Taming Rafe (3 page)

If only I’d come sooner.
The words speared her, turning and chewing at the tender flesh of hope. She’d known the clinic was in jeopardy. Since her mother’s death by car crash high in these very mountains three years ago, the organization had been on a slow slide toward extinction. Katherine simply didn’t have her mother’s knack for fund-raising with the upper crust. But this firsthand, painful face-to-face with the needs of the hospital felt like a punch right to her sternum. It put suffering faces to her failures.

Katherine threw the soiled sheets in the hamper and went to find Sister Marguerite, who’d disappeared into her tiny office to fill out reports.

“Yes?” the nun asked without looking up.

Katherine leaned against the door and sighed. “How is he?”

Marguerite met her eyes. “Carlos?”

Katherine nodded. Something about the boy, the way he suffered in silence, even refused to acknowledge the suffering, the cancer eating away at him . . . His pain, even more than Eva’s, felt like Katherine’s own.

Marguerite shook her head, then went back to writing.

“What about his parents? Shouldn’t they be here?”

Marguerite put down her pen. “Carlos has no one. He showed up on our doorstep, already too far gone for us to help him.”

Which meant that Carlos was a street child. Alone and fending for himself. Katherine closed her eyes.
Lord, it’s too much. Too . . .

If only she’d found a way to urge donors to dig deeper into their pockets, or if she’d managed their finances better . . . if only . . .

It had probably been these very
if only
s, the ones that burrowed
deep and ate away hope, that had compelled her mother to pour out her life for the children in this part of the world. Their sunken, dark eyes haunted Felicia Breckenridge and drove her forward on the fund-raising path, an ambassador of goodwill, hoping to touch one more life. If anything, this trip to the other side of reality had given Katherine enough perspective to understand why her mother had spent so much time away from her as a child.

Katherine felt grimy and knew dirt streaked her face, layering her skin. Back home, her friends shelled out five hundred dollars an hour to bathe in such mud. But Katherine, like her mother, preferred to use her bank account for purposes that ministered to the soul rather than the body. If her wealth couldn’t be used to help these children, then what good was it?

Still, it seemed that no amount of cash could heal Eva, resurrect her from the sagging hospital bed to play with her one-legged Barbie dolls and draw colorful pictures for supporters. Nor would it give Carlos a family, a home, a future.

Katherine shuffled down to the laundry room, where Marguerite had fixed cots for her and Angelina. She sat on the end of the cot, fatigue washing over her.

Just one life. That’s all she wanted. To somehow make a difference in just one life.

Lying down and drawing her legs up, she closed her eyes. Five minutes, and then she’d . . .

“Katherine?” Angelina’s voice pulled her from the tug of slumber.

Katherine woke with a shot, blinking into the darkness. Night had invaded the room, along with moaning from down the hall. Her dark hair lay plastered to her neck, having fallen out of its ponytail. “I fell asleep. I’m sorry. I—”

“Come.” Angelina held out her hand, and as Katherine had done numerous times when she was a child, she took it and followed Angelina down the hall.

In the shadowy embrace of night, Carlos lay in his bed, his breathing labored, every rise and fall of his chest accompanied by a wheeze and moan. Marguerite stood at the foot of his bed, her hand on his leg, her head bowed, her mouth moving.

Carlos’s dark eyes locked on Katherine’s. His mouth moved, but through his parched lips, no sound emerged.

Katherine looked at Angelina, who gave her a sad smile, squeezed her hand.

Katherine crouched next to Carlos, her face close to his. She pushed his hair off his forehead. Pain filled her throat, her chest, and she bit it back for his sake.

Carlos swallowed and reached out to touch her hand. “Senorita,” he said so quietly it seemed more of a breath, “gracias.”

Thank you?
Katherine stared stupidly at him, feeling brittle. For what? She’d done nothing to really help him; change a sheet, hold a hand—what were those things? Placebos.

It wasn’t enough. Not
nearly
enough. She pressed her forehead to his hand, feeling tears begin to bubble out of the pain in her chest. “No, Carlos, it’s I who must thank—”

Angelina pressed her hand on Katherine’s shoulder. “He’s gone.”

