Читать книгу A Girl, A Guy And A Lullaby - Debrah Morris, Debrah Morris - Страница 12

Birdie Hedgepath’s house on Persimmon Hill crouched among tall post oaks and pines at the end of a long gravel drive. A pole light between the house and barn illuminated a weedy yard where leggy petunias spilled from old tires.

Everything was just as Ryanne remembered. Peeling white paint on the clapboards. Plaster hen and chicks under the crape myrtle bush. Pink plastic flamingos clustered around the propane tank.

The old porch swing stirred in the breeze and the creak of its rusty chains brought a rush of memories. Hot summer days. Cold Pepsi. Shelling beans. Birdie and meaning-of-life discussions.

Nothing had changed. Insects filled the night with their noisy chorus. Down at Annie’s Pond the bullfrogs belted out the amphibian top ten. Even Froggy, Birdie’s rheumy-eyed old hound, was in his spot by the door. He barely looked up at the midnight intruders.

Ryanne took a deep breath. She’d missed the smell of this beautiful green place. She’d been so self-absorbed that for five years she hadn’t thought once about barn owls or little sulfur butterflies. She’d forgotten the feel of dew-damp grass on bare feet. The sound of bobolinks.

In her single-minded pursuit of fame and recognition, she’d discounted the treasures left behind. She’d worried that coming home meant moving backward instead of forward. That embracing the past meant giving up on the future.

She was wrong. Persimmon Hill wasn’t the end of the road. It was a place to rest while she repaired the damage of her own foolish choices. Her life might be going to hell in a handbasket, but here she would be safe.

Home was the most sentimental song of all.

Tom set the last of the bags on the porch. “No one answered?”

“I haven’t knocked,” she admitted. “I’m just taking it all in.”

“Let’s surprise her.” He didn’t know what had gone wrong in Ryanne’s life, but when he saw the look in her eyes, he knew she’d been right to come here. He motioned her back into the shadows behind him. He rapped, and in a moment a sleepy-eyed woman in her midsixties pushed open the screen door.

Birdie Hedgepath’s quarter Cherokee blood showed in her round face, high cheekbones and dark eyes. She and her late husband Swimmer had no children of their own. If she hadn’t taken in ten-year-old Ryanne when her mother died, the child would have become a ward of the court, and sent to live among strangers.

Birdie did not possess the frailty her name implied. She had substance. Shoulders that were wide for a woman. A waist and hips to match. Stout legs, flat feet. Her black hair was cut short and streaked with gray. Though strong physically, her real strength was her wisdom and humor. Everyone who met Birdie, loved her.

“Landsakes, Tom,” she said with a yawn. “What’re you doin’ out here this time of night?”

“I brought you a little something I picked up in town.” He stepped aside with a dramatic flourish.

“Oh, oh, oh! You brung my baby home.” She pressed her hands to her mouth then threw her arms wide. “Baby girl, come here to me and let me hug your neck.”

“I missed you, Auntie Birdie.” Ryanne’s eyes filled with damp happiness. “I don’t know why I stayed away so long. I’m glad to be home.”

“Not half as glad as me. Let me look at you. Ohwee, girl, have you gone and swallowed a watermelon seed?”

“Something like that.” Ryanne gave her foster mother another hug. “You smell exactly as I remember. Like lilacs and bacon.”

Birdie’s dark-eyed gaze raked Ryanne from her cockeyed ponytail down to her bare feet. “What did you do, Tom? Drag her backward through the brush all the way?”

Ryanne laughed and hugged her again. “It’s a long story.”

“And one I aim to hear. Tom, you get those bags in the house and I’ll put on some coffee. Probably got a pie around here somewheres.”

He carried the luggage inside, but declined the offer. Like a messenger delivering a prize, he had no right to hang around and enjoy it.

“Thank you, ma’am, but I need to get home. I know you two have a lot of catching up to do.”

“You go on then. But stop by the Perch and I’ll wrap up one of them blackberry cobblers you and Junior favor so.”

“Thanks. I’ll do that. Birdie. Ryanne.” He tipped his hat and stepped out into the night.

Ryanne caught up with him as he climbed back in the pickup. “Thanks again for hauling me out here. I’m sorry about, well, you know. Getting all weird earlier. It’s the hormones. Normally I’m a much nicer person than what you’ve seen tonight.”

Tom felt an inexplicable urge to touch the spirited woman and claim some of her energy for himself. He settled for a light tap on the tip of her nose. “Nothing wrong with the person I saw.”

“Good night, then.” She stepped away from the truck, but seemed reluctant to let him go.

