“So what you’re saying is, you don’t find me attractive,”

Tom said.

“Don’t be silly. You’re a total hunk. I just don’t want a girl/guy relationship right now.” And the twinges he caused were merely meaningless artifacts of her first girlhood crush. Irrelevant holdovers. Nothing to worry about.

“Girl/guy?” The corners of his mouth edged up in a reluctant smile.

“You know what I mean. I need to get my act together…. I’m gonna be somebody’s mother in a month. I have important things to do. I can’t be distracted by a bunch of mushy stuff….” She flapped her hand imperiously until he finally pulled her up. How could she stand on her own two feet when she couldn’t even get off her backside without help?

Dear Reader,

We’ve been trying to capture what Silhouette Romance means to our readers, our authors and ourselves. In canvassing some authors, I’ve heard wonderful words about the characteristics of a Silhouette Romance novel—innate tenderness, lively, thoughtful, fun, emotional, hopeful, satisfying, warm, sparkling, genuine and affirming.

It pleases me immensely that our writers are proud of their line and their readers! And I hope you’re equally delighted with their offerings. Be sure to drop a line or visit our Web site and let us know what we’re doing right—and any particular favorite topics you want to revisit.

This month we have another fantastic lineup filled with variety and strong writing. We have a new continuity—HAVING THE BOSS’S BABY! Judy Christenberry’s When the Lights Went Out… starts off the series about a powerful executive’s discovery that one woman in his office is pregnant with his child. But who could it be? Next month Elizabeth Harbison continues the series with A Pregnant Proposal.

Other stories for this month include Stella Bagwell’s conclusion to our MAITLAND MATERNITY spin-off. Go find The Missing Maitland. Raye Morgan’s popular office novels continue with Working Overtime. And popular Intimate Moments author Beverly Bird delights us with an amusing tale about Ten Ways To Win Her Man.

Two more emotional titles round out the month. With her writing partner, Debrah Morris wrote nearly fifteen titles for Silhouette Books as Pepper Adams. Now she’s on her own with A Girl, a Guy and a Lullaby. And Martha Shields’s dramatic stories always move me. Her Born To Be a Dad opens with an unusual, powerful twist and continues to a highly satisfying ending!

Enjoy these stories, and keep in touch.

Mary-Theresa Hussey,

Senior Editor

A Girl, a Guy and a Lullaby
Debrah Morris

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dedication:

This book is dedicated to my husband, Keith. Thank you, honey,

for believing in me, and for having the grace not to look too nervous

when I announced I was quitting my job to write.

Acknowledgment:

Special thanks to Carla Ulbrich,

a talented and award-winning singer, songwriter and guitarist.

She graciously answered my music questions and inspired me with her songs.

DEBRAH MORRIS

Before embarking on a solo writing career, Debrah Morris coauthored over twenty romance novels as one half of the Pepper Adams/Joanna Jordan writing team. She’s been married for twenty-three years, and between them, she and her husband have five children. She’s changed careers several times in her life, but finds she much prefers writing to working. She loves to hear from readers, who can contact her at P.O. Box 522, Norman, OK 73070-0522.

WHAT DO BABIES DREAM ABOUT?

Go to sleep/my little one/in your tiny bed

Mama’s here/bunny’s near

Soon dreams will fill your head.

What do babies dream about?

When their sleep is deep?

Daddy’s voice? Mama’s touch?

Learning how to creep?

So give it up/my little one/

there’s nothin’ left to do

Blankie’s warm/day is done

Your dreams will see you through.

What do babies dream about?

When the shadows fall

Mama’s love? Daddy’s hug?

Growing big and tall?

So rest your head/my little one/

dreams are all you need

The sun has gone/the moon has come

Just find your dreams and sleep

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter One

Like bungee jumping off bridges or hiking the Himalayas, cross-country bus trips were best undertaken by those with a taste for adventure. Such endeavors were not meant for the lily-livered or the terminally pregnant. Since she currently qualified in both categories, Ryanne Rieger had to wonder. What the heck had she been thinking?

It was late. She was tired. And no matter how much she wriggled in her seat, she couldn’t shift her enormous belly into a less tormenting position. Frustrated, she kicked off her shoes. When had they morphed from high-fashion sandals into medieval torture devices?

And when had they crossed the equator? Humid night air streamed through the open window with the refreshment factor of a wool blanket. Fanning one’s self with an empty bag of chips was no substitute for conked-out air-conditioning.

Rifling through her tote bag for a ponytail elastic, Ryanne finger-combed her long hair and twisted it into a dark, off-kilter wad. Then she tried stretching from side to side, but nothing would ease the nagging pain in her lower back.

At least her restless squirming hadn’t disturbed the elderly Native American beside her. Since falling asleep in Arkansas, the old fellow had not moved, snored, burped or breathed. Apparently he suffered from a rare medical condition in which extreme heat and bone-rattling movement induced clinical relaxation.

“Ouch.” Ryanne winced as her unborn child commenced clogdancing on her bladder. The kid was good. Made the Lord of the Dance look like a lead-footed serf. “Please, baby,” she whispered. “I can’t handle any more major discomfort.”

She glanced at the rear of the bus and considered her options. No way was she going into that undersize closet they called a rest room. Even if she managed to squeeze in, she couldn’t maneuver. She’d get stuck, and they’d have to use the jaws of life to pry her out. As entertaining as that might be for her fellow travelers, she’d had enough indignity in her life lately, thank you very much.

She would just tough it out. Soldier on. She could do it, if the baby canceled the encore and she banished all thoughts of liquids. She’d just about perfected a mental movie of sand dunes and desert vistas, when a hungry soul across the aisle popped the lid off a snack can of Vienna sausages.

Like an evil genie released from a lamp, the swirling aroma commingled with the scent of whatever the motion-sick two-year-old had yakked up behind her. After merging with the powerful cologne of the stout gentleman in front, it made a beeline for Ryanne’s sensitive nostrils.

Ah, eau de mass transit. Capable of altering genetic structure and undermining the democratic process.

Her stomach lurched and she fought back the familiar wave. She slumped in the seat, feeling uncharacteristically sorry for herself. She was alone, pregnant, penniless. And on her way back to Brushy Creek in disgrace.

Nausea was an unnecessary redundancy.

She’d left home the day after high school graduation, confident she would set Nashville on fire. She’d had big plans. She would play her fiddle at the Grand Ole Opry. Fend off big-name stars clamoring to perform her songs. Become the darling of country music. She was supposed to have a freaking Grammy by now.

Confident? Try delusional.

Five years and hard experience had taught her that life possessed a number of painful ways to humble dreamers and impose reality. She didn’t have many dreams left, but she’d gladly relinquish the last of her illusions just to get off this bus.

And soon.

“Hey, driver. How much farther to Brushy Creek?” She couldn’t take many more bumps like that last one, and she was seriously thinking of iced tea.

“Comin’ up now, little lady.” The driver shifted gears, and the brakes squealed as he pulled off the road.

