“By the way, when I was giving Clyde his oats he said to tell you hi.”
She snorted a laugh, covering her lips with her fingers. He got to her way too easily. “Tell Clyde hi back.”
“He said he’d like to give you a ride sometime.”
“How sweet. But I don’t do horses.”
“Yeah?” His tone smiled.
“Yeah.” She tried to sound fun and sexy but her shallow breath made her voice thin and weak.
“Do you like dancing?”
“I used to watch dancing videos all the time. Mama would rent them for me from Blockbuster.” Ginger stood straight, pinching her lips. Hey, no giving up secrets.
“But have you ever danced? On a dance floor? With a man?”
“Does it matter?” She faced Tom, hesitated, then gathered a wad of courage and pulled up the sleeve of her blouse, exposing the harsh terrain of her arm. She didn’t dare expose her side or back. This would be enough to gross him out. “No one wants to dance with this.”
“You seem to know what others think without asking them.” He tried to snatch her hand but she was too quick.
“I don’t need to know what they think.” She shook her arm at him. “This is ugly, not fun to touch.” She regretted her action, exposing herself to him. Really, she needed to get in her car and drive away. In a matter of mere days, Tom Wells had flashed his light over her heart and she was nearly ready to show him her deepest, darkest corners. “I’m a freak.”
“Ginger, we’re all freaks. We’re all scarred. That’s why Jesus came. Why He died and rose again for us.”
“Yeah, that’s what a girl loves when she makes herself vulnerable. A sermon. Save it for Sunday, Tom.” She flashed her palm. “I’m not interested.”
“Ginger, come on, your scars don’t bother me.” He gently took her hand in his, then, with his eyes on hers, traced the marks on her hand and wrist.
“Stop. Let go.” She tried to wrench free but he held on. “Tom, don’t . . .”
“Your scars don’t bother me.” He held her hand a bit tighter and slid his hand along the rugged texture of her arm.
“Stop . . . please.” Her whole body trembled, shaking her to her core.
The music from the bandstand changed, slowing down to a soft, melodic “Moon River.”
“How did it happen?” He turned her arm over, exposing its tender but damaged underside, and traced his fingers, moving so delicately along the puckered ridges. “I never asked. You never told me.”
“T-the . . . rattle trap . . . trailer . . .” Each stroke of his hand stole her breath. She tried to pull free again, but lacked strength and will to really be without his touch.
A tingling sensation crept up her arm and rode over her shoulder, and down her back. A gulp of pleasure filled her chest.
Never had she been touched by a man. Never, ever had she experienced such a feeling.
“You lived in a trailer?”
“North of town, off Highway 29. The wiring was rotten, eaten by squirrels.” She should pull her arm away before she puddled at his feet. Did he realize what he was doing to her?
She swallowed, drawing a deep breath. “The place caught fire . . . I was sleeping. Mama . . . had gone out . . . after I went to bed. I called and called her but she didn’t answer. I thought she was dead. I had to find her but the only way to get out of my room was to run through the flames . . . my nightgown caught on fire.”
“Ginger, that took a lot of courage.” He held their hands palm-to-palm and linked his fingers with hers. “These scars don’t make you a freak. They are not ugly.”
“Because you don’t live with them every day. You don’t see the looks, hear the whispers. ‘Oh, isn’t it a shame?’ ‘Yes, yes it is.’ ”
“Maybe they’re amazed how a girl with such obvious scars could be so beautiful.” His low tone carried an intimacy that saturated her soul with the same intoxication as his touch.
“Stop, Tom.” She broke free and shoved down her sleeve. “You’re a preacher. You shouldn’t say things that aren’t true.” Guests were coming out of the ballroom, so Ginger fell in line with them, heading toward the foyer. Time to go.
“What’s not true?” Tom followed, intense and determined.
“That I’m beautiful.”
“But you are, Ginger.” He slipped his hand around her arm. “Would you like to dance?”
“No. You don’t have to pretend to be interested in me. To be kind.” Because she’d rather have people exclaim, “Oh what a pity,” than to discover Tom Wells was just being a nice guy.
“What if I’m not pretending?”
“To be kind?”
“To be interested.”
Ginger fell against the wall, half in the light, half in the shadow and folded her arms. “After confessing to me that my mother played a part in your father’s demise? How could you possibly be interested in me? What would Edward think?”