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Her Cowboy Soldier
Cindi Myers


The Hartland Herald isn’t exactly the big leagues. But for army widow Amy Marshall it’s the first step to a career that will allow her to support her young daughter and start a new life in the city. Unfortunately, writing a story that will get her noticed requires stepping on a few toes.Josh Scofield’s toes, to be exact.Sure her article was less then flattering. She probably shouldn't have suggested the injured veteran got his teaching position unfairly, but a real reporter can't pull punches. And she hadn’t pegged the ex-military man as someone who cared what other people thought.As she digs deeper, though, Amy realizes there’s more to Josh than just a good story. But it will be hard to win his trust, and is there any point when she doesn't plan on sticking around?







Can she open her heart?

The Hartland Herald isn’t exactly the big leagues. But for army widow Amy Marshall it’s the first step to a career that will allow her to support her young daughter and start a new life in the city. Unfortunately, writing a story that will get her noticed requires stepping on a few toes. Josh Scofield’s toes, to be exact.

Sure, her article was less than flattering. She probably shouldn’t have suggested the injured veteran got his teaching position unfairly, but a real reporter can’t pull punches. And she hadn’t pegged the former military man as someone who cared what other people thought.

As she digs deeper, though, Amy realizes there’s more to Josh than just a good story. But it will be hard to win his trust, and is there any point when she doesn’t plan on sticking around?


She clenched her hands into fists and glared at Josh.

“I’m sorry I hurt your feelings with my little article,” Amy said, “but you know what? I’m tired of you using that against me.”

She turned to walk away, but he pulled her up short, one hand on her arm. “Did you drive your husband this crazy?” he asked.

He was staring at her lips, as if measuring their fit against his own. “Y-yes,” she stuttered. “He used to say our fights kept the marriage interesting.”

“I’ll bet.” He pulled her closer, one arm encircling her waist until she was snugged against him.

“Josh?” she whispered.

“What is it?”

“I don’t think this is a good idea.”

He released her so quickly, she stumbled backward. “Go on back to the others,” he said. “I can’t think straight when you’re around.”

Clearly, neither could she. She’d been ready to kiss a man she wasn’t even sure she liked.


Dear Reader,

I love small towns. I grew up in one, and I live in one now. Close communities—whether small towns or a neighborhood in a big city—become like extended families. They can be a great source of support, or of annoyance, since it’s hard to be anonymous when everyone knows you and your business.

Hartland, Colorado, isn’t a real place, but it’s patterned after small towns I’ve known, and I think it’s the perfect location for a romantic relationship that’s aided and abetted by the extended family of friends and neighbors. My heroine, Amy, has never really known a true home, and she isn’t sure what to think about the interest the people of Hartland take in her. Josh, my hero, grew up in Hartland, but he’s not that comfortable with close scrutiny, either. These two have a lot to learn about themselves and each other, and I hope you’ll enjoy their journey.

I love to hear from my readers. You can contact me online via my website, www.CindiMyers.com (http://www.CindiMyers.com), or write to me in care of Harlequin Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.

Cindi Myers


Her Cowboy Soldier






Cindi Myers






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


CINDI MYERS

Cindi Myers is the author of more than fifty novels. When she’s not crafting new romance plots, she enjoys skiing, gardening, cooking, crafting and daydreaming. A lover of small-town life, she lives with her husband and two spoiled dogs in the Colorado mountains.


For Katie


Contents

CHAPTER ONE (#u0519ac0f-cc42-505e-bc44-5cb2a02a3fd0)

CHAPTER TWO (#ue97b7b15-a9db-539b-a468-24c7ec16c050)

CHAPTER THREE (#uf13110ab-1b33-573e-943d-44dd98570633)

CHAPTER FOUR (#ubf810b0c-1295-50a5-97b4-51de032f90ea)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE

AMY MARSHALL SLID a basket of tomatoes into the gap in her display and stepped back to admire the rows of gleaming produce. A banner behind the farm stand proclaimed ANDERSON ORCHARDS—FRESHEST FRUITS AND VEGETABLES. She’d toured the spice markets in Egypt and bazaars in Afghanistan, but she’d never seen a prettier sight than her own family’s produce set out for sale.

“Don’t just stand there daydreaming,” a voice behind her admonished. “See if you can find room for more squash.”

“Aye, aye, Grandma.” Amy straightened and snapped a mock salute at the trim, gray-haired woman in jeans and a sleeveless checked blouse who leaned on a metal walker. Amy’s grandmother, Bobbie Anderson, might be temporarily slowed down by hip surgery, but she still knew how to issue a command. “I’ll squash in more squash.”

“Squash the squash!” Giggling, Amy’s five-year-old daughter, Chloe, twin brown ponytails like antennae high on her head, stood on tiptoe to look over the piles of the yellow vegetable that had arrived by the bushel load from the greenhouses this morning.

“We won’t be squashing anything,” Bobbie said with mock severity. She surveyed the rows of vegetables critically. “On second thought, Amy, forget the squash for now and help with the customers. Tell Neil he can unload the truck. Chloe, come help me stack onions.”

Amy hurried to the checkout area, where retired rancher Neal Kuchek was weighing out shiny green peppers for a young couple in matching khaki shorts. “I’ll take over here,” she told him. “Grandma wants you to unload the truck.”

“Does she, now? That woman just loves to order me around.” But he grinned and headed toward the truck parked behind the produce stand.

Amy finished assisting the young couple and turned to the next customer in line. “May I help you?”

“Just these.” A man extended a plastic bag that contained three tomatoes toward her. But the hand that held the tomatoes wasn’t a hand, it was a steel hook. Amy’s smile faltered, and she lifted her gaze to meet that of her customer. He was a young man, near her own age, with the fine creases around his blue eyes of someone who had spent a lot of time squinting into the sun, and the close-cropped brown hair and erect posture that spoke of military training.

He met her stare with a steady look of his own. “You must be Bobbie’s granddaughter,” he said. “She told me you were coming to live with her. I was sorry to hear about your husband.”

In the week Amy had been in the little town of Hartland, Colorado, she had heard similar expressions of sympathy from almost everyone she’d met, each one heartfelt, and each one a sharp reminder that, though Brent had been killed in Iraq three years ago, the loss still hurt. “Thank you,” she murmured, looking away. “Did you know Brent?”

“No. I didn’t have that privilege. I suspect I was already back in the States, recuperating, when he was killed.” He offered his left hand—the one that wasn’t a hook. “Josh Scofield. I teach science at the high school.”

“Amy Marshall.” She shook hands, a brief touch that nevertheless sent a shiver up her spine, maybe because this injured soldier was such a tangible reminder of her late husband, who had never recovered from his own war wounds.

“Hello.” Chloe climbed onto an empty apple crate beside her mother and frowned at Josh. “Why do you have a hook instead of a hand?”

“Chloe!” Amy shushed her daughter, her face burning.

“It’s all right,” Josh said. “Kids are always curious.” He smiled at the little girl. “A hook makes carrying my groceries easier.” He demonstrated, looping the plastic bag of tomatoes over the end.

“But better not try to pick your nose,” Chloe said and giggled.

“You’re right. This broke me of that habit in no time.”

“This is my daughter, Chloe.” Amy put her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “I promise she usually has better manners.”

“Nice to meet you, Chloe.”

Suddenly shy, Chloe buried her face in her mother’s side.

Josh nodded to Amy. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

Then he sauntered away, a tall, trim figure with a bag of tomatoes nonchalantly looped over the hook on the end of one arm.

“Was that Josh Scofield?” Bobbie joined her granddaughter and great-granddaughter by the cash register. “I hate that I missed him.”

“He was buying tomatoes with his hook,” Chloe said. She grinned, then skipped away, probably to “help” Neal, her current favorite person.

Bobbie’s attention focused on Amy. “You remember Josh, don’t you? Big baseball star when he was in high school.”

Amy shook her head. “I never met him.”

“You didn’t?”

“I was only here a few weeks in the summers—and I mostly stayed on the farm.” Those brief childhood visits had been precious to her, an oasis in her otherwise chaotic life.

“Hmmph. I tried to talk your folks into letting you live here with me full-time instead of dragging you all over the world with them, but they wouldn’t hear of it. They said you needed to experience adventure while you were still young and impressionable.” She sniffed. “I think what children need is a home they know they can always come back to.”

“And I always knew I had that with you.” Amy patted the older woman’s arm. Her parents, who managed an adventure tour company, had lived in twenty-three different places in eight countries by the time Amy graduated high school. As a girl, Amy had studied correspondence courses by lantern light in a grass hut in Zaire, made friends with native Laplanders in Greenland and visited Japanese temples with girls in kimonos. After all of that, spending a few weeks every summer in her grandmother’s apple orchard had seemed the more exotic life.

“Josh is a great guy,” Bobbie said. “He lost his hand in Iraq.”

“I figured as much. He said he didn’t know Brent.”

“No. I guess they were in different units. His family’s ranch, the Bar S, backs up to our orchards on the south.”

“But he doesn’t ranch.”

“He helps out his dad. And the school district hired him this year to teach science and coach baseball. Word is the Wildcats might have their first winning season in four years.”

“I guess I’ll find out tomorrow night,” Amy said. “Ed wants me to write about the baseball game for the paper. Apparently the high school kid who usually does it has come down with mono.” She’d never been particularly interested in sports, but the story would be one more credit to add to her portfolio. Her part-time job at the Hartland Herald wasn’t hard-core journalism, but she hoped the experience would help her land a better writing job in Denver or an even larger city when she left Hartland once Bobbie was on her feet again.

“Josh is single, you know,” Bobbie said. “Not even dating anyone.”

