Tempted by a Texan Page 9

  “No!” Anna exclaimed. “Surely not.”

  “Why would he do something like that?” Tracy Lynn’s look of horror matched everyone else’s. Becca didn’t even give it a second thought that these women knew she’d named her sourdough starter. There was very little they all didn’t know about one another. Anna and Cora included, as both women had had a hand in raising the four of them.

  “He claimed he was cleaning out my fridge. Did I ask him to clean out my fridge? No,” she answered before anyone else could. “I didn’t. Nor did I ask him to put away my appliances or hide my dish soap. I mean, I work in my kitchen, for pity’s sake. I cook and bake and...and I like to have my appliances and dish soap and sponges at my fingertips. Mr. Neatnik breaks out in hives unless every surface is uncluttered, grouped according to texture, size, color and usability, and has a mirror shine to it.”

  A thoughtful, knowing hum buzzed through the salon as Becca stood and made her way over to Donetta’s chair, which Anna had vacated.

  “So what’s going on with your hand?” Donetta asked, obviously feeling a subject change was in order before Becca blew a gasket.

  “I’m supposed to go back Friday and have another X-ray.”

  “Why wait so long if it’s broken? Shouldn’t they be putting a cast on it?”

  “The doctors probably don’t want to do a cast until the swelling goes down and they can get a better look at the injury,” Sunny said. “Could be the fracture’s so minor it’ll heal without the aid of a cast. It might just be a really bad bruise, which can often be more painful than an actual break. Either way, Becca’s not going to be kneading bread dough or opening jars or dealing with small buttons any time soon.”

  Hearing Sunny restate what the emergency doctor had said was actually comforting. After all, bones were bones, be they animal or human, and Sunny had dealt with plenty of fractures and bruises in her veterinary practice.

  As she was thinking about veterinarians, another thought struck. She glanced at Sunny.

  “Colby told me that Bosco died last week.”

  Sunny gasped. “Oh, no. He was such a sweetheart of a dog. I knew it was coming, but I didn’t think it’d be this soon.”

  “Evidently it was peaceful. He took Bosco with him to Houston, and he died in his sleep.”

  “He must be devastated.”

  “I think so. You know Colby. He’ll sweet-talk you and make you think he doesn’t have a care in the world, but he feels things deeply.”

  “Think he’ll get another dog?” Sunny asked.

  “He didn’t mention anything about it. Besides, he’s moving. I imagine he’ll wait until he’s settled. You never know, he might end up living in a condo in the city or someplace that wouldn’t be suitable for a dog.”

  “Little dogs can live anywhere,” Donetta said. Storm had a little dog, a terrier named Sneaker, and though he and Donetta lived on several acres, Sneaker would probably have been happy with just a patio.

  “Do you mean to say he’s moving before he makes living arrangements?” Tracy asked.

  Becca shrugged and her head bobbed back as Donetta worked a brush through the short strands. “I didn’t ask. I was just so stunned that he was moving at all.”

  “Has anyone talked to Katherine Durant?” Anna asked. “She’d know if he’s listed his house.”

  Becca felt her stomach tumble. She loved that old farmhouse Colby lived in. It had originally been the McGiver’s place, and Becca and her friends had gone there many a Sunday afternoon when they were children, or sometimes spent the weekend and rode to church with the McGivers. Arlene McGiver had been their Sunday school teacher. She and her husband didn’t have children of their own, and they delighted in entertaining other people’s kids.

  Becca remembered times in the huge country kitchen, baking banana bread and scones. It had been Arlene who’d given the sourdough mash recipe to Becca’s mother and grandmother.

  All three women were gone—Mama, Grandma Lee and Arlene McGiver.

  And now the bread starter was, too.

  Lord, she didn’t like the direction of her thoughts, the loneliness they conjured up. Soon, Colby would be gone. Not dead like the rest of her family, thank God, but away, nonetheless. To a life in another town clear across the state. She wouldn’t wake up in the mornings and see him opening the door of his law office, wouldn’t run into him in the post office or at the counter in Anna’s Café.