She stared out into unrelieved darkness. Brushy Creek, Oklahoma, population 983, had been a wide place in the road when she left. Had it graduated to full-fledged ghost town in her absence? Where were the lights? The people?

More to the point, where was the nearest rest room?

The door opened with a swoosh and the driver hopped out. Ryanne set the carryall on the floor and pulled her fiddle case down from the overhead compartment. Where the heck were her shoes? Unable to bend over, she poked her feet under the surrounding seats, blindly searching for the strappy little numbers that had so much in common with her ex-husband.

Like him, they’d been taken home on impulse, had never really fit, and ended up causing more pain than their cute looks justified.

“Lady, this ain’t a regular stop. If you’re gettin’ off, you best be gettin’. I gotta schedule to keep.” The driver, obviously a man with a mission, had unloaded her suitcases from the baggage area and climbed back in his seat.

“Tonight sometime,” he muttered.

“Fine!” Forget the stupid shoes, they weren’t that cute. Ryanne grabbed her fiddle case and tote and padded barefoot and apologetic down the long aisle, bumping into everyone she passed. At the door she looked back. The old man still hadn’t moved.

She stood in the doorwell and spoke to the driver. “I know you have a schedule and all, but you might want to check that passenger back there for a pulse.”

Stepping out in the dark onto the still-warm pavement, she landed squarely in a giant glob of discarded chewing gum. Teetering on one foot, she scraped the sticky mess on the curb. Surely there was a special table in hell reserved for the careless masticators of the world.

She was spun around by a violent jerk, accompanied by the sound of ripping fabric. Dismayed, she watched the bus angle back onto the road with a thin strip of her voluminous maternity dress waving from the door.

What next? She stared up and challenged the night sky. Cue the unexpected cloudburst. Dispense the lightning bolts. And while you’re at it, how about some golf-ball size hail? Come on. Show me what’s behind door number three.

Then she recalled the words of Birdie Hedgepath. Her Cherokee foster mother had often told her, If you don’t stand up and laugh at the curves life throws you, you’ll fall down and cry.

But don’t laugh too hard, she amended, until you find that toilet.

She looked around. Darkness everywhere. And no sign of life. There were no public facilities, so she’d have to settle for some nice bushy bushes and pray she wouldn’t step in anything else.

“It’s funny,” a deep voice drawled behind her. “But up until now, I thought ‘barefoot and pregnant’ was just a figure of speech.”

Ryanne peered into the void as a man emerged from the shadows, all wide shoulders and long legs. His clothes were the color of the night. Dark shirt. Dark jeans. Dark hat.

Oh, goody. A cowboy vampire comedian. Just what she needed to make the evening complete.

She couldn’t see his face, but she heard the smirky grin in his voice. The smirk was the last straw. She could not have stopped the words, even if she’d wanted to. They spewed forth, hot enough to peel paint.

“You think it’s funny? I guarantee there is nothing even remotely amusing about any of this. I just spent two days on a bus ride from hell. With puking children, sweaty people, and no air-conditioning.

“I’m tired. I’m hot. Every muscle and bone in my body aches. And as you so cleverly observed, I’m pregnant. You know something? When I got on that bus, I had shoes. I lost ’em. But, hey! It doesn’t matter. They don’t fit. Because, like the rest of me, my feet are beyond humongous, and I am retaining enough water to irrigate every cornfield in Oklahoma. Do you see how not funny that is, cowboy?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The clod didn’t even have the manners to conceal what was obviously a bald-faced lie. That only fueled the fire. “But the fun doesn’t stop there. I just stepped in a wad of bubble gum the size of a cow patty!” Her final shriek fell well within the vocal range of howler monkeys.

“Let me see.”

The man’s quiet request had a cold-water-in-the-face effect on Ryanne. She stared at him. Or at least in his direction. She really couldn’t see him very well. “What?”

“Give me your foot.”

Under normal circumstances she would not consider surrendering her foot, or any other body part, to a total stranger. However, these were not normal circumstances. Like much of the bus trip, they bordered on the surreal.

The total stranger in question pulled a red bandanna from his pocket and moistened it liberally with his tongue. Straddling her uplifted foot like a blacksmith shoeing a mare, he rubbed her sticky sole until it tingled.

She clung to his rock-hard arm for balance. His rear end was backed up against her, and the wave of heat she felt had nothing to do with ambient temperature.

“That’s better.” He finished scrubbing and returned her foot to the sidewalk.

“Did you just spit on me?” She still felt off-balance. Even with both feet firmly on the ground. When she noticed where her hand lingered, she snatched it away.

“I reckon so.” His words constituted a verbal shrug.

“Well, thanks. I think.”

“Happy to oblige.”

Ryanne groaned when the baby executed an impromptu shuffle-ball-change. “Cowboy, it’s only fair to warn you that if I don’t find a rest room soon, I cannot be held responsible for what happens.”

“I can help there, too.”

“I doubt it.” Ryanne pressed her hands to the small of her back. A cloud skidded past the full moon, permitting a quick glimpse of her rescuer’s face. Too tanned to be a vampire. Way too amused to be dangerous.

That was the good thing about podunk towns. They didn’t have much to offer psycho ax-murderers.

“Well, don’t just stand there.” She knew some might call her tone “bitchy,” but she preferred a less-common adjective such as churlish.

“What is it you expect me to do?”

“I don’t know. Rob me? Mug me? Dump my battered body in a bar ditch?” Like a stressed-out lab rat, Ryanne could no longer run the maze. Biting the head off her own kind seemed a logical progression. “Is that what you’re planning?”

“Hell, no, ma’am.”

“If you have crime on your mind, I can save you the trouble. Nothing I own is worth working up a sweat over.”

“Ma’am, I don’t want anything.”

“What? You’re just a good-ol’-boy Samaritan? Have spitty hanky, will travel. Is that it?”

“Something like that.”

“Okay, then. Watch my stuff while I go to the bushes. And it better be here when I get back or I will track you down and sit on that silly hat.”

“But I—”

“Just watch it, buster.” Although what he had to guard it against, she had no idea. A marauding coyote perhaps?

“Yes, ma’am.”

Ryanne picked her way into the darkness, muttering to herself. She threw a parting comment over her shoulder. “And stop calling me ma’am.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She thought of bugs and snakes only in passing. She was more worried about the man in black, a gifted quipster who communicated only in short sentences. There was something unnervingly familiar about him. Or maybe the unnerving part was knowing he waited, politely, on the other side of the shrubbery while she conducted business of a very personal nature.

And she thought the world had run out of ways to humiliate her.

Tom Hunnicutt wasn’t interested in the woman’s pile of battered, mismatched suitcases. But like a man who couldn’t tear his gaze away from a train wreck, he was fascinated by the woman. Despite the bad attitude, the lopsided ponytail, and the gummy bare feet, she was just about the cutest little egg-shaped female he’d ever seen. Even if she did waddle like a Christmas goose.

