Mom in the Middle (6 page)

“Guy, this is Patrick Curry, known to the locals as Curbo.”

“And the reason for that is duly noted,” Guy said with an easy grin as he extended his hand. “Sir, I'd know Curbo the Turbo anywhere!”

“You're too kind. That was a lot of years ago.” Patrick dipped his chin modestly.

“Not long enough to forget the Texas Turbo that was on my Wheaties box in seventy-six.”

The running phenomenon was the pride of the U.S.A. team at the Montreal Olympics with his three gold medals and world record-setting time in the eight-hundred-meter event.

“It's an honor to meet you. Guy Hardy of Hearth and Home.”

“You must be Keith Hardy's son. You're a long way from Iowa.”

“Ahh, you're familiar with us.” Guy nodded, the crinkle of a smile at the corners of his eyes indicating he was clearly pleased by the name recognition, especially in this company.

“I've had H&H in my stock portfolio since you
went public,” Patrick confirmed. “Glad to see you expanding into the South.”

“We've just opened our first Texas super center, near Barton Springs and South Lamar.”

“Nice piece of real estate.” Patrick's eyes widened. “You should do well there. I need to get into town soon to check it out. I could use some new patio furniture.” He gestured beyond the trailer. Guy followed the direction Patrick pointed and sucked in a breath at the sight of an enormous home built of limestone block, set well back off the road. Miles of white fence surrounded the lakefront acreage, a well-appointed boat dock visible from their vantage point.

“I see corn dogs are a booming business!”

Abby grinned behind her hand, enjoying Guy's response to the humble front Patrick placed on his thriving entrepreneurial business and his senior partnership in the Emerald Point Marina.

“I can't complain.” He turned to her. “Tell me the latest on your folks. You and your dad used to be weekend regulars and we haven't seen you up here in a coon's age.”

“That's because Dad's confined to a wheelchair, now.”

“The MS?”

“Yep.” She nodded. “The bad days began to outweigh the good ones and he couldn't trust his legs anymore, so he had to accept full-time use of the chair. He's adjusted about as well as you'd expect.”

Patrick snorted. “That old coot, adjust to life in a wheelchair? Bet that went over like a rock in the butter beans.”

“Exactly!” She laughed at the native Texan who was also known for his command of Southern colloquialisms. “But we've made some minor alterations to the house so he gets around pretty well.”

“I'm guessing if you're not fishing then you don't get to rodeo much these days either.”

 

Guy's attention shifted from the sight of the incredible lakefront property before him back to Abby.

Rodeo?

What was that all about? He watched her soft curls bob as her chin dropped and she shook her head.

“There hasn't been time or money for barrel racing in years.” She tilted her head back to see into the taller man's eyes; a wistful smile flickered at the corners of her lips. “But it's nice that you remember.”

“It's not likely I'd forget after all the bragging your dad used to do about your rankings. He thought you could have gone pro. And I always suspected you were an urban cowgirl at heart. Matter of fact, I thought maybe this hardware-store cowboy was your beau.” He angled his head downward and cocked an eyebrow, obviously a reference to Guy's boots. Boots in Texas seemed to be a functional thing. Guy was starting to feel guilty that his were only about fashion and comfort.

“Oh, no.” Abby shook her head vigorously, a
little too much so for Guy's ego. Was it
that
bad having somebody think she might actually be with him voluntarily?

“M
r. Hardy and I are only acquainted because Mama fell and broke her hip in his store and he's been helping Dad around the house while she recovers.” Abby turned wide brown eyes on Guy.

“Is that a fact?” Patrick narrowed his dark gaze and shifted his weight toward the subject of his examination. “So you're just staying close out of professional duty?”

The two waited for a response from Guy.

He felt like a stink bug trapped under a jelly jar. Scrutiny was one thing, but the look on the Texas Turbo's face was bordering something akin to suspicion. Guy's polo-style shirt began to feel uncomfortably snug and warm. He was definitely not accustomed to experiencing heat for that purpose. Especially since it was being ignited by Abby herself.

First she'd been emphatic that there was nothing personal between them, then she'd called him
Mister
for crying out loud, and now she'd gotten this man who was infamous for his aggressively competitive nature on high alert. Was there even a slim chance he was losing his ability to charm a female? Guy really needed a gaggle check. He could hear Casey cackling already, especially when she learned it was Curbo the Turbo impatiently jangling keys at her brother.

“Quite honestly, sir, it started as professional concern, but the Reagans are a wonderful family. It's a pleasure to be around them.”

Patrick straightened. The furrows between his eyes relaxed.

“In that case…” He pulled the set from the front right pocket of his well-worn jeans. Without notice he tossed the keys skyward. Guy scooped them from the air, grasping the fish-shaped foam object that would keep the set afloat if dropped overboard.

Patrick continued, “…Take this little lady for a boat ride. I have a feeling it's something she needs, whether she'll admit it or not.” He beamed affectionately at Abby and the smile of gratitude she returned made Guy's heart ache. This girl really wasn't used to people doing nice things for her, something the women in his life had long taken for granted.

“That really isn't necessary.” She tried to sound convincing, but the adorable flush of anticipation that rushed into her cheeks said otherwise.

