Rita Rainville - Too Hard To Handle

“Last week.”

“Good grief.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. So, with the family breathing down my neck and designating me as the sacrificial lamb, I cleared the idea with my editor. She thought it might have a nice, light touch. I’m leaving in about ten days.”

Before her cousin could recover, Christy circled back to the original reason for the call. “Brandy, have you ever heard Aunt Tillie call me her little wanderer?”

“Sure. Not lately, but all the time when we were kids. I figured it was because you always meandered away and the family had to send search parties out for you.”

“Yeah, I did too.”

“Did? Past tense? Not now?”

“No indeedy. She said something yesterday that put a whole new light on the subject.”

“Don’t tell me. Aliens again?”

“What’s with her, Brandy? The woman is obsessed with E.T.s. Now she seems to think I’m one of them.”

“Oh boy. Did you ask Aunt Tillie about it?”

“You bet your sweet patootie I did.”

“And?”

“She said she knew the moment I was born that I was what UFO buffs call a wanderer. She’s just been waiting for me to bloom. Damn it, Brandy, this isn’t funny. I don’t want to bloom.”

Her cousin’s snort of laughter was not comforting. “You’re doomed, Christy. There’s not a darned thing any of us can do when she goes into high gear. One consolation, though, she’ll find you a husband—one who’s good with aliens, of course. That’s always a top priority with her. After all, she’s still convinced she married me off to a real, honest-to-God E.T. Just be grateful that Uncle Walter isn’t involved.”

“I don’t want a husband, especially one who hangs around with aliens. I’ve sworn off men. Three ex-fianceés are more than enough for any woman. And the thought of Uncle Walter sending me messages from the great beyond is the stuff of nightmares,” Christy said with a shudder. “Good grief, the man has been dead for at least fourteen years. Is he ever going to quit talking to her?”

“Has she mentioned his opinion of your wandering soul or a husband?”

“Well…”

Her cousin’s laughter was no longer muffled. “Doomed, Christy. That’s what you are. Doomed!”

Earlier, other cousins had laughingly warned her that she, too, would one day be drawn into her aunt’s sphere of influence. And her life would never be the same.

Just as they’d predicted, it had happened. The fateful meeting had taken place one rainy afternoon a year earlier, after her move to San Diego, not far from her aunt’s home in Rancho Santa Fe. Less than an hour into the visit Christy had been hooked. Enchanted by the tiny woman who loved so openly, she became her staunch supporter and as fiercely protective of her as the rest of the family.

Now, wincing as she remembered Brandy’s prediction, Christy tried to rein in her overactive imagination. Granted, this stop had not been on their itinerary; they had been scheduled to drive another fifty miles similar to the last hundred since leaving Las Vegas. Miles of heat-shimmering road carved through stark landscape covered with chaparral and dotted with stumpy Joshua trees and yucca.

True, Aunt Tillie had been sitting beside her in the passenger seat humming a bit off-key when she’d spotted the lush oasis ahead—which coincided with the end of the barbed wire fence—and directed her to pull off the road onto the grassy slope.

But there was no way that Aunt Tillie could have known a man like Shane McBride would be here.

Absolutely none.

This stop was definitely just a spur-of-the-moment thing, she reassured herself. It had nothing to do with Shane, nothing to do with aliens. And definitely nothing to do with husbands.

Nada.

Relieved, she gazed up at Shane and shivered as she felt an involuntary tug of attraction. He did bear a startling resemblance to her three ex-fianceés. Not in physical looks, although they had all been large, solid men, but in his aura of power and control. Of course, it was that very aura that had been the problem.

Three times.

Number one owned a computer company, number two a marketing firm, number three was a real estate broker. All three men were aggressive types whose companies were leaving their competitors in the dust. Unfortunately, they handled their personal lives with the same drive, and she had always been a sucker for the self-assertive types.

But, that was then and this was now—and there was a limit. She had sworn off powerful men. For good. Especially the strong, silent types who assumed control as if by divine right; they were nothing but trouble. She had once believed she could tap into their gentler side, touch the tenderness she thought was just beneath the surface, but three bad experiences had finally opened her eyes.

Men like that were drawn to her generous spirit and open affection, just as she had been drawn to their strength, but it was the old water-and-oil combination. It had taken a while, but she had finally learned her lesson. If she ever started looking for a man again, and that was a big if, it would definitely be for a sensitive, caring type.

So if, through some convoluted mental process, Aunt Tillie had concluded that Shane McBride was connected to aliens or would make a terrific nephew-in-law, she could just think again. In fact, the best plan would be to get Tillie back on the road so the matter could die a natural death.

Her eyes narrowed in thought, Christy glanced again at Shane just as he turned to check on the older people walking down the hill.

“Look,” she said in a determined voice, “I’ll do my best to get this crew on the road. In the meantime, if it makes you feel any better, you can be as rude to me as you like, but when you talk to my aunt, I hope you have the courtesy to—” She caught her breath, almost choking. “Good grief, your shirt.”

He looked over his shoulder at her. “What about it?”

“It’s burned. And so is your back.” Shock lifted her voice a notch. “Why on earth didn’t you say something?”

He shrugged. “I had other things on my mind.”

Yeah, like rescuing her, she thought with a stab of guilt. Giving his sleeve a tug, she said, “Come on, I have some ointment in the motor home. It’ll keep you from blistering.”

In less than two minutes, Shane was sitting on a stool hastily pulled outside with his shirt on his lap to cover his reaction to his nurse, while Christy dabbed a cooling salve on his burns. The touch of her soft hands on his back didn’t help a bit. Seconds later, the seniors milled around him, offering sympathy and suggestions. His foreman, Hank Withers, a quiet man, tall and spare, joined them, dismounting behind the group, quieting his mare and Shane’s gelding.

Tillie, wearing raspberry tennies, pulled up a camp chair and plunked it in front of Shane. When she sat, her long purple gathered skirt, held up by green suspenders, pooled around her feet. Leaning over, she plucked his shirt from his hands, shook out the dust and spread it across her lap, looking with interest at the logo on the pocket. She drew a slim finger across a swirl of stars with the word Galaxy embroidered in red beneath it.

Flexing the shoulder on which Christy was doctoring a raw spot, he said to the older woman, “I’m Shane McBride.”

“Of course you are,” she assured him earnestly. “Our host.” Smiling at Shane, she added, “You can call me Tillie.”

Host?

Christy cleared her throat. “Aunt Tillie, Mr. McBride wants us to leave.”

Tillie tilted her head, studying Shane before switching her gaze to her niece. “You must have misunderstood, dear. It’s the scene of an accident. Nobody leaves. At least, not until the insurance people come.” Her brows drew together in thought. “Or perhaps it’s the rental people—or the police. And, who knows, that could be several days.”