Who was she? What was she doing here? And why had she been put off the bus in the middle of the night? Those were all legitimate questions, but what he really wanted to know was, how did such a tiny girl carry around a belly like that? She had to be expecting a medium-size third-grader.

“Do you have a phone, cowboy?” Miss Congeniality was back and she had a way of making even simple questions sound like stamp-her-foot demands.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Didn’t I tell you to stop ma’aming me?” She thrust out her hand.

Not knowing what else to do, Tom shook it. “Nice to meet you. I’m—”

She snatched it back and propped it on her hip. “May I use your phone?”

“I don’t have it on me. It’s attached to the house.”

Using an I-must-be-speaking-to-the-impaired voice, she drew a vague circle in the air. “Is…there…a…phone…any…where…around…here?”

Tom didn’t much appreciate the implied slur on his intellect. He was only trying to assist someone who obviously needed all the help she could get. However, even good-old-boy Samaritans had limits. He wasn’t a robber or a mugger. And he was no clabberheaded fool. But if the little mama wanted dumb, he could give her dumb.

He shuffled his feet. “Ah, shucks, ma’am. Nearly ever’ body in Brushy Creek’s gotta telly-phone nowadays. They got the e-lectric, too.” He doffed his hat and scratched his head in broad hayseed fashion. “’Cept ol’ Possum Corn back in the hills. He don’t hold for nothin’ fancy as all that.”

Her pretty face wrinkled in a pained grimace. “Oh, no. I’ve gone and offended you. I am so sorry.”

Such total lack of sincerity. “You run around loaded for bear like that, a fella’s bound to get grizzly.”

She took a deep breath. “I really am sorry. It’s just been—”

“Let me guess. A rough day?”

“Actually it’s been a rough year, but why nitpick over the details? Can we start over? I’m Ryanne Rieger.”

He stepped forward for a closer look. “I don’t believe it. You’re little Ryanne?”

She patted the small mountain that was her belly. “Not so little these days, but, yep, that’s me.”

“Birdie said Short Stack was coming home.” Her foster daughter’s fall from grace had been a hot topic with the coffee and pie crowd at Mrs. Hedgepath’s diner.

“No one’s called me Short Stack since I waited tables at the Perch. You know Birdie?”

“Place like this, everybody knows everybody.”

“And everybody’s business, I suppose?”

“Pretty much.”

She made another face. “So what else do you know?”

“Birdie might have mentioned your, uh, difficulties. In passing.”

She threw up her hands. “Oh, great. Please tell me the whole dang populace doesn’t know that my marriage and my career have been sucked down the toilet.”

Tom fought a smile. She sure had a way of turning a phrase. “Possum Corn, back in the hills, might not have heard. He doesn’t have a telly-phone.”

“Very funny.”

“There was one thing Birdie left out.”

“My shoe size?”

He looked pointedly at her expanding middle. “She didn’t say a word about you being in the family way. That was a big surprise.”

“Big being the operative word.”

Tom frowned at the unmistakable waver in her voice. One minute she was fit to be tied and the next she was teetering on the brink of tears. Her mood swings might not make her dizzy, but they sure did him.

“Do you remember me?” he asked. “I’m Tom Hunnicutt.”

She stood on tiptoe and pushed his hat back with her finger. A cowboy didn’t tolerate many people messing with his headgear, but he’d overlook it this time.

Her eyes widened. “Omigosh! Tom Hunnicutt? No wonder you looked familiar. I used to have such a crush on you.”

“You did?” The unexpected confession should not have surprised him. Ryanne seemed to blurt out whatever thought her brain sent tongue-ward.

“Please. Me and every other girl in town. I was so stuck on you, I wanted to propose when your team won the college rodeo championship.”

“Why didn’t you?” The dog-bitten scrap of ego he had left was duly flattered.

“I was grounded because of my math grade. Birdie said anybody who couldn’t do decimals, couldn’t get married. Even to a hotshot saddle bronc rider.”

He laughed. Maybe Ryanne wasn’t unstable after all. Her flightiness could be a temporary condition brought on by stress. “It’s just as well. What were you, ten?”

“Twelve. And you were already engaged. A fact that caused no end of bitter disappointment among the adolescent female population, as I recall.”

“I don’t know about that.” He was unaware of mass adulation, adolescent or otherwise. As long as he could remember, there had been only one love in his life.

“You had a childhood sweetheart. What was her name?”

“Mariclare Turner.” He couldn’t say her name without tasting the regret. He’d lost the woman he loved because he’d assumed his dreams were enough for her. It never occurred to him she might have dreams of her own.

“Oh, yeah. Mariclare-with-the-Perfect-Hair. That’s what we jealous teens called her. You’re still rodeoing, right?”

“No. I’m not.” Realizing how harsh that sounded, he added, “I got hurt last summer and had to give it up.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

It was bad manners to stare, but Tom had never been this close to anyone so busting-out pregnant and didn’t quite know where to look. He chose down. Bare feet seemed a safe alternative to protruding belly button and excessive cleavage. Ryanne was shaped like a primitive fertility totem he’d once seen in a museum, and that made him nervous.

“Does your daddy still own the store?” She stood with one foot propped on the instep of the other. Her feet were far from humongous. They were tiny. Fragile. The bones in the one he’d held had felt as insubstantial as a child’s. Hardly strong enough to support her weight.

“Yeah. Pap had a quadruple bypass last winter and it slowed him down some, but he’s hanging in there.” He held up the key to Hunnicutt Farm and Ranch Supply. “I could have let you in to use the rest room.”

She rolled her eyes. “Now you tell me.”

“I tried. You wouldn’t give me a chance. That was some kind of roll you were on.”

She failed in her attempt to look abashed. “I know. My mouth always gets me in trouble. Birdie says it’ll be the first part to wear out. Forgive me?”

It was hard not to. She had an exasperating charm. Her blinding, 100-watt smile was calculated to make a man forget how high-strung she was. “We’ll chalk it up to duress.”

“Hey! Maybe I could use the phone in the store to call Birdie. She would have met me, but she’s not expecting me until next week.”

He frowned. “It’s after midnight. No sense in her driving all the way into town. I’ll take you home.”

“Really? That would be great. If you’re sure you don’t mind trekking out to the boonies in the middle of the night.”

“I’m running behind on good deeds this week.” Tom quickly committed to the plan. The sooner he handed Ryanne over to Birdie’s safekeeping, the sooner he could get back to what passed as his life these days. He scooped up the suitcases and directed her across the street to a black late-model, extended-cab pickup. He tossed the bags in the back while she climbed into the front seat.

“There’s been some zoning changes since you left,” he said as the engine purred to life. “Officially, Birdie doesn’t live in the boonies anymore. She’s out in the sticks, ten miles farther down the road.”

Chapter Two

The truck’s headlights detected little movement as Tom drove out of town. An occasional larcenous raccoon was the only night-life in Brushy Creek. The beer joint locked up at ten o’clock during the week because good farmers went to bed with the chickens. Even the convenience store closed at nine.

“Must feel good to sit down.” He was still trying to figure out the logistics of carrying that belly around.

