little mama wanted dumb, he could give her dumb.
He shuffled his feet. “Ah, shucks, ma’am. Nearly ever’ body in Brushy Creek’s gotta telly-phone nowadays. They got the e-lectric, too.” He doffed his hat and scratched his head in broad hayseed fashion. “’Cept ol’ Possum Corn back in the hills. He don’t hold for nothin’ fancy as all that.”
Her pretty face wrinkled in a pained grimace. “Oh, no. I’ve gone and offended you. I am so sorry.”
Such total lack of sincerity. “You run around loaded for bear like that, a fella’s bound to get grizzly.”
She took a deep breath. “I really am sorry. It’s just been—”
“Let me guess. A rough day?”
“Actually it’s been a rough year, but why nitpick over the details? Can we start over? I’m Ryanne Rieger.”
He stepped forward for a closer look. “I don’t believe it. You’re little Ryanne?”
She patted the small mountain that was her belly. “Not so little these days, but, yep, that’s me.”
“Birdie said Short Stack was coming home.” Her foster daughter’s fall from grace had been a hot topic with the coffee and pie crowd at Mrs. Hedgepath’s diner.
“No one’s called me Short Stack since I waited tables at the Perch. You know Birdie?”
“Place like this, everybody knows everybody.”
“And everybody’s business, I suppose?”
“Pretty much.”
She made another face. “So what else do you know?”
“Birdie might have mentioned your, uh, difficulties. In passing.”
She threw up her hands. “Oh, great. Please tell me the whole dang populace doesn’t know that my marriage and my career have been sucked down the toilet.”
Tom fought a smile. She sure had a way of turning a phrase. “Possum Corn, back in the hills, might not have heard. He doesn’t have a telly-phone.”
“Very funny.”
“There was one thing Birdie left out.”
“My shoe size?”
He looked pointedly at her expanding middle. “She didn’t say a word about you being in the family way. That was a big surprise.”
“Big being the operative word.”
Tom frowned at the unmistakable waver in her voice. One minute she was fit to be tied and the next she was teetering on the brink of tears. Her mood swings might not make her dizzy, but they sure did him.
“Do you remember me?” he asked. “I’m Tom Hunnicutt.”
She stood on tiptoe and pushed his hat back with her finger. A cowboy didn’t tolerate many people messing with his headgear, but he’d overlook it this time.
Her eyes widened. “Omigosh! Tom Hunnicutt? No wonder you looked familiar. I used to have such a crush on you.”
“You did?” The unexpected confession should not have surprised him. Ryanne seemed to blurt out whatever thought her brain sent tongue-ward.
“Please. Me and every other girl in town. I was so stuck on you, I wanted to propose when your team won the college rodeo championship.”
“Why didn’t you?” The dog-bitten scrap of ego he had left was duly flattered.
“I was grounded because of my math grade. Birdie said anybody who couldn’t do decimals, couldn’t get married. Even to a hotshot saddle bronc rider.”
He laughed. Maybe Ryanne wasn’t unstable after all. Her flightiness could be a temporary condition brought on by stress. “It’s just as well. What were you, ten?”
“Twelve. And you were already engaged. A fact that caused no end of bitter disappointment among the adolescent female population, as I recall.”
“I don’t know about that.” He was unaware of mass adulation, adolescent or otherwise. As long as he could remember, there had been only one love in his life.
“You had a childhood sweetheart. What was her name?”
“Mariclare Turner.” He couldn’t say her name without tasting the regret. He’d lost the woman he loved because he’d assumed his dreams were enough for her. It never occurred to him she might have dreams of her own.
“Oh, yeah. Mariclare-with-the-Perfect-Hair. That’s what we jealous teens called her. You’re still rodeoing, right?”
“No. I’m not.” Realizing how harsh that sounded, he added, “I got hurt last summer and had to give it up.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
It was bad manners to stare, but Tom had never been this close to anyone so busting-out pregnant and didn’t quite know where to look. He chose down. Bare feet seemed a safe alternative to protruding belly button and excessive cleavage. Ryanne was shaped like a primitive fertility totem he’d once seen in a museum, and that made him nervous.
“Does your daddy still own the store?” She stood with one foot propped on the instep of the other. Her feet were far from humongous. They were tiny. Fragile. The bones in the one he’d held had felt as insubstantial as a child’s. Hardly strong enough to support her weight.
“Yeah. Pap had a quadruple bypass last winter and it slowed him down some, but he’s hanging in there.” He held up the key to Hunnicutt Farm and Ranch Supply. “I could have let you in to use the rest room.”
She rolled her eyes. “Now you tell me.”
“I tried. You wouldn’t give me a chance. That was some kind of roll you were on.”
She failed in her attempt to look abashed. “I know. My mouth always gets me in trouble. Birdie says it’ll be the first part to wear out. Forgive me?”
It was hard not to. She had an exasperating charm. Her blinding, 100-watt smile was calculated to make a man forget how high-strung she was. “We’ll chalk it up to duress.”
“Hey! Maybe I could use the phone in the store to call Birdie. She would have met me, but she’s not expecting me until next week.”
He frowned. “It’s after midnight. No sense in her driving all the way into town. I’ll take you home.”
“Really? That would be great. If you’re sure you don’t mind trekking out to the boonies in the middle of the night.”
“I’m running behind on good deeds this week.” Tom quickly committed to the plan. The sooner he handed Ryanne over to Birdie’s safekeeping, the sooner he could get back to what passed as his life these days. He scooped up the suitcases and directed her across the street to a black late-model, extended-cab pickup. He tossed the bags in the back while she climbed into