Katherine looked into Carlos’s sightless eyes.

Angelina ran her hand over his face and closed his eyes.

Katherine sat motionless, tears dripping off her chin, a hot rage swelling through her.
Lord, please, for Eva, for Carlos . . . somehow, help me be . . . do . . . enough
.

CHAPTER 1

K
ATHERINE
R
USSELL
B
RECKENRIDGE’S
ability to choose the right pair of shoes to wear with her seafoam green ball gown certainly wouldn’t stop world hunger or cause peace in the Middle East, but tonight it might raise enough money to give a child like Eva a fighting chance for life.

At least—
please, Lord
—she hoped so.

Wrapped in a bathrobe, Katherine sat on her dressing stool in the walk-in closet of her penthouse suite and bemoaned her lack of fashion sense. Her supermodel mother, Felicia, would have instinctively known which shoes to pick.

“Should I wear the metallic snake slingbacks, the black peep-toe pumps, or the leopard thong sandals?” Katherine asked her assistant, Cari, on speakerphone.

“Wear the silver open-toe slingbacks. They’re gorgeous with that dress,” Cari said.

“How about my pink horsey slippers? They’re kind of cute.”

Silence at the other end told her the answer.

“I was just kidding,” Katherine said as she swept up her yoga pants and the T-shirt she’d napped in and dumped them in the hamper.

“Sure you were,” Cari said in an I-know-you tone.

Katherine sighed in defeat. Get her in a pair of heels and she suddenly felt like a bull in Tiffany’s. Why couldn’t fund-raising come easy to her—as it had for her mother? “It would have helped if my mother left me her fashion sense to go along with the Breckenridge Foundation charity events.”

Outside, the sun had half settled just beyond the Manhattan skyline, lighting the windows of surrounding buildings platinum. It flowed into her adjacent bedroom, turning the Turkish rugs to a brilliant turquoise. Katherine hadn’t had the desire to redecorate. Everything in the master bedroom, from the gold-tasseled bed linens to the silver-plated mirrors to the antique silver vases holding the daily supply of yellow roses, still bore her mother’s flair, her style.

Katherine didn’t have the foggiest idea how she might improve on that.

“She
did
leave you her fashion sense, Katherine. The only problem is, her legacy comes in a size two. And it doesn’t match your own, uh, style.”

Katherine didn’t need to glance in the mirror to confirm that she’d inherited her
father’s
style. Her preference for jeans and cowboy boots. If only he’d also given her his charisma, his never-say-die spirit that had made him a champion bull rider. But she possessed neither her father’s courage nor her mother’s glamour. Felicia Breckenridge and Bobby Russell had been America’s beloved poster couple.

So why hadn’t their daughter inherited their magic? Magic she so desperately needed if she hoped to pull the Breckenridge Foundation away from the abyss of bankruptcy.

She just hoped that her grandfather and his wolfish board of directors would stay in their corners until she got through this little soiree and out into the financial clear.

“You’ll be beautiful,” Cari said, and her voice softened. “Put on your best Katherine Breckenridge smile, shake everyone’s hand, and I promise that the five-course dinner you put together will have the donations pouring in. The board will see your efforts, forgive you for a few bad investments, and everything will be fine.”

“A few bad investments?” According to Katherine’s last balance sheets, her accounts had lost over five hundred thousand dollars in three months. And if Grandfather Breckenridge turned down her request to underwrite her donation to the Mercy Doctors clinic for another quarter, children like Eva might not live to see next year. “Now who’s living in a fairy tale?”

“Maybe you and your life-is-but-a-dream mentality are rubbing off on me. I’m even willing to consider that a handsome prince might ride into the lobby of the Breckenridge and whisk me away to my castle, complete with my private entrance to Tiffany’s and an unlimited expense account. But barring that, I believe you have a winning night planned. The weather is even cooperating. The heat wave will drive everyone inside to the air-conditioned ballroom of the Breckenridge Hotel, and they’ll pay just to stay indoors.” Cari’s voice contained a smile. “And it won’t hurt that you get to sit next to Lincoln Cash all night. I wonder what other celebrities are going to show.”