“Yeah. Haven’t done much of that lately.”

“The bus?” He decided pert best described her features. Disheveled summed up her appearance. Her personality was pure spunk with generous helpings of sass and vinegar.

She shuddered dramatically. “Have you ever ridden a bus?”

“Just to school when I was a kid.”

“Oh, no. That doesn’t even begin to count.”

He stole another glance. Despite her tart tongue and bossy manner, she looked incredibly young and vulnerable. The thought of her making a long trip alone aroused feelings he’d forgotten he had. Protective feelings. When was the last time he’d been tempted to reach out to a woman? And why was he so tempted by this little bouncing ball of trouble?

Before long they were riding through rolling hills. The Department of Tourism called this northeastern corner of the state “Green Country.” Tom had traveled extensively on the rodeo circuit, all over the west and north to Canada. He’d seen a lot of fine country, but always figured someday he’d settle down in Oklahoma, close to his roots.

In his big-money days, he’d bought eighty acres of prime grazing land a few miles south of town. There was a pretty, wooded knoll on the property, and he’d dreamed of building a log home on top of it. One of those sprawling, lodge-pine jobs like he’d seen in Colorado. He thought it would be the perfect home for Mariclare. For their children.

Besides kids and dogs, he planned to raise and train horses. Turn his acreage into a tidy little quarter horse operation. Someday.

He never quite pinned it down, but someday was always that time in the vague future when he’d made enough winning rides. When he’d worked the rodeo out of his system. When he could retire from the circuit and never look back.

He’d learned the hard way that it was a mistake to put dreams on hold. They had a short shelf life. He’d postponed until everything was gone. Rodeo. Mariclare. Kids. All of it. Maybe he was a clabberheaded fool. He should have seen it coming. She’d begged him to quit and he’d kept riding.

Since he was unwilling to choose real life over rodeo, a wild-eyed bucker had chosen for him. Ten charmed years with no injuries more serious than sprains and scrapes, and he’d ended his career with a bang.

A concussion, two compound fractures, and three broken vertebrae. Multiple surgeries to repair the damage. Weeks in rehab. Months of casts and canes. Bottles of pills for the pain and inevitable depression.

It had taken a year, but he finally looked whole on the outside. Inside, something vital had been severed. And that wound wasn’t even close to scabbing over.

“I’d forgotten how far it is to Birdie’s.” Ryanne was not as comfortable with quiet as the strong, silent cowboy beside her. He watched the deserted road like a freeway at rush hour.

“As they say around here. It’s a ‘fur piece.’”

Light from the truck’s space shuttle instrument panel cast a greenish glow over his face. She’d been eleven the last time she’d seen Tom Hunnicutt. It was in the café, the day he left for New Mexico State on a rodeo scholarship. He’d been excited. His parents had been proud. Heck, the whole town had been proud. Local boy makes good.

He’d been a lanky, smooth-cheeked teenager then. Now a mature thirty, he’d finally grown into his masculinity. Strong chin, straight nose. Couldn’t beat a combination like that. She couldn’t see his eyes, but recalled that they were so dark pupil and iris were one color. A boyish dimple and a crooked grin wrapped up a very appealing package.

She might be eight months pregnant, but she wasn’t quite brain dead. Or body dead, for that matter. Her pheromone receptors were alive and well and capable of going on full red alert. But she’d made a decision during the grueling bus ride. She didn’t need another man in her life. She needed to learn how to enjoy being alone. All urgent twinges would henceforth be ignored. They were nothing but trouble.

Giving in to twinges, urgent and otherwise, was what had set her on the fast track to disaster. It would pay to remember that.

“What were you doing in town so late?” she asked.

“I was driving back from Tulsa. When I saw the bus pull out and you standing there all alone, I thought I should do something.”

“Do you always brake for damsels in distress?”

“No,” he admitted. “But you seemed to be in a bit more distress than most of the damsels I run into.”

And he had a killer smile. Which she would also ignore along with all ensuing twinges. She sighed. Good thing she was enceinte and he had The Clairol Girl.

The truck hit a hole in the road and bounced Ryanne’s head to the top of the cab. “Ow!” Startled by her yelp, Tom slammed the brake and she pitched forward.

“Jeez, Louise!”

“Are you all right? I didn’t see that pothole.”

And she thought he was watching the road. She grasped her belly with both hands. “Are you prepared to midwife, cowboy?”

“You mean you’re—?”

“No, I’m not in labor. Just don’t hit any more of those craters.” She frowned at his queasy expression. Big, strong men were so squirrelly about childbirth. “Good thing males don’t bear children or the human race would be extinct.”

“If men had babies,” he said as he accelerated, “we’d have figured out a better way to do it by now.”

She laughed at his serious tone. “Something less time consuming, perhaps?”

“And not so messy.”

“You have strong opinions. Which are based, I assume, on your extensive experience with…”

“Dogs and horses.”

The truck rounded a curve and trapped a deer in its headlights. The animal froze in the classic pose and Tom tapped the brakes to give it time to gather its wits and leap into the underbrush.

“It’s been a long time since I saw a deer in the road,” she said quietly. It gave her hope that the world was not such a bad place, after all.

“So tell me about Nashville,” he said. “I was in town the summer after you left and I remember Pap moaning about how his favorite waitress had lit out to make a big splash in the country music business.”

“You know what they say about best-laid plans,” she muttered.

“What is it you do again?”

Maybe it was unreasonable, but the question hurt her feelings. And was just a smidge irritating. In a town where everyone knew everyone and their business, evidently her life was of little consequence.

“I play the fiddle and sing.” She tried not to sound as defensive as she felt. “And write songs.”

“So did you make a big splash?”

Ryanne rubbed her belly. “Not really. I neglected to check to see if the pool was filled before I jumped in.”

“Half-cocked.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Pap said something about you tearing off half-cocked.”

“Remind me to thank Pap for the vote of confidence.” She knew very well that impulsiveness was her downfall. Hell, half-cocked was her modus operandi.

“Don’t take it personally. He just hated to lose a good waitress.”

“Being a waitress, even a good one, was never my primary career goal. However, the way things are going, I can’t rule it out.”

“You didn’t have any luck in Nashville?”

“Luck is relative. If they paid musicians to audition, I’d be rich. Actually, I got pretty close a few times.”

“Real close from the looks of you.”

“I was referring to breaks.” It came out as cool as she intended. She didn’t need the local cowboy to remind her that if she’d concentrated on her music and ignored those pheromone twinges, she wouldn’t be in her current predicament.

“Mmm-hmm. I see.”

“What do you see? A big fat pregnant failure running home like a whipped pup?” Ryanne’s anger swung out of left field, surprising even her. But he’d blundered into sensitive territory, and she needed to use the damned bushes again.

“I figured you came home to be with Birdie.” He looked concerned. “For the baby.”

The tears came fast and hard. Six terrible months, capped off by two horrible days, finally caught up with her. “Never mind that I’m broke, or that my husband deserted me.”

