A Girl, A Guy And A Lullaby

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“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.