyson scanned the fine print. It was true. Rachelle had filed for a restraining order. “Wait!” Tyson put a hand on the door so the Samoan couldn’t close it. “The only thing I should be arrested for is being stupid enough to get mixed up with her in the first place,” he nearly shouted.

The man glanced nervously at Tyson’s hand. “The cops are already on their way.”

Tyson’s muscles bunched in impotent rage. “This is nuts!”

“Just because you’re a famous football player doesn’t mean you have the right to harass women.”

“Harass them!” This time Tyson did shout. “When have I done anything to her? She’s a freakin’ parasite, that’s what she is. It’s my money that’s paying your salary!”

At Tyson’s sudden burst of temper, the Samoan stepped back. “You’re losing your cool,” he said. “Please leave before the police have to drag you away.”

No, this was too unfair! “Look.” Rolling up the papers, he shoved them in his pocket and forced himself to lower his voice. There was no need for a hearing, no need for this to get out of hand. All he wanted was for Rachelle to live up to the agreement she’d made. “You can stay in the room if you want. Or bring her to the door so we can talk through the crack. I’m not going to touch her. I swear.” He lifted his hands to convince the man of his honesty. “I just want to speak to her. I need to know what’s going on.”

A female voice said something in the background that led Tyson to believe Rachelle was close by, but the bodyguard shut the door before Tyson could address her directly. A moment later, the Samoan opened it again, but only as far as the security chain would allow. “Sorry. Ms. Rochester feels she’d be unsafe.”

A tic began in Tyson’s cheek. “In what way?”

“She says you’re not stable.”

Until that moment, Tyson had never seriously considered hurting anyone. “Rachelle, what the hell are you doing?” he yelled. “We had a deal. You got every penny you asked for. What more do you want?”

“I want my baby back,” he heard her say. Then the door closed again.

Tyson banged on the wooden panel. He even went around back to see if he could get Rachelle’s attention through the windows. He hoped the police were really on their way—maybe they’d help him sort this out. But, evidently, she’d called the media, too. Because it was a reporter who showed up first—and snapped a picture of him climbing over her fence, the set of his jaw so rigid that, when it was published in the paper the following day, he looked ready to kill.

TYSON HAD BEEN GONE for ten days when Dakota spotted his picture on the cover of one of the tabloids. She was in Finley’s Market, picking up more baby food, and had Braden in the shopping cart. Tired of being strapped in, the baby kept holding his arms out for her to pick him up, but she was too mesmerized by what she saw.

Football Star Stalking Ex-Lover

What a headline! Her heart raced as she grabbed the paper and began to read:

Tyson Garnier, five-time all-pro wide receiver for the Los Angeles Stingrays, was caught Sunday trying to force his way into the home of twenty-four-year-old onetime waitress Rachelle Rochester. Although the pair have a nine-month-old baby together, friends of Ms. Rochester say they’ve never been a couple. One woman, who agreed to speak only upon condition of anonymity, says Garnier became obsessed with Rochester after spotting her at the restaurant where she worked, going so far as to follow her home and insist she accompany him to his place. She was gone nearly three weeks, during which time her roommate filed a missing persons report.

Ming Lee is the owner of the restaurant where Rochester worked. “She just disappeared,” Lee said of her waitress. “When she came back, I asked her, ‘Where’d you go?’ And she said she was kidnapped.”

Another friend adds, “When Rach finally resurfaced, she told me a bizarre tale about how this professional football player had kept her locked up as a sex slave, and forced her to do all kinds of kinky things.”

If that were true, why didn’t Ms. Rochester go to the police? Dakota wondered. Or had she tried? Did Tyson have connections that would enable him to clean up his mess without any penalty?

As if in direct answer to her question, the article continued:

When asked why Ms. Rochester never filed a police report on the incident, her roommate, Adrienne LeFever said, “She told me it was because no one would believe her. Tyson Garnier’s a star athlete. Everyone loves him. She’s a lowly waitress who barely graduated with a GED, poor thing. My guess is he paid her off.”

“It’s not true.”

The voice cut through Dakota’s concentration. Lowering the paper, she found Gabriel Holbrook sitting in his wheelchair next to the newsstand. His black hair was wet, suggesting he was fresh from a shower, and she was pretty sure he’d just shaved, because there was a tiny nick in his cleft chin. With his dark coloring, vivid blue eyes, massive shoulders and disarming grin, he was as handsome as ever.

“They’re looking to sell papers,” he explained.

The story was gripping, she had to give them that. And a little frightening, if it was true.

“Of course.” She quickly put the paper away. Tyson was her employer. Thanks to him, she’d be able to make the back payments on her mortgage and catch up on most of her other bills. Besides, Braden was so sweet and loveable she couldn’t imagine him coming from anyone as twisted as that article implied.