One Christmas Knight

Chapter 4

“Where’d you say that truck stop is? I’m so hungry I’m chewin‘ on air.”

I-40-New Mexico

The bowlful of steaming chicken-noodle soup the waitress set in front of Mirabella looked good and smelled even better. Even so, she sat regarding it without enthusiasm until Jimmy Joe picked up her spoon and held it out to her and said, “Eat,” in a tone that brooked no argument. Then with a sigh she took the spoon from him, plunged it into the bowl, lifted it laden with noodles and dripping broth, and blew on it, more to forestall the moment when she would have to put it in her mouth than because it actually needed cooling.

Jimmy Joe, who wasn’t fooled, said, “Come on, quit stalling.” Mirabella took a deep breath.

It wasn’t that she wasn’t hungry. That is, her stomach felt hungry-she just didn’t seem to have any desire for food. Which was a state of affairs she would normally have relished, having spent most of her life fighting the inescapable effects of a disgustingly healthy and indiscriminating appetite. But the truth was, she simply felt too awful to eat., She was so tired. And she had such a backache. Plus, she was worried about the weather, and feeling emotionally vulnerable about Christmas, just the thought of which made her throat constrict like a too-tight collar. And as if that wasn’t enough, there was, the distracting and disturbing presence of Jimmy Joe Starr.

As hard as she tried to ignore it, as determined as she was not to acknowledge it, to look somewhere else-anywhere else-and pretend a nonchalance she didn’t in the least feel, she was acutely aware of him. She knew he was studying her, though trying his best not to be obvious and rude about it; watching her when he thought it was safe with a puzzled intensity she couldn’t quite fathom. Why is he looking at me like that? she kept wondering. As if he had a question that was burning a hole in his tongue. If there’s something he wants to know about me, she thought irritably, why doesn’t he just ask? Or is he just too damn polite?

That was it. It had to be. He was so young, he probably hadn’t had much experience with pregnant women, so naturally, Mirabella told herself, he would be curious. But it wasn’t exactly the kind of thing you could just ask a stranger about-not without being rude-and if there was anything in the world this guy was, besides cute and young, it was polite.

Thinking about the man-boy, really-in those terms, while being careful not to actually look at him, Mirabella began to feel gratifyingly mature and maternal. Her confidence growing, she lifted her lashes, found Jimmy Joe’s nice brown eyes and smiled.

And just like that, all the maternal feeling she’d managed to conjure up went right out the window, along with most of the maturity and confidence.

Oh, Lord, she thought, what does this mean? The particular intensity in that warm-as-mink gaze couldn’t possibly be what it appeared to be. Of course not. Oh, no.

The truth was, one of the few things in life Mirabella had never learned how to handle was male admiration. Other than in a business context, of course; appreciation of her talent and capabilities from the male-dominated world she worked in was something she not only welcomed, but considered no more than her due. But let the soft glow of admiration in a man’s eyes flare into something more personal, more primitive-like lust, say-and her instant reaction was apt to be, “Who, me? What, is he nuts?”

Catching a glimpse of something of the sort in Jimmy Joe’s eyes, her first reaction was shock: My God, how can he? I look like a whale! That was closely followed by dismay: What can he be thinking of? After that came disappointment. She concluded sadly that he must be one of those men she’d heard about who actually found pregnant women sexy. Which she considered truly disgusting.

Thoroughly unnerved, compelled almost against her will to be sure, Mirabella braced herself, then stole another look. This one was more covert than the first, slanted upward through her lashes as she dipped her head to meet the laden spoon. But now the heavy-lidded gaze she encountered held nothing more than patient amusement.

“Eat,” said Jimmy Joe sternly, tapping the tabletop with a forefinger.

Okay, I was wrong, she thought. Oh, thank God Giddy with relief, she feigned resentment. “I’m eating. I’m eating, already. You don’t have to watch me, you know.”

“Yeah, I do,” said Jimmy Joe. But his tone was teasing, and his smile wry.

Relaxing, Mirabella tossed back the wing of hair she’d been hiding behind and smiled across the table in a friendlier way. “Seriously-I don’t need a baby-sitter. I know I intruded on whatever it was you were doing-making a phone call, weren’t you?-so why don’t you just go on, pretend I’m not here. I won’t listen, I promise.” Go ahead, she thought, pretending she didn’t in the least care, call your…girlfriend? Wife?

He scooted back the sleeve of his sweatshirt in order to look at his watch, then shrugged and gave her a regretful little smile. “Ah, I was just tryin’ to get ahold of my son, is all. Past his bedtime back there now, though. I’ll catch him in the mornin’.”