Or maybe he was just reluctant to leave. “Good night, Short Stack. Take care of the little dancer.”

When the rooster crowed, Ryanne and Birdie were still at the kitchen table. It had taken hours to catch up. Since nothing ever changed in Brushy Creek, Ryanne had done most of the talking.

She chose to edit out the sordid details of her brief marriage. What Birdie didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her as much as the truth. So she took pains to keep her voice light as she described what she hoped sounded like a run-of-the-mill marry-in-haste, repent-at-leisure scenario.

They talked about the baby, and Birdie offered emotional and financial support. Then she insisted on making biscuits and eggs before driving to town to open the café. It was Friday morning, and there would be a crowd of regulars waiting for her breakfast specials.

“I’ll go with you.” Ryanne cleared the table. “I want to earn my keep and you know I’m a whiz-bang waitress.”

Birdie, who had changed into her uniform of white polyester slacks and tunic, bent to tie her athletic shoes. “You had a good teacher, didn’t you? No, honey, you stay here. You need to rest. Take a warm bath, then go straight to bed. You hear me?”

“Yes’m. I am tired.”

The older woman gave her another measuring look. “Tired? You look like you’ve been sortin’ wildcats.”

“I know. I’m a mess.” Ryanne cleared the table and set the dishes in the sink.

Birdie kissed her cheek. “But you’re my mess and I’m glad to have you.”

“I can’t imagine what Tom thought.” She ran dishwater into the sink. “He probably went home and told his wife all about the wild-eyed maniac he picked up at the bus stop.”

Birdie looked up, her broad features puzzled. “Wife? Why, Tom ain’t never been married.”

He hadn’t wed his too-perfect sweetheart? It seemed she’d made the wrong assumption. “What about Mariclare Turner? I thought those two would be married by now.”

“Nope.” Birdie shook her head. “She up and left him a year ago. It hurt him bad, her running out on him that way. I don’t know the whole story, but Junior said she left while Tom was in the hospital after that bronc stomped him.”

“But they were engaged for as long as I can remember.”

“Since high school,” Birdie confirmed. She swigged the last of her coffee and set the cup on the counter. “You could have knocked me over with a feather when they split up. It’s funny he didn’t mention it.”

Ryanne squirted liquid soap into the dishwater. “He’s not the chattiest guy I ever met.”

Birdie nodded. “I’ve known a lot of rodeo hands in my time. They’re tough and they keep a short rein on their feelings. They don’t talk about problems.”

Ryanne cringed when she recalled how she’d spilled her guts the night before. He surely thought she was a flake.

“Cowboys have to ride, no matter what,” Birdie went on. “They learn to ignore physical pain. They get so used to aching, they ignore it when the hurt’s on the inside, too.”

“That doesn’t sound very healthy.”

Birdie gave her a pointed look. “And climbing on a thousand pounds of bucking horseflesh does?”

“I see what you mean.” She put the dishes in the sink.

“When Tom first came home, he was all broken up. Mind, body and spirit. He had a right to grieve.”

“I’m guessing he didn’t,” Ryanne said.

Birdie frowned. “He shoved his sorrow down to the bottom of his heart and pretended it didn’t exist. First time I saw him after he came back, he looked like the light of his soul had sputtered out. Everybody knew he was hurtin,’ but he wouldn’t talk about it or let anybody help.”

“Tom’s strong.”

“And stubborn,” Birdie added. “You know, you might be good for him.”

She smiled. She’d forgotten how much Birdie liked to “fix” things. And people. “How so?”

“Tom needs to get on with his life, and you’re about as full of life as anybody I know.”

“I can’t get involved with anyone right now, Auntie.”

“What? You can’t be friends with a man who needs one so badly?” the older woman asked with exaggerated innocence.

Ryanne could use a few friends herself. She’d been alone long enough to know it wasn’t a natural state for her. But she wasn’t in the market for a man. If the time ever came when she was, she planned to take things slow and easy. No more rushing into things. She knew, all too well, the consequences of falling in love too fast.

“Well?” Birdie prodded.

“‘Friends’ sounds good.” In a way she was glad that Mariclare-with-the-Perfect-Hair hadn’t turned out to be the quintessential sweetheart. If couples who’d known each other all their lives couldn’t stay together, how could lightning-strike courtships like hers be expected to succeed? She felt so much better about her own problems she actually hummed as she washed the dishes.

“Ryanne?” Birdie’s expression was as amused as her tone.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Did you hear what I said?”

“I’m sorry. I must have spaced out for a bit.”

The older woman grinned. “That’s okay, honey. You go right ahead and think about him all you want.”

