A Girl, A Guy And A Lullaby. Debrah Morris
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