Ryanne gripped the seat. Uh-oh. She was in for another ride on the old estrogen roller coaster. “Did Birdie mention I got fired because itty-bitty cocktail waitress outfits don’t look perky on pregnant ladies?” Sniff. “Or that I got kicked out of my room because I was three months in arrears? Or that the bank repossessed my car out from under me? I guess what you see is, if it weren’t for Birdie taking me in, I’d have to whelp in the street like a stray dog.”

Ryanne ended on a high, damp note. She hated crying. It was not her style to wallow in self-pity or inflict her troubles on others. Damn the hormones that jerked her around like a mindless puppet.

Tom took the sandblasting in silence, his strong profile set in stone. She should be ashamed of herself. She’d really unloaded both barrels this time. And on a poor cowboy trying to do a good deed.

But, Lord, it felt good.

Tom drove quietly during the minitirade. What kind of loose cannon had Ryanne Rieger turned out to be? Mood swings were one thing, but he wanted no part of her emotional excess.

The louder she got, the tenser he became until his jaw ached and he white-knuckled the steering wheel. It had been a year since a woman had yelled at him like that. He had not missed the experience one damn bit.

Ryanne sniffed some more and wiped her leaky eyes and nose with the back of her hand. “So now you know. I’m a failure. Down and out and knocked up.”

Tom kept his eyes on the road. He didn’t want to careen through any more potholes, and he didn’t want to look at the girl weeping beside him. As long as he didn’t, she was just a noisy distraction. He didn’t want to glance over there, and see some wrung-out kid who needed him to make her feel better. He was out of the feel-good business.

“You’re not a failure.” He didn’t mean to sound gruff.

“I didn’t do what I set out to do. I’m divorced, broke, homeless. Last I looked, that wasn’t a recipe for success.”

“You tried, didn’t you? Failure is not trying. So your dreams didn’t come true. Get over it. Then try again.”

She leaned back and folded her arms over her belly. “I am in no mood for sensible advice.”

“You’ll survive. You’re the feistiest little pregnant lady I ever met.”

She succumbed to mirthless laughter. “Oh, brother. What a thing to say. Feisty little pregnant lady? Damn!”

“Maybe you can start a club.” Tom watched the road, worried she might go off on another crying jag.

But the next time she laughed, it was real. “Or a twelve-step program.”

“There you go.” He let out a slow breath.

“Hey, that gives me an idea for a song. ‘I ain’t got nothin’ left but spunk/ but I can’t get far on that.’ What do you think?”

Tom smiled in the darkness. Good thing she had a sense of humor; she’d need it. He made the mistake of looking at her. Her wide eyes reminded him of the frightened doe.

Damn. He didn’t need this. And he didn’t want it. “It” smelled too much like involvement.

“Or how about this? ‘I don’t have a husband/ I don’t have a home/ but I’m gonna have a baby/ so I won’t be alone.”’

“Sounds almost pitiful enough to be a hit.” He found it hard to resist her ability to act up, even when she was down.

“You think?”

“It’d be better if your dog died. Or you maybe drove an eighteen-wheeler.”

“I’ll work on it.”

He turned to her after a few minutes. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah. I’d forgotten how good it feels to have someone to talk to.”

Yeah, right. If she wanted a sympathetic ear, she was barking up the wrong cowboy. According to Mariclare’s exit speech, he was incapable of listening. Too wrapped up in himself to care about others. What was it she’d called him?

Oh, yeah. An emotionally unavailable, self-centered SOB.

The accusations had cut deep. He’d had a lot of time to think about them. He knew she had her reasons, but he could never quite reconcile the heartless man she’d described with the one whose face he shaved every morning.

Tom stuffed those feelings down and concentrated on maneuvering the curves. Ryanne was humming now. Like she was testing out an elusive melody heard only in her head. She’d been through a lot for someone so young. He didn’t want to add to her pain.

And he did not want to share it.

“I don’t know what happened to me back there,” she said. “It was either a fleeting episode of temporary insanity or a really bad case of bus lag.”

“I reckon you just needed to let off steam.”

“You reckon?” She laid her head back on the seat. “Just don’t think I’m a high-strung, world-class hysteric. I’m not. Normally I’m pathologically stoic.”

She made it sound like she cared about his opinion. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. “You’ll be home soon.”

“Home. You don’t know what that means to me.”

But he did. He’d come home to lick his wounds, too. To find comfort in the familiar world of his childhood. To slip back into the skin of the nice guy he’d once been. The man he’d been when he left Brushy Creek. The one his hometown thought he was. “Home is the place you can’t appreciate until you leave.”

“That’s pretty poetic for a cowboy.” For once she sounded sincere.

At least she’d calmed down. He wasn’t up to handling raw emotional upheaval in any form. With his own future so uncertain, he sure as hell didn’t want to get involved in anyone else’s life right now.

Especially not the overwrought, messed-up life of an abandoned fiddle-playing wannabe country singer who looked like she could give birth and/or have a nervous breakdown at any moment.

In his heart, that hollow place he’d boarded over when Mariclare walked out, Tom knew Ryanne needed reassurance that things would be all right. But understanding the problem and taking responsibility for it were two different things.

No way would he volunteer for any comforting jobs. He had enough problems, without letting some little gal get under his skin.

Ryanne let out a sudden squeaky yelp.

He resigned himself to another outburst. “Now what?”

She grinned and patted her belly. “Tom Hunnicutt, meet the future clogdancing champion of the world.”

Chapter Three

Birdie Hedgepath’s house on Persimmon Hill crouched among tall post oaks and pines at the end of a long gravel drive. A pole light between the house and barn illuminated a weedy yard where leggy petunias spilled from old tires.

Everything was just as Ryanne remembered. Peeling white paint on the clapboards. Plaster hen and chicks under the crape myrtle bush. Pink plastic flamingos clustered around the propane tank.

The old porch swing stirred in the breeze and the creak of its rusty chains brought a rush of memories. Hot summer days. Cold Pepsi. Shelling beans. Birdie and meaning-of-life discussions.

Nothing had changed. Insects filled the night with their noisy chorus. Down at Annie’s Pond the bullfrogs belted out the amphibian top ten. Even Froggy, Birdie’s rheumy-eyed old hound, was in his spot by the door. He barely looked up at the midnight intruders.

Ryanne took a deep breath. She’d missed the smell of this beautiful green place. She’d been so self-absorbed that for five years she hadn’t thought once about barn owls or little sulfur butterflies. She’d forgotten the feel of dew-damp grass on bare feet. The sound of bobolinks.

In her single-minded pursuit of fame and recognition, she’d discounted the treasures left behind. She’d worried that coming home meant moving backward instead of forward. That embracing the past meant giving up on the future.

She was wrong. Persimmon Hill wasn’t the end of the road. It was a place to rest while she repaired the damage of her own foolish choices. Her life might be going to hell in a handbasket, but here she would be safe.

Home was the most sentimental song of all.

Tom set the last of the bags on the porch. “No one answered?”

“I haven’t knocked,” she admitted. “I’m just taking it all in.”

