busy,” Marilyn said. “My feet are killing me already and it’s only lunchtime. I decided to have a Windsong special to fortify myself for the afternoon instead of the yogurt I brought from home.” She looked at the menu again. “Mmm. What do I want? Here we go. A BLT on whole-wheat toast and a glass of milk. Oh, dear, don’t tell me that May baked some goodies.”
Laurel smiled. “Okay, I won’t inform you that May made fresh cherry pie, pumpkin with whipped cream and an apple cobbler to die for. Those words will not pass my sealed lips.”
“You’re cruel,” Marilyn said, laughing. “I haven’t been able to resist May’s cobbler since I moved here, as evidenced by the width of my hips. I’ll have some, of course.”
“Got it,” Laurel said, writing on the pad. “And there’s nothing wrong with the width of your hips, Ms. Montgomery.” She paused. “Marilyn, I’m trying to decide if I should cut my hair.”
“No,” Ben said sharply, before he was even aware that he had spoken.
Laurel’s head snapped around to stare at Ben in shock at the same moment that Marilyn shifted in the booth to look at him, and Cadillac spun on his stool with the same intention. Jane Windsong was just placing Ben’s order in its red plastic basket on the pass-through ledge, and her hand halted in midair. Three other men next to Cadillac at the counter dipped their heads to steal a peek at Sheriff Skeeter.
“Oh? You don’t think Laurel should cut her hair, Ben?” Marilyn said, a delighted twinkle dancing in her eyes.
A trickle of sweat ran down Ben’s chest, and he immediately thought of ten places he’d rather be than sitting in that booth in the Windsong Café with half the world staring at him and waiting eagerly for his answer.
“Well…um…” he said. “Laurel is very visible here at the café because she works out front, not in the kitchen. Visitors expect to see Native Americans when they come to Willow Valley, and her hair…contributes…to the…um…image. I was simply reacting to what she said from a…practical, business standpoint.”
“Ah,” Marilyn said, then faked a cough to cover a burst of laughter as she turned back around in the booth.
“Why don’t I believe that?” Cadillac mumbled, shaking his head.
“That young man’s nose is going to grow,” Jane said under her breath, finally placing the red basket on the ledge. “Laurel,” she called, “Ben’s order is up.”
“Dandy,” Laurel said, stomping over to get it. She brought it to Ben’s table and plunked it in front of him. “Here. I’ll get your coffee.”
“Thanks,” Ben said, reaching for a napkin.
Laurel left, then returned with a mug and the coffeepot, bending over slightly as she filled Ben’s mug.
“What on earth is your problem?” she whispered. “You just embarrassed me to death, Ben Skeeter. My hair is none of your concern.”
“I didn’t mean to speak out loud,” he said, his voice hushed. “I was as surprised as you were that I said…” He snatched up the ketchup bottle that was at the end of the table, took off the lid and shook the bottle over the fries. “You’re not really considering cutting your hair, are you, Laurel?”
“Maybe,” Laurel said, lifting her chin. “Maybe not. I haven’t decided yet.”
“Don’t do it, Laurel,” Ben said, looking directly into her dark eyes. “Your hair is so beautiful, so silky and… I remember how it felt when I…” He cleared his throat and switched his gaze to his lunch. “Aw, hell, I just dumped half a bottle of ketchup on these fries.”
Laurel opened her mouth to say something snappy regarding adding an extra charge to Ben’s bill for the extravagant use of the ketchup, but immediately realized she had absolutely no air in her lungs to let her speak.
She rushed behind the counter, put the coffeepot back where it belonged, then was amazed that she remembered to clip Marilyn’s order into place. When she turned again, Cadillac and the three men next to him were all grinning at her.
“What!” she said none too quietly.
“Gotta go get me some goat feed,” Cadillac said, sliding off his stool.
“Me, too,” the man next to him said.
“You don’t got no goats, Billy,” Cadillac said.
“Oh,” Billy said. “I’ll watch you buy feed for yours, then.”
“’Kay,” Cadillac said, dropping some money on the counter.
The other two men decided quickly that they’d tag along for the inspiring trip of watching Cadillac buy goat feed. None of them waited for their change or looked at Sheriff Skeeter as they beat a very hasty retreat from the Windsong Café.
Ben sighed and began to scrape some of the ketchup off his fries with a fork. The bottom of the hamburger bun was now soaked with ketchup, so he resorted to eating the demolished meal with a knife and fork rather than attempt to pick up the burger.
If it wasn’t for the fact that he was really hungry, Ben thought, he’d hightail it out of here. Man, what a jerk he’d made of himself. He had just engaged in the first one-on-one conversation he’d had with Laurel since she’d returned to Willow Valley and he’d come across as a complete idiot.
But, man, the mere image in his mind of Laurel cutting off that gorgeous silky hair of hers had rattled him. His drill-sergeant sounding “No” had popped right out of his mouth and… Oh, jeez.
Then Laurel had bent over and whispered at him, fury radiating in those fathomless dark eyes of hers. She wore the same light floral cologne she’d always used, and when she’d looked directly into his eyes it had taken every bit of willpower he had not to slide his hand to the back of her neck, bring her lips to his and…
Ben shifted in the booth as heat rocketed through his body, and he looked around quickly to be certain no one was watching him.
Cadillac and his cronies were no doubt down at the feed store, he thought dismally, relating what had happened at the Windsong Café between the sheriff and Laurel and cackling with pleasure to be the ones to spread the gossip. The tourists in the café had no idea what had transpired. But the locals? He didn’t even want to think about it.
Ben finished what he could salvage of his lunch, placed money on the table then picked up his Stetson and his handheld from next to him in the booth. He slid out, turned and bumped squarely into Laurel, who was carrying Marilyn’s lunch. He gripped one of Laurel’s shoulders with his free hand to steady her.
“I’m sorry,” he said, not releasing his hold on her. “I didn’t see you there. Did anything spill? No, it looks fine.” He nodded. “Good. Okay.”
“May I pass, please?” Laurel said, looking at a button in the middle of Ben’s shirt.
“In a minute,” he said, his hand still on her shoulder. “I’m sorry I embarrassed you about the hair-cutting business. I was way out of line.”
“Yes, you were, Sheriff Skeeter. Marilyn is waiting for her lunch.”
Ben