“You have a son?” For some reason, that jolted Mirabella, and she halted her spoon in surprise. It wasn’t that he didn’t look old enough; how old, after all, did a guy have to be to make a baby? But she’d just finished convincing herself that he was only a boy himself so she could feel comfortable with him, and now fatherhood made that image somewhat difficult to maintain.

“Yeah…his name’s J.J.” He said it with diffidence. But something about his voice, the smile that flitted across his face like a blinding flash of sunlight he hadn’t been able to avoid, caused a sudden soft prickling in the area of Mirabella’s heart, rather like a bad case of static electricity.

He’s so proud of him, she thought. And hard on the heels of that realization came another, much more unexpected: I’ll bet he’s a terrific father. “Tell me about him,” she said mistily. “How old is he?”

Jimmy Joe kind of stretched and rubbed a hand across the back of his neck while he thought about it-which she was almost certain he didn’t need to do in order to tell her how old his own child was. What it did was add a touch of winsome modesty to his already considerable charm. “Ah, let’s see… He’d be eight.”

“Eight months? Oh, that’s a cute age.” An image flashed into her mind-a softly lit picture of Jimmy Joe cuddling a baby against his manly pecs. Which produced another of those peculiar stirrings deep in her own chest.

He grinned. “Not so cute. That’s eight years. They tend to get pretty ornery by that age.”

“You’re kidding.” Mirabella’s spoon, halted once more on its downward arc, clattered unnoticed to the table.

His head bobbed in an affirming nod. “Be nine next July.”

Lacking Jimmy Joe’s Southern reserve and good manners, she went ahead and said it: “You don’t look old enough.”

He didn’t exactly seem flattered by that, which, she thought, was in itself a measure of how young he was. Instead he shifted in an embarrassed sort of way and muttered, “Oh, I’m plenty old enough. Pushin’ thirty.”

Thirty. Mirabella couldn’t think what to say. After a moment she picked up her spoon and calmly murmured, “Well, you don’t look it.” She was thinking, Eight…almost nine years… My God. The prickly feeling in her chest slowly dissipated.

“So,” she said brightly, “where’s your little boy now?” Being from California, she had none of Jimmy Joe’s hesitation about asking questions when necessary, whether as a desperate attempt to make conversation, or because there was something she really wanted to know. Since the one she’d just asked fell more into the former category than the latter-just a variation on your basic “Where are you from?” gambit-the answer she got kind of took her by surprise.

“He’s with his grandma-that’s my mama-back in Georgia.”

Mama? Well, after that there wasn’t anything she could do but proceed to the next question, this one definitely in the “want to know” category. But as curious as she was, and even though tact had never been her strongest suit, she did try to make it as casual as she could.

“What about your wife?” she began confidently enough, before fumbling into stammering ineptitude. “Er…J.J.’s mother. She doesn’t live… I mean, she’s not…” She gestured hopefully with her empty spoon.

“His mama’s dead,” Jimmy Joe quietly answered, apparently taking pity on her.

Mirabella was thoroughly and sincerely aghast. For all her arrogance in business and thorny attitude toward men in general, she had a compassionate and sympathetic heart. It was, although she preferred to keep the fact a secret, a veritable marshmallow, especially where children were concerned. So it was that, forgetting her own discomforts and worries, she instantly and instinctively reached out to the motherless boy she’d never met through the only avenue available to her-his father.

Pushing her soup aside she lightly touched his hand-something she would never have dreamed of doing otherwise-and then, forgetting also the dangers inherent in such contact, let herself touch the deep sadness in his eyes, as well. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

“It was a while ago. Five years.” His voice seemed so matter-of-fact, for a moment Mirabella wondered if she’d mistaken the look of profound regret-as if, she thought, he somehow felt himself responsible. But then he took a breath and went on, and she thought she understood why his feelings might be a little bit complicated. “I didn’t hear about it right away. Hadn’t seen Or heard from her in years-we’d been divorced since J.J. was just a baby. She was livin’ in New Orleans at the time.”

“How did she die?” Mirabella asked softly, thinking tragic thoughts about cancer and car accidents.

She was unprepared when he hitched a shoulder and angrily and impatiently growled the word, “Drugs.”