The overly casual way in which she shared this information didn’t fool Amy. “Are you trying to fix me up?”

“No.” She patted Amy’s hand. “I know you loved Brent, and losing him was hard. Believe me, I know.” Amy’s grandfather had passed away five years before, after forty-six years of marriage. “But you’re still young, and sooner or later you won’t want to be alone anymore. You could marry again, have more children...and you can’t blame me for thinking if you settled down with someone local it would be a good thing.”

The genuine concern behind the words touched Amy, erasing any resentment she might have harbored about her grandmother’s matchmaking. “You’re right. One day I probably will want to date again. But I’m not ready for that. Not yet.” And she certainly didn’t want to get involved with someone from Hartland. After a lifetime of traveling the world, she wasn’t ready to settle down in a sleepy little small town. She had big plans for her life.

* * *

IN THE BOTTOM of the ninth, the Wildcats were down by one. Josh paced the dugout, his cleats scraping on the concrete with each step. He didn’t have to look at the lineup card to know who was up next: Chase Wilson, a terrific third baseman who was at best a mediocre hitter. He stopped at the step leading to the field and clapped Chase on the back. “Take a deep breath and focus on making contact with the ball. No heroics, just a solid single,” he said. “I know you can do this.”

The boy nodded and, head down, strode to the plate. Josh leaned over the chain link that separated the dugout from the field and watched. How many times had he stood in this dugout over the years, before and after games, smelling the aromas of sunflower seeds and glove oil, hearing the clear, hollow sound of an aluminum bat connecting with the baseball? He’d sent his share of balls over the outfield fences, and pounded around the bases to the cheers of the hometown crowd. He’d loved the game the way some boys love cars or music or girls. He’d even dreamed of playing professionally, until a stint on a college team had taught him the difference between being a small-town star and having the kind of talent that lured big league scouts and big league contracts.

He’d have been happy playing league softball the rest of his life if an IED on a bleak roadside in Fallujah hadn’t changed everything.

Getting the chance to be around the game again, even as a coach, had been a dream come true. But as much as he loved the game, his real job was to help these boys develop and gain confidence in their abilities. None of them were likely to be pro players, but he could help them become better men. When he and his father had clashed during his own teen years, his coaches and male teachers had given him another perspective and helped him find his way. He wanted to do the same for his students.

The loud ringing of a hard leather ball against an aluminum bat jerked him from these musings, and a smile spread across his face as he watched the ball sail over the right field fence. “Chase! Chase! Chase!” the other boys shouted, and Josh took up the chant. He joined the crowd that swarmed the boy. “I knew you could do it,” he said, hugging the six-footer tightly.

“I did what you said, Coach. I just focused on the ball.” The boy grinned, dimples forming on either side of his mouth, making him look younger than his eighteen years. Then he was swept away toward the clubhouse by the rest of the team.

Josh looked at the scoreboard in left field: Hartland Wildcats 9, Delta Panthers 6. “Congratulations, Coach.” History teacher and assistant coach Zach Fremont slapped Josh on the back. “You’ve really turned this team around.”

“The kids are improving.” The baseball program had been in sad shape when Josh took over; he’d need a few years to develop a real championship squad.

“This win didn’t mean anything. We’ve already lost a chance at the playoffs.” Math teacher Rick Southerland, Josh’s other assistant, fired a baseball he’d collected from the other side of the dugout at Josh

Josh caught the ball awkwardly with his left hand, balancing it against his chest with his hook. “You can’t go from a losing record to a championship in one year,” he said. He wanted to take back the words as soon as he’d said them; he should know better than to let Rick bait him.

“You’re just a regular ray of sunshine, aren’t you?” Zach said.

Rick scowled at them both and made his way out of the dugout, across the field toward the clubhouse. “What is it with that guy?” Zach asked.

“He’s mad because the district cut his wife’s position as an elementary reading aid when they hired me.” Josh added the baseball to the duffel of gear at his feet. “He thinks I played the vet card to get my job.”

“So what if you did? We owe you something for what you did over there. It’s not like a lousy job is going to give you back your hand.” Zach added a pair of batting helmets to the duffel. “Besides, the school board didn’t hire you because they felt sorry for you. They hired you because they wanted a winning baseball team, and they needed a science teacher.”

With school districts cutting budgets all over the country, plenty of coaches and teachers with more experience than Josh were looking for work. He wasn’t naive enough to believe his position as a wounded veteran and the son of a local rancher hadn’t influenced the school board’s decision to choose him over half a dozen other candidates for the job. The knowledge didn’t sit easy with him. He’d always wanted to be judged on his accomplishments, not his circumstances or his name.

“Coach, do you have a minute to answer a few questions?”

The feminine voice made both men turn around. Josh found himself staring into the warm brown eyes of Amy Marshall. He felt again the little jolt that had hit him when he’d looked into those eyes yesterday at her grandmother’s produce stand. “Hello again,” he said.

“Where’s Cody?” Zach asked. “Not that you aren’t an improvement.” He grinned.

She ignored the compliment. “Cody’s out sick. I’m covering the game for the Herald.” She extended a mini recorder toward him. “What’s the significance of tonight’s win?”

Zach clapped Josh on the shoulder. “I’ll just leave you two alone.” He slung the strap of one of the equipment duffels over his shoulder and shambled away.

Josh focused his attention on Amy once more, and shifted into interview mode. “Some people might say this win is meaningless, since we’re already eliminated from the finals,” he said. “But I don’t look at it that way at all. The team has overcome a lot this season, and the players have worked together to improve. Every win builds their confidence and skills—things they’ll take forward with them into next season, and into life.”

“Had you ever coached baseball before you were hired to coach the Wildcats?” she asked.

The question surprised Josh, but he didn’t let it rattle him. “I hadn’t had that opportunity. But I played for many years.”

“Since you don’t have any experience coaching, to what do you attribute your success?”

He shifted from one foot to the other. What did these questions have to do with tonight’s game? The focus should be on the players, not him. “I’m working with a great group of kids,” he said. “I try to teach them what I know, but they’ve done the rest with their hard work.”

“Would you say luck had anything to do with your winning record?”

“Luck always plays a part in this game, but I give the credit to the team’s hard work.”

She punched the button to switch off the recorder. “Thanks. If I have any more questions, I’ll give you a call.”

“Don’t you want to ask anything about tonight’s game?”

“I got a copy of the official scorecard from Dirk Fischer and a nice quote from Chase Wilson, so I think I’m good. But I’ll let you know.” She turned to leave. By this time the area around the field was all but deserted, the stands and most of the parking lot emptied.

Josh followed her up the steps out of the dugout. “Let me walk you to your car,” he said.

“You don’t need to do that.”

“No, but it goes against my grain to let a woman walk off into a dark, deserted parking lot alone, so humor me.”

She looked out across the parking lot, which was indeed dark, and empty save for a few cars. “All right. Thank you.”

He followed her across the gravel-and-dirt lot to a dusty blue Subaru. She paused beside the door, keys in hand. “Thanks for seeing me to my car,” she said. “I forget sometimes how dark it can be out here, away from the city lights.”

“We see more stars here, though.” He looked up at a sky filled with sparks of light, as if some kid had spilled a whole bottle of glitter.

She tilted her head back to join him in admiring the sky. “Beautiful.”

“The stars are like this in Iraq, too, at least with the blackouts for the war.” Why had he brought up the war, a subject she probably didn’t want to discuss, considering she’d lost her husband over there? But she regarded him calmly, as if waiting for him to continue. “When I had guard duty I’d stand at my checkpoint and stare up at the sky and imagine I was back here at home,” he explained.

She tilted her head up toward the sky again. “Afghanistan has stars like this, too.”

“Your husband was in Afghanistan?”

“I was in Afghanistan, before the war. Well, he was, too. We were in the Peace Corps there. That’s how we met. When the war broke out, he wanted to help. He thought with his familiarity with the country and the language, they could use him in Afghanistan, but the army had other ideas.”

“Where did you live before you came back here?”

“Chloe and I were in Denver. Then my grandmother fell and broke her hip and I knew she needed help with the orchard. And I needed a place to pull myself together and decide what to do next.”

“This is a good place for that kind of thinking.” He’d spent plenty of hours in his cabin on his parents’ ranch trying to answer that same question.

“Is that why you’re here?” she asked. “To decide what to do next?”

He told himself it was a logical question. But he couldn’t help feeling her quiet gaze assessed him more accurately than he was used to. Amy Marshall had an air of perceptiveness that was both intriguing and unsettling. “I’m here because this is home,” he said. “The whole time I was away, all I could think of was getting back.”

Her expression grew pensive. “I lived all over the place growing up, so I never really had that kind of attachment to one spot.”

“I didn’t think I did, until I went away. After this—” he held up the hook “—I decided Hartland was where I belonged.”

She tilted her head. “Can I ask a question?”

“Anything.” He could always refuse to answer, though he doubted this woman could ask anything he wouldn’t be happy to tell her. He believed in being up front with people. Losing his hand—and almost losing his life—had erased any patience he might have once had for dissembling.

“Why a hook? Don’t they make pretty realistic-looking prosthetic hands?”

“They make hands that look good, but a hook is more practical.” He opened and closed the pincer ends. He’d become adept at manipulating most items with this simple tool. “And a hook is a little more in your face.” His method of confronting his loss had been to embrace it head-on. He’d told himself denial was for cowards. “This is who I am now and I wanted it out there for everyone to see. If they don’t like it, that’s their problem.”

“Do people have a problem with it?”

“A few.” He thought of Rick, who’d told one of the city council members—who’d passed the news on to Josh—that it made the school look bad to have a “gimp” for a coach.

Time to change the subject, though. Shift the focus away from him. “Do you like writing for the paper?” he asked.