Ryanne hid her embarrassment by scrubbing a coffee mug that was already clean. “What do you mean?”

“Never mind.” Birdie separated a key from her key ring and laid it on the table. “I was saying, drive in for supper later if you feel like it. Here’s the key to the Jeep.”

“No. You drive the Cherokee. I’ll take the truck.”

Birdie frowned. “That old beater? It doesn’t have air-conditioning.”

“Ol’ Blue and I go way back. You taught me how to drive in her, remember? I want to take her out for old times’ sake.”

“You sure?”

At her nod, Birdie shrugged and handed her another key.

“Auntie Birdie? Are you going to warn people about me?” Ryanne asked softly.

“What for? You going to bite them or something?”

“You know what I mean.” She patted her belly. According to Tom, Birdie hadn’t mentioned her pregnancy. She’d never say so, but maybe she disapproved.

Birdie gave her a reassuring hug. “My baby’s going to have a baby. If you want anybody to know more than that, you can tell them yourself. I’m busy in that café, you know. I don’t have time for gossip.”

Right. Ryanne watched the Jeep disappear down the dusty road. Brushy Creek didn’t have a newspaper or a radio station. It had Birdie’s Perch. That’s where everyone headed when they wanted information. Or a darn good piece of pie.

Ryanne washed her hair, gave herself a facial and polished her nails. Then she soaked in a tub of bubbles until all the nagging aches eased from her body. The little dancer, as Tom had called her, cooperated fully and allowed her to sleep eight straight hours in her old bed.

She woke up feeling refreshed, like maybe she hadn’t lost her grip after all. As she dressed for supper she wondered if Tom would stop by the café. Did she want to see him? The fact he was unattached didn’t change anything. Or did it?

The answer was definitely no. She had enough on her plate right now. She needed a man in her life like a frog needed spit curls. She would stomp and squash any twinge that dared to rear its hormoney head. Never again would she let runaway emotions rule her life. From here on out, caution would be her middle name.

Hopefully, there was truth to the old adage “once burned, twice learned.” Having been thoroughly toasted on the altar of matrimony, she should be a blooming genius.

Still, there was no denying the unsettling current of excitement she’d felt when Tom touched her last night. It was just a casual tap on the nose, but it had jolted her like a poke from an electric cattle prod. Her shameless reaction was probably no more than a leftover from her girlhood crush. Like all leftovers, it couldn’t possibly taste as good the second time around.

Maybe she wasn’t trying to impress Tom or anyone else, but Ryanne took extra care with her makeup and hair. She was tired of looking like day-old road kill. Old friends would stop by the Perch for supper, curious to see how the world had treated her. She didn’t want to look like something set on the curb for immediate disposal.

At this stage in her pregnancy it required sleight of hand to appear even moderately fashionable, so she chose the one dress that had not been designed by a Bedouin tentmaker. The beige crinkled-cotton number floated around her bulky figure and showed her shoulders to advantage.

She added a silver choker and dangly silver earrings to draw attention away from her midsection. Much like trying to camouflage an elephant with a hairbow. She slipped into a pair of leather mules that didn’t pinch her feet, and checked the results in the full-length mirror.

Not bad for a fat lady.

She wasn’t returning from a triumphant engagement at the Grand Ole Opry, but she had her pride. She was no longer a sad little orphan. And she wasn’t Short Stack, the Teenage Waitress. She was about to be a mother. She might not have much to show for the past five years, but she had gained maturity, worldliness and poise.

Well, not worldliness. That would be a stretch. Maybe not poise. But definitely maturity. She’d aged ten years in the last five.

She climbed into Ol’ Blue and cranked the key a few times before the engine roared to obnoxious life. Just like the good old days. She guessed Birdie had last used the truck to haul cow manure for the garden. As it rattled down the drive, backfiring all the way, bits of dried dung swirled around in the bed and blew out to litter the road.

Did she know how to make an entrance or what?

Tom locked the front door of Hunnicutt Farm and Ranch Supply behind the last customer of the day. It had been six months since he arrived to give Pap a hand, and he was getting antsy.

Junior Hunnicutt, always vigorous, had bounced back from heart surgery sooner than expected. Maybe one of these days Tom would work up the courage to tell him his son didn’t plan on following in his retail footsteps. Not that there was anything wrong with selling feed and fertilizer. It was just that the job required too much time indoors.

The store’s long-time success depended on skills Tom simply didn’t possess. He was no chip off the old salt block when it came to such things as anticipating trends, creative stocking and inventory control. Or shooting the breeze with customers—what Pap called public relations.

