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This time, Ethel’s smile was fond. “You’re doing a good job in the mothering department, I have to say.”
“I’m going to give it everything I’ve got,” Abby replied, and fully meant it. Although the role had been thrust on her after the heartbreaking loss of two dear friends, she was determined to fill it to the best of her ability.
Years earlier she had very much wanted children. Then, when her life had been turned upside down while she was still in her early twenties, she had concentrated on building a career in Arizona’s flourishing resort industry. Now she was, in every sense other than having given birth, a mother. And motherhood, she’d already discovered, was as challenging as anything she’d tackled on the business front.
Abby tucked her ivory silk blouse more firmly into the waistband of her beige slacks and started for the stairs. She didn’t want to think about the man who had climbed them only moments ago, didn’t doubt for an instant that it would be far easier, and definitely more satisfying, to consider the child about to wake up, the one who had won a big chunk of her heart.
Then, too, she reflected, there was someone else who deserved consideration, a great deal of it. After all, not every woman had an attractive doctor in her life. She’d never expected to have one, either, until recently. Her parents had been heartily pleased by that development, her godmother unfortunately less so. But he was there, nonetheless.
Abby nodded. Yes, she had a lot to consider besides the one person in her past she’d be light years better off not wasting another thought on. Reason told her that, and being the sensible, practical woman she’d made of herself since they’d last seen each other, she fully agreed.
Trouble was, she still couldn’t block him out, not entirely. Especially when a niggling voice in the back of her mind kept repeating a silent question.
What in the world was wrong with him?
“THERE’S NOTHING WRONG with you, Larabee,” Ryan muttered to himself as he made his way down a long hall wallpapered in narrow raspberry-and-cream stripes. His booted feet made little noise on the chocolate-brown carpet.
Thankfully, he was moving more smoothly and with less effort after he’d judged the cozy bed in his room to be too tempting and had settled for an overstuffed chair as a good spot to rest his leg for a couple of hours. Even if he hadn’t managed to completely disguise a limp earlier, nobody in the gingerbread house knew his recent injuries went beyond a bum leg, and he planned to keep it that way.
The last thing he wanted was any more people aiming concerned looks his way and asking how he felt. He’d had enough of that to last him a long while. Maybe forever.
So, as far as the residents of Aunt Abigail’s were concerned, there was nothing wrong with him. Not a blasted thing. That was his story, and he was sticking to it.
Ryan reached an arched doorway, one he immediately took for his destination from the smells wafting toward him and tempting his appetite. He was hungry, and still tired from the drive that morning, he had to admit. He stepped into the room, thinking that it wouldn’t be much of a problem to make small talk during dinner and excuse himself as soon as courtesy allowed.
What he found waiting for him, though, had him coming to a halt long before he reached the round oak table covered with a lacy cloth and holding center stage under an antique brass chandelier.
“Pap!”
A baby, not a newborn but probably not more than a year old, either, as far as Ryan could judge—and a girl, he decided, based on the frilly pink headband restraining a riot of dusky curls—stared straight at him with wide dark eyes. “Pap!” she shouted again from her seat in a high chair painted snowy-white, holding her short, chubby arms out in greeting.
Obviously, Ryan thought, he was Pap. At least she figured he was. And how did he handle that?
The grandmotherly Ethel came to his rescue. “No, Cara,” she said gently from her chair set at one side of the baby’s place. “This is Mr. Larabee, but we’ve already agreed that he’ll be Ryan.” She leaned in and nudged back a tiny stuffed horse in grave danger of falling off the high chair’s tray. “Can you say Ryan?”
“Pap!” the small, sturdily built person named Cara didn’t hesitate to repeat, eyes still locked on him.
“I think she means Pops,” his flame-haired hostess remarked from the baby’s other side. “The woman who sometimes takes care of her has two young children of her own, and that’s what they call their grandfather. Pops.”
“Great. Just what I need,” Ryan mumbled under his breath. “Thirty-four years old and taken for somebody’s granddaddy.”