“It's not only necessary, it's an order. Take the woody.” He pointed toward the dock. “She's got a full tank and you'll find bait and everything else you
need in the boathouse.” He nodded at Guy. “I won't take no for an answer so get her out of here before she makes the effort.”

Patrick turned and with the greyhound at his heels walked twenty paces to a wide entrance in the white fence, removed the padlock and swung the gate open.

“What about our corn dogs?” Abby asked, her bottom lip protruding in a fake pout.

“Help yourself.” He motioned toward the trailer.

Abby bounded up the short row of steps and disappeared inside the ancient trailer. She emerged moments later carrying a brown paper sack bearing several slowly spreading grease spots. Guy reached for the passenger's door of the SUV as he imagined the havoc the days-old cooking oil would play with his digestive system.

But the look of pure pleasure on Abby's face when she climbed inside clutching the sack made him feel like a heel for his selfish thoughts. She just wanted a little fun away from her life being sandwiched between two demanding generations of family. He returned her grin before he closed the door, feeling the excitement of the moment.

He gave the man rightly dubbed the Texas Turbo a friendly wave as the H&H truck headed down the blacktop road that threaded through acres of Bermuda grass and ended in a small parking area behind the private waterfront home. Guy was impressed to find a thirty-eight-foot tournament fishing boat powered by triple Mercury 275s. Burnt-orange
script across the stern declared the vessel christened
The Jean Horn.

A Chris-Craft Woody Speedster waited in the next slip. The classic teak pleasure craft should have been preserved in a showroom, not floating serenely in the waters of Lake Travis. Guy hesitated, wondering if he should remove his boots before climbing onboard.

Abby didn't appear too concerned as she tossed the sack of food on the leather bench seat and then headed for the boathouse where she seemed to know her way around.

“You've done this before, I see,” he called as she ducked into the structure large enough to completely enclose several well-appointed boats, plenty of equipment and sported a deck on top with patio furniture and a professional-grade outdoor grill.

Looking for all the world like a female version of Tom Sawyer, she fairly skipped across the wooden planks with one fist clutching a couple of rods, the other swinging a bait well and dip net.

“Yeah, Daddy and Patrick used to get on like a barn ablaze. We'd drag our little bass boat up here and stop for a bite to eat and before you knew it he'd have us fishing off the dock, visiting with his family or taking the Jet Skis out for a run. He's quite a business success in these parts but believes in a lot of playtime, too.”

“And his primary business these days is
fine fast food?
” Guy crooked an eyebrow in skeptical question.

Abby's laugh was a charming melody that carried
across the slick surface of the water. “That's just what he does to stay plugged in to casual visitors. Patrick is the major shareholder of the largest marina on the lake.”

Guy whistled appreciation. “Nice to see a great Olympic athlete parlay his fame into a substantial living.” Glancing at the name of the larger boat again, he snapped his fingers. “Hey!” He made a mental connection. “Did he have anything to do with that plastic gadget that broke all the eBay records?”

“Yep, still does thanks to those late-night infomercials.” She made a quick search of her shoulder bag and produced a key ring sporting a longhorn-shaped object. “See?” She tossed it to him.

He shook his head over the unique invention. “The man was always destined for greatness, and he certainly is creative.”

They settled into the beautifully restored boat; Guy cranked the powerful well-tuned engine and eased out into open water. He glanced to his left where Abby hugged her side of the craft as she'd done in the truck. Again he got the sense she was putting as much physical distance as possible between them.

“Where to?” He looked to her for directions.

 

Her skin warmed beneath the focus of his gaze and she pressed closer to her side of the woody, torn between the excitement of accepting Patrick's generosity and the silly nervousness of being alone on the
lake with a man. Not a boy. A man. One who seemed more appealing every day. The prickle of gooseflesh shimmied up her spine. She was twenty-four for goodness sake. Hardly a schoolgirl who needed a chaperone in public during broad daylight. So why did she feel so hesitant, still edgy about Guy's intentions?

“Head toward that big rock for about ten minutes.” She pointed in the distance to a landmark her dad had taught her to use for navigation. “There's a little cove off to the left. It used to be a perfect spot for white crappy. They're powerful little fighters, fun to catch and release.”

He throttled forward and the craft planed out, skimming across the glassy surface that was made to order, reflecting the brilliant blue Texas sky. She slumped down, leaned her head back against the leather seat and offered up a prayer of thanks, lightly tinged with guilt. There was so much that needed to be done for Dillon and her school kids, so many things to worry about where her parents were concerned. And here she was taking the afternoon off like she hadn't a care in the world.

A favorite Bible verse crept into her mind. In the Gospel of Matthew, Christ personally admonished that worry wouldn't add a single hour to life, and that tomorrow would worry about itself. So, for the moment she'd relax and let her cares be blown by the wind that had her hair flapping like the wings of a hummingbird. She reached up to clutch her curls into submission.

A warm hand closed around her fingers. She jerked free from the unexpected touch and instantly regretted her reaction. It was the first personal contact she'd felt from a man since the morning at the base when she'd held Phillip for the final time.

