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A Girl, A Guy And A Lullaby
Debrah Morris
With swollen feet and a protruding belly, Ryanne Rieger hardly expected to capture the attention of her hometown's hunkiest cowboy. But Tom Hunnicutt didn't seem the least bit fazed that her return was solely due to her impending single motherhood! Why on earth was he hanging around?Darned if Tom could get Ryanne off his mind! There was something incredibly annoying–and inexplicably appealing–about a headstrong chatterbox who seemed to fear nothing. With his glorious rodeo days history and his future uncertain, the last thing Tom needed was to fall for Ryanne and her unborn child. But down he went–cradle and all….
“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 (http://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 (#u680e0e05-9015-589f-8d17-968e84f90387)
Chapter Two (#uff41a147-8200-5db6-b446-262aedd5aea6)
Chapter Three (#ub7c48db1-6f6b-5af6-9d63-28977537b69c)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
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.