She looked pleased. “I like to write, and this gives me a chance to get a few credits to my name, and some experience. Though the subject matter isn’t always that exciting.”

“I don’t know about that. I’ve seen some of your articles. You did a good job of making a city council discussion of sewer repairs interesting.”

She laughed, a light, musical sound that transformed her expression into one of startling beauty. Her eyes held a new light and the muscles of her face relaxed and softened. A soft blush suffused her cheeks and her lips curved invitingly.

He realized he’d been staring when she looked away. “I really have to go,” she said. “Thanks for your help.”

“Anytime.” He wanted to say more—that talking with her had been the best conversation he’d had since coming home. That he liked the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed.

But the words stuck in his throat. So he let her get into her car and drive away without saying any of these things. When she was gone, he looked up at the stars again. Those stars had saved him from losing it some nights on duty—the nights after he’d lost friends or seen children die, and the nights after days of endless tension and boredom. He’d imagined himself back here, in this little corner of Colorado he’d once wanted so badly to leave.

War was a sure cure for wanderlust, he’d decided. If he never left Hartland again, that would be fine with him. For better or worse, he was home now.

* * *

AMY GRIPPED THE steering wheel and tried to get as tight a hold on her emotions. What had just happened? One moment she’d been standing, chatting with Josh as if they were old friends and then wham, she’d been aware of the two of them, alone in the darkness. The moment felt too intimate, as if at any second he might pull her close and kiss her.

She shook her head, banishing the image. Since Brent’s death she hadn’t even thought of kissing anyone. For the past three years she’d paid attention only to what was in front of her, what had to be done—making a living and taking care of her daughter. But lately—since coming to Hartland—she’d begun to notice more...the smell of fresh strawberries from the greenhouse, the feel of a soft breeze on her bare arms, the curve of hard muscle in the forearms of a handsome man. And she’d begun to remember things, such as how good it might feel to have a man’s arms around her.

But why now? And why Josh? Because he reminded her of Brent?

He bore no physical resemblance to Brent; it was probably just the whole military thing—knowing he’d been where her husband had been and done things her husband had done. That he’d been injured and Brent had been injured, but Brent was the one who never came home.

A fresh wave of pain swept over her—would it never go away? Resisting the grief, her mind returned to Josh. He’d been so relaxed and easygoing—so whole, despite his missing hand. Why should he, who didn’t have a wife and a child to come home to, be alive and well when Brent had been taken from her?

She fed this spark of resentment, nurturing it into a tiny flame—anything to avoid dissolving into tears. By the time she pulled up to the town’s only coffee shop, Cookies and Cups, she felt more in control of her shaky emotions.

As she approached the entrance, the door opened and the shop’s owner, Charla Reynolds, dressed in a colorful Mexican skirt and peasant blouse that showed off her ample curves, stepped out onto the front porch. “Amy!” She greeted her friend with a smile and a warm embrace. “I was just about to close up, but I’ve got time for one more cup if you can stay and visit.”

“I hate to keep you, but I could really use it,” Amy said. The two women had met Amy’s second day in town and instantly clicked. Amy’s daily visits to the coffee shop had become long chat sessions in which the friendship had blossomed.

“Thursdays are my late night anyway,” Charla said, as she made her way to the gleaming espresso machine behind the front counter. “I have a novel writers group that meets every Thursday and they always run over. But they’re a great bunch, so I don’t really mind. You should stop by next week, since you like to write and all.”

Amy sat at the table closest to the front counter. “Maybe I’ll do that sometime. But next week is the school board meeting. I have to go for the paper.”

Charla leaned back against the counter and regarded her friend. “All this excitement must be killing you,” she said. “First the town council, then the school board. Do you write obituaries, too?”

“I would if Ed paid me for them.” Ed Burridge, editor, publisher and chief reporter for the Hartland Herald, had hired her to cover school board, town council and county commissioners meetings, as well as write the occasional feature. The pay was pitiful and the hours lousy; Amy loved it. She was being paid to write. It wasn’t Pulitzer-worthy copy, but it was a start.

“What brings you out so late?” Charla asked. “More town politics?”

“Not that. Our sports reporter has mono, so Ed asked me to cover the baseball game.”

“So you got to talk to Smokin’ Scofield?” Charla’s grin was more of a smirk.

Amy laughed. “Please tell me people don’t really call him that.”

“The girls did in high school, or so I’m told. You have to admit, he’s easy on the eye. And single.”

“I don’t care if he’s got three wives, except that would make a good story for the paper.”

“Not even one ex-wife, though considering the dearth of eligible bachelors in this town, he’d have plenty of willing candidates if he showed any interest.”

“And he doesn’t?”

“Are you asking as a reporter, or as a single woman yourself?”

Amy frowned. “I told you, I’m not interested in dating anyone—and especially not a veteran. Every time I look at him, I think of Brent.” She bit her bottom lip, feeling tears threaten once more.

“Sorry.” Charla turned her attention to the espresso machine again, and began making Amy’s favorite mocha latte. She shot a generous dollop of chocolate syrup into a cup with a shot of espresso and added steamed milk. “You’ve never said much about Brent,” she said. “I’m not trying to pry or anything, but if you ever need to talk, you know I’m a good listener.”

Amy let out a ragged breath. “Thanks. It’s not that I blame men like Josh for what happened to Brent—I know he didn’t have anything to do with Brent’s death. But I can’t help resenting the unfairness of it all. War is just so...so random. Why did Brent die when others lived?”

Charla set a full mug in front of Amy and pulled up a chair beside her. “It is unfair,” she said. “You and Chloe sure don’t deserve that kind of pain.”

Amy sipped the mocha, letting the warm sweetness drive away some of the bitterness she still felt over Brent being taken from her. Charla was right—she hadn’t talked much about what had happened. She’d had to be strong for Chloe, and there hadn’t really been anyone to talk to. “When Brent enlisted, I knew there was a chance he could be killed, but I purposely put that out of my mind. It was the only way to survive.”

“You must have been very proud of him.”

How many times had people said this to her? From the soldier who delivered the news of Brent’s death to almost everyone at the funeral, they had all talked about how proud she should be of her soldier husband. “I wasn’t proud,” she said quietly. “I was angry. Furious that he’d decided to leave me and Chloe. I didn’t want him to go and he went anyway.” She squeezed her eyes shut, remembering that last argument, the tears and angry words. They’d tried to patch things up later, long-distance, but he’d died before she’d found it in herself to really forgive him.

She might resent men like Josh who’d come home, but her own guilt kept her grief for her husband alive.

“Of course you were angry,” Charla said. “You wanted him with you and Chloe.”

“He never talked to me about his decision to enlist,” Amy said. “He just did it. He said he wanted to help people—the people in Afghanistan he knew when we were stationed there in the Peace Corps. But all I could think of was that he wanted to be with them more than he wanted to be with me.” She gulped at the mocha, forcing back the tears that threatened, tears of equal parts anger and grief.

“He was a hero and you loved him, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t wrong,” Charla said.

“I was wrong, too. I shouldn’t have let him leave when we were so angry at each other. I should have kept talking until we settled things between us. But we never got the chance.”

“And you can’t keep beating yourself up over that.” Charla patted her hand. “I know—easy for me to say. I’ve never been married. I don’t even have a steady boyfriend.”

“And why is that?” Amy blotted her eyes with a napkin and seized on the opportunity to shift the conversation to a less-painful topic. “Did you scare off all the men in this town?”

“It’s the curse of living in a town this small—your dating prospects are limited. It’s the one thing I really hate about this place.”

“You could always move to the city. Lots more single men there.”

“Don’t think I haven’t thought about it.” She sipped her coffee. “But I really like it here. And I have the only coffee shop in town, so it’s a sweet setup. I keep hoping Mr. Right will decide Hartland is the perfect place to start a new business or visit on vacation. Or maybe he’s tired of the rat race and wants to settle down in a wonderful little town where not much happens.”

Not much happening had been exactly the quality that had made Amy contemplate staying in Hartland, even after her grandmother didn’t need her help anymore. But she doubted she’d be happy for the long term in such quiet surroundings. She’d spent her whole life having adventures, first with her parents, then with Brent. For their honeymoon they’d gone backpacking in the Himalayas, and after Chloe was born they’d talked about taking her on a tour of Europe, or climbing all fifty-four of Colorado’s peaks over fourteen thousand feet in elevation. They’d toyed with the idea of following in her parents’ footsteps and opening their own adventure tourism company. Or maybe she’d become a travel writer and he’d be her photographer.

After so much adventure, she wasn’t ready to settle down to tame, small-town life. This was only a temporary respite, helping her grandmother and hiding from pain, gathering strength for more adventures to come. Her mother always said if you weren’t challenging yourself, you weren’t living. Life in Hartland didn’t feel very challenging.

“Other than the man situation, I really like it here,” Charla said. “We make our own excitement. Speaking of which, how was the game? Did we win?”

“The Wildcats won. Ed will probably want to put the story on the front page.”

“People think Josh is a miracle worker,” Charla said. “He’s done more for the team in his first year than any of the coaches we’ve had before.”

“He told me he’d never coached before,” Amy said. “I wonder why the district hired him.”

Charla shrugged. “I guess he’s qualified. And he’s a local and a veteran. Plus he was apparently a big baseball jock when he was in high school. Clearly, he knows the game.”

“I wonder who the other candidates for the job were?”

“If you’re that interested, I’m sure they’re listed in the school board minutes somewhere, but what does it matter? Josh is doing a good job.”

“Yeah.” An inexperienced coach with a winning record wasn’t the kind of story that was going to get the attention of a big magazine—the kind where Amy wanted to work after she left Hartland.