“Sorry I startled you,” Guy apologized, his eyes conveying the same message. “But don't do that. Casey is forever trying to squash her hair into a clip or a ponytail. The truth is curls like you two have are meant to be free so they can be admired.”

A glint of mischief sparked in his eyes as she dropped her hands to her lap.

“May I?” He hesitantly reached toward her, indicating he wanted to smooth her hair.

He'd been nothing but a gentleman for weeks. Always supportive, willing to help, never asking for anything in return. In good conscience, how could she still be suspicious? Wouldn't it be wrong to continue to hold his financial and personal status against him, basically what she'd been doing since she'd discovered his identity?

“Sure,” she agreed. With his right hand he reduced the speed to a safe cruise in open water then with his left he sifted curls through his fingers. Once, then twice. The second time he lightly brushed her scalp. She tingled from the outside in.

It took half a nanosecond to realize that letting him touch her was a big mistake.

I'm pathetic.

“You're incredible.”

Certain he was teasing, she searched his face for humor but saw only appreciation in his azure-blue eyes.

“I have to agree with my daddy, you're a very kind man, Guy Hardy.”

“Shorty actually said that?” It was Guy's turn to look suspicious, and with just cause. Praise from her parents was more precious than plutonium and harder to come by.

“Yes.”

“About me?”

Yes, about you.” She couldn't help smiling at his disbelief.

“I admit hearing Shorty feels that way means a lot, but I didn't compliment you out of kindness. Abby—”

Her face warmed with embarrassment. She waved away his words but he caught her hand, determined to finish what he'd started.

“Abby, while there's no doubt you're a beautiful woman, it's your gift of spirit that makes you so attractive. My sisters are a generous bunch and I love them to distraction. But you may be the most selfless and giving young lady I know.”

 

He watched her stare for several long moments, her eyes gleaming, puzzled. As with the first day they met, she seemed reluctant to accept, much less believe, she deserved the kind words. Her gaze fell to their hands. He released hers and she reached for the sack, rustled the contents inside and drew out a
golden-brown gob of fried dough affixed to a wooden stick.

“Thank you, Guy,” she modestly acknowledged what he'd said. “Now, I'm about to earn those compliments by giving you the first bite.”

As she spoke, she ripped open a small packet, squeezed out a crooked line of yellow mustard and then pushed the corn dog in his direction. The motion of her hand didn't slow as she approached his face, leaving no doubt that she expected him to open wide. Feeling a bit like Dillon must when Abby shoveled oatmeal into his mouth whether he wanted it or not, Guy reluctantly parted his lips and awaited the inevitable.

“Oh, get that terrified look off your face. It's a corn dog, not a cow paddy!” she teased. “Be flexible, Guy. Take a bite.”

He sank his teeth into the cornmeal-covered hot dog. As he began to chew, he gave a head bob of approval.

“Seeeeee?” she chided.

The burst of spicy mustard, the crispy crunch of the fried shell and the tender bite of all-beef wiener were, to his amazement, a surprisingly nice combination. The fact that he didn't choke was a plus, but would the immediate gratification outweigh the indigestion that was bound to follow?

The trepidation he felt must have shown in his face because Abby's smile drooped over his failure to share her enthusiasm.

He reached across the console, accepted the
wooden stick from her, took another large bite and basked in the approval of her broad grin. What was a little grease if it made her that happy?

As she went to work on her own snack, he deftly steered the woody through another boat's foamy wake, continuing toward the landmark rock she'd pointed out.

“Just around that next bend there's a cove off to the left. We can idle in there and drop anchor for a while if you want to wet a hook.”

Fifteen minutes later, they stood back to back in companionable silence, casting off opposite sides of the boat. Abby got a hit almost immediately and reeled in a fat perch. Guy watched, impressed as she expertly removed the lure then gently slipped the wriggling fish back into the still water with hardly a ripple to disturb the surface.

He felt a tug, jerked his line, reeled hard and frowned. Snagged, but good. Abby caught sight of his hardship, snorted a burst of laughter.

“Oh, I should have warned you, there are lots of submerged stumps around here.”

Bested by a girl. And it wasn't even the Warden!

“That would have been useful information
two minutes ago.
” He pretended to be annoyed; she continued to snicker.

At the exact moment he realized there was no additional tackle onboard, his line snapped. He abandoned his useless rod and settled on the Chris-Craft's rear bench seat. The vantage point allowed him to
admire Abby's petite but curvy figure encased in snug jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt. The definition in her arms said she did a lot of lifting. The better he knew her, the more he understood she bore the mental heavy lifting for her family as well.

“And now that I have nothing to do, I'm all ears. Tell me about this rodeo career of yours.”

Poised to cast her lure into the water, Abby paused while she appeared to consider how to reply. She turned a brief glance his way and seemed satisfied his question was earnest. Then she whipped the tip of her pole forward, releasing the line that arched for fifty feet before meeting the water with a soft
plop.
Guy had been tournament fishing since he was old enough to afford the entry fees, so a textbook cast was an area he knew well and appreciated. He couldn't hold back a smile realizing it was a skill his baby sister hadn't quite mastered.