Buried In Buttercream

that once, and I don’t recall seeing one.”
    “A motel? Are you kidding? McGill doesn’t even have a Wal-mart. Don’t you remember? Folks there still travel by covered wagon and shop at the general store.”
    He shot her a quick, questioning look.
    She chuckled. “Just kidding. McGill has a hanky-panky motel, like every other town in the country. But seriously, my family members can’t afford to pay for a motel. They had to sell Waycross’s extra pickup, cash in all the pop bottles they could lay hands on, and pawn Marietta’s toy poodle just to come up with the bus fare.”
    “I still think they oughta rent rooms somewhere and get out of your hair. They know you’re still recuperating and—”
    “I’m okay now.”
    “You’re a lot better, but you’ve got a long ways to go before you could say that you’re really—”
    “Stop it.”
    “I’m just sayin’—”
    “Well, don’t.”
    His face darkened. It was the expression she hated most. Righteous indignation. He frequently donned it when he knew darned well he was wrong.
    “So, you’re telling me,” he said, “that you just want me to keep my concerns about your welfare to myself?”
    “That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
    It’s bad enough, she thought, to have to listen to the voices in my own head telling me how worried they are about me. I don’t need yours added to the chorus .
    “Listen,” he said, adding that sitting-on-my-high-horse tone of voice that she hated to his I-know-better-than-you scowl, “I’m going to be your husband and that gives me the right to tell you whenever I think you’re—”
    “Whoa, good buddy! You better get it inside your noggin right now that things aren’t going to change that much once you’ve slipped a wedding band on my finger. I’m still gonna do what I darned well want, dang-near all the time. When it comes to my personal business, you’re welcome to state your case about it once, and then I’m gonna expect you to drop it.”
    He rounded the corner and headed down her street, his frown deepening. “And are you going to abide by the same rules?” he asked. “Like if I decide to get my Harley running again, you’re gonna tell me once that you disapprove and then not nag me about it?”
    “Get real,” she said. “Of course I’m gonna nag you about it, night and day. That’s what wives are for. It’s part of our job description.”
    He pulled the Buick over to the curb, several houses away from hers, and turned in his seat to face her. He reached over and ran his fingers through her glossy, dark brown curls, his fingertips lingering at the nape of her neck.
    Delicious shivers trickled through her body, reminding her of what they were missing tonight.
    Damn that flea-bitten, mangy firebug anyway. She couldn’t help hoping he was making lots of friends in that jail cell.
    “So, after we get married,” Dirk said, his voice low and deep in the darkness of the car, “you say not much is gonna change, huh?”
    She grinned and turned her cheek into the palm of his big, warm hand. “Well, you’ll have to change the oil on my Mustang and mow my lawn.”
    “Yes. And ... ?”
    “And I’ll cook a lot of good food for you. But then I was doing that already.”
    “Yes. And ... ?”
    “And of course, we’ll be having hot, sweaty, swingin’-from-the-trees, jungle sex three times a day.”
    Big grin. Big, big grin. Much better than the grumpy scowl any day.
    “Now, that’s more like it.” Gently, he pulled her toward him.
    Very gently.
    Too gently.
    With a sharp pang of sadness, she wondered if he would ever get over that feeling that she was infinitely fragile. Would that terrible fear inside him ever subside?
    He kissed her, and the sadness and fear slipped away for several moments.
    Not far away. But enough for her to enjoy the warmth of desire and deep affection for this man who had saved her life. A simple man who truly wanted nothing more than to be a good husband to her.
    “I love you,” he whispered.
    “I love you, too,” she replied.
    And she did. She knew it even in places that still ached, parts of her that would never be the same.
    Five gunshot wounds, he had told them when he’d brought her, bleeding and dying, to the hospital. Five.
    It was a wonder she was alive, and right then, she was so, so grateful that she was.
    “Do you wanna just come on home with me?” he said, his lips close to her ear, his breath warm on her neck. “Just because the