“Let’s surprise her.” He didn’t know what had gone wrong in Ryanne’s life, but when he saw the look in her eyes, he knew she’d been right to come here. He motioned her back into the shadows behind him. He rapped, and in a moment a sleepy-eyed woman in her midsixties pushed open the screen door.

Birdie Hedgepath’s quarter Cherokee blood showed in her round face, high cheekbones and dark eyes. She and her late husband Swimmer had no children of their own. If she hadn’t taken in ten-year-old Ryanne when her mother died, the child would have become a ward of the court, and sent to live among strangers.

Birdie did not possess the frailty her name implied. She had substance. Shoulders that were wide for a woman. A waist and hips to match. Stout legs, flat feet. Her black hair was cut short and streaked with gray. Though strong physically, her real strength was her wisdom and humor. Everyone who met Birdie, loved her.

“Landsakes, Tom,” she said with a yawn. “What’re you doin’ out here this time of night?”

“I brought you a little something I picked up in town.” He stepped aside with a dramatic flourish.

“Oh, oh, oh! You brung my baby home.” She pressed her hands to her mouth then threw her arms wide. “Baby girl, come here to me and let me hug your neck.”

“I missed you, Auntie Birdie.” Ryanne’s eyes filled with damp happiness. “I don’t know why I stayed away so long. I’m glad to be home.”

“Not half as glad as me. Let me look at you. Ohwee, girl, have you gone and swallowed a watermelon seed?”

“Something like that.” Ryanne gave her foster mother another hug. “You smell exactly as I remember. Like lilacs and bacon.”

Birdie’s dark-eyed gaze raked Ryanne from her cockeyed ponytail down to her bare feet. “What did you do, Tom? Drag her backward through the brush all the way?”

Ryanne laughed and hugged her again. “It’s a long story.”

“And one I aim to hear. Tom, you get those bags in the house and I’ll put on some coffee. Probably got a pie around here somewheres.”

He carried the luggage inside, but declined the offer. Like a messenger delivering a prize, he had no right to hang around and enjoy it.

“Thank you, ma’am, but I need to get home. I know you two have a lot of catching up to do.”

“You go on then. But stop by the Perch and I’ll wrap up one of them blackberry cobblers you and Junior favor so.”

“Thanks. I’ll do that. Birdie. Ryanne.” He tipped his hat and stepped out into the night.

Ryanne caught up with him as he climbed back in the pickup. “Thanks again for hauling me out here. I’m sorry about, well, you know. Getting all weird earlier. It’s the hormones. Normally I’m a much nicer person than what you’ve seen tonight.”

Tom felt an inexplicable urge to touch the spirited woman and claim some of her energy for himself. He settled for a light tap on the tip of her nose. “Nothing wrong with the person I saw.”

“Good night, then.” She stepped away from the truck, but seemed reluctant to let him go.

Or maybe he was just reluctant to leave. “Good night, Short Stack. Take care of the little dancer.”

When the rooster crowed, Ryanne and Birdie were still at the kitchen table. It had taken hours to catch up. Since nothing ever changed in Brushy Creek, Ryanne had done most of the talking.

She chose to edit out the sordid details of her brief marriage. What Birdie didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her as much as the truth. So she took pains to keep her voice light as she described what she hoped sounded like a run-of-the-mill marry-in-haste, repent-at-leisure scenario.

They talked about the baby, and Birdie offered emotional and financial support. Then she insisted on making biscuits and eggs before driving to town to open the café. It was Friday morning, and there would be a crowd of regulars waiting for her breakfast specials.

“I’ll go with you.” Ryanne cleared the table. “I want to earn my keep and you know I’m a whiz-bang waitress.”

Birdie, who had changed into her uniform of white polyester slacks and tunic, bent to tie her athletic shoes. “You had a good teacher, didn’t you? No, honey, you stay here. You need to rest. Take a warm bath, then go straight to bed. You hear me?”

“Yes’m. I am tired.”

The older woman gave her another measuring look. “Tired? You look like you’ve been sortin’ wildcats.”

“I know. I’m a mess.” Ryanne cleared the table and set the dishes in the sink.

Birdie kissed her cheek. “But you’re my mess and I’m glad to have you.”

“I can’t imagine what Tom thought.” She ran dishwater into the sink. “He probably went home and told his wife all about the wild-eyed maniac he picked up at the bus stop.”

Birdie looked up, her broad features puzzled. “Wife? Why, Tom ain’t never been married.”

He hadn’t wed his too-perfect sweetheart? It seemed she’d made the wrong assumption. “What about Mariclare Turner? I thought those two would be married by now.”

“Nope.” Birdie shook her head. “She up and left him a year ago. It hurt him bad, her running out on him that way. I don’t know the whole story, but Junior said she left while Tom was in the hospital after that bronc stomped him.”

“But they were engaged for as long as I can remember.”

“Since high school,” Birdie confirmed. She swigged the last of her coffee and set the cup on the counter. “You could have knocked me over with a feather when they split up. It’s funny he didn’t mention it.”

Ryanne squirted liquid soap into the dishwater. “He’s not the chattiest guy I ever met.”

Birdie nodded. “I’ve known a lot of rodeo hands in my time. They’re tough and they keep a short rein on their feelings. They don’t talk about problems.”

Ryanne cringed when she recalled how she’d spilled her guts the night before. He surely thought she was a flake.

“Cowboys have to ride, no matter what,” Birdie went on. “They learn to ignore physical pain. They get so used to aching, they ignore it when the hurt’s on the inside, too.”

“That doesn’t sound very healthy.”

Birdie gave her a pointed look. “And climbing on a thousand pounds of bucking horseflesh does?”

“I see what you mean.” She put the dishes in the sink.

“When Tom first came home, he was all broken up. Mind, body and spirit. He had a right to grieve.”

“I’m guessing he didn’t,” Ryanne said.

Birdie frowned. “He shoved his sorrow down to the bottom of his heart and pretended it didn’t exist. First time I saw him after he came back, he looked like the light of his soul had sputtered out. Everybody knew he was hurtin,’ but he wouldn’t talk about it or let anybody help.”

“Tom’s strong.”

“And stubborn,” Birdie added. “You know, you might be good for him.”

She smiled. She’d forgotten how much Birdie liked to “fix” things. And people. “How so?”

“Tom needs to get on with his life, and you’re about as full of life as anybody I know.”

“I can’t get involved with anyone right now, Auntie.”

“What? You can’t be friends with a man who needs one so badly?” the older woman asked with exaggerated innocence.

Ryanne could use a few friends herself. She’d been alone long enough to know it wasn’t a natural state for her. But she wasn’t in the market for a man. If the time ever came when she was, she planned to take things slow and easy. No more rushing into things. She knew, all too well, the consequences of falling in love too fast.

“Well?” Birdie prodded.