  He wouldn’t be right across the street to save her from intruders wielding big sticks and with criminal intentions.

  He wouldn’t be around to make good on that crazy baby pact.

  She knew it was foolish to give any thought to those drunken words spoken all those years ago on the eve of their breakup. Nobody made promises like that. It was stupid to even imagine such a thing.

  But stupid or not, Becca did imagine it. All too vividly.

  The trip to the beauty salon was more tiring than Becca had anticipated, and afterward, she’d gone straight up to her apartment for a nap, then had a light supper and gone back to bed. When she awoke again, it was after 9:00 p.m. and her arm and head were begging for pain meds.

  Was all this sleeping a delayed reaction to the break-in and assault two days ago? And had she simply become so comfortable with Colby’s presence, trusting him to watch over what was hers, that she could indulge in all the sleep she needed?

  Maybe she had.

  She got out of bed, splashed water on her face one-handed, then made her way out to the kitchen. Colby stood with his back to her, squinting at a computer printout of some sort. In front of him, lined along the countertop, were the flour canister, the sugar container, a package of yeast and a mixing bowl. As one might see on those fancy cooking shows or infomercials, he had small bowls lined up in front of each ingredient container, obviously so he could measure out everything in advance and have it ready to pour into the main mixing bowl. A lot of wasted steps if you asked her—and extra dishes to wash.

  But then, Colby had his way of doing things, and she had hers. Usually, they’d both end up with the same—or nearly the same—results.

  “What’s up?” she asked, causing him to jump. Now that was interesting. He wasn’t a man easily spooked.

  “You’re supposed to be resting.”

  The faint trace of accusation and annoyance in his tone didn’t trigger her usual ire. In fact, she nearly smiled.

  “Couldn’t sleep. I came in to try some warm milk or a pain pill.”

  He frowned and glanced at his watch. “I gave you a pain pill two hours ago.”

  “I didn’t take it.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because it makes me have nightmares. Besides, I thought I could get by with some Tylenol or Motrin.” She nodded to his assembly on the countertop. “What are you making?”

  “Matilda.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I killed Maizy, so I’m attempting to resurrect her through Matilda. She might not be as long in the tooth as Maizy or have been handed down through all those generations, but if the lady on the Internet site is honest, then Matilda ought to be able to step into Maizy’s shoes—or at least her stinky jar.”

  Becca nearly laughed at him talking about a concoction of flour, water, sugar and yeast as if it were a living, breathing person.

  But the fact was, she was incredibly touched.

  He wasn’t making fun of her naming her bread dough. He was giving her, and her baking, the respect he obviously felt it deserved.

  And apologizing, as well. Very nicely. An “I’m sorry” would have been okay. Instead, he was showing her his apology.

  Why, oh why, did what she want out of life have to scare him so?

  She pulled up a chair. “Want some help?”

  “No. I need to figure this out on my own. I found out it’s not so strange that you named the other goop. Did you know there’s a recipe on the Internet named Herman?”

  She started to nod.

  “Then the
re's the kind you make with potato water. You don’t suppose that’s what the Sunday school teacher used, do you?”

  “I’m pretty sure she just used plain old lukewarm water.”

  “Lukewarm?” he asked.

  “To dissolve the yeast.” He was so cute, staring at his ingredients and recipe as though this were a scientific experiment of epic proportions.

  “Okay. I think I’m headed in the right direction, then. According to this paper, it doesn’t look like I can screw up too badly.” He grinned at her. “I might not be your Grandma Lee, but at least when I leave, Matilda will have a memory attached to her. She’ll be a little part of me.”

  He said it teasingly, but Becca’s heart saw a completely different meaning to the words.

  A little part of me.

  A baby.

  Lordy, she was like a broken record. She needed to toss that maudlin sucker out and get on with life, or at least think in modern term clichés like compact disks or MP3’s rather than records.

