His Small-Town Girl. Arlene James

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      Charlotte recognized money when she saw it, especially when it stood right in front of her. One got used to all sorts in this business, from the most hopeless and downtrodden of God’s children to the most flagrantly unlovable, and in her experience, those with the most money often fell into the latter category. They came in demanding more than they surely knew they could expect and often went away angry and dissatisfied, in spite of her best efforts to provide what they needed. That possibility was not what disturbed her about this particular gentleman, however.

      For some reason, with barely a flick of his pale blue gaze, he made her nervous, self-conscious in ways she hadn’t felt in years. Tall and fit with stunning pale blue eyes and thick, dark hair that swept back from his square-jawed face in subdued waves, he differed significantly from their normal clientele.

      For one thing, she’d rarely—okay, never—seen such a well-dressed, well-groomed gentleman. Oh, more than one well-heeled type had wandered in after finding themselves stranded, usually in the middle of the night, but something told her that even those folks operated in a social strata below this particular guest.

      Other than that, though, she couldn’t really put her finger on what made him so different. She only knew that he undoubtedly was, which did not mean that she would treat him any differently than she treated anyone else. Just the opposite, in fact. Her Christian principles demanded nothing less.

      She ratcheted her smile up another notch and asked, “How can I help you?”

      He sighed, making a rueful sound. “Unless you’ve got a few spare gallons of gasoline around, I guess I’ll be needing a room for the night.”

      No surprise there. She’d heard this story before. Obviously, he should’ve kept a closer eye on the gas gauge. Giving her head a shake, she jerked a thumb over one shoulder.

      “Sorry. That old truck out back runs on diesel. The room I can manage, though, if you can do without a kitchenette.” She plunked down a registration form and pen, explaining, “Our regulars prefer them, so they’re almost always taken.”

      “Regulars?” He sounded surprised, even skeptical.

      “Most are oil-field workers who come to town periodically to service the local lines and pumps.”

      “You’ve got plenty of those around,” he murmured, scribbling his information on the form.

      “We sure do,” she replied, taking a key from the rack hidden beneath the counter. “You’re in—”

      “Oil country,” he finished for her, glancing up with a smile. “Or is that God’s country?”

      “Both,” she confirmed with a smile, “but I was going to say number eight. Back row, south end. That’s to your right. Your covered parking will be to the left of your door.”

      “Covered parking,” he mused, clearly pleased by that.

      “That’ll be forty dollars and sixty-six cents, including tax.”

      Pulling his wallet from the inside pocket of his expertly tailored suit coat, he thumbed through the bills until he found a fifty-dollar bill. She unlocked her cash drawer and counted out his change while glancing over his registration form. When she got to the part concerning the make and model of his car, she understood why that covered parking had made such an impression.

      Little garages, really, but without doors, the spaces were open only on one end. Her grandfather took inordinate pride in providing them for their guests, but none of them, Charlotte felt sure, had ever offered protection to anything remotely comparable to the car of—she peeked at his registration again—Tyler Aldrich. Well, no wonder. She casually shifted her gaze to the side window.

      So that’s what a hundred-thousand bucks on wheels looked like. Smiling, she shoved a bunch of bills and coins at him, as if he needed nine dollars and thirty-four cents in change.

      No doubt the rooms he usually rented cost ten times as much as what she had to offer. Then again, he happened to need what she had to offer.

      Maybe he could afford a hundred-thousand-dollar car, but, as her grandfather Hap would say, he put his pants on just like everyone else; therefore, she would treat him like everyone else. She put out her hand.

      “I’m Charlotte Jefford. Welcome to Eden, Mr. Aldrich.”

      “Thanks.” Sliding his long, square palm against hers, he asked smoothly, “Is that Mrs. Jefford?”

      Charlotte paused. Curiosity, she wondered, or flirtation? The next moment she realized that it couldn’t possibly be the latter, and even if it was, it simply didn’t matter. “Miss.”

      He smiled and let go of her hand. “Miss Jefford, then, could you advise me where I might find a meal? One that someone else prepares, that is, since the kitchenette is out of the question.”

      Charlotte laughed. “Easily. After dusk there’s just the Watermelon Patch, about a half mile north of town. Can’t miss it. Best fried catfish in the county.”

      He made a face. “Any chance they serve anything that’s not fried?”

      She considered a moment. “Beans and cole slaw.” This did not seem to excite him. “They do baked potatoes on Saturday nights.”

      “That’s a big help,” he pointed out wryly, “since this is Friday.”

      “The truck stop in Waurika doesn’t close until ten,” she offered guiltily, thinking of the meat loaf she’d just pulled from the oven. “You can get a salad there.” Provided he considered iceberg lettuce and a sprinkling of shredded carrots a salad.

      “If I could get to Waurika, I wouldn’t need a room,” he pointed out with a sigh.

      “Oh. Right.” She bit her lip, glanced again out the window at that sleek red fortune-on-wheels and knew that her hesitation did not become her. If he’d pulled up in a pickup truck or semi, she’d have made the invitation without a second thought, had done so, in fact, on several similar occasions. So what stopped her now?

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