Usually when she said that, people chuckled at her admission, rolled their eyes, smiled condescendingly. Cammi waited for one of the typical responses. It surprised her when instead, Reid said in a soft, raspy drawl, “Well, you’re sure pretty enough to be a movie star.”
Everything, from his smile to his tone to the sparkle in his eyes told her Reid was interested in her. If they’d met him at another time, under different circumstances…
But even if Cammi trusted her judgment—and considering the gravity and multitude of her mistakes, she most definitely did not—what man in his right mind would consciously get involved with a pregnant widow?
“So, what happened?” Reid asked.
“Happened?”
“To your acting career.”
Thankfully, he hadn’t asked about the rest of her life.
While she’d inherited her mother’s dark eyes and hair, the acting-talent gene hadn’t been passed down. Cammi had given it her all out there in L.A., but she’d had less luck pleasing directors than she’d had pleasing her dad. “Guess I just wasn’t cut out for Hollywood,” she said.
It was true, after all, in more ways than one. And when this pleasant little meal and friendly conversation ended, she’d have to go home and admit that fact—and a few more—to her father and sisters.
Home.
She glanced at her watch. “I’d better see about getting a taxi. My dad was expecting me over an hour ago. Don’t want to worry him.”
“I’d drive you, but…” He extended his hands in helpless supplication.
Cammi took no offense at the reference to his destroyed pickup because there hadn’t been a trace of sarcasm in his voice. “You oughta smile more often.” One brow lifted in response to her compliment, making him look even more handsome. Cammi felt the heat of a blush color her cheeks. “I like your smile, is all,” she said, and started digging in her purse.
Reid leaned forward. “What’re you looking for?”
The rummaging had been a good excuse to avert her gaze. “Change, for the pay phone.” A half-truth was better than an outright lie, right? “My cell phone’s dead.” Cammi glanced toward the booth on the far wall and made a move to get up, but Reid held up a hand to stop her.
“Here,” he said, passing her his cell phone. “I never use up all the minutes on my plan, anyway.”
He sent her a lopsided grin that made her heart beat double time. She had no business reacting to this man. For one thing, he might well be partly responsible for her mother’s death. For another, she was newly widowed…and with child.
“While you’re at it, ask the dispatcher to send two cabs.”
She flipped the phone open. “You wouldn’t happen to have the number of the taxi company programmed into this thing, would you?”
“Never had any use for cabs, myself.” On his feet, he added, “But I can duck into the phone booth over there and look one up.” He grabbed the cell phone. “Might as well call ’em myself, long as I’m in there, anyway.”
She watched him walk away. Reid was different from just about every man she’d met in California. Oh, he was good-looking enough to join the parade of those pounding the pavement in search of leading man roles—more than attractive enough to land a few, too. Which is why it seemed so strange that everything about him, from the leather of his cowboy boots to the top of his dark-haired head screamed “genuine.”
Careful, Cammi, she warned. The man doesn’t need any more trouble in his life.
And neither did she, for that matter.
Chapter Two
If he’d had the sense God gave a goose, Reid would have ordered Georgia’s pie for dessert, or another cup of strong, diner coffee. He would have pretended that a ravenous appetite required yet another burger. Something, anything to keep Cammi with him a little while longer. But once he’d called for the taxis, there was no stopping time, and Reid had to satisfy himself with hanging around as they waited for their drivers. For several minutes after hers drove off, he found himself staring as the taillights turned into glowing red pinpricks before disappearing into the rainy black night.
“Where’s your truck?” Billy asked half an hour later, nodding toward the taxi that had delivered Reid to the Rockin’ C Ranch.
He flung his jacket onto the hall tree. “Had a crack-up in town.”
His friend’s face crinkled with concern. “You okay?” he asked, one hand on Reid’s shoulder.
“Yeah.” Physically, he was fine. But something had happened to his head, to his heart, sitting with Cammi at Georgia’s. She looked awfully familiar, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember where, or if, they’d ever met. Something he’d have to think about long and hard before he saw her again.
“Whose fault was it?”
Reid heard the caution in Billy’s question; his friend didn’t want to wake any sleeping ghosts, and Reid appreciated that. “Hers.”
Nodding, Billy headed down the hall toward the kitchen. “Put on a pot of decaf couple minutes ago. Martina made apple pie for dessert tonight. Join me?”
Though he’d wolfed down his burger and fries before downing two cups of coffee at Georgia’s Diner, Reid said, “Hard to say no to anything Martina whips up.”
While Billy sliced pie, Reid filled a mug for each of them. “Li’l gal ran a red light,” he explained, grabbing two forks from the silverware drawer, “and I broadsided her.”
Wincing, Billy whistled. He didn’t say more. Didn’t have to. He’d been there that night, too.
“Really, son, you okay?”
Reid nodded. “Yeah.” Okay as the likes of him deserved to be, anyway.
“Just remember, this one wasn’t your fault, either.”
Billy had talked “fault” after meeting then fourteen-year-old Reid at the E.R. “I talked to the cops,” he’d said on the drive back to the Rockin’ C, “and they told me three eyewitnesses stated for the record that Rose London ran the red light.” Then he’d reached across the front seat and grabbed Reid’s sleeve. “Quit fiddlin’ with the bandage, son, or you’ll wear a scar on your forehead the rest of your days.”
Reid half smiled at the memory, because ironically, the scar he wore now, in almost exactly the same spot, had been inflicted by a raging Brahma bull, not a car accident.
“Stop lookin’ so glum,” Billy was saying. “Just remember, the accident wasn’t your fault.”
He’d said pretty much the same thing all those years ago: “You’re not to blame for what happened to the London woman.”
True enough—Mrs. Lamont London had run a red light, same as Cammi Carlisle, and he’d plowed into the side of her car, too. However, assigning fault did nothing to ease Reid’s guilt. Not then, not now. And Billy had bigger problems to worry about than traffic accidents, present or past, since his doctor’s prognosis.
“Georgia says ‘hey,”’ Reid said, changing the subject. “Said she misses seeing you and Martina.”
The fork hung loose in Billy’s big hand. Absent-mindedly, he shoved an apple slice around on his plate. “Gettin’ harder and harder to drag my weary bones into town,” he said on a heavy sigh. “Gettin’ hard to drag ’em anywhere.”
Reid