“I’m sorry. She’s just started talking enough to make out real words,” the redhead said, “and sometimes the strangest things come out.” Rather than look at him while offering that apology, she kept her gaze on the baby.
Her baby? He had to wonder. He might have easily assumed that was the case, except their coloring was so different.
And what about a husband? She wore no ring on the relevant finger; he’d already checked that out while she was checking him in.
Whatever the case, it was hardly his place to ask, and no further information was offered on either question. Instead, with the baby’s attention on the task of tearing a dinner roll apart, the conversation took a different turn altogether.
He’d taken a seat and a large china plate filled to the brim was set in front of him, when Ethel inquired politely, “What part of the country do you come from, Ryan? That is, if you don’t mind my asking.”
He didn’t mind. This was part of the small talk he’d anticipated, and that he could handle. Stick to the basics, Larabee, he told himself, and you’ll be okay.
“Wyoming, originally,” he replied, grateful to be sure on that score. Studying a copy of his personnel file while he was still laid up in the hospital had provided some essential information. “More recently, I’ve been living in southern Arizona.”
Ethel’s mouth curved up at the tips. “Why am I getting the feeling that you’re a cowboy?”
A cowboy? On the outside, maybe. The clothes in his closet said he favored the trappings. But in practice? He knew the answer to that one.
Ryan shook his head. “Actually, I’m a pilot.” He hesitated before deciding it wouldn’t hurt to add, “For the past few years, I’ve flown a helicopter for the Border Patrol.”
Abby blinked at that news. She set her fork down carefully and reached for her water glass, hoping she didn’t look as interested as she couldn’t help being.
He’d flown freelance for a living during the time she’d known him. That he’d gone to work for a government agency surprised her a little. He hadn’t been fond of structure of any type. But it didn’t surprise her, not a whit, that he’d continued to fly.
If he had quit, she would have been stunned.
“Land sakes,” Ethel replied, eyes widening. “The Border Patrol. That must be exciting.”
“I suppose you could say so,” Ryan said.
And that was all he said, although Abby waited, ears alert, for more. This was something new, she couldn’t deny. He’d never been reluctant to talk about his work. In fact, it had been much the opposite.
She was still mulling that over when he shifted in his seat and directed a comment squarely at her. “You said this was your godmother’s place.”
“Mmm-hmm.” She left it at that, deciding he wasn’t the only one who could be tightfisted when it came to handing out information. After all, she didn’t owe him any explanations. She didn’t, in fact, owe him anything.
“Are you helping her run things around here?” he went on in the next breath.
“At the moment.”
“Because she’s away,” he added, a reference to her earlier disclosure when he’d first appeared on the doorstep. “Will she be gone long?”
“No.”
“Vacation?” A probing glint lit in his gaze with that last question. Plainly her brief replies had roused his curiosity.
“Something like that,” she said mildly.
And now Ethel’s bright voice broke in. “Goodness gracious, dear, it’s no secret that she’s on her honeymoon.”
Ryan’s brows climbed. “Your godmother just got married?”
Abby nodded. “For a second time.”
Ethel chuckled. “And for her second trip to the altar, she picked an old cowboy.”
“Pap!” Cara suddenly exclaimed, again fixing the man across the table from her with a firm stare.
This time a wince crossed his face. Abby caught it and almost laughed out loud, despite everything.
“The darling reminds me of my first and so far only little great-granddaughter,” Ethel said. “Gets something in her head and just won’t give it up.”
“Terrific,” Ryan muttered, and went back to his dinner.
ABBY FOUND HERSELF tossing and turning in the middle of the night, which hardly amazed her. The day had, without a doubt, provided her nerves with a challenge, although at least dinner had gone easily enough once Ethel began to do most of the talking, treating her companions to a short history lesson on Harmony’s early beginnings when, as Ethel had put it, “a group of settlers from back East got as far as this valley in their horse-drawn wagons, took a long look around them and were smart enough to dig in their heels.”