“How’s Bobbie?” Charla asked.

“She’s great. She’s going to graduate from the walker to a cane soon.” She wouldn’t need Amy’s help with the orchards much longer.

“The woman is amazing,” Charla said. “I hope I’m like her when I’m her age.”

Amy’s grandmother really was amazing. When Amy was a little girl, she’d believed Bobbie could do anything. She was so strong and capable and independent, the way Amy wanted to be. After Amy’s grandfather died, Bobbie carried on by herself, managing the orchard, taking care of the house and doing everything that had to be done.

Whenever Amy felt overwhelmed by everything she had to do, she thought of Bobbie and felt stronger. She didn’t have to lean on a man. She could take care of herself, and her daughter, without depending on another person. Without risking being hurt again.


CHAPTER TWO

“WHAT DID YOU do to that reporter after the game?” Zach sauntered into Josh’s classroom Tuesday afternoon and tossed a copy of the Hartland Herald on his desk. “Sounds like she’s really got it in for you.”

“Amy Marshall?” While she’d been a little confrontational at first, Josh had thought he and Amy had parted friends. Luck Leads Wildcats To Another Victory proclaimed the headline on the front page. He picked up the paper and scanned the story, anger rising. “‘Coach Scofield noted that this game was meaningless, since the team has already been eliminated from the play-offs,’” he read. “That’s not what I said.”

“Did you get to the part where she points out that you’ve never coached before and much of your initial success has been due to luck?” Zach asked.

“How does she get away with saying something like that?”

“Is she an old girlfriend you dumped or something?” Zach asked.

“No. She just moved to town. Her grandmother is Bobbie Anderson. She has the orchard next to my folks’ place.”

“You obviously didn’t make a very good impression on her. Or maybe she doesn’t like baseball.”

Though Amy had struck Josh as a little reserved, he hadn’t sensed any outright hostility against him. Their conversation in the parking lot after the game had been friendly enough. He’d always thought of himself as a good judge of people, but clearly he’d been all wrong about Amy. “We’ll see about that,” he said.

“What are you going to do?” Zach asked.

“I’m going to talk to her. She owes me an apology.” He tapped the paper. “And a retraction.”

“Careful there,” Josh said. “Make a woman like that mad and no telling what she’ll find to print about you.”

He didn’t care what Amy Marshall had to say about him, as long as it was the truth, not half lies designed to stir up controversy. It was bad enough that Rick Southerland pointed out his shortcomings whenever possible. Knowing someone else—a reporter—agreed with critics like Rick stung. “I can’t let her get away with saying things like that about me,” he said. “I’m the new guy in this job. I constantly have to prove myself.”

“If you say so. But you might be better off just letting this die down on its own.”

Josh wished he could believe the idea that he’d gotten where he was through luck and favoritism would die down, but people like Rick would see that it didn’t. And there was always the chance that more people would join him in siding against Josh in every argument,

As soon as the last bell rang for the day, he drove to the produce stand. If Amy wasn’t there, Bobbie could tell him where to find her. But as he pulled his truck into a space near the front of the stand, he spotted Amy bent over a display of tomatoes. Her long brown hair fell across one cheek and she tucked it behind one ear with slender fingers, revealing a shy smile. The unexpected beauty and innocence of the moment made Josh’s heart thud hard. He took a deep breath, and steeled himself against the rush of emotion. Amy wasn’t his friend. She’d stabbed him in the back and all but ridiculed him in public. He couldn’t let his guard down around her.

She straightened as he approached and regarded him coolly, the smile vanished. “Hello, Josh.”

“We need to talk,” he said.

“I’m busy right now.” She picked up a tomato and weighed it in her hand, her slender fingers curled around the plump red fruit. Was she debating throwing it at him?

He suppressed a smile at the thought and called to Bobbie, who sat at the cash register across the stand. “You can spare Amy for a few minutes, can’t you, Bobbie?”

“Of course. Amy, you can give Josh a few minutes.” She looked over the top of her glasses like a stern schoolmarm.

Amy gave a little shake of her head, but walked out from underneath the canopy that covered the produce stall, to the shade of a gnarled elm. He followed her. Even at this distance the air was redolent with the smell of ripe tomatoes, peppers and onions, the fruits of the Anderson Orchards greenhouses. Josh had worked in similar greenhouses in college, a lifetime ago.

Amy stood with her back to him, arms folded across her chest. He’d come here all fired up to argue with her about the hatchet job she’d done on him in her article, but now she looked, not defenseless exactly, but vulnerable. “I read the article in the paper,” he said. “The one you wrote about the game.”

“Oh.” Her gaze met his, calm and steady. Unreadable.

“Why did you twist my words around?” he asked. “You left out everything I said about the kids and focused on everything negative.”

Color rose in her cheeks. “The story was not negative. I focused on what I saw as the real news angle—how an inexperienced coach managed to turn a losing team around.”

“You misquoted me.”

She unfolded her arms and drew herself up as tall as possible. “I did not.”

“All right, but you left out part of my words. That changed the meaning of what I said.”

“Nothing I wrote in that article is untrue.”

“It’s not exactly true, either.”

She relaxed her shoulders and lowered her voice, visibly pulling herself together. “I have a job to do and I’m trying to do it. That job isn’t to make you look good.”

“I don’t care if you make me look good, but if you’re going to tell a story, tell the whole story, not just the part you think makes good copy.”

She looked as if she really wished she had that tomato back. No projectiles handy, she settled for glaring at him; the fire in her eyes might have moved him if he hadn’t been the one she was searing with the heat. “Look, there’s nothing personal here,” she said. “I’m just trying to do my job.”

“And I’m trying to do mine, without people like you questioning my abilities.”

“The way you’re questioning my abilities?”

Ouch! Okay, so maybe he had that coming. “I already told you I thought you were a good writer. But maybe you should leave the sports stories to the regular sports reporter.”

“Oh, this is so typical!” Her pretense of calm vanished. Face flushed, she clenched her fists at her side. “You think the world revolves around you and what you want.”

“In this case, this is about me. My name is the one you’re smearing in the dirt with your article.” His voice rose, and he struggled to rein in his anger. He didn’t think of himself as an overly emotional guy, but Amy summoned a host of strong feelings, not all of them good, by any means.

“This isn’t about you,” she insisted. “This is about me. I’m the new reporter here in town and I have to prove myself.”

How many times had he said the same thing—that he had to prove that he was capable of teaching and coaching? He wasn’t just the wounded veteran who’d won the job out of pity; he was capable and talented and the best man for the job. Did Amy really think people were judging her the way they judged him?

“You don’t have to prove yourself,” he said. “People already accept you. You’re Bobbie’s granddaughter.”

She shook her head. “That doesn’t matter to an editor in Denver.”

“Why do you care what an editor in Denver thinks?”

“Denver or Dallas, or any city where I try to get a job once I leave here. I need solid clips that show I can write more than fluff about the local 4-H and tedious reports about city council meetings. I need to show I can uncover the real meat of a story.”

“So you decided to go after me to showcase your skills?”

“I didn’t go after you. I went after the story.”

“I don’t get it,” he said. “It’s a baseball game. Why try to stir up controversy?”

“I’m a journalist. I’m trained to look for the story behind the story.”

“This is the Hartland Herald, not the National Enquirer. There is no story behind the story.”

“I don’t agree with you. I think your story is much more interesting than a baseball game.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You came home from the war and slipped right into a good job and a good life, no problems at all. Do you know how lucky that is? How unusual, even?”

“How do you know I don’t have problems? You don’t even know me.”

“I know the school board went out of its way to make a place for you, and chose you over other candidates who may have been more qualified.”

“So you don’t think I deserve my job?” Saying the words hurt. He hated that she saw him as a charity case.

“Not if every veteran doesn’t get those breaks.”

Every veteran—or the one who could never enjoy the “breaks” he had, because he’d never made it home from the war? Until that moment, he’d forgotten Amy was a war widow. “I’m sorry about your husband,” he said. “But that’s not my fault.”

“This has nothing to do with Brent.”

“Doesn’t it?”

She looked away, but not before he recognized the hurt in her eyes. He felt like a heel for reminding her of that pain. So what if he’d lost a hand? Her husband—and by extension, she and her daughter—had made the ultimate sacrifice. He really was lucky by comparison.

“Never mind,” he said, and turned away.

“Never mind what?”

“Write whatever you want about me. It’s up to me to prove myself despite the naysayers.”

He turned and strode back to his truck, aware of her gaze boring into him. He’d been struggling to prove himself to someone most of his life—his coaches, his father, his superior officers. But most of all, he constantly battled to live up to his own high expectations. One woman’s story in the local paper wasn’t going to change that.

* * *

AMY DIDN’T KNOW who she was more furious with—Josh for questioning the truthfulness of her article, or herself for letting him get to her. So what if she had presented the facts in a particular way to shape her story? That was part of her job, wasn’t it? And maybe the real reason he was upset was because she’d hit too close to the truth. She shouldn’t feel guilty about that, should she?

“What was all that about?” Bobbie didn’t even feign disinterest when Amy returned to the produce stall.

“He was upset about the story I wrote for the paper.” She began picking through a bin of tomatoes, setting aside those with soft spots.

“That story didn’t exactly paint him in the most flattering light.”

“It’s not my job to make him look good.” Amy tossed the tomatoes into a barrel where they saved spoiling vegetables and fruit for a local farmer who fed the produce to his pigs.

“Hartland isn’t Denver,” Bobbie said. “News doesn’t have to be bad to be news.”

“Why are you taking his side?” She tried and failed to hide her hurt.

“I’m not trying to take sides, but if I did, I’d be on your side. If you want to fit in here, you shouldn’t go alienating people right off the bat.”

