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gelatinous yellow gravy. She saw the years slipping by, saw herself wearing elastic stockings and heavy cardigans while her arthritic fingers tried to pound out “Harvest Moon” on the battered upright that wouldn't hold its tune. Before she'd ever had the chance to be young, she'd be old.
    “No!” The scream came from the very center of her being, the place where her dreams lived, all those glorious dreams that were slipping away forever.
    She bolted toward the Thunderbird, running as fast as she could, her purse banging awkwardly against her side. Bobby Tom had turned his head to check for traffic in the street, and he didn't see her coming. Her heart raced. Any second now he would be gone, sentencing her to a life of dreary monotony. Desperation gave her strength and she ran faster.
    He pulled out and shifted. She increased her speed. Air filled her lungs in short, painful gasps. The Thunderbird began to move forward just as she drew even with it. With a wrenching sob, she threw herself headfirst over the convertible's passenger door.
    “Awww, hell.”
    The jolt of the brakes sent her upper body pitching forward off the seat. Her hands and upper arms hit the floor mats, while her feet still dangled over the door. She winced as she tried to catch herself. Cold air slithered across the backs of her thighs, and she realized her skirt had flipped over her head. Mortified, she groped for it, at the same time trying to wiggle the rest of herself into the car.
    She heard a particularly offensive obscenity that was undoubtedly common among football players, but seldom heard at Shady Acres. Normally, it was uttered in one syllable, but Bobby Tom's Texas drawl extended it to two. Her skirts finally under control, she slumped breathlessly back into the seat.
    Several seconds ticked by before she worked up enough nerve to look at him.
    He was gazing at her thoughtfully, his elbow propped on the top of the steering wheel. “Just out of curiosity, sweetheart; did you ever talk to your doctor about givin' you some tranquilizers?”
    She turned her head and stared straight ahead.
    “See, the thing of it is, Miz Gracie, I'm right now on my way to Telarosa, and I'm going by myself.”
    Her eyes shot back to him. “You're leaving now ?”
    “My suitcase is in the trunk.”
    “I don't believe you.”
    “It's the truth. You want to open that door and get out?”
    She shook her head stubbornly, hoping he couldn't see how close she was to reaching the end of her resources. “I have to go with you. It's my responsibility to stay with you until you reach Telarosa. I have a job to do.”
    A muscle ticked in his jaw, and with a great deal of trepidation, she realized that she had finally managed to chip away at his phony country boy affability.
    “Don't make me throw you out,” he said in a low, determined voice.
    She ignored the shiver of trepidation running up her spine. “I've always thought it was better to solve disputes with compromise rather than brute force.”
    “I've played in the NFL, sweetheart. Bloodshed's about all I understand.”
    With those ominous words, he reached for his door, and she knew within seconds, he would come around to her side, pick her up, and toss her out on the street. Quickly, before he could push down on the handle, she grabbed his arm.
    “Don't throw me out, Bobby Tom. I know I irritate you, but I promise, I'll make it worth your while if you let me go with you.”
    He turned slowly back to her. “Exactly what do you mean by that?”
    She didn't know what she meant. She had spoken impulsively because she couldn't face the idea of calling Willow Craig and telling her that Bobby Tom had set off for Telarosa by himself. She knew all too well what Willow's response would be.
    “I meant what I said,” she replied, hoping she could bluff her way out without getting down to specifics.
    “Generally when people say they're going to make something worth your while, they're offering money. Is that what