“I’m going over to Letha’s for supper tonight, son.” Junior flicked off lights. “I won’t be late.”

“That’s the third time this week. I think the widow Applegate is testing the theory that the shortest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

“You ought to taste her chicken and dumplings. Mmm-mmm.” Junior smacked his lips. A widower for four years, he was a food lover from way back. He’d lost weight since his illness, but his pearl-snapped Western shirt still strained around his apple-shaped torso.

Tom grinned. He was glad his father had found someone as nice as Letha Applegate. At least one of the Hunnicutt men could get on with his life. “Home-cooked meals usually have strings attached. I’ll leave the dumpling tasting to silver foxes like you.”

Junior placed the cash drawer in the old-fashioned safe in his office. “You’re a young man, son. There’s other fish in the sea. Other women in the world.”

Tom, who was a full head taller than Junior, grasped him gently by the shoulders. “I love you, Pap. But have you ever heard the expression, ‘don’t go there’?”

“Yeah. What’s that mean, anyhow?”

“It’s a nice way of saying butt out.” He wouldn’t talk about what happened between him and Mariclare. There was no need. It was over. Done with. End of story.

“You shouldn’t keep everything bottled up,” Junior said with studied empathy. “You need to share your pain.”

“And you need to stop watching so many talk shows.” Tom flipped off the portable TV set, silencing a talk-show hostess in midsentence.

Junior shook his head. “I worry about you, Tommy.”

“Don’t. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure you can manage on your own tonight?”

“I’ll survive.” Ever since he’d been home, his old man had been killing him with kindness. Junior was recuperating from open-heart surgery, but he acted as though Tom was the fragile one. Hell, a broken heart wasn’t life threatening.

“You could stop by the Perch for supper,” his father prompted.

“I might.” Tom wondered if Ryanne was the reason there were so many cars on Main Street. Something had brought people into town, and it wasn’t just the best chicken-fried steak in the county.

Pap had an annoying habit of reading his mind. “If you see Short Stack, give her my regards, will you?”

Tom walked down the street, noting the filled parking spaces. The café would be crowded, and he’d have to wait for a stool at the counter. Unlike the rest of the town, he was interested in eating, not gawking at Ryanne.

So why not go somewhere else? There were other places to eat. He pushed open the café door, and a bell announced his arrival. Because those places didn’t serve Birdie’s special blackberry cobbler, that’s why.

Ryanne was holding court in a corner booth in the back, surrounded by people she hadn’t seen for years. They inquired about her health, but what they really wanted to know was had she met Shania Twain or Travis Tritt. Thankfully, they were well mannered enough not to mention her lack of Grammys. Or her divorced and expectant status.

When the bell jangled, Ryanne looked up and saw Tom Hunnicutt—for the first time in bright light. Wow. Bus haze and semidarkness had definitely minimized the full hunkiness effect. Now that she had recovered and he was properly illuminated, it hit her.

Like a wet sandbag upside the head.

This was the man who’d rescued her from a blob of evil bubble gum? The man who’d witnessed her various and assorted tantrums? The man she’d shanghaied aboard the estrogen roller coaster? The talk around her faded to a hum when the tall cowboy doffed his black hat and winked in her direction. He stepped up to the counter and spoke to Birdie, propping one booted foot on the rail.

That was the set of taut manly buns that had pressed up against her?

Like the blinking neon sign in the window, a whole new wave of twinges perked up and demanded notice. Ryanne tried to pay attention to the conversation, but it was useless.

Apparently she’d been rendered temporarily deaf.

Tom had been a sweet-faced boy. He gave adolescent girls heart palpitations without making their daddies too nervous. He’d changed. Now he was a man capable of throwing grown women into full-blown cardiac arrest.

His black-and-white-striped Western shirt fairly glowed in the fluorescent light. His boots shone like mirrors, and his black Wranglers sported razor creases and a fancy belt buckle.

The faint fan of wrinkles at the corners of his black opal eyes were an unnecessary, but appealing embellishment. His hair was thick and dark, combed back from a wide forehead and creased by his hatband. He smiled at something Birdie said, and a dimple in his left cheek came out to play.

The dimple alone was guaranteed to increase the anxiety level of daddies everywhere.

“Evening.” Tom acknowledged those around the table, but didn’t really see them. He was so entranced by Ryanne’s transformation he couldn’t see anyone but her. “You clean up pretty good.”

“Thanks.” She stuck one slender leg out from under the table and dangled a tan leather mule from her toes. “Shoes and everything.”

“Half of one, anyway,” Tom teased. “You look so different, I might not have recognized you if I met you on a dark street again.”