At the mention of the actor’s name, Katherine glanced at the issue
of
America, Now!
in her trash bin. Sadly, it hadn’t contained even a word of the press release she’d sent out about tonight’s event. Although she’d also invited a passel of other actors and celebrities, she banked on a confirmed appearance by Lincoln Cash to lure the press. “I don’t care if I sit by him—I just want him and his gang of photographers.”

“Oh, please, there isn’t a woman alive who wouldn’t stand on a bed of coals to sit next to Lincoln Cash.”

“He’s not my type, which only adds to the fact that my mother and I were nothing alike. I prefer a well-barbered, silk-suited man to a whiskered, rough-edged scoundrel who considers a wink the invitation to dinner or more. Besides, I have Bradley.”

Cari sighed. “Right.”

“Bradley is stable. And patient. Everything a woman could want.”

“If you’re a houseplant.”

“Stop.”

“Okay, but only if you put down the black pumps.”

“How do you do that?” With a look of longing, Katherine slid the pumps back into their drawer.

“Ten years of boarding school with you.”

Katherine held up the green dress and the silver sandals and fleetingly wondered if she’d even fit into any of her outfits after last week’s taste test with the catering company. Even if she’d only picked at the outrageously extravagant dishes, she still felt slightly traitorous after spending the last two weeks visiting the Guadalajara clinic. Again. But seeing Eva’s smiling face—miraculously pink with health—gave Katherine the incentive to nail down every detail of tonight’s annual event. “I just thought it would be easier.”

“Easier to fill your mother’s shoes?”

Katherine lifted a shoulder, staring into the mirror, trying for the
thousandth time to see even a hint of Felicia’s famous blue eyes in her own hazel ones.

“Or easier to realize that you’re not her?”

“Thanks. I appreciate that show of support.” Katherine laid the dress on her bed, dropped the sandals to the floor.

“So you’re not your mother. You have your own style; you just don’t know what it is yet. And when you get your rhythm, you’ll be the wow she was.”

“In the meantime, my grandfather is going to convince the board to write off the Breckenridge Foundation as a loss and swallow the entire charity into the maw of Walter Breckenridge Enterprises. I will have successfully driven my late mother’s life work into the ground in the span of three years. I think that might be some kind of record.”

“Tonight is going to be a success. By the way, the director of social services called again. She said something about an appointment at the Seventh Avenue children’s shelter. Last time you did that, you wanted to adopt three children.”

“I wasn’t serious. Just . . . moved.”

“I’m not saying homeless kids don’t tug at my heartstrings, honey, but you gotta stop trying to adopt every charity case you meet.”

A knock came at her door. “Katherine?”

Katherine said a quick good-bye to Cari and disconnected the call. “Come in, Angelina.” Her voice sounded fatigued, even to herself, despite the forty-minute nap she’d just caught.

Angelina strode past her into the bedroom. “You’re not ready yet? Senor Lymon is on his way up.”

Oh, perfect. Bradley hated being late.

The early evening sun poured through the French doors at the far end of her dressing room, yet heat shimmered in the twilight and
reflected off the windows of Trump Tower across the street. From the balcony off her bedroom, Central Park, with its lakes and cool breezes, beckoned like a favorite novel, someplace to lose herself.

Maybe Cari was right. Tonight would be perfect. She had plotted every detail. All the same, it would be nice if the Almighty could send her a memo or something to assure her that she was on the right track.
Lord, please make this night successful.

It seemed that ever since Katherine had returned from her first trip to Mexico six months ago, she’d had disaster touch every part of her life, from her seemingly bad accounting to her strained relationship with her grandfather to her health. It just wasn’t natural to be so tired all the time, regardless of how many herbal remedies Angelina concocted, how many vitamins Cari made her swallow, and how many doctors Bradley made her visit. And now, another of her weekly migraines edged in on her.

