“My goodness, that boy,” Alma fussed. “I’m sorry, Mary Beth. You’re going to have to take him in hand and make him remember what’s most important.”

“She isn’t Bobby Joe’s keeper,” Parr reminded his mother.

“Of course not,” Alma agreed with a yawn. “Well, go ahead and get her home. I’m going to bed.”

“Good night.” Mary Beth hoped her future mother-in-law hadn’t realized what had been going on when they were interrupted.

“Good night to you both.” Alma disappeared down the hall.

“Come on. I really do have to get you home now.” Parr reached for her but she dodged his hand.

“I can take Alma’s car and drive myself. There’s no need for you to go out again.”

Parr didn’t touch her again, but his tone of voice demanded compliance. “Let’s go.”

The drive to the gable-roofed, redbrick house where she had lived all her life took less than fifteen minutes. She had helped her father plant the rows of shrubbery that lined each side of the narrow paved driveway. At this moment, she wanted nothing more than to escape inside the safe harbor of this welcoming abode.

Parr killed the engine and turned to her. She sat huddled on the passenger side, her hand on the door latch. “Thanks for the ride. Nice car, by the way.”

“I always wanted a classic T-bird. Got lucky at the rental desk.”

“Oh. What do you usually drive?”

He snorted, as if the answer should be painfully obvious. “A pickup truck.”

Mary Beth could imagine it. New, dominatingly large, and polished to a high dark shine. “Right. Of course.”

The conversation was low-key but the undercurrents weren’t.

When she moved to open the door, his big hand reached out to stop her. “You’re in an awfully big hurry.”

“I want to go in,” she told him, nervously reaching for the door latch again.

“What are you afraid of?” He cupped her chin with his hard fingers. “I’d never hurt you, Mary Beth.”

“You already have,” she admitted, pulling free. “I’m afraid of you.”

“Stay just a minute,” he requested. “I have a birthday present for you.”

“No. Oh, Parr, why?”

“Please take my gift.” It was suddenly very important to him that she accept his present.

When she didn’t respond, he opened the glove compartment and took out a small, gift-wrapped box. He held it a moment before offering it to her. She sat staring at the gift as if it were a time bomb ready to explode. Her hand trembled as she reached out. When her fingers made contact with his, she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. Taking the box from his hand, she turned toward the door.

“Open it first,” he appealed.

“Parr—no.”

“Please.”

Her nervous fingers clumsily removed the bow, unwrapped the paper, and peeled the tape from the outer box concealing a small jeweler’s box. She lifted it out. Nestled on a bed of white velvet was a flawless ruby strawberry, glowing like a crystal flame.