Tight-Fittin' Jeans. Mary Baxter Lynn

skull. He walked to the window, all the while nursing the lump on the side of his head.

      Damn that woman for adding to his physical misery. And double-damn her for having such a cute ass that she was making him mentally miserable, as well.

      Desperate to regain control of his wandering mind, he stared out the window, concentrating on the orchard of peach trees loaded with fruit.

      It was a damn shame the crop had to go to waste, he thought, just as the phone rang.

      

      “Has something happened that we should know about?”

      “Uh, why do you ask that?” Tiffany heard the uneasiness in her own voice, and knew without a doubt that Bridget had picked up on it, too, especially as they were practically able to read each other’s minds.

      “Hey, remember who you’re talking to here, okay? You can’t pull the wool over my eyes, so don’t even try.”

      “I thought you were supposed to be concentrating on getting well?”

      “My body might be in traction, but my mind isn’t So fess up.”

      Tiffany sighed. “All right. First, though, tell me how you’re doing.”

      “I’m progressing about as well as the doctors predicted. It’s just going to take longer than I wanted.” Bridget paused. “You’re not about to tell me you have to get back to Houston, are you?”

      “No, though you might send me packing when I fess up, as you put it. If you don’t, then Jeremiah might.”

      “Stopping beating around the bush. I’m about to have a hissy fit, and you know that’s not good for me.”

      “I knocked Jeremiah’s friend in the head.” Once she’d blurted out the confession, Tiffany waited for the fireworks. She wasn’t disappointed.

      “What?”

      “He’s okay, really he is.”

      “What on earth—?”

      Before Bridget could go on, Tiffany jumped in and told her the entire story. When she finished, a long silence added to her already jangled nerves. Replaying the entire scenario made it seem even more incredible than it already was.

      “Oh, Tiff, how could you?” Bridget exclaimed.

      “I screwed up. What more can I say?”

      “Nothing. It’s just so...bizarre. Well, as long as he isn’t hurt, then don’t worry about it.” Bridget paused, then chuckled.

      “What’s so damn funny?”

      “You, actually. I can just picture you sneaking up on that poor unsuspecting man and—”

      “Okay, okay. Let’s not beat a dead horse. Maybe I won’t have to see him again.”

      “I wouldn’t count on that, especially as Jeremiah was serious when he asked him to keep an eye on things around the ranch.”

      “Well, let’s put it this way—I’M go out of my way to avoid running into him. Trust me, I’m not at the top of his friend list.”

      Bridget chuckled again. “I’m sure you’re not, which is all the more reason why my husband should stop being so stubborn. I’ve tried to tell him he needs to get away from here, go back to the ranch himself and see to things.”

      “You can forget that. He’s not about to leave you.”

      “I know, and I’m really glad, but still...” Bridget’s voice trailed off before she changed the subject and asked, “How’s Taylor? I—we miss her so much.”

      “She’s right here, dancing a jig to talk to you both.”

      That conversation between the four of them had taken place two hours ago now. Since then, Tiffany had taken Taylor to a birthday party that was to last the afternoon. Once she returned to the house, she’d done a few chores, though there weren’t many, as Bridget had left everything in immaculate order.

      It didn’t seem possible that she had been here only three days. To Tiffany, it seemed like three months, especially now, with nothing but time on her hands.

      She had considered going into town, looking up Irma Quill and introducing herself to her. But she’d nixed that idea, since she wasn’t in the best of moods herself, only she didn’t understand why.

      Peace in Taylor’s absence should be savored. Although her young charge was no trouble, she was a typical six-year-old. Tiffany wasn’t used to the demands that went along with caring for a child of any age.

      Still, Taylor wasn’t at the root of her restlessness. Garth Dixon was the reason she couldn’t settle down. God, how could she have mistaken him for a prowler, or worse? Easy. She was out of her element in these woods—plus, she had a habit of reacting before she thought

      Obviously she wouldn’t be able to avoid him completely, which meant...what? Was she trying to convince herself that she should make amends? No way! She hadn’t meant to hurt him. But if his reaction was the barometer by which she would be judged, she’d done it on purpose and without just cause.

      Well, that was his problem, not hers. Yet she couldn’t stop thinking that somehow she should at least try to cultivate some goodwill, if for no other reason than so he would be available in case of an emergency.

      Tiffany tromped into the kitchen, where she paused. Maybe she should make a cake and take it to him. He had looked as if he could use some calories. Besides, hadn’t the old adage that said the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach proved to be true?

      While she didn’t give a flip about getting to his heart, she didn’t have anything against satisfying his stomach.

      “Then just do it and get it over with,” she said out loud, crossing to the cabinets and opening them until she found a couple of mixing bowls.

      An hour later, after having called Taylor at her friend’s house and found out where Garth lived, she put the cake in a plastic container and set off through the woods. By the time she arrived, Tiffany had decided she should be committed, convinced she was the last person he wanted to see.

      Still, now that she’d bitten the bullet and come this far, she wasn’t about to chicken out. If he didn’t want to accept the cake, then he could dump it in the trash. At least she’d made the effort.