“Who said I want to fit in?” At Bobbie’s hurt look, Amy wished she could take the words back. “I’m sorry, Grandma. Of course I want to fit in while I’m here.”

Bobbie turned to wait on a young woman who was buying tomatoes, onions and green beans. When they were alone again, she addressed Amy. “I was hoping you’d come to see this place as your home, someplace you’d want to settle down and raise Chloe.”

“I’m not sure I’m the settling down type.” Did she even know what a real home felt like? “But don’t worry. I’ll stay here as long as you need me. When do you see the doctor again?”

Bobbie shifted on her stool, the lines around her face deeper. Was her hip bothering her? Amy knew if she asked, her grandmother would tell her not to fuss. Bobbie hated to be fussed over. “Neal’s taking me tomorrow for a progress report.”

“That’s good.” Not for the first time, Amy wondered what the real relationship was between Bobbie and her neighbor Neal Kuchek. Boyfriend didn’t seem an appropriate term for a man who was in his seventies, but he and Grandma were certainly close. Nice to think that romance could be a part of life even at their age.

“I’ve been thinking,” Bobbie said. “You need to do something besides work here and at the paper. You need to get involved in the town.”

“Involved?”

“A community like this runs on volunteers. You can’t get a feel for what living here is really like unless you throw your lot in with the rest of us and get your hands dirty.”

Amy didn’t want to get her hands dirty. What was the point, since she didn’t intend to stay in town any longer than necessary? “Grandma, I—”

“Humor an old woman. Or think of it as something else you can write about. I want you to find one volunteer project you can get involved in. It’ll be a good way for you to get to know people, to know more what life is like here. Maybe then you’ll understand that giving Josh that coaching job wasn’t an act of charity, but the right way to look after one of our own.”

So that’s what this was all about—another way to defend Josh. “I don’t have anything against Josh,” she protested.

“That’s good to know.” Bobbie’s smile had more steel that sweetness behind it. “Then you won’t mind looking for something good to write about him. As a favor to me.”

“Grandma, I can’t write a story for the paper just to be nice. It has to be news.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” she said. “You’re a very resourceful young woman.”

Right. Resourceful. She’d been resourceful writing the story about Josh in the first place. She’d been proud of that story—she still was. And she resented that everyone—well, at least Josh and her grandmother—was trying to make her feel guilty about it. One more reason she wasn’t cut out for small-town living. People in a city would surely have more respect for journalism, and less of a personal stake in every story.

* * *

JOSH WAS ON the agenda to speak to the school board the following Thursday, not a job he relished, especially in the wake of the unwelcome publicity from Amy’s newspaper article. So far the reaction he’d heard from the article had been divided—Josh’s friends thought he hadn’t gotten a fair shake, while others applauded Amy for shedding light on a clear case of favoritism. Josh preferred to lie low and wait for the whole thing to blow over. Unfortunately, having to appear before the school board made that impossible.

Groaning inwardly, he settled into a chair near the back of the room and steeled himself for a boring wait. Only then did he spot Amy in the second row, rich brown hair falling around her shoulders as she leaned forward to scribble something in the reporter’s notebook in her lap. Was she waiting to twist his words tonight into something even more damning?

After the usual business of roll call and approval of minutes, school board president Al Hirschmer scanned the agenda, then addressed the crowd. “I see the first item of business is a proposal by someone called Love Soldier? Is that a typo? Is Love Soldier here?”

Amid some laughter a tall woman, her black hair in pigtails, stood and made her way to the microphone at the front of the room. “Erica Bridegate, why didn’t you just say it was you?” one of the board members, Ashley Frawley, said.

Erica’s cheeks reddened, but she held her head high. “I prefer Love Soldier.” She adjusted the microphone, the two dozen bracelets on her arm sounding like a whole drawerful of dropped silverware. “I’m here to ask the board to support my proposal to turn the vacant lot next to the elementary school into a garden. The students can help grow vegetables and learn about agriculture and healthy food, and the school cafeteria can save money on fresh vegetables.”

“What is that lot used for now?” Roger Perkins asked.

“The maintenance staff parks the plow truck there when it’s not in use,” Al said. “And I believe there are a couple of Dumpsters there.”

“The school should be able to find somewhere else for those things,” Erica/Love said. “I propose to build raised beds there and help the children grow tomatoes, beans, lettuce and other vegetables they can eat. Or they could sell the excess to finance other school projects.”

“That sounds good,” Roger said. “But you can’t just dig up a vacant lot and have a garden. What are you going to build these raised beds out of?”

“Tony Gillespie has a big pile of bricks from the old stables he tore down that he said he’d donate if the school board will give him a letter so he can take the value of the bricks off his taxes,” she said. “And Nancy Metheny said she’d get her brother to till up the dirt if I thought this would get her son, Nicky, to eat vegetables.”

“So all you need from us is permission?” Ashley asked.

“Permission and an agreement to pay the water bill. And maybe build a fence to keep out wandering dogs and things.”

“I knew there was a catch,” Ashley said to no one in particular.

“The school doesn’t have money for a fence or a bigger water bill,” the third board member, Stephanie Olefski, said. “And I seriously doubt kids can eat enough vegetables to make up the difference.”

This launched a lengthy debate about the merits of fresh vegetables, the aesthetic value of fences and what kind of watering system a garden might need. Josh passed the time studying the way Amy’s hair reflected the light, and the curve of her cheek—the only part of her face he could really see from this angle.

As if feeling his gaze on her, she turned, and when their eyes met, he read a challenge there—as if she expected him to confront her once more and she was prepared for the verbal battle. But he had no intention of arguing with Amy—certainly not in public. Zach had been right—if she considered him her enemy, she was more likely to continue to go after him in the paper. Better to pretend he had no beef with her and hope she’d soon turn her attention to a more exciting story.

“If I find someone to donate the fencing, and volunteers to erect it, can the school pay for the water?” Erica was saying now.

“Do we have any idea how much the water will cost?” Ashley asked. “We can’t commit to an unknown cost. Are we talking one hundred dollars or one thousand dollars?”

“I suppose that depends on how much it rains,” Roger said.

Josh raised his hand. Al regarded him with something like relief in his expression. “Mr. Scofield, do you have something to add?”

Feeling a little self-conscious under the scrutiny of every eye in the room, Josh stood. “The elementary school has a metal roof. Perhaps we could install a cistern and some kind of collection system and use the rain we collect to water the garden.”

“That’s a wonderful idea.” Eyes shining, Erica looked at him as if he’d just offered her a diamond ring. “And so green. It will teach the children about recycling.”

“Don’t you have to have a permit from the state to do something like that?” Stephanie asked.

“I could look into that,” Josh said.

“Then I propose we table a decision until we have a report on the feasibility of a water collection system and the costs involved.” Al banged down his gavel. “All in favor?”

The vote was unanimous in favor of the motion. Erica mimed that she would talk to Josh more later, and he sat down again. But he was scarcely settled in his chair when Al called his name. “Mr. Scofield, I believe you’re next on the agenda.”

“Don’t tell me you’re looking for money, too,” Ashley quipped.

“Actually, I am.” Josh cleared his throat and tried to focus his thoughts. “I’d like for my students to attend a science bee in Durango next month. We’d need a bus and driver to take us there and back for the day, plus the participation fee of ten dollars per student.”

“And how many students are we talking about?” Al asked.

“I have twenty who’d be eligible to attend, but I think about twelve would actually go, plus adult sponsors.”

“So, $120, plus salary for a driver for the day, plus the gas for the bus...” Stephanie looked thoughtful.

“I don’t think the school board should spend money on extracurricular activities that benefit only a handful of students in these dire economic times.”

Josh didn’t have to turn around to know who spoke.

“Mr. Southerland, you need to request to be recognized by the board before you speak,” Al said.

“I apologize.” Rick rose and stood, gripping the back of the chair in front of him. “May I speak?”

“The chair recognizes Rick Southerland,” Al said.

“I think it sets a bad precedent for the board to fund trips like this science bee at a time when you’ve been forced to lay off personnel,” Rick said. “Today it’s a science bee. Tomorrow it’s a spelling bee or a debate tournament or a trip to a museum.”

“Those are all educational enrichment activities,” Stephanie said.

“Yes, but they’re also expensive,” Rick said. “And we can’t afford expensive.” He glanced at Josh. “People come here from the city with big ideas about what our kids need, but what they really need is the good education we can give them right here.”

Josh wondered if Rick was planning a run for school board next election; he sounded just like a politician delivering a campaign speech.

“I’m not from the city,” Josh pointed out. “I grew up here in Hartland.”

“And do you think that entitles you to some special favoritism?” Rick sneered. “Or don’t we all already know the answer to that question?”

Josh groaned. “I don’t think—”

“He makes a good point.” Roger sat back in his chair. “Not the local thing—I don’t care about that. But I don’t think this is a good use of our funds. If the kids want to go to the science bee, their parents can pay the ten dollars and they can carpool there.”

Murmurs of agreement circulated around the table and a few seconds later Josh sat down, his request for funds denied and the meeting adjourned.

Had Rick come here tonight specifically to shoot down Josh’s proposal? Josh hadn’t seen his fellow teacher walk into the room, but maybe he’d been too focused on Amy to notice anything else. And speaking of Amy, what would she make of all this? Would she say he’d played up his status as a local to ask for special favors from the board? That was ridiculous, but no more ridiculous than her assertion that the baseball team’s winning record was all due to luck, or that he’d gotten his job solely because he was a veteran.