“Oh, God.” Suddenly chilled, she pulled her fingers from his and pressed them against her lips. She hadn’t exactly led a sheltered life, having spent a large part of it-the most recent part-in downtown L.A., where the drug culture’s human toll called to her daily from wretched alleyways and reached out to her from every street corner. “Spare some change, lady? For food…?” But nothing in her own experience had ever brought the reality as close to her as this.

In a low, horrified voice, she said, “You mean…an overdose?”

He shook his head, the brief boil of anger dissipating as quickly as it had risen. “Couldn’t say. More’n likely it was a combination of things-malnutrition…pneumonia. Maybe she just plain, ol’ gave up.” He shifted again in that restless way he had, as if talking about himself made him itch. “She’d had trouble with it since she was just a kid. I guess I was a fool, but I thought I could help her. I just didn’t know…”

Mirabella watched him take a deep breath, the way people do when they need to make room for pain inside. “For a while I thought I had. Then, after J.J. was born… Well, I guess I wasn’t strong enough. Or she wasn’t. I had to give up tryin’, or take chances with J.J.’s life I wasn’t willin’ to take. So…” He shrugged and looked away, making it clear that he’d said all he cared to say on the subject.

And Mirabella, having been in that position herself often enough to respect it, didn’t pursue it.

“So,” she said wonderingly after a moment, “you’ve raised your son on your own since he was just a baby.”

The truth was, she felt humbled and chastened, and was looking at Jimmy Joe in a whole new light. He’d seemed so young, an impression that she now thought might have had more to do with his smite-that sweet, sleepy grin that reminded her of a tousled child just waking from a nap-than with smooth cheeks and buns that still looked good in jeans. And of course he was young-not even thirty!

But the impression she’d formed of carefree youth and unsullied innocence had vanished the moment she’d allowed herself to look into his eyes and recognized a certain quiet sadness in them. This was no callow, untested boy, she suddenly realized. Jimmy Joe Starr was a full-grown man-one who’d loved and married and struggled and lost; one who’d already known tragedy and failure as well as joy; one who’d unhesitatingly taken on the worries and responsibilities of fatherhood. In short, a man who’d experienced a whole lot more of life in his almost-a-decade-fewer years, than Mirabella had, by far.

A vague, indefinable sadness crept in around her heart-something like the feeling she sometimes got listening to the blues all alone late at night, or certain songs by John Lennon. If only, she thought. If only…

“Well, I wouldn’t say alone.” Jimmy Joe squirmed uncomfortably, trying to be honest about it. He wasn’t sure what had just happened, but for all he’d been so disapproving of her, now that she’d handed him his chance to speak his mind on the subject of single parents raising babies, he didn’t feel he had the right. The idea had come to him that maybe he ought to get to know her a little better first, find out how she felt about things, what made her tick.

It surprised him some, too, to realize how much he wanted to do that.

“My mama, you know…she helps out a lot. And my sister Jess is there, too. Lately she and her little girl have been livin’ with Mama while her husband’s gone overseas-he’s in the military. Sammi June-let’s see, I guess she’d be ten-she’s company for J.J.” He grinned. “Although if you were to ask him, I don’t think he’d exactly agree with that right at the moment. He’s feelin’ just a mite outnumbered. Too many women.”

Mirabella leaned her chin on her hand and smiled. “Yeah? Think how my dad felt-he had three daughters.”

“No kiddin’?” Jimmy Joe blinked; one Mirabella was dazzling, but the idea of two more like her was enough to boggle the mind. He couldn’t help it-he had to ask. “They all look like you?”

She made a face, and a sound that could only be described as a snort. “We don’t even look like the same species. If you stand us up in order, we look like the letter H-I’m the little short piece in the middle.” She sighed, then smiled in the way people do when they want you to think they aren’t hurting inside. “My sisters are both tall, slim, blond and gorgeous. I’m the ugly duckling.”

Well, he didn’t even begin to know what to say to that. Figuring she had to be kidding, or was maybe fishing for compliments, which was a feminine ploy he did not admire, he just mumbled, “Come on…”

He felt a lot better when she laughed. “Oh, I don’t mean now. I mean, well, I didn’t exactly turn into a swan, but at least I think I’m…you know, an okay duck. But you should have seen me when I was a kid.” Which was just what he’d been thinking, too, but he kept his mouth shut.

“Canoty-red hair,” she elaborated, tweaking a rich mahogany strand across her eyes and again making a face at it. “Straight as a stick. Face as round as a Moon Pie and speckled as a turkey egg. And great big glasses. Now I wear contacts,” she explained, flashing her luminous eyes at him and batting her thick dark lashes like the heroine of an old movie. “Oh-plus, I was fat. Well…plump. And short. Built like a fireplug. So naturally I was terrible at sports.” She smiled the hurtin’ smile again. This time Jimmy Joe felt it in his own gut. “All the necessary traits for a guaranteed miserable childhood.”

