LITMIR.BIZ

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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 the front seat.

      “There’s been some zoning changes since you left,” he said as the engine purred to life. “Officially, Birdie doesn’t live in the boonies anymore. She’s out in the sticks, ten miles farther down the road.”

      Chapter Two

      The truck’s headlights detected little movement as Tom drove out of town. An occasional larcenous raccoon was the only night-life in Brushy Creek. The beer joint locked up at ten o’clock during the week because good farmers went to bed with the chickens. Even the convenience store closed at nine.

      “Must feel good to sit down.” He was still trying to figure out the logistics of carrying that belly around.

      “Yeah. Haven’t done much of that lately.”

      “The bus?” He decided pert best described her features. Disheveled summed up her appearance. Her personality was pure spunk with generous helpings of sass and vinegar.

      She shuddered dramatically. “Have you ever ridden a bus?”

      “Just to school when I was a kid.”

      “Oh, no. That doesn’t even begin to count.”

      He stole another glance. Despite her tart tongue and bossy manner, she looked incredibly young and vulnerable. The thought of her making a long trip alone aroused feelings he’d forgotten he had. Protective feelings. When was the last time he’d been tempted to reach out to a woman? And why was he so tempted by this little bouncing ball of trouble?

      Before long they were riding through rolling hills. The Department of Tourism called this northeastern corner of the state “Green Country.” Tom had traveled extensively on the rodeo circuit, all over the west and north to Canada. He’d seen a lot of fine country, but always figured someday he’d settle down in Oklahoma, close to his roots.

      In his big-money days, he’d bought eighty acres of prime grazing land a few miles south of town. There was a pretty, wooded knoll on the property, and he’d dreamed of building a log home on top of it. One of those sprawling, lodge-pine jobs like he’d seen in Colorado. He thought it would be the perfect home for Mariclare. For their children.

      Besides kids and dogs, he planned to raise and train horses. Turn his acreage into a tidy little quarter horse operation. Someday.

      He never quite pinned it down, but someday was always that time in the vague future when he’d made enough winning rides. When he’d worked the rodeo out of his system. When he could retire from the circuit and never look back.

      He’d learned the hard way that it was a mistake to put dreams on hold. They had a short shelf life. He’d postponed until everything was gone. Rodeo. Mariclare. Kids. All of it. Maybe he was a clabberheaded fool. He should have seen it coming. She’d begged him to quit and he’d kept riding.

      Since he was unwilling to choose real life over rodeo, a wild-eyed bucker had chosen for him. Ten charmed years with no injuries more serious than sprains and scrapes, and he’d ended his career with a bang.

      A concussion, two compound fractures, and three broken vertebrae. Multiple surgeries to repair the damage. Weeks in rehab. Months of casts and canes. Bottles of pills for the pain and inevitable depression.

      It had taken a year, but he finally looked whole on the outside. Inside, something vital had been severed. And that wound wasn’t even close to scabbing over.

      “I’d forgotten how far it is to Birdie’s.” Ryanne was not as comfortable with quiet as the strong, silent cowboy beside her. He watched the deserted road like a freeway at rush hour.

      “As they say around here. It’s a ‘fur piece.’”

      Light from the truck’s space shuttle instrument panel cast a greenish glow over his face. She’d been eleven the last time she’d

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