He needed to talk to Amy and set the record straight before another wild story made it into the paper. But before Josh could reach Amy, Erica waylaid him. “That was a wonderful idea you had about the water collection and all,” she said. “I’m really looking forward to working with you on this project. I was thinking maybe we could apply for some grants and—”

“Uh-huh.” Josh watched as Amy walked out the door. “Maybe we could talk later,” he said to Erica. “I have something I need to do right now.”

He stepped into the hallway and looked around. Amy moved away from the two women she’d been talking with and came toward him. “What is your reaction to the school board’s denying your request for the money to attend the science bee?” she asked.

She was in full reporter mode, mini recorder in hand. “Hello, Amy,” he said. “How are you this evening?”

Her cheeks flushed pink. “I’m fine, Josh. In a little hurry to make the paper’s deadline. Are you upset the school board denied your request for funds?”

He chose his words carefully, all the while watching her, trying to gauge her reaction. “The school board has to weigh many requests for funds,” he said. “They have a tough job and a duty to be fiscally responsible. I’m still hoping the students can attend the science bee. I’ll be asking their parents to help make that happen, and I welcome any other volunteers from the community who’d like to help.”

“Very nicely done.” She switched off the recorder and stuck it in her purse. “Any idea why Rick Southerland spoke out so vehemently against the proposal?”

“I assume he objects to the school board spending any extra money.”

“He hasn’t attended any of the meetings I’ve covered. And something about his manner...I think this was more personal.”

He was tempted to tell her the whole story, but reminded himself that his words might end up on the front page of next week’s edition of the Hartland Herald. “Must be your imagination. Rick and I work together, but I really don’t know him well.”

“And now you’ve volunteered to help Love Soldier with her gardening project. That’s very civic-minded of you.”

Did he imagine the teasing note in her voice? “Her idea is a good one. I hated to see it shot down before we at least tried to find a solution. I worked on a couple of rainwater collection projects in college.”

“Any idea why she changed her name to Love Soldier?”

“You’d have to ask her, but Erica has always been a little alternative.”

“Then you know her?”

“We were in school together. Besides, stay in Hartland long enough and you get to know everyone.”

“My grandmother keeps assuming I already know everyone the way she does. She was convinced you and I had met before, but I had to remind her I was only here for a few weeks in the summer.”

“I don’t think we’d met before.” He liked to think he would have remembered if they’d known each other before, but who could say what kind of an impression she’d have made on him when she was a girl? He’d spent more time focused on baseball and horses than chasing after girls.

“I’ll help you with the science bee, if you like,” she said.

He didn’t try to hide his surprise. “Do you really want to spend the day with a bunch of high school kids?”

She shrugged. “I think it would make an interesting story for the paper.”

“Is that the real reason, or are you just looking for an excuse to follow me around and report on other signs of inexperience or special treatment?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll report on what I see, the same as I’d do with anyone.”

“As long as you don’t single me out for any special attention. I wouldn’t want that, no matter what some people think.”

A blush of color suffused her cheeks again—from anger, or some other emotion? “No special attention,” she said. “Not from me.”

She started to turn away, but he touched her shoulder. “I don’t want us to be enemies,” he said.

“You’re not my enemy. I told you before—I’m just doing my job.”

Right. And someone had to matter to you in some way in order for them to be your enemy. Amy obviously felt nothing for him except that resentment she apparently felt for any veteran who had what her late husband did not—namely, a life. He couldn’t change those feelings with an apology or a smile. “The science bee is next month. I’ll let you know.”

“Fine.” She slung her purse over her shoulder. “See you around.”

“Yeah. See you around.”

Josh watched her retreat—that’s what it felt like to him, anyway. She didn’t run out of the building, but he sensed she wanted to. What was she running from? Was his presence really so offensive to her?

He’d been crazy to agree to let her come along on the science bee trip. The day would be awkward and tense and he’d probably come off looking bad in the article she wrote.

“Where is she off to in such a hurry?” Erica joined him. “I wanted to talk to her about the school garden.”

“She said she had a deadline for the paper.”

“Oh. Well, maybe I’ll call her tomorrow.”

He started to tell Erica to avoid talking about his involvement in the project when she talked to Amy. No sense stirring up animosity. But explaining his reasoning to “Love Soldier” would be too awkward. “I guess you want to talk about the irrigation system,” he said. “We could discuss it over coffee.”

“Thanks. We should do that, but not tonight. My boyfriend is waiting up, and I really want to get home and tell him all about what happened tonight.”

“What’s his name?”

“George Ramirez. You don’t know him. He’s from Berkley.”

“And his name’s George?” Not Rainbow or Peace Brother or something equally as colorful as Love Soldier?

She grinned. “He’s not into the name thing like I am. Though I’m beginning to think Love Soldier might be a little too far-out for Hartland.”

“Erica is a nice name.”

She wrinkled her nose. “But it doesn’t really say anything, you know?”

Josh thought he understood. He was proud of the name he’d been born with, but he sometimes wondered if it wouldn’t be easier if he’d come to town as a stranger, without his family name and history to brand him as a local. Would people like Rick and Amy hassle him less if he was an outsider?

“Anyway, thanks for backing me up tonight,” Erica continued. “We’ll talk soon, I promise.”

She left in a flurry of gauze skirts and flying pigtails. Home to share her news with the man she loved. A tightness in his chest pinched at him. If he hadn’t known better, he might have thought he was jealous of Erica and George—and Rick and his wife and all those people who had other people to go home to.

How much worse was it, though, for Amy? She had known that kind of love, that connection with another person, and war had taken that away. Josh might have lost a hand in Iraq, but she had lost so much more. He could replace his hand with a hook or a prosthesis, but would another man for Amy be like his hand—a dim imitation of what she really wanted?

Maybe that was at the heart of all his mixed feelings for Amy. As much as her treatment of him in the paper angered him, he sympathized with her plight. The war hurt men and women like her who had waited at home every bit as much as it injured and killed their loved ones who fought. He was one more reminder of that hurt. Just as well she wasn’t planning to stay in Hartland long. Her leaving town would be the best thing for both of them.


CHAPTER THREE

OF ALL HER jobs at the farm, Amy liked working in the greenhouses best. The long rows of tomatoes, peppers, lettuces and herbs made a fragrant jungle around her as she weeded, pruned, watered and picked. Worries and stress vanished as she focused on the plants. “You have a knack for gardening,” her grandmother told her as the two women worked side by side the morning after the school board meeting.

“Isn’t it funny, since I didn’t grow up around gardening? Mom didn’t even keep houseplants.” The family moved so often plants and pets and other dependents made little sense.

“They say sometimes a talent will skip a generation.” Bobbie leaned over and deftly pinched back a tomato plant. “Your mother didn’t have the patience for gardening. You have to stick around a whole season or more to see the fruits of your labors. She always wanted to move on to the next big adventure. She still does, I guess. Where are your folks now—South America, isn’t it?”

“Chile. Guiding tours to see penguins and whales.”

“That’s all pretty exciting, I’m sure, but I’d rather stay here and watch a plant grow and develop and bear fruit.”

“Look, Mama!” Chloe tiptoed carefully toward them, her eyes fixed on the bright red-and-black ladybug that crawled along her finger.

“That’s a ladybug,” Bobbie said. “She helps protect the plants from aphids and other bad bugs.”

“She’s so pretty.” The ladybug spread her wings and flew away. Chloe’s face fell. “She’s gone.”

“She didn’t go far,” Bobbie said. “She and her friends live in the greenhouses.”

“Then I’ll look for more,” the child said, and skipped away.

“She’s a smart girl,” Bobbie said. “And I don’t just say that because I’m her great-grandmother. She pays attention to things and really listens to what you say. She might end up being a great scientist.”

Chloe was smart. Amy wanted to give her every advantage in life—the best schools, stimulating activities—but what parent didn’t want those things for her child? For now, Chloe had found her own little bit of heaven in the greenhouses and fields of Anderson Orchards, where she ruled like a princess in her kingdom, doted on by all the adults.

“Speaking of science, Josh Scofield was at the school board meeting last night,” Amy said as she and her grandmother began to pick peppers from the heavily laden plants in the center of the greenhouse.

“What was he doing there?”

“He asked the board for money to send some of his students to a science bee over in Durango, but they turned him down.”

“What is a science bee?”

“I don’t know for sure. Maybe like a spelling bee, but the contestants have to answer science questions. I guess I’ll find out for sure when we go. I volunteered to help him and to write about it for the paper.”

“I’m glad to see you’re taking my advice about getting involved in the community,” Bobbie said.

“I’m not really going to be involved—I’ll just be observing and reporting on the day’s events for the paper. Ed is always eager to print school news—he says advertisers love it.” She set aside one bucket full of peppers and picked up an empty one. “And I thought I might pitch the story to some national magazines— an example of how to get kids more excited about science or something like that.”

“At least you’ll be meeting new people. It’s a start. When is all this taking place?”

“I’m not sure. Next month sometime, Josh said.”

Bobbie inched her walker forward and scrutinized a yellowing branch on a pepper plant. “Can’t be too much longer. School will be out at the end of May. And it starts back in before Labor Day.” She took a pair of clippers from her pocket and snipped off the offending branch and tossed it aside. “You’ll want to see about getting Chloe enrolled in kindergarten next year. Mrs. Dawson teaches those little ones. You’ll like her.”

“I suppose.”

“You suppose what?”

“I suppose I’ll enroll Chloe in kindergarten if we’re still here in the fall. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do.”

“Where would you go? This is your home.” Bobbie peered intently at her. “Aren’t you happy here?”

“I am happy. But I’ve never lived in a small town before. Right now it’s a novelty, but later...” She let her voice trail away.

“Don’t borrow trouble worrying about what might never come. You’re settling in nicely. You’ve got a job, and friends. You’re making a place for yourself here.”