“I find it real hard to believe that,” he murmured, stunned.

She shrugged, still trying to make light of it. “I had the nicknames to prove it: Carrot Top…Freckle-Faced Freak… Four Eyes, to mention a few. Oh-and Firecracker. I also had one helluva temper.”

And brains, he thought. And courage. And probably a great sense of humor. Hadn’t anybody seen it?

“I was very popular, actually,” said Mirabella, as if she’d heard his thought. “Lots of girlfriends. And the boys, well…” She made the snorting sound again. “I mean, boys just couldn’t seem to leave me alone. Hey, who could blame them? I was just so darn much fun to tease. As you can probably imagine.”

Jimmy Joe didn’t know what to say. He wanted to tell her he wished he’d known her back then, and that if he had, things would have been different. He wanted to believe that he would never have made fun of her, and that he would have busted any kid who dared to do so right in the chops.

He did believe it, because for one thing, he knew his mama would have busted his butt if she’d ever found out he’d been teasing someone, and in a town as small as the one he’d grown up in, she would for sure have gotten, wind of it sooner or later. But more than that, he believed it because he felt as a certainty in his soul that he would have liked that little red-haired girl-freckles, glasses and all. He would have liked her spunk, for one thing. Maybe, in his little boy’s heart, he would even have secretly thought she was cute, although he would never have had the gumption to say so. But he knew for sure he would have wanted to be her friend. He just wasn’t so sure he would have had the courage.

“Must’ve been something wrong with those boys,” he finally mumbled, shaking his head. “That’s all I can say. Must’ve been stone-blind.”

She kind of half smiled at him, obviously thinking he was just being polite. “That’s very sweet of you. But you weren’t there. You didn’t see me back then.”

“Well, I wish I had been,” he said with feeling. It bothered him a lot that she didn’t believe him, and he knew he wasn’t going to be able to make her believe him, no matter what he said. Because he could now see what he’d missed before-that the uppity tilt of her chin was there mainly because of the chip on her shoulder that had been there so long it had grown to be part of her basic nature. And that made him sad. More than that-it made him mad.

She was gazing at him now with her chin propped in her hand and a shiny look in her eyes, still smiling that little half-smile. “Jimmy Joe,” she said softly, “do you know that when I was in junior high, you were barely out of diapers?”

“Come on.” Shock jerked him against the brown vinyl seat, his head moving back and forth in pure disbelief. “No way!” She nodded, and he just kept shaking his head. He couldn’t believe it. He had put her age at maybe twenty-six, twenty-seven, tops. “No way you can be that much older than I am,” he insisted, feeling vaguely betrayed and insulted without having the last idea why. “You know, I’m older than I took-Hey, did I mention I’m almost thirty?”

“You did,” Mirabella said, laughing now, but gently. She thought he looked so endearingly affronted, with his hair mused and flopped down across a thunderous frown, and dark eyes flashing lightning. Like one of her sister Sommer’s kids passionately arguing, “But I am big enough! I am.”

Passionate. Oops! Her heart gave a little flip-flop of dismay and of warning. How had the conversation gotten so personal? What was this tension, this glow of awareness that was all of a sudden zapping back and forth across the table like a current between two electrodes?

Just then, as if in response to all the fuss and turmoil taking place one floor above, the tiny tenant who’d been peacefully snoozing beneath her ribs suddenly lurched into wakefulness. For Mirabella it was-literally-a kick from reality. The warm tingle of growing attraction vanished like campfire sparks in a cold night sky, and backache and pressure and overwhelming tiredness came to take its place.

To cover the source of her involuntary gasp, she looked at her watch and murmured, “Wow, look at the time-past midnight. I’m really sorry…I should let you go. You could be getting some rest, at least.” And then she surprised herself by yawning.

Without a word, Jimmy Joe slid out of the booth, snagging the check on his way. Once upright, he pulled his wallet from a hip pocket, took out a couple of dollar bills and dropped them on the table. Then he reached over and touched Mirabella’s arm. “Come on,” he said in a husky voice, jerking his head for emphasis. “I’ll walk you back out there. Put your coat on.”