“‘Friends’ sounds good.” In a way she was glad that Mariclare-with-the-Perfect-Hair hadn’t turned out to be the quintessential sweetheart. If couples who’d known each other all their lives couldn’t stay together, how could lightning-strike courtships like hers be expected to succeed? She felt so much better about her own problems she actually hummed as she washed the dishes.

“Ryanne?” Birdie’s expression was as amused as her tone.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Did you hear what I said?”

“I’m sorry. I must have spaced out for a bit.”

The older woman grinned. “That’s okay, honey. You go right ahead and think about him all you want.”

Ryanne hid her embarrassment by scrubbing a coffee mug that was already clean. “What do you mean?”

“Never mind.” Birdie separated a key from her key ring and laid it on the table. “I was saying, drive in for supper later if you feel like it. Here’s the key to the Jeep.”

“No. You drive the Cherokee. I’ll take the truck.”

Birdie frowned. “That old beater? It doesn’t have air-conditioning.”

“Ol’ Blue and I go way back. You taught me how to drive in her, remember? I want to take her out for old times’ sake.”

“You sure?”

At her nod, Birdie shrugged and handed her another key.

“Auntie Birdie? Are you going to warn people about me?” Ryanne asked softly.

“What for? You going to bite them or something?”

“You know what I mean.” She patted her belly. According to Tom, Birdie hadn’t mentioned her pregnancy. She’d never say so, but maybe she disapproved.

Birdie gave her a reassuring hug. “My baby’s going to have a baby. If you want anybody to know more than that, you can tell them yourself. I’m busy in that café, you know. I don’t have time for gossip.”

Right. Ryanne watched the Jeep disappear down the dusty road. Brushy Creek didn’t have a newspaper or a radio station. It had Birdie’s Perch. That’s where everyone headed when they wanted information. Or a darn good piece of pie.

Ryanne washed her hair, gave herself a facial and polished her nails. Then she soaked in a tub of bubbles until all the nagging aches eased from her body. The little dancer, as Tom had called her, cooperated fully and allowed her to sleep eight straight hours in her old bed.

She woke up feeling refreshed, like maybe she hadn’t lost her grip after all. As she dressed for supper she wondered if Tom would stop by the café. Did she want to see him? The fact he was unattached didn’t change anything. Or did it?

The answer was definitely no. She had enough on her plate right now. She needed a man in her life like a frog needed spit curls. She would stomp and squash any twinge that dared to rear its hormoney head. Never again would she let runaway emotions rule her life. From here on out, caution would be her middle name.

Hopefully, there was truth to the old adage “once burned, twice learned.” Having been thoroughly toasted on the altar of matrimony, she should be a blooming genius.

Still, there was no denying the unsettling current of excitement she’d felt when Tom touched her last night. It was just a casual tap on the nose, but it had jolted her like a poke from an electric cattle prod. Her shameless reaction was probably no more than a leftover from her girlhood crush. Like all leftovers, it couldn’t possibly taste as good the second time around.

Maybe she wasn’t trying to impress Tom or anyone else, but Ryanne took extra care with her makeup and hair. She was tired of looking like day-old road kill. Old friends would stop by the Perch for supper, curious to see how the world had treated her. She didn’t want to look like something set on the curb for immediate disposal.

At this stage in her pregnancy it required sleight of hand to appear even moderately fashionable, so she chose the one dress that had not been designed by a Bedouin tentmaker. The beige crinkled-cotton number floated around her bulky figure and showed her shoulders to advantage.

She added a silver choker and dangly silver earrings to draw attention away from her midsection. Much like trying to camouflage an elephant with a hairbow. She slipped into a pair of leather mules that didn’t pinch her feet, and checked the results in the full-length mirror.

Not bad for a fat lady.

She wasn’t returning from a triumphant engagement at the Grand Ole Opry, but she had her pride. She was no longer a sad little orphan. And she wasn’t Short Stack, the Teenage Waitress. She was about to be a mother. She might not have much to show for the past five years, but she had gained maturity, worldliness and poise.

Well, not worldliness. That would be a stretch. Maybe not poise. But definitely maturity. She’d aged ten years in the last five.

She climbed into Ol’ Blue and cranked the key a few times before the engine roared to obnoxious life. Just like the good old days. She guessed Birdie had last used the truck to haul cow manure for the garden. As it rattled down the drive, backfiring all the way, bits of dried dung swirled around in the bed and blew out to litter the road.

Did she know how to make an entrance or what?

Tom locked the front door of Hunnicutt Farm and Ranch Supply behind the last customer of the day. It had been six months since he arrived to give Pap a hand, and he was getting antsy.

Junior Hunnicutt, always vigorous, had bounced back from heart surgery sooner than expected. Maybe one of these days Tom would work up the courage to tell him his son didn’t plan on following in his retail footsteps. Not that there was anything wrong with selling feed and fertilizer. It was just that the job required too much time indoors.

The store’s long-time success depended on skills Tom simply didn’t possess. He was no chip off the old salt block when it came to such things as anticipating trends, creative stocking and inventory control. Or shooting the breeze with customers—what Pap called public relations.

“I’m going over to Letha’s for supper tonight, son.” Junior flicked off lights. “I won’t be late.”

“That’s the third time this week. I think the widow Applegate is testing the theory that the shortest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

“You ought to taste her chicken and dumplings. Mmm-mmm.” Junior smacked his lips. A widower for four years, he was a food lover from way back. He’d lost weight since his illness, but his pearl-snapped Western shirt still strained around his apple-shaped torso.

Tom grinned. He was glad his father had found someone as nice as Letha Applegate. At least one of the Hunnicutt men could get on with his life. “Home-cooked meals usually have strings attached. I’ll leave the dumpling tasting to silver foxes like you.”

Junior placed the cash drawer in the old-fashioned safe in his office. “You’re a young man, son. There’s other fish in the sea. Other women in the world.”

Tom, who was a full head taller than Junior, grasped him gently by the shoulders. “I love you, Pap. But have you ever heard the expression, ‘don’t go there’?”

“Yeah. What’s that mean, anyhow?”

“It’s a nice way of saying butt out.” He wouldn’t talk about what happened between him and Mariclare. There was no need. It was over. Done with. End of story.

“You shouldn’t keep everything bottled up,” Junior said with studied empathy. “You need to share your pain.”

“And you need to stop watching so many talk shows.” Tom flipped off the portable TV set, silencing a talk-show hostess in midsentence.

Junior shook his head. “I worry about you, Tommy.”

“Don’t. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure you can manage on your own tonight?”

“I’ll survive.” Ever since he’d been home, his old man had been killing him with kindness. Junior was recuperating from open-heart surgery, but he acted as though Tom was the fragile one. Hell, a broken heart wasn’t life threatening.

“You could stop by the Perch for supper,” his father prompted.

“I might.” Tom wondered if Ryanne was the reason there were so many cars on Main Street. Something had brought people into town, and it wasn’t just the best chicken-fried steak in the county.

Pap had an annoying habit of reading his mind. “If you see Short Stack, give her my regards, will you?”

