Chapter Five
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.
