A Girl, A Guy And A Lullaby. Debrah Morris
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