Tom walked down the street, noting the filled parking spaces. The café would be crowded, and he’d have to wait for a stool at the counter. Unlike the rest of the town, he was interested in eating, not gawking at Ryanne.

So why not go somewhere else? There were other places to eat. He pushed open the café door, and a bell announced his arrival. Because those places didn’t serve Birdie’s special blackberry cobbler, that’s why.

Ryanne was holding court in a corner booth in the back, surrounded by people she hadn’t seen for years. They inquired about her health, but what they really wanted to know was had she met Shania Twain or Travis Tritt. Thankfully, they were well mannered enough not to mention her lack of Grammys. Or her divorced and expectant status.

When the bell jangled, Ryanne looked up and saw Tom Hunnicutt—for the first time in bright light. Wow. Bus haze and semidarkness had definitely minimized the full hunkiness effect. Now that she had recovered and he was properly illuminated, it hit her.

Like a wet sandbag upside the head.

This was the man who’d rescued her from a blob of evil bubble gum? The man who’d witnessed her various and assorted tantrums? The man she’d shanghaied aboard the estrogen roller coaster? The talk around her faded to a hum when the tall cowboy doffed his black hat and winked in her direction. He stepped up to the counter and spoke to Birdie, propping one booted foot on the rail.

That was the set of taut manly buns that had pressed up against her?

Like the blinking neon sign in the window, a whole new wave of twinges perked up and demanded notice. Ryanne tried to pay attention to the conversation, but it was useless.

Apparently she’d been rendered temporarily deaf.

Tom had been a sweet-faced boy. He gave adolescent girls heart palpitations without making their daddies too nervous. He’d changed. Now he was a man capable of throwing grown women into full-blown cardiac arrest.

His black-and-white-striped Western shirt fairly glowed in the fluorescent light. His boots shone like mirrors, and his black Wranglers sported razor creases and a fancy belt buckle.

The faint fan of wrinkles at the corners of his black opal eyes were an unnecessary, but appealing embellishment. His hair was thick and dark, combed back from a wide forehead and creased by his hatband. He smiled at something Birdie said, and a dimple in his left cheek came out to play.

The dimple alone was guaranteed to increase the anxiety level of daddies everywhere.

“Evening.” Tom acknowledged those around the table, but didn’t really see them. He was so entranced by Ryanne’s transformation he couldn’t see anyone but her. “You clean up pretty good.”

“Thanks.” She stuck one slender leg out from under the table and dangled a tan leather mule from her toes. “Shoes and everything.”

“Half of one, anyway,” Tom teased. “You look so different, I might not have recognized you if I met you on a dark street again.”

Ryanne laughed as she related the details of their first meeting. Somehow she made the story of Tom’s rescue sound far more amusing than she’d considered it at the time.

“Tom here is a regular knight in shining Stetson,” she concluded to nods of agreement.

The men in the group slapped his back before returning to their tables. The women smiled. One old lady actually reached up and pinched his cheek.

“You always were such a nice boy, Tom,” she said as she tottered off.

“Is that true?” Ryanne scooted over in the round booth and motioned for him to join her.

“Is what true?” It was hard to concentrate. Maybe he had spent too much time in closed places. He certainly felt confused and light-headed as he folded his long frame into the worn seat.

“What Mamie Hackler just said about you always being a nice boy.”

“I hate to contradict a sweet old lady, but she doesn’t know everything.”

Tom couldn’t get over it. The tearful, bedraggled girl was gone. In her place was a lovely young woman who radiated charm and confidence. Her dark hair was pulled back in a froth of curls, her green eyes sparked with humor. Unlike last night’s edgy ragamuffin, this woman would be right at home on a stage, soaking up the adoration she deserved.

Last night he’d convinced himself she was nothing but trouble. He should stay as far away from her as small-town living allowed. But Ryanne Rieger was a hard woman to forget. Working around the store today, he’d found himself thinking about her and the circumstances that had brought her back to Brushy Creek.

She leaned close and whispered. “Birdie’s thrilled about the business, but I can’t believe all these people came by just to see me.”

He kept his tone light as he inhaled the languid, peachy musk scent of her perfume. “You’re the most exciting thing to happen around here since a family of skunks set up housekeeping under Bidwell’s Drugstore.”

“Thanks a heap.” She dumped sugar into her iced tea.

Her throaty laugh bubbled up like an artesian spring. How could a man tire of hearing that sound? He was about to ask about her ex-husband when Birdie brought their food.

The chicken-fried steaks hung over the edge of the plates, accompanied by cratered mounds of mashed potatoes and gravy, and string beans seasoned with ham. The meal was served with tossed salads and thick ranch dressing, freshly baked rolls, and cucumber and onion relish.

“Can I get you anything else?” The older woman put her hands on her hips and beamed at them.

“How about someone to help me eat this?” Ryanne teased.

“You’re eatin’ for two, young lady. Tom, watch her now, and make sure she doesn’t pick.”

“My pleasure.” Not that he could tear his eyes away from her if he tried.

They kept to small talk while they ate. The waitress refilled their glasses, and Birdie peeked out of the kitchen from time to time, seemingly satisfied that Tom was doing his job.

Ryanne had eaten less than half her food when she put down her fork. “I’ll pay for this later with the worst heartburn known to womankind, but it was worth it.”

“Birdie’s the best cook in the county,” he agreed.

“Do you come here often?”

“Pap and I are pretty useless in the kitchen.” He forked another bite of steak into his mouth.

“Birdie told me your mother passed away a few years ago. I was sorry to hear it.”

He accepted her condolences. “Pap sends his regards, by the way. He has a lady friend now, and he’s having supper with her tonight.”

“Why, that sly old dog.” She set her plate aside and folded her arms on the table.

She leaned toward him, and he got another head-turning whiff of her perfume. “I’m just glad to get him out of the house,” he said. “Pap thinks me staying in my old room makes me fourteen years old again.”

“All parents worry about their children. Especially their only children. I’m glad to hear Junior takes the job seriously.” She poked an errant strand of hair back into the pile on her head.

Tom was distracted by the movement of her silver earrings. He noticed her waiting expectantly, but had no idea what she’d just said.

“How long have you been back?” she prompted.

“Six months. I came to help him after the surgery, but now he’s making noises about retiring. He’s mentioned that I should take over the store so he can spend time at the lake.”

“And?”

“I don’t think I’m cut out for shopkeeping. I might go back to scouting stock.”

“What does that involve?” She sipped her tea.

“When I got out of the hospital, I worked for a stock contractor in Texas, making the rounds of ranches, checking out bucking horses for sale.”

“Like a baseball scout, looking over the home teams?”

“In a way. Some have tried, but you can’t really breed a bucking horse. You have to find him.” He drank the last of the tall tumbler of tea. It was his second refill, so why was his mouth so dry?

“I never thought about where they came from.”

“They’re valuable animals. A top bronc can bring up to $15,000. Contractors won’t let loose that kind of cash unless they know they’re getting their money’s worth.”

“And you know horses.”

“Yeah.” His knowledge of horseflesh was the only thing he was sure about these days.

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