Meanwhile their guest had concentrated on his meal, doing justice to it before leaving them to head back to his room—a room Abby couldn’t help but be grateful was nowhere near hers. Thank goodness for big houses.
Abby released a lengthy breath and listened to an owl hoot somewhere in the distance as she turned on her side. In contrast, not a whisper of sound came through the connecting door to the smaller room next to hers. Cara at least, snug in her crib, was getting a good night’s rest. Which hadn’t always been the case. Their first months together had left them both heavy-eyed in the mornings more often than not, but that seemed to be behind them. One more thing to be grateful for, Abby reflected.
Actually her blessings were many. If they didn’t include getting a single wink of sleep tonight, she would still count herself fortunate.
Was he getting any sleep?
The question slipped into her mind as she closed her eyes and settled deeper into the pillow. The answer shouldn’t matter to her one way or the other. And it didn’t, she assured herself. But she couldn’t help wondering.
As far as the accommodations went, she knew that any guest at Aunt Abigail’s should find a peaceful night’s rest easy to achieve. The rooms, although not especially large by conventional hotel standards, had nevertheless been furnished with care. Dotted-swiss curtains, bright ceramic lamps and chintz-covered lounging chairs provided a homey touch. Plus, to make things even more comfy, most of the rooms on the guest half of the second floor featured the coziest of feather—
Abby’s eyes popped open to stare up into the darkness as another memory surfaced, one she’d totally forgotten. Until now.
Ryan Larabee was allergic to certain types of feathers, particularly those often used in bedding material. And the room she’d given him had all of the comforts many visitors found so much to their liking…including a plump feather bed.
In the normal course of events, he would have immediately said something about it. Instead he’d said not one word—because he didn’t remember that allergy any more than he remembered her. It was the only conclusion she could come to, and now knowing full well what he apparently didn’t, she supposed she had to do something.
Of course, you have to, her conscience said, in no uncertain terms.
Abby swallowed a sigh, tossed back the covers and got to her feet, sending the long skirt of her emerald silk nightgown plunging to her ankles. She pulled on a matching robe, belted it tightly around her waist, and shoved her toes into ivory satin slippers. Making a midnight visit to a certain man’s room was the last thing—the very last thing—she wanted to do.
Having a healthy conscience, she decided grimly, could be a definite liability.
She slipped quietly from her room, made her way down the carpeted hall that ran crosswise from one side of the house to the other, opened the door that divided the family area from the guest quarters, and had scarcely reached the first room past the center staircase when a muffled sneeze shattered the silence.
Now she absolutely had to go through with it.
She drew in a breath and knocked softly on a creamy-white door, telling herself that she was prepared for whatever greeted her. Seconds later she stood facing a bare-chested male wearing nothing more than hip-hugging denim, and for the second time in less than twenty-four hours she could only stare. No matter what her brain had to say on the subject, her eyes were determined to look their fill. And they did.
It took another sneeze to jolt her back to the matter at hand and have her gaze quickly rising to meet red-rimmed eyes that were still amazingly blue.
“Sorry if my hacking woke you,” he said in a voice not only low but hoarse as he raised a hand and brushed back strands of dark hair hanging down his forehead. “I must have caught a cold or something.”
She shook her head. “No, it’s not that,” she told him. “We have to change your room. You’re having an allergic reaction.”
A puzzled frown formed as she watched. “I’m allergic to the room?”
“To the feather bed, actually.” She cleared her throat delicately. “I mean, that might well be the case,” she added as reasonably as she could manage. “Some people do have an allergy to certain types of feathers.”
It was his turn to stare for a silent moment before his frown deepened. “You didn’t say I might be allergic a second ago. You said I was.” His eyes narrowed. “How the devil would you know that?”
His tone was terse enough to have her chin lifting. Not only had she been trying to help him, she’d also been attempting to do it as tactfully as possible, for all the good it had done her. Well, so much for that effort, she decided, squaring her shoulders. She was through tiptoeing around something they probably should have gotten straight hours earlier.
