Harmony and High Heels (Fort Worth Wranglers 2)

Harmony smiled to herself as she gathered their usual order. Cannoli for Reverend Sadek, eclairs for Pearson, sand tarts for Horner, and one pan of piping-hot sticky buns complete with a birthday candle for the table.

She walked through the doorway that led to the kitchen. She grabbed a pot holder and pulled the sticky buns out of the warm oven. Their orangey, cinnamon scent filled the air. Harmony picked up the blue birthday candle she’d set out on the counter, lit it, and carried the pan out front. She drew the line at singing.

“Happy Birthday, Mr. Laramey.” She set the pan in front of him. “Make a wish.”

“How come I didn’t get no candle for my birthday?” McDonald folded his thin arms and stuck out his bottom lip.

These men might have the combined age of half a millennium, but they were still little boys. Men, no matter how old they grow, are all still little boys.

“She likes him more than she likes you.” John Horner grinned. “She has great taste.”

“That’s not very nice.” McDonald continued to pout.

Harmony set their favorites in front of each man as Laramey blew out his candle. When she got to Mr. McDonald, she set his plate of chocolate macadamia nut cookies down in front of him and leaned over and whispered, “You didn’t get a candle because you’re not as needy as Mr. Laramey. I hate to see a grown man cry, and we both know he’s a crier.”

“You’re a good girl.” McDonald patted her hand. “Must have gotten that from your daddy, ’cause your momma is a menace.”

Mr. McDonald certainly knew how to hold a grudge. A million years ago, back when he’d taught her mother history in high school, something bad had happened in his class. He blamed Momma and had hated her ever since. Maybe that was why Harmony loved the old man.

“You’re such a good girl.” Reverend Sadek put his liver-spotted hand on her forearm.

“Thank you.” She smiled. Every time he said it, it was a stroke to the old ego. If they only knew she regularly drove to the next county over to raise hell, they wouldn’t be so quick to call her a good girl.

It wasn’t that she was afraid of telling the world the truth, it was more that she enjoyed the dual life. San Angelo was a small town. Airing her dirt

y lingerie here wouldn’t be nearly as much fun as secretly wearing it under all of this good girl. Or so she liked to tell herself …

Three hours later, just as she’d hit the late-morning lull before the lunch rush, Neil Diamond’s “Cherry Cherry” buzzed out of her phone. Harmony rolled her eyes. It was her sister’s new ringtone. God, she hated that damn song.

She pulled the phone out of her pocket and hit answer. “Are you packing your ski parka?”

“Ummm.” Lyric took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Harm, I … um, kind of can’t go.”

“What’s wrong?” Harm leaned against the front counter and watched Clara Nutter, her assistant, wipe down tables. “Are you sick? Or pregnant?”

“Neither.” Lyric sounded embarrassed, and rightly so, as she continued, “Heath won’t let me go.”

“Excuse me? Tell me I heard you wrong. Tell me you didn’t just say that your husband forbade you from doing something. Gloria Steinem would be rolling in her grave if she heard you say that.” God knew, subservience pissed Harmony off—well, unless she was the one demanding subservience.

“Gloria Steinem isn’t dead.”

“Not yet, but if she hears that you let your husband order you around she just might keel over.” Harmony was pretty sure she was going to keel over herself. That or her head was going to spin around and she was going to spit pea soup all over everything. She ducked back into the kitchen for some privacy. “Women haven’t fought for equality since the beginning of time so that you can wimp out on our vacation at the last minute. What the hell is wrong with your husband?”

Heath had just made the top of her shit list. Which wasn’t exactly a change, since he’d been there since high school. But after seeing how happy he made Lyric these days, she’d been just about ready to forgive him for being such an ass when they were eighteen.

“Gloria Steinem doesn’t care about me.” Lyric sounded resigned, like her fate was always going to be at the hands of someone else.

That wasn’t okay.

“Gloria Steinem cares about all womankind, no men, they can kiss her ass … Your husband forbidding you to go on vacation so he can keep you barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen—”

“I am not pregnant.” Lyric enunciated every word like Harmony was hard of hearing. “He didn’t forbid us from going on vacation. In fact, he wants to pay for us to go to Paris or London or the Caribbean. Whatever you want.”

Paris, London, and the Caribbean were lame. “Where I want is to go is BASE jumping in—“

“That’s what Heath isn’t sure about.”

“What?” Harmony all but spit the word out of her mouth. “Why?”