The Strawberry Hearts Diner(12)

“He’s wantin’ to turn Pick into a bedroom community?” Nettie frowned.

Vicky removed her hand and went back to eating. “Sounds to me like he’s tryin’ to cause trouble and get rumors started.”

Nettie nodded. “Divide and conquer. You are right, Woody. We need a town meeting so we all know where we’re standing.”

Woody slapped the top of the counter. “Crazy fool is up to no good, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t change Pick to Carlton.”

Nettie’s head bobbed up and down again. “Or maybe just Estates, Texas, if that’s the name of the game he’s playin’. They’ll try to smother us right out of existence. We’ll close up a little early to be there. We’ll sure tell everyone that comes in today about it, too.”

“They might not even rename the place or get a post office for it. They could just get their mail out of Frankston on a rural route delivery,” Jancy said.

Woody shivered. “I was born right here in Pick and raised three kids here. The idea of us losing our town, my Irma’s town, is downright scary.”

“Terrifies me, too,” Nettie said. “But we’ll stand together as a community.”

He downed the rest of his coffee and put some coins on the counter. “I got to get down to the church and let all the Bible school folks know about the meetin’.”

“See you tonight.” Vicky waved.

He held the door for a stranger who stepped inside the diner, removed his straw cowboy hat, and nodded at the ladies. His dark hair was a little too long and his angular face a lot too sexy. He wore his jeans stacked up just right over polished cowboy boots and his white pearl-snap shirt had creases down the sleeves.

Vicky’s pulse jacked up a notch, and her heart kicked in an extra beat. She couldn’t help it. She’d always been attracted to cowboys with dark hair, and those green eyes didn’t slow the flash of heat inside her, either. But with her luck, he was probably one of the developer’s minions.

She stood up slowly and circled around to the back of the counter where he’d sat down. “What can I get you this mornin’?”

“Hot one, ain’t it?” he said with a smile.

Don’t even think a grin will persuade me to listen to your offer. I don’t give a rat’s rear if you offer six million dollars.

“Looks like it’s shapin’ up to be,” she said. “Iced tea?”

“Yes, please with a twist of lime.”

“Lime, not lemon?”

“Never did learn to like the flavor of lemon,” he said. “And I’ll have one of those strawberry tarts.”

“Be right out,” she said.

“I pass this place at least once a month and have sworn for years that I’d stop by. Today I decided to just do it. I own a little pastry shop in Palestine, so I bet this could be considered research,” he said. “I’m Andy Butler, by the way. Are you the owner here?”

“Part owner.” She sliced a lime and put it into a small bowl, filled a glass with crushed ice and tea, and carefully put a tart on a saucer. She added a paper napkin wrapped around a set of cutlery.

Nettie and Jancy had gone to the kitchen. She could hear them talking about biscuits and the recipes for pancakes and omelets. But Vicky’s eye was on the cowboy and his reaction to the tart.

He rolled his eyes in appreciation at the first bite of the tart. “My God, this is fantastic.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“If you aren’t married, I’m proposing to you.”

“I’ll have to warn you that I’ve turned down more romantic proposals than that,” she said.

“How did your husband propose?” He put another bite in his mouth.

“I think his words were, ‘I guess we’d best go tell Nettie that you’re pregnant and then we’d better find us a preacher.’ But then that was twenty-three years ago.”

“You aren’t old enough to have been married that long.”

“Forty in September,” she said.

He raised a wait-a-second finger while he chewed and swallowed. “Forty-two in October. So does your husband make these delicious tarts, or do you?”

“Nettie, co-owner of the diner, makes them. My husband died six weeks after we married.”

“I’m so sorry.” His gaze seemed sincere. “The people who told me about these did not exaggerate. They really are fabulous.”

“Thank you.” She refilled his tea glass.

“Want to sell me the recipe?”

“I do not!” Vicky growled. “And I’m not selling the diner. You can tell Carlton Wolfe that he’s got some nerve sending his peon in here to do his dirty work. It don’t matter if he comes in here in his three-piece suit or if he sends in a sexy cowboy or even a Dallas Cowboy in full football gear, my business or my recipe either one are not for sale,” she said coldly.

“Whoa, lady.” Both hands shot up like a cowboy in an old western as he dropped the pie. “I don’t want to buy your business. I was jokin’ with you, but I would definitely buy this recipe if you did want to sell it.”

“Sorry about my temper,” she said. “The tart recipe is not for sale at any price you could offer. We don’t even cater them and we limit the number that folks can carry out of here.”