Ryanne laughed as she related the details of their first meeting. Somehow she made the story of Tom’s rescue sound far more amusing than she’d considered it at the time.

“Tom here is a regular knight in shining Stetson,” she concluded to nods of agreement.

The men in the group slapped his back before returning to their tables. The women smiled. One old lady actually reached up and pinched his cheek.

“You always were such a nice boy, Tom,” she said as she tottered off.

“Is that true?” Ryanne scooted over in the round booth and motioned for him to join her.

“Is what true?” It was hard to concentrate. Maybe he had spent too much time in closed places. He certainly felt confused and light-headed as he folded his long frame into the worn seat.

“What Mamie Hackler just said about you always being a nice boy.”

“I hate to contradict a sweet old lady, but she doesn’t know everything.”

Tom couldn’t get over it. The tearful, bedraggled girl was gone. In her place was a lovely young woman who radiated charm and confidence. Her dark hair was pulled back in a froth of curls, her green eyes sparked with humor. Unlike last night’s edgy ragamuffin, this woman would be right at home on a stage, soaking up the adoration she deserved.

Last night he’d convinced himself she was nothing but trouble. He should stay as far away from her as small-town living allowed. But Ryanne Rieger was a hard woman to forget. Working around the store today, he’d found himself thinking about her and the circumstances that had brought her back to Brushy Creek.

She leaned close and whispered. “Birdie’s thrilled about the business, but I can’t believe all these people came by just to see me.”

He kept his tone light as he inhaled the languid, peachy musk scent of her perfume. “You’re the most exciting thing to happen around here since a family of skunks set up housekeeping under Bidwell’s Drugstore.”

“Thanks a heap.” She dumped sugar into her iced tea.

Her throaty laugh bubbled up like an artesian spring. How could a man tire of hearing that sound? He was about to ask about her ex-husband when Birdie brought their food.

The chicken-fried steaks hung over the edge of the plates, accompanied by cratered mounds of mashed potatoes and gravy, and string beans seasoned with ham. The meal was served with tossed salads and thick ranch dressing, freshly baked rolls, and cucumber and onion relish.

“Can I get you anything else?” The older woman put her hands on her hips and beamed at them.

“How about someone to help me eat this?” Ryanne teased.

“You’re eatin’ for two, young lady. Tom, watch her now, and make sure she doesn’t pick.”

“My pleasure.” Not that he could tear his eyes away from her if he tried.

They kept to small talk while they ate. The waitress refilled their glasses, and Birdie peeked out of the kitchen from time to time, seemingly satisfied that Tom was doing his job.

Ryanne had eaten less than half her food when she put down her fork. “I’ll pay for this later with the worst heartburn known to womankind, but it was worth it.”

“Birdie’s the best cook in the county,” he agreed.

“Do you come here often?”

“Pap and I are pretty useless in the kitchen.” He forked another bite of steak into his mouth.

“Birdie told me your mother passed away a few years ago. I was sorry to hear it.”

He accepted her condolences. “Pap sends his regards, by the way. He has a lady friend now, and he’s having supper with her tonight.”

“Why, that sly old dog.” She set her plate aside and folded her arms on the table.

She leaned toward him, and he got another head-turning whiff of her perfume. “I’m just glad to get him out of the house,” he said. “Pap thinks me staying in my old room makes me fourteen years old again.”

“All parents worry about their children. Especially their only children. I’m glad to hear Junior takes the job seriously.” She poked an errant strand of hair back into the pile on her head.

Tom was distracted by the movement of her silver earrings. He noticed her waiting expectantly, but had no idea what she’d just said.

“How long have you been back?” she prompted.

“Six months. I came to help him after the surgery, but now he’s making noises about retiring. He’s mentioned that I should take over the store so he can spend time at the lake.”

“And?”

“I don’t think I’m cut out for shopkeeping. I might go back to scouting stock.”

“What does that involve?” She sipped her tea.

“When I got out of the hospital, I worked for a stock contractor in Texas, making the rounds of ranches, checking out bucking horses for sale.”

“Like a baseball scout, looking over the home teams?”

“In a way. Some have tried, but you can’t really breed a bucking horse. You have to find him.” He drank the last of the tall tumbler of tea. It was his second refill, so why was his mouth so dry?

“I never thought about where they came from.”

“They’re valuable animals. A top bronc can bring up to $15,000. Contractors won’t let loose that kind of cash unless they know they’re getting their money’s worth.”

“And you know horses.”

“Yeah.” His knowledge of horseflesh was the only thing he was sure about these days.