reckon?” She laid her head back on the seat. “Just don’t think I’m a high-strung, world-class hysteric. I’m not. Normally I’m pathologically stoic.”
She made it sound like she cared about his opinion. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. “You’ll be home soon.”
“Home. You don’t know what that means to me.”
But he did. He’d come home to lick his wounds, too. To find comfort in the familiar world of his childhood. To slip back into the skin of the nice guy he’d once been. The man he’d been when he left Brushy Creek. The one his hometown thought he was. “Home is the place you can’t appreciate until you leave.”
“That’s pretty poetic for a cowboy.” For once she sounded sincere.
At least she’d calmed down. He wasn’t up to handling raw emotional upheaval in any form. With his own future so uncertain, he sure as hell didn’t want to get involved in anyone else’s life right now.
Especially not the overwrought, messed-up life of an abandoned fiddle-playing wannabe country singer who looked like she could give birth and/or have a nervous breakdown at any moment.
In his heart, that hollow place he’d boarded over when Mariclare walked out, Tom knew Ryanne needed reassurance that things would be all right. But understanding the problem and taking responsibility for it were two different things.
No way would he volunteer for any comforting jobs. He had enough problems, without letting some little gal get under his skin.
Ryanne let out a sudden squeaky yelp.
He resigned himself to another outburst. “Now what?”
She grinned and patted her belly. “Tom Hunnicutt, meet the future clogdancing champion of the world.”
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