She was settling in, but was she settling? Hartland felt so peaceful, so safe. Maybe she was only hiding here, protecting herself from hurt instead of getting out into the wider world and developing a thicker skin.

She could almost hear her mother, encouraging an eight-year-old Amy, who had been worried about starting classes at yet another new school. “Doing the easy thing all the time is for cowards,” Katherine Anderson Carruthers had said. “You’re not a coward. You’re going to go out there and show everyone you’re not afraid, and just doing that will make you braver, and next time it won’t be so hard.”

Her mother had been right. By the time Amy was sixteen, starting at a new school wasn’t so hard. But part of that may have been because she hadn’t felt compelled to try so hard to fit in and make friends. After all, she’d be leaving soon, so if the other students didn’t like her, it didn’t matter in the long run.

She thought of Josh and his “in your face” hook, daring people to take him as he was or not at all. She understood that kind of bravado.

“Anything else exciting happen at the school board meeting, or do I need to wait and read about it in the paper?” Bobbie asked.

She wasn’t sure if her grandmother had decided there was nothing else to say on the matter of Amy staying or leaving, or if she was saving her arguments for another time. Either way, Amy was grateful for the change of subject. “A woman named Erica Bridegate was there. She introduced herself as Love Soldier.”

“Hippie-looking chick—tall, with dark hair?”

“Yes. Do you know her?”

“She buys produce from me and asks smart questions about how to grow things. Kelli and Devon Bridegate’s girl. One of those who marches to her own drummer, but nothing wrong with that. What was she up to?”

“She wants to turn the vacant lot next to the elementary school into a garden for the kids. They’d grow vegetables and eat them in the school cafeteria.”

“And the school board thought she was crazy.”

“Not really. She’d done her homework and recruited volunteers and even got folks to agree to donate a lot of the material she’d need for the project. But she asked the school to pay the water bill and that worried the board, because no one knew how much that bill might be.”

“Makes sense. What happened?”

“Josh said he knew about rainwater irrigation systems and offered to help her set up a system to collect rain from the school roof and store it in a cistern to use to water the garden. He said he worked with a couple of systems like that in college.”

“I’d forgotten he went to University of Northern Colorado and got a degree in agricultural science. I think the plan was for him to come home and help his daddy run the Bar S.”

“And then he was hurt in Iraq.” She felt a pang as she said the words. So much loss and pain from that war.

“That was later. First he came home and he and his dad butted heads over the right way to do things. Mitch Scofield can be pretty stubborn, and I imagine Josh takes after his old man. Then Josh shocked everyone when he enlisted. I think one reason he did it was to make Mitch mad, but you never saw two people prouder of their boy than Josh’s mom and dad. It tore them to pieces when he was hurt.”

“Josh lives with them on the ranch?”

“He has a cabin they fixed up for him, so he’s close but not in their back pocket.”

“Am I in your back pocket?” Bobbie had lived alone in the big farmhouse for almost five years before Amy and Chloe moved in.

“That’s different.” Bobbie waved her hand in dismissal. “You and I get along. Josh and his dad still don’t always see eye to eye. It would be like you living with your mother.”

“Mom and I get along.”

“And you get on each other’s nerves, too. Katherine can be plenty bossy, I know.”

Amy bit her lip to keep from pointing out that Bobbie herself liked to do her share of ordering people around. But Bobbie’s bossiness didn’t bother Amy, not the way her mother’s managing ways did. Maybe it was that generational thing again.

“Hello. Anybody home?” Both women turned to see Charla in the door of the greenhouse.

“Hello, Charla. What brings you out our way?” Bobbie asked.

“I was heading back from picking up supplies in Junction and thought I’d swing by and say hello.” She greeted each woman with a hug.

“Supplies weren’t the only thing you bought in Junction,” Amy said. “You had your hair done.”

Charla smoothed a hand over her gleaming blond locks. “I may have indulged in a little freshening up.”

“That ought to impress a certain single banker.” Bobbie winked at Amy, who did her best to stifle a laugh.

“If you’re referring to Clay Westerburg, I already struck out with him.” Charla sighed and leaned back against one of the elevated planting tables, arms crossed over her chest. “We went out and he talked about his ex-wife the entire evening.”

Bobbie patted the younger woman’s shoulder. “The right man will come along when you least expect it.”

“I hope you’re right. Anyway, I didn’t stop by to moan about my love life—or lack of it. I’m recruiting for the booster club. We need chaperones for the prom and the after-prom party.”

“Count me out,” Bobbie said. “I’m too old to stay up that late, and the music the kids play gets on my nerves.”

“What about you, Amy?”

“I don’t think I’m a prom kind of person. I never even went to a prom when I was a teenager.”

Charla’s eyes widened. “You didn’t?”

“I took correspondence courses my last couple of years of high school. We were living in Spain—and then Korea.”

“Wild. Then you should definitely do this. It gives you an excuse to get dressed up and stay up past midnight, and in this town, that’s something.”

“What do the chaperones do?”

“Just mingle among the kids, make sure they stay out of trouble.”

“Will you be there?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

Amy laughed. “You make it sound like a date instead of a duty.”

“We’re the responsible adults and we have to enforce the rules, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have fun, too.” She pulled a notepad from her shoulder bag and consulted it. “So far I’ve got Teresa Fischer from the bank, Josh Scofield, Rick Southerland, Zach Fremont and his wife, Susie.” She stashed the pad back in her purse. “You’d be the perfect addition. Say you’ll do it.”

Amy shook her head. “I’ll pass.” The idea of hanging out in a social setting with Josh felt awkward; they clashed every time they saw each other. “Besides, what would I do with Chloe?”

“As if I couldn’t look after Chloe,” Bobbie said. “You should go. It would do you good to socialize with people your own age—the other chaperones, I mean.”

“I don’t think so.” Sure, the evening might turn out to be fun. Or it could be a painful reminder of her status as both a local outsider and a single woman. “But thanks for asking.” She avoided looking at Bobbie, though she was aware of her grandmother’s gaze fixed on her. Bobbie wanted Amy to get more involved with the townspeople, but a formal dance was not the place Amy wanted to start.

“Let me know if you change your mind,” Charla said. “There’s always room for one more, though I could use a couple more single men, to make the night a little more interesting.”

“Charla, you’re supposed to be chaperoning, not dating,” Bobbie said.

“In this town, I’ve learned to take my opportunities where I find them. I hear the garage has a cute new mechanic. I think I’ll see if he’s interested.” She fluttered her fingers in a wave and left them.

“Why did you turn her down?” Bobbie asked as she and Amy returned to work. “I doubt the kids would give you any trouble, and you could enjoy an evening with the other chaperones.”

“I just don’t think I’d be comfortable. I’m not ready for that kind of socializing.”

“It’s a small-town prom—not a grand ball. And you’d know almost everyone there. Josh, for instance.”

“I’m not Josh’s favorite person right now. He’s still upset about the story I did for the paper.”

“Yet you’re going to the science bee with him.”

“That’s different. That’s for the paper. I’m not really volunteering—I’m writing about the event for the Herald.”

“There’s more to life than work, you know. You can’t let things get so out of balance.”

Amy knew her grandmother meant well, but she didn’t understand how important work was to Amy right now. The right work would build a good future for her and her daughter. “I’d rather spend time with you and Chloe,” she said.

“Don’t use us as an excuse for hiding from life,” Bobbie said. She put one bony hand on Amy’s shoulder and looked her in the eye. “Just because Brent isn’t here to have fun doesn’t mean you have to punish yourself by never enjoying anything.”

“I...I’m not doing that.” Was she?

“I’d better take these peppers out to the truck,” Amy said. “We need more up at the stand.” She made her escape from the greenhouse, but her grandmother’s words echoed in her head. Was she avoiding the prom out of guilt over Brent’s death? Maybe that was part of it. And maybe she just needed more time before she was comfortable with a social life. She had work and Chloe to keep her occupied; she wasn’t ready to add more.

And maybe, despite her mother’s training, she was a coward. After losing so much, she didn’t want to take more risks. She was afraid to open her heart to pain again.

* * *

ON SATURDAYS, JOSH helped his dad with whatever work needed doing around the ranch. When Josh had first come back from Iraq, Mitch had been hesitant to let his son do anything, as if the loss of his hand also meant the loss of all his skills. Josh had had to prove he could handle the job—that he could still ride a horse and string fencing and haul feed and all the jobs involved in keeping a big ranch going.

This Saturday they were shipping calves to the auction house in Junction. Josh worked with his dad and the two hands, Tomas and Ben, to round up the calves and confine them in the holding pens. From there, they’d be loaded onto a livestock trailer for the trip to the auction. It was hot, dirty work, the air filled with the bawling of the calves and the shouts of the men, dust rising in choking clouds around them.

Josh’s horse, Pico, had thrown a shoe on the way out of the corral this morning, so Josh was riding one of his dad’s mounts, a cantankerous sorrel called Pete, who wasn’t happy with the unfamiliar rider on his back. Josh had to work to keep the horse in check.

“Don’t know what’s up with him,” Tomas remarked as the horse danced back from the open gate of the pen as two calves streaked past.

“He don’t like that hook,” Mitch said. “Some animals are wary of anything that isn’t as it should be.”

Was this another subtle reminder from his dad that Josh “wasn’t as he should be?” No—Mitch was too plainspoken for subtle. He said what he thought without a lot of concern for other people’s feelings—certainly not his son’s. Part of Josh was glad his dad hadn’t coddled him after he came home from the war. If only Mitch trusted Josh to do more.

“You’re probably right,” Josh said. “But I can handle him.” He’d ridden practically since he could walk; a nervous horse and a missing hand weren’t going to defeat him.