It was an order, not a subject for discussion, which ordinarily would have ticked her off royally and at the very least triggered immediate and total insurrection. But for some reason all she could summon up was a feeble and completely ineffective, “Oh. no, I insist-”

“Ma’am,” said Jimmy Joe softly, leaning over and looking earnestly into her eyes as if she were a small child on the verge of misbehaving in public, “you and that baby need it more’n I do. Now, we’re gonna give it one more shot, okay?”

Did he have to keep calling her me’am?

And with that thought, suddenly Mirabella found herself in the depths of depression, weary beyond all reason and once more on the verge of tears-very much, in fact, like that contrary child. Was that why she allowed herself to be taken in hand like a helpless wimp instead of proclaiming her right to be proudly and independently miserable, as she normally would have done? She didn’t know. But she did know that there was something indefinably comforting about having the reins taken out of her hands, for once; and that instead of resenting the one who’d wrested them from her, she felt a profound sense of gratitude.

As before, Jimmy Joe waited patiently while she made yet another potty stop and took her arm as they crossed the cold, windy parking lot. This time, though, there was no attempt at polite conversation. Mirabella just waddled as fast as she could, teeth clenched, hugging herself and shivering in waves, far too miserable to worry about how silly she looked or what anybody might think of her. When she saw the royal blue truck with its bright shiny star looming before her, she felt an urge to laugh out loud with sheer joy and thanksgiving, like a half-frozen wanderer stumbling onto a friendly campfire.

“Hold on. just a second…let me get ’er unlocked.”

Jimmy Joe had to let go of her arm while he stepped up to the door, but he kept looking at her sideways while he did, just in case she decided to fold up on him. She reminded him of a poor little bird, standing there all hunched up, with the wind whipping her hair across her face. Like that nursery rhyme-he remembered it from years and years ago-that started out, “The north wind doth blow,/And we shall have snow/And what will the poor robin do then,/Poor thing?”

Okay, he was starting to worry about her. He knew what she’d told him-about her baby not being due for another month-but he also knew from personal experience that babies had a way of doing things their own way and in their own good time. Either way, it was a sure bet that all this stress and strain wasn’t going to be good for her or the baby. What she needed, he thought, was to be safe at home where there were kinfolk to look after her, somebody to make sure she got enough rest, see that she put her feet up, and rub her back for her when she couldn’t sleep.

And then he told himself all over again, Jimmy Joe Starr, she’s not your concern.

He got the doors unlocked, then went around to help her into the passenger side, trying not to let out most of the warmth in the process. He had to almost lift her up the two high steps and into the cab, and once inside it seemed a natural thing to leave his arms where they were and just go on holding her. She didn’t seem to mind, which surprised him some. Then again, he thought, maybe she was so cold she would have been willing to hug a grizzly bear for the heat. Shoot, that coat she was wearing was so thin it wasn’t worth a nickel in weather like this. But then, what could he expect from somebody from California?

And again he told himself, Jimmy Joe, she’s not your concern.

It was warm and close in the cab, and after a minute or two she pulled away from him, giving herself a little shake, like someone throwing off a blanket. Neither of them said anything, although Jimmy Joe did sort of cough and mutter, “’Scuse me,” as he moved past her to turn on the light in the steeper.

The light wasn’t kind to her. He thought about what she’d told him, about how she’d been in junior high when he was still in diapers, and he still didn’t believe it. He still thought she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever set eyes on in his life, but now for some reason it made his throat ache to look at her. Seeing her like this, so pale and drawn, and the glassy look of pain in her eyes, all he wanted to do was make her feel better.

And he told himself, Jimmy Joe, she’s still none of your concern.

But this time from another part of his being a whole new voice answered back, Yeah, she is.

Although his overriding urge was to put his arms back around her and hug her some more, he didn’t give in to it, limiting himself to a guiding touch on her elbow while he held back the partitioning curtain. “There you go,” he said gruffly. “Climb right on up there, now. Pull back the covers if you want to. Be warmer that way.”

“Thanks.” She sat on the edge of the bed and looked up at him, and he could see she was beginning to feel uneasy about him being there. “I’ll be fine.”

He knew she was waiting for him to go. He knew he ought to. But that new voice inside him had other ideas, and he wasn’t all that surprised to hear himself say, with a firm, no-nonsense shake of his head, “I’m gonna just stay and make sure you’re settled before I go.”

“You don’t have to do that.” Her voice sounded breathy. “I’ll be all right now. Honest.”

