A Girl, A Guy And A Lullaby. Debrah Morris
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