“I know,” she said very deliberately, “because I remembered just minutes ago your mentioning the allergy in question when we encountered a couple of down-filled pillows during our honeymoon.”
His jaw dropped like a stone before he snapped it shut and opened it again. “Our honeymoon.”
She nodded just once, and kept it brisk. “That’s right. Maybe you don’t recall me, but I happen to be your ex-wife.”
Chapter Two
His wife. Ryan stood stock-still while his mind groped to take it in. His first thought was that it couldn’t be. His personnel file had indicated nothing about a wife. No one he’d talked to since the accident had so much as mentioned a wife. For God’s sake, he couldn’t have a wife!
Then again, she’d said ex-wife, he reminded himself. At least he could remember that much. Belatedly, at any rate.
“When exactly were we on this honeymoon?” he managed to get out before another huge sneeze racked him.
His companion arched a tawny brow. “I think we’d better continue this discussion elsewhere, after we find you another room.”
“Right.” He reached up and rubbed an eye, damn thankful that his hand was still steady.
She started to turn, then swung back to him, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. “Uh, now that I think about it, none of the other rooms on this side of the house is available at the moment. Ethel’s got them torn apart for the cleaning service to do their thing tomorrow so we can have them ready for more guests due to arrive this weekend.” She hesitated. “There is a spare room available in the family area that I suppose you could use. It’s at the other end of the hall.”
Probably close to her own, he couldn’t help thinking. Maybe that was why she seemed far from pleased at the prospect of letting him sleep there. Whatever the case, right now he didn’t care whether she was thrilled or not. He wanted to get going and get some answers.
Ryan crossed the room in his bare feet, snatched the shirt he’d worn earlier from the chair and pulled it on, leaving it to hang open, then grabbed his wallet from an old dresser painted sunny yellow and stuffed it in a back jeans pocket. Since he’d been sleeping in no more than his skin, he figured he was set for the night. “Let’s get out of here.”
After another second’s pause, she dipped her head in a nod. “Okay. I’ll show you where the spare room is, and then we can talk downstairs. I could use a cup of tea.”
“I could use a stiff drink,” he didn’t hesitate to counter as he shut the door behind him with a soft thud and followed her down the hall.
“Well then, you’re in luck. My godmother’s new groom keeps a small stock of beer that’s touted to be Colorado’s finest in the refrigerator.”
“Sounds good,” he had to admit.
“I thought it would,” she told him, tossing the words over her shoulder. “Especially to you.”
He frowned. “Why especially to me?”
She marched ahead, spine ramrod straight, her robe swishing as she walked. “Because you were partial to that brand of beer at one time, particularly when you were in the mood to throw a party. Which, trust me, was often.”
He didn’t take that as a compliment. “How often?”
“Often enough to have the neighbors longing for some peace and quiet.”
HE WAS STILL mulling over that zinger when they faced each other across a butcher-block table set at one side of a large kitchen that was a study in contrasts, the chief of them being an old-fashioned black stove that stood next to a modern stainless-steel refrigerator. The red-and-white checkered floor looked to be far from new despite a waxy sheen, but the gleaming dishwasher set under the cocoa-colored counter and beside a porcelain sink was another story.
Ryan took a lengthy swallow from an ice-cold bottle and placed it on the table. He was more than ready for some firm facts, ones that went beyond his past partying habits. Now that the shock had worn off enough to consider a few things, he found he had no doubt about his having once been intimately involved with the woman sitting across from him sipping her tea. His body, he thought, had recognized her right off and responded accordingly. At this very moment, he knew his eyes would have found it no hardship to wander over the silky green fabric covering her breasts. Breasts that he must once have done more than look at. Yes, indeed. He had no doubt about that, either. He’d have done a lot more than look.
Haul in your libido, Larabee. It’s past time to get a few answers.