  And that dumb thought made her seriously doubt her sanity, so when Colby wiped his hands on a dish towel, shook out a pain pill from the bottle and held it out to her, she was reluctant to take it. Something was surely causing a short circuit in her brain, and she needed all her wits about her to fix the problem.

  “Come on, sugar pie. Now that you’ve admitted you’re not taking the pills I give you, I’m gonna stand over you and watch you closer.”

  “You can certainly try.” Although it wasn’t her intention, she said the words as a challenge. Still, she took the pill and glass of water from him, and swallowed.

  “Did you hear anything from Storm on the fingerprints?” she asked.

  “Nothing’s turned up in the database—except for Miz Lloyd’s prints, but I doubt she was the one who clobbered you.”

  She saw the teasing light in his eyes, as well as the worry that they didn’t know any more about the intruder than they had Sunday night.

  “Does Millie have a record for something?”

  “I asked Storm the same thing,” he said, lining up his ingredient bowls with more military precision. “I guess years ago she applied for a daycare-center license. In order to obtain one, you have to have your prints on file with the state.”

  “I never knew she ran a daycare center. That must have been quite a while ago.” But Becca did know that Millicent and Harold had wanted children of their own and had never been blessed with them. Something Becca and Millie shared.

  She set aside that thought. “So how’d you manage to get a partnership in a Dallas law firm?” she asked, determined to confront the issue of him leaving and be done with it. Perhaps then her imagination would stop leaping on his bones. “Is either Wells or Steadman a close friend or something?”

  “Wells’s daughter. Cassandra.” He squinted at the recipe in front of him, then held up the four-cup glass measure, giving it a little shake to settle the flour.

  Becca didn’t bother to tell him that if the recipe had called for sifted flour, he’d just messed up his measurements. First off, she didn’t think it was that vital to the total outcome of the starter, and secondly, he was anal enough without her adding to it.

  “We’ve dated off and on for a few years,” he continued, his words effectively jerking Becca to attention. “She recommended me to her father. It grew from there.”

  “Oh.” Becca’s stomach hit bottom. She hadn’t realized he was dating anyone. “Does Cassandra work at the firm as well?”

  “Not yet, but soon. She was a stockbroker until her dad convinced her to go to law school and follow in his footsteps. She still needs to pass the bar exam. She’ll make it, though. She’s sharp.”

  His tone held a great deal of respect and affection. Becca didn’t think he’d lived like a monk all these years—shoot, she’d dated other men over the past seven years. Still, to have it come straight from the horse’s mouth...well, it was a bit of a shock.

  And a huge wake-up call.

  Lord, she was a fool.

  Here she’d been making herself a wreck, thinking he could possibly have unresolved feelings for her, and all along the man had a girlfriend!

  A girlfriend who was fixing to be an attorney.

  How could Becca compete with that? Her world was here in a small town selling antiques and trinkets, and knitting baby blankets and booties. Not exactly high society.

  Colby had always wanted more. More money. More prestige.

  He walked a different social path than she did.

  She’d never been the type to think that someone else was better than her, nor had she ever been lacking in self-confidence. But hearing him describe Cassandra, Becca felt out of her league.

  She should have known, should have remembered. She still believed that one of the reasons they weren’t together as a couple was that he hadn’t found her goals sophisticated enough, hadn’t loved her enough to continue their relationship—or to convince her to give his world a try.

  He’d made it clear seven years ago that he didn’t want white picket fences and barefoot babies, nor did he want sweet little Becca Sue Ellsworth from Hope Valley, Texas.

  His style and tastes had changed.

  Obviously to sharp-as-a-tack, soon-to-be-attorney Cassandra Wells.

  8

  “How come you’re not wearing your sling?” Colby asked the next day as he knelt next to the shelves and unpacked a shipment of yarn. Many more of these kinds of deliveries and she’d have to rename the place Becca’s yarns.

  “It rubs on my neck.”

  He set aside the purchase order receipt and stood, spying the blue sling lying on the front counter by the register. He picked it up and approached Becca.

