Husbands, Husbands...Everywhere!

This time, Ethel’s smile was fond. “You’re doing a good job in the mothering department, I have to say.”

“I’m going to give it everything I’ve got,” Abby replied, and fully meant it. Although the role had been thrust on her after the heartbreaking loss of two dear friends, she was determined to fill it to the best of her ability.

Years earlier she had very much wanted children. Then, when her life had been turned upside down while she was still in her early twenties, she had concentrated on building a career in Arizona’s flourishing resort industry. Now she was, in every sense other than having given birth, a mother. And motherhood, she’d already discovered, was as challenging as anything she’d tackled on the business front.

Abby tucked her ivory silk blouse more firmly into the waistband of her beige slacks and started for the stairs. She didn’t want to think about the man who had climbed them only moments ago, didn’t doubt for an instant that it would be far easier, and definitely more satisfying, to consider the child about to wake up, the one who had won a big chunk of her heart.

Then, too, she reflected, there was someone else who deserved consideration, a great deal of it. After all, not every woman had an attractive doctor in her life. She’d never expected to have one, either, until recently. Her parents had been heartily pleased by that development, her godmother unfortunately less so. But he was there, nonetheless.

Abby nodded. Yes, she had a lot to consider besides the one person in her past she’d be light years better off not wasting another thought on. Reason told her that, and being the sensible, practical woman she’d made of herself since they’d last seen each other, she fully agreed.

Trouble was, she still couldn’t block him out, not entirely. Especially when a niggling voice in the back of her mind kept repeating a silent question.

What in the world was wrong with him?

“THERE’S NOTHING WRONG with you, Larabee,” Ryan muttered to himself as he made his way down a long hall wallpapered in narrow raspberry-and-cream stripes. His booted feet made little noise on the chocolate-brown carpet.

Thankfully, he was moving more smoothly and with less effort after he’d judged the cozy bed in his room to be too tempting and had settled for an overstuffed chair as a good spot to rest his leg for a couple of hours. Even if he hadn’t managed to completely disguise a limp earlier, nobody in the gingerbread house knew his recent injuries went beyond a bum leg, and he planned to keep it that way.

The last thing he wanted was any more people aiming concerned looks his way and asking how he felt. He’d had enough of that to last him a long while. Maybe forever.

So, as far as the residents of Aunt Abigail’s were concerned, there was nothing wrong with him. Not a blasted thing. That was his story, and he was sticking to it.

Ryan reached an arched doorway, one he immediately took for his destination from the smells wafting toward him and tempting his appetite. He was hungry, and still tired from the drive that morning, he had to admit. He stepped into the room, thinking that it wouldn’t be much of a problem to make small talk during dinner and excuse himself as soon as courtesy allowed.

What he found waiting for him, though, had him coming to a halt long before he reached the round oak table covered with a lacy cloth and holding center stage under an antique brass chandelier.

“Pap!”

A baby, not a newborn but probably not more than a year old, either, as far as Ryan could judge—and a girl, he decided, based on the frilly pink headband restraining a riot of dusky curls—stared straight at him with wide dark eyes. “Pap!” she shouted again from her seat in a high chair painted snowy-white, holding her short, chubby arms out in greeting.

Obviously, Ryan thought, he was Pap. At least she figured he was. And how did he handle that?

The grandmotherly Ethel came to his rescue. “No, Cara,” she said gently from her chair set at one side of the baby’s place. “This is Mr. Larabee, but we’ve already agreed that he’ll be Ryan.” She leaned in and nudged back a tiny stuffed horse in grave danger of falling off the high chair’s tray. “Can you say Ryan?”

“Pap!” the small, sturdily built person named Cara didn’t hesitate to repeat, eyes still locked on him.

“I think she means Pops,” his flame-haired hostess remarked from the baby’s other side. “The woman who sometimes takes care of her has two young children of her own, and that’s what they call their grandfather. Pops.”

“Great. Just what I need,” Ryan mumbled under his breath. “Thirty-four years old and taken for somebody’s granddaddy.”

“I’m sorry. She’s just started talking enough to make out real words,” the redhead said, “and sometimes the strangest things come out.” Rather than look at him while offering that apology, she kept her gaze on the baby.

Her baby? He had to wonder. He might have easily assumed that was the case, except their coloring was so different.

And what about a husband? She wore no ring on the relevant finger; he’d already checked that out while she was checking him in.

Whatever the case, it was hardly his place to ask, and no further information was offered on either question. Instead, with the baby’s attention on the task of tearing a dinner roll apart, the conversation took a different turn altogether.

He’d taken a seat and a large china plate filled to the brim was set in front of him, when Ethel inquired politely, “What part of the country do you come from, Ryan? That is, if you don’t mind my asking.”

He didn’t mind. This was part of the small talk he’d anticipated, and that he could handle. Stick to the basics, Larabee, he told himself, and you’ll be okay.

“Wyoming, originally,” he replied, grateful to be sure on that score. Studying a copy of his personnel file while he was still laid up in the hospital had provided some essential information. “More recently, I’ve been living in southern Arizona.”

Ethel’s mouth curved up at the tips. “Why am I getting the feeling that you’re a cowboy?”

A cowboy? On the outside, maybe. The clothes in his closet said he favored the trappings. But in practice? He knew the answer to that one.

Ryan shook his head. “Actually, I’m a pilot.” He hesitated before deciding it wouldn’t hurt to add, “For the past few years, I’ve flown a helicopter for the Border Patrol.”

Abby blinked at that news. She set her fork down carefully and reached for her water glass, hoping she didn’t look as interested as she couldn’t help being.

He’d flown freelance for a living during the time she’d known him. That he’d gone to work for a government agency surprised her a little. He hadn’t been fond of structure of any type. But it didn’t surprise her, not a whit, that he’d continued to fly.

If he had quit, she would have been stunned.

“Land sakes,” Ethel replied, eyes widening. “The Border Patrol. That must be exciting.”

“I suppose you could say so,” Ryan said.

And that was all he said, although Abby waited, ears alert, for more. This was something new, she couldn’t deny. He’d never been reluctant to talk about his work. In fact, it had been much the opposite.

She was still mulling that over when he shifted in his seat and directed a comment squarely at her. “You said this was your godmother’s place.”

“Mmm-hmm.” She left it at that, deciding he wasn’t the only one who could be tightfisted when it came to handing out information. After all, she didn’t owe him any explanations. She didn’t, in fact, owe him anything.

“Are you helping her run things around here?” he went on in the next breath.

“At the moment.”

“Because she’s away,” he added, a reference to her earlier disclosure when he’d first appeared on the doorstep. “Will she be gone long?”

“No.”

“Vacation?” A probing glint lit in his gaze with that last question. Plainly her brief replies had roused his curiosity.

“Something like that,” she said mildly.

And now Ethel’s bright voice broke in. “Goodness gracious, dear, it’s no secret that she’s on her honeymoon.”

Ryan’s brows climbed. “Your godmother just got married?”

Abby nodded. “For a second time.”

Ethel chuckled. “And for her second trip to the altar, she picked an old cowboy.”

“Pap!” Cara suddenly exclaimed, again fixing the man across the table from her with a firm stare.