At ten they stopped to water the horses and themselves, resting in the shade of a gnarled piñon.

“Bart Ogleby’s driving over about eleven and we can load ’em up,” Mitch said. “They ought to bring a good price over at the auction.”

“Snow’s melting fast this year,” Ben said. “Another month we can take the herd up to the high pasture.”

Moving the herd was a spectacle the whole neighborhood—and more than a few tourists—turned out for. The cowboys, including hands from neighboring ranches who came to help, drove the herd through open gates onto the highway, which had to be closed for the purpose. In a parade of cows, horses, ATVs and ranch dogs, all led by county sheriff SUVs with their lights flashing, they traveled a mile down the highway to gates leading to other pastures that fed onto high ground watered by winter snows. The cows would spend the summer in these lush pastures, then the whole process would be reversed in the fall.

The operation required precision, coordination and a little luck to run smoothly, but it was one everyone on the ranch looked forward to.

“Your mom tells me you got corralled into chaperoning the prom this year,” Mitch said to Josh.

“I did.” He’d planned to dress as he did for class, in a plain shirt and khaki trousers, but his mother had insisted he wear a suit and tie or she’d never be able to hold her head up in town again.

“You couldn’t pay me enough to spend the night in a gym full of teenagers,” his dad said.

“The prom isn’t at the gym. It’s in the ballroom, upstairs at the Opera House.” The Hartland Historical Society had restored the old Daniels Opera House five years previous, including redoing the upstairs ballroom, which hosted various community events.

“I guess that’s better than having all those kids drive into the city for their party. Where did they have it when you were in school?”

“The Bellflower Hotel.”

Mitch shook his head. “I’d forgotten all about that place.”

“It burned down the summer after my prom, so mine was the last class to celebrate there.” Josh had taken Sarah McKenzie as his date. She’d broken up with him a week later and had eventually married an accountant she met in college. They lived over in Durango, according to a letter that had gone out for their tenth high school reunion while Josh was over in Iraq.

The men grew quiet again. Ben and Tomas moved away to smoke, leaving Josh and his dad alone, the silence stretching awkwardly between them. For all the angry words they’d exchanged over the years, simple conversation came harder, as if neither was quite sure what to make of the other.

“So, you liking teaching?” his dad asked after a while.

“Yeah, I like it. The kids are interesting. Good kids, most of them.”

“I never figured you for a teacher. I always thought you wanted to be a rancher.”

Josh told himself that wasn’t a note of accusation in his dad’s voice. “Most ranchers these days have day jobs, don’t they?” he said.

Mitch nodded. “A lot of them. I’ve always managed without that, though your mom worked at the bank for a while.”

Josh remembered those years, the house empty when he got off the school bus in the afternoons, his mom at the bank and his dad working on the ranch. He hadn’t minded having the house to himself for those few hours, hadn’t even minded starting dinner and doing the chores his mom assigned him. But his father had minded. Mitch’s pride had suffered from knowing his wife had to work to support the ranch. The day cattle prices rose enough to cover their debts without her salary, he’d ordered her to give up her job, and she’d done so, though Josh sometimes wondered if she missed that taste of independence.

But she was the daughter of a rancher. She’d been raised to support the family business, and doing anything different may never have crossed her mind.

“Shipping the calves is always easier than handling the steers.”

The sudden shift of topic didn’t surprise Josh. His dad was always most comfortable talking about the ranch. About work. Mitch removed his hat and ran his thumb along the worn leather band. “That’s my least favorite job, shipping them, not to mention giving such a big cut to the feedlot.”

“I’ve been reading about these new portable operations,” Josh said. “They bring everything right to the ranch in an eighteen-wheeler. The ranchers come together in a co-op and own the unit, so they cut out the middleman. They get a bigger cut of the profit and it’s less stressful on the cattle—more humane.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard about those. But they sound way too expensive to me. And what do you do if the thing breaks down?” He replaced his hat on his head. “Time to get back to work.”

Josh clenched his teeth, swallowing angry words. Did his dad dismiss all his ideas simply because they came from Josh? He pretended to want his son’s help with the ranch, but had never once implemented any idea Josh brought to the table, or even seriously considered them. Josh didn’t know why he bothered to keep trying.

He swung up into the saddle, struggling to control the skittish horse. The rest break hadn’t done anything to calm Pete. The animal sidestepped as they neared the pen, where Josh’s job was to help usher the next batch of calves driven by Ben and Tomas into the chute.

“It’s okay, boy,” Josh crooned soothingly. “Everything’s all right.” He leaned forward to run a gentling hand along the gelding’s neck, but forgot he no longer had a hand. As soon as the metal of the hook touched the horse’s flesh, it panicked, twisting and bucking as it fought to rid itself of this alien rider.

Josh fought to stay with the horse, but felt himself slipping, falling. He kicked free of the stirrups and covered his head as he hit the ground, facedown. Sharp pain cut through his body as a trio of calves raced over him, their fright fueled by the horse’s antics.

“Son, are you all right?” Firm hands gripped his shoulder and turned him to his side. He looked up into his father’s pale face. “Don’t move. Let me check you out.”

“I’m okay.” He pushed aside his father’s probing fingers and staggered to his feet, brushing dirt and muck from his clothes. He’d feel the bruises tomorrow, but nothing was damaged, except his pride.

“You’re done here today,” his father said. “Get on up to the house and get those cuts seen to.”

Josh wiped his hand across the side of his face and realized he was bleeding from a gash there and another on his arm. “Take the ATV,” his dad said. “Tomas will bring Pete back.” Ben held the horse a little ways from them. The animal stood, legs splayed, glaring at Josh.

Josh started to argue that he could stay and keep working, but what would be the point? He was acutely aware of the others’ eyes on him, the hands’ expressions guarded, his father’s scrutiny equal parts concern and annoyance. Mitch saw Josh as a liability. Someone to be looked after, who couldn’t be trusted to do a man’s work.

Josh retrieved his hat from the dirt and stalked to the ATV. Thankfully, it started with no problem, and he gunned it away from the holding pens. But instead of heading to the house, he set off on a faint track to his favorite spot on the ranch. He left the dust and commotion around the shipping pens and headed across a series of low hills toward a distant knot of trees.

As the noise of bawling calves, clanging gates and shouting men receded, Josh’s shoulders began to relax, and he eased his grip on the ATV’s throttle. He reached a grove of scrub oak and cottonwood alongside a wide spot in the creek that was out of sight of any of the buildings on the ranch, sheltered in the lee of a hill dotted with wildflowers and sage. As a boy, Josh had spent hours here, fishing, swimming, reading favorite books or simply staring out at the land.

By the time he parked the ATV in the shade of a leafy cottonwood, his racing heart had slowed and the angry haze had cleared from his vision. He stripped off his boots and socks and left them, along with his hat and belt, on the seat of the ATV. He waded into the creek and dived under, letting the icy water wash away the dirt and muck and some of the shame. When the cold made his bones ache and his teeth chatter, he abandoned the water to sit in the sun.

The gentle heat began to dry his clothes and hair and the chattering ceased, replaced by drowsy inertia. Thoughts drifted through his head like the dragonflies that landed on his arm, then took off. He loved this ranch, but it was never his. It was always his father’s alone. He’d gone to college to study agriculture, thinking he could use his knowledge to help his father and improve the ranch, but Mitch only saw his son’s ideas as interfering. Or as criticism that the way Mitch did things wasn’t good enough. After a while, Josh had felt as if every time he opened his mouth his dad was prepared to argue.

He could admit now he’d joined the army out of spite. The military had offered a free ticket to see the world and the opportunity to serve his country, but he also knew his dad would be horrified at the idea. His mother had cried and his father had fumed when Josh had announced his plans, but they’d raised a flag in front of the house and written letters and sent care packages and been nothing but proud of him. His father had never served in the military, being too young for Vietnam and too old for the first Gulf War. This was one arena in which father and son didn’t need to compete.

And then Josh had been injured. He’d returned less of a man than he’d been, at least in his father’s eyes. His mother fussed and his father fretted until Josh wanted to explode. Only when he’d gotten the job at the school and moved into the cabin had things settled down. He’d hoped that, with time, his father would accept him as a partner in the family business, but that didn’t seem likely to happen anytime soon.

By now the sun was lower in the sky, sinking toward the horizon. His mother expected him for dinner and he still needed to clean up. He’d stop by his cabin to shower and change, and at dinner they’d talk about the prom or local politics or national news. Nothing important. Nothing to mend the rift between father and son.


CHAPTER FOUR

“I’VE GOT a new assignment for you, Amy.” Ed Burridge, editor and publisher of the Hartland Herald, stopped beside Amy’s desk in the paper’s storefront office.

Amy looked up from her computer, wondering if the little thrill that ran through her at those words would ever go away. Of course, she was so new to journalism that every assignment was a novelty, but every time she hoped this newest story would be her big break—the one article that would catch the attention of magazine editors and help her land her dream job in the city.

“I want you to go to the high school prom. Talk to the kids, soak up the atmosphere then write a feature,” Ed said.

The smile with which she’d greeted Ed vanished. “The prom? Are our readers really going to be interested in a high school dance?”

“They are.” He held up one thick finger, prepared to lecture. A stocky man who favored brightly colored aloha shirts and faded khakis, Ed had taken over the paper two years previous and was constantly on the lookout for ways to boost circulation and make the weekly more profitable. “Small-town life revolves around the school. Every parent with a kid at the prom, every sponsor of the night and every chaperone is going to want to read about themselves. Parents whose children aren’t yet old enough to attend but will soon will want to find out what to expect. Other people will read just to see what’s going on, or to relive their own proms. We can’t lose with this one.”




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