  “Colby—”

  “No arguments, sugar pie. Tomorrow we go see the doc.” He was surprised how fast the week was passing. There had been no more break-in attempts and they still didn’t have any suspects. He was relieved about the first thing, and edgy about the latter. He wouldn’t be here to watch over Becca Sue forever.

  But he was here now and determined to do his part.

  “Until you get the official okay, you need to keep this thing on.” He looped the sling over her head, eased her arm into the cradle of fabric, then ran his fingers around the part where she complained it was chafing her neck.

  She shivered and their gazes locked. Man alive, his control was only hanging on by a thread these days. He needed a distraction.

  “Hey, I’ve got a cool idea,” he said, noticing the white yarn peeking out of her knitting bag. He snatched it up, figuring they could use it as a cushion between her neck and the scratchy sling fabric.

  “No! Wait!”

  Her near scream scared the devil out of him and he jumped back. He heard metal hit the floor. “What is wrong with you?”

  “What is wrong with you?" she countered, cupping her uninjured hand beneath his, cradling the yarn as though they were holding a fragile baby. “Didn’t you notice that’s a sweater in progress? Tracy Lynn picked the pattern and asked me to knit it. My gosh, that’s cashmere yarn and it cost the earth.”

  He gingerly held the tightly knitted, baby-soft yarn. A bunch of empty little loops stared up at him. Even he knew that cashmere was expensive. “Sorry. Now what?”

  “Now we need to thread the needle back through the stitches without dropping any.”

  He didn’t know why she said we. He certainly didn’t knit. As for Becca Sue fixing his screw up, he could see right away this was going to be a problem since she had the full use of only one hand. “Don’t some of your girlfriends knit?”

  “Some of them.”

  “Then why don’t we, real ginger-like, put this away and one of the girls can help you out later?”

  She studied him for a long moment. “Mama used to say if you make a mess, don’t expect someone else to clean it up.”

  “And you took that advice to heart, didn’t you,” he said with amused sarcasm, meaning her habit of leaving clothes and clutter lying a
ll around.

  He noted the devilish spark in her eyes, and realized they weren’t on the same page at all. Becca was totally unrepentant about leaving her clothes right where she stepped out of them, or letting a stack of books overflow onto the floor. She didn’t consider those messes, she’d told him, because she lived alone and knew that she was the only one who would pick them up and that eventually she’d get around to it.

  This mess she was talking about now was right here in his hands.

  “Oh, no,” he said. “I don’t know anything about yarn and knitting, and I don’t want to, either.” “’Fraid somebody will see you and question your masculinity?”

  A challenge. He gritted his teeth. The little minx knew he couldn’t resist a taunt like that. “No, I’m not afraid.”

  “Well, then?”

  “Fine. I’ll see what I can do.” Pulling his cupped hands away from her, he sank into the overstuffed chair she’d vacated, rested his elbows on his knees and carefully let the knitting drape over his hands. Becca Sue held the end of the yarn, keeping a good amount of slack in it, obviously so the whole shebang wouldn’t start to unravel.

  She perched on the rolled arm of the chair, bent her head right next to his, their cheeks nearly touching. He could feel her warm breath on his skin, practically taste the peach preserves and coffee she’d had with breakfast this morning.

  Slowly, he turned his head, gazed in her eyes, saw her lick her lips. He could kiss her right now. It would be so easy. Just lean forward a fraction of an inch and he’d be able to feel the softness of that sexy bottom lip, explore the mouth he hadn’t sampled in seven long years.

  “What?” she whispered.

  He leaned back and cleared his throat. What the hell was he thinking? “You’re in my light.”

  “Oh.” She hopped up and dragged a floor lamp over to the chair.

  “Damn it, Becca. I could have done that. You’ve got no business hauling the furniture around in your condition.”

  “My condition? You make it sound like I’m pregnant.” The minute the P-word slipped out of her mouth, she froze.

  Colby’s eyes locked onto hers.