Honest… She sounded just like a little girl when she said that, which made him smile. “Ma‘am,” he said as he put his hands on her shoulders, “I don’t intend on goin’ anywhere until I know you’re resting, y’hear? Just lie right on down there, now.” And as gently as he knew how, he eased her over so she was lying on her side with her knees pulled up against her belly and her head resting on her folded-up arm. “That’s the way. There you go. How’s that?”

She flashed him one bright, angry look that cheered him considerably, then closed her eyes without answering. He could tell by the way she was breathing through her nose-in slow, deep breaths-that she was hurting.

It came to him suddenly, gleaned from memories of suffering through two pregnancies with J.J.’s mama, what her problem might be. “Your back achin’?” he asked, sitting beside her on the very edge of the bed. She nodded, just too plain miserable to talk. “Yeah…” he said softly. “That’s what I thought.”

He put his hand on her shoulder, overcoming a powerful urge to reach beyond it, just to smooth the hair back from her face. With that tenderness simmering inside him, he said, “Ma‘am, why don’t you turn over on your other side? What I’m gon’ do is rub your back a little. Make you feel a whole lot better, help you relax. Okay? Come on, now… Roll on over.”

Instead of doing what he’d told her, she suddenly squinched up her face without opening her eyes, as if she’d felt a sharp pain, and said in a sulky voice, “Do you have to keep calling me ma’am?”

That made him grin, but her eyes were closed so he didn’t have to worry about her seeing it, and thanks to all those phone conversations with J.J. he knew how to keep it from showing up in his voice. “Sorry about that,” he said, solemn as a judge. “I don’t mean anythin’ personal by it. It’s just a habit-shoot, it’s probably in my genes.”

“Well, it makes me feel really old.”

Now he did chuckle, resisting again the urge to touch her face, just to run his fingertips lightly across the ivory curve of her forehead, which, as far as he could see, in spite of her concern, was completely unmarred by any wrinkles. “You have to understand, it’s got nothin’ to do with how old you are, just the fact that you’re female.”

Opening her eyes about halfway, she studied him from under her lashes. “You call your mom ma’am?”

“Oh, you bet.”

“Uh-hmm. Your sister?”

“Well, now…”

“Girlfriend?”

He wanted to laugh, now that he thought he knew where she was headed. “No, don’t believe I would-if I had one.”

She chewed on that for a moment or two, then said slowly, “The waitress in there-you called her ma’am. Would you have done that if she was nineteen?”

“Sure would. Yes, ma’am.”

“So…it’s a matter of respect.” She said it like, “Aha!”

“That’s right.” But he was beginning to feel just a little uneasy, wondering if he knew after all what she was getting at.

“So…you don’t respect your sister or your girlfriend?”

Well, she had him there. He rubbed the back of his neck while he thought about it, then said, “It’s kind of hard to explain-especially since I don’t believe I was ever called upon to try to before. You grow up in the South, it’s just somethin’ you take for granted, like grits for breakfast. But I guess what it is, it’s respect. But it’s more like-it’s formal, you know? You don’t use it when it’s personal, like with your friends, or your close kin-” he paused to smile before he said it “-unless they’re older.”

“Let me get this straight.” A little pleat of concentration puckered the skin between her eyebrows, but her voice had grown drowsy and he could see that the warmth in the truck, the lateness of the hour and her tiredness were beginning to have their way with her. “You can’t stop calling me ma’am because you don’t know me well enough.”

“Yeah, I guess that’d be about right.”

“But you know me well enough to rub my back?”

So that was it. Again that tenderness wafted through him like a warm breeze over damp skin, stirring shivers of laughter that felt like goose bumps inside. Keeping it soft so as not to rile her he murmured, “Okay, Marybell, I’ll make you a deat-you quit arguin’ and roll on over there, and I’ll quit callin’ you ma’am. How’s that? Deal?”

“Deal,” she whispered.

It was only after he’d helped her through the ponderous process of rolling over and she was once more settled on her side, this time facing away from him, that a tiny echo in her head said incredulously, Marybell?

But then she felt the warm weight of his hand on her lower back, on the exact spot that ached so awfully, and a firm, circling pressure that felt so wonderful she forgot everything else; so wonderful she almost wept with the sheer relief it brought her.

“Oh…God,” she groaned, “how did you know?”

Jimmy Joe’s voice was soft and oddly muffled, as if she were hearing him through a layer of fur. “Oh, I’ve done this for J.J.’s mama a time or two. It’s been awhile, but I guess you don’t forget how.”

“Lucky,” Mirabella muttered with a sigh. “How’d I get through eight months without you?”

A chuckle undulated along her auditory nerves like ripples in black velvet.