Husbands, Husbands...Everywhere!. Sharon Swan

was no denying the strength of the arm carrying the hefty suitcase with ease. She might well have had to use both her arms and all her resources to accomplish the same feat.

      But then, he had always been strong. Although the faded blue sleeves of his waist-high jacket hid them from view at the moment, she had no trouble recalling the sight of solidly muscled, hair-darkened forearms. Lean and powerful.

      “He seems to be the quiet sort,” Ethel remarked, still at Abby’s side.

      Not hardly, was the first thought to surface. Then again, Abby told herself, maybe that was true now. Maybe partying well into the night no longer occupied a prominent place on his list of favorite things to do. Maybe.

      One thing was for sure, as much as he’d once enjoyed a good party, how he earned his living had always been so high on his personal list that it regularly trounced everything else competing for his time and attention. It was difficult—almost impossible—to believe that would ever change, no matter what had happened to him since they’d parted ways.

      As for the immediate future, Abby knew there was little she could do about the fact that they would be seeing each other frequently. She’d committed to remaining here until the end of May, which was still weeks away, and commitments were important enough to her to have her vowing to see this one through, regardless of how long a certain guest chose to stay.

      “Such a nice name,” Ethel said. “Ryan Larabee.”

      “I suppose so.” Abby’s tone was staunchly neutral.

      Ethel sighed softly. “Has a romantic ring to it, don’t you think?”

      “Hmm.” She’d once thought exactly that, Abby silently admitted. But that was before she’d firmly set romance aside, leaving it to those who were still starry-eyed. She valued other things in a relationship now, like mutual interests and comfortable companionship. Both of which she felt she’d found with—

      Another sigh broke into that reflection, this one long and heartfelt. “Oh, if only I were forty years younger and fifty pounds lighter.”

      Abby had to grin. “Oh, if only I could cook like you. I wouldn’t even mind gaining some weight in the effort.”

      Ethel beamed. “Thank you, dear. Even though they’re mostly grown, my grandchildren still seem to favor my baking when I visit them in California. And speaking of children, what time is the little darling due up from her nap?”

      Abby glanced at her thin gold wristwatch, a gift from her parents on her last birthday. It was elegant enough to win notice, yet in the best of conservative taste—much like the couple who had produced her. “The little dickens,” she said, “should be up soon enough that I’d better check on her. Yesterday afternoon, she was standing at the side of the crib, holding on to the railing for all she was worth and getting ready to let everyone within yelling distance know she was awake.”

      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