Angelina led her to the dressing table in her bathroom and made her sit as she helped her style her hair. As usual, Angelina hummed from her repertoire of hymns, songs that Katherine still equated with warm, solid arms and unconditional comfort.

Angelina was the closest thing Katherine had to a real mother. The kind who’d known of her secret nest in the closet, with her horse posters, her Flicka books. The kind who woke her from her nightmares and fed her hot chocolate for breakfast. The kind who had prayed her through her teenage confusion and helped her find her own spiritual footing, beyond her Catholic boarding school. If it weren’t for Angelina, Katherine might have turned out just like her grandfather, someone resembling the ice sculpture down in the ballroom. Sometimes she wondered why he even raised her. Maybe because her mother had been so busy—

“Katherine?”

She held her bathrobe at the neck. “Come in.”

The bedroom door opened. “Hey there, beautiful.” Bradley poked his head into the room. Concern filled his brown eyes. “Are you feeling okay?”

She managed a nod. “I’ll be out in a moment. Make yourself at home.”

“I have a quick meeting to attend. I’ll meet you downstairs.” Bradley gave a slight frown, then glanced at Angelina. “Do your best work, Senora. I have a special evening planned.” He winked at Katherine and closed the door behind him.

Angelina’s eyes shone, evidence she’d fallen under Bradley’s spell. With his highlighted blond hair that he wore in a slightly mussed style and his lean, gym-toned physique, Bradley exuded a charm that made Katherine forget everything but the silly smile on her face and the way he put his hand on the small of her back.

A special evening
. Funny, she had waited for such a special evening all her life, but now she only felt a crimp in her stomach.

It had to be nerves. Just because Grandfather Breckenridge had introduced them didn’t mean that successful attorney Bradley Lymon wasn’t the man of her dreams. Katherine should stop trying to figure out why Bradley wanted her in his life, give up trying to make a difference in the world, and let herself relax.

She sat up straight on the velvet stool and stared into the tall, silver-plated mirror as Angelina put her hair up, letting the wisps curl down over her ears.

“Your mama would have been so proud,” Angelina said, bringing her face close to Katherine’s.

Katherine smiled, patting Angelina’s hand. “Gracias.” But she
knew the truth. Angelina saw the girl she’d raised, the Breckenridge princess. However, next to Katherine’s willowy blonde mother, Katherine had been . . . well, more like a buffalo.

Maybe she resembled her father, Bobby, the man who’d died riding bulls when Katherine was a child. She had a faded color photograph of them together. Katherine was five and wearing red cowboy boots and a grin. Another photo displayed Bobby’s wide smile, the way he lazily hung his hand from his giant gold championship buckle, the gleam in his dark brown eyes.

Felicia never, not even once, spoke of the man who’d died in her arms. And she’d refused to let Katherine speak of him either. Even her father’s obituary had been sketchy. “Complications from a bull-riding fall” could mean anything in her curious mind.

And the fact that his death happened months after said fall raised even more questions.

Someday, Katherine vowed, she’d have answers.

Katherine put on a pair of teardrop diamond earrings, a recent present from Bradley, then added a matching necklace—last Christmas’s gift, an extravagant gesture two weeks into their courtship. She slipped on the ball gown, and it pinched at the waist as she zipped it up. Thankfully, the tasting spree hadn’t left its ravages.

“It’s time,” Angelina said as she hung up Katherine’s robe.

Katherine dug out her most recent migraine prescription, quickly swallowed two capsules, and massaged her temples.

If people didn’t look too closely, they’d never notice the extra makeup covering the circles under her eyes or the way her smile didn’t quite dazzle. She grabbed her clutch, hoping that she could remember State Representative George Brennan’s newest wife’s name.

As Katherine let herself out of her suite and into the elevator, she felt the effects of the painkiller start to hit, the bludgeoning in her brain subside. With it came a surreal calm, the sense that she wasn’t really connected to this moment but was somewhere else. Maybe on Grandfather’s yacht, smelling the briny surf. Or better yet, that place in her childhood dreams where she found herself more and more lately—lost in Montana, riding horseback, the wind at her back, the smell of wildflowers beckoning her to freedom.