Her Cowboy Soldier (17 page)

“I assume you mean the article on the tourist attractions of Hartland, Colorado—and not my piece on the county’s decision to widen Market Road Thirty-four.”

“The only thing I care about widening is my potential pool of dates,” Charla said. “Is your article done yet?”

“Almost.” So far, she’d toured the B and B and museum and gone fishing with Fred Adams, a stout, mustachioed man who’d attempted to show her the ins and outs of fly-fishing. She’d canoed on Crystal Lake, hiked the nature trail near the visitors’ center and interviewed families picnicking in the town park. In the process, she’d gotten to know the town a lot better, and discovered a simple charm beneath the dull exterior. “I’m not sure my article is going to send people flocking to Hartland—not single men, anyway. What about the adventure race idea?”

“I called the guy your mom referred me to. When he told me how much it would cost to set up a race, I almost lost my lunch. The Chamber president would stroke out if I asked for that kind of money.”

“So what now?” Amy asked.

“We send out your article and see what happens.” Charla patted Amy’s hand, then turned to polish the rows of ceramic coffee mugs that hung on hooks behind the counter. Regulars could purchase their own cups and were entitled to free refills for a year.

Amy sipped her mocha and studied the notices pinned to the bulletin board next to the front counter. Someone had a washer and dryer for sale. Someone else was offering guitar lessons. A young man was looking for a roommate. Her gaze shifted to a flyer tacked to the bottom edge of the board.

Help Your Neighbor—Sign up to Harvest Apples at Anderson Orchards, beginning the second week of September. Volunteer for an hour or a day to help bring in the apple harvest. Meals and entertainment provided.

Below this was space for people to leave their name, phone number and time and date they’d like to volunteer.

Amy snatched the flyer from the board. “Charla, what is this?” she asked.

“Josh is collecting names of people to harvest apples for your grandma this fall. I guess Bobbie was worried she wouldn’t be able to get enough hired help because of some federal law change or something.”

“Seasonal worker visas,” Amy said. “They’re limiting them this year. Apparently the ski resorts used up a lot of them, and there aren’t many left for farm workers.” She studied the list of names—Zach Fremont, Stephanie Oleski, George Ramirez—almost the whole page was filled. “All these people are volunteering?”

“Oh, there’s more,” Charla said. “Josh has already picked up two filled sheets. Some people signed up for one time slot, then they came back and signed up for another one.”

“But why is Josh doing this? Why is it even any of his concern?” What must people have thought when Josh came to them to ask for help for
her
grandmother? Did they think Amy didn’t care about Bobbie? That she wasn’t capable of helping her, or didn’t want to?

“You’d have to ask him that. Maybe he just wanted to do something nice for Bobbie.”

“I will ask him.” She folded the flyer and put it in her purse. “I’ll ask him right now.”

She drove to the ranch, her anger growing. The nerve of the man. If Bobbie needed help, she should have asked Amy. That’s the whole reason Amy was here. Well, part of the reason, anyway.

Bobbie had pointed out the turnoff to Josh’s cabin last time they were at the ranch, but Amy almost missed it. She saw the mailbox and swerved, then bounced the car up the gravel drive that led to a low log building crouched in a grove of elms. A porch curved around two sides, and Josh’s truck was parked beneath a shed to the west of the house.

Amy parked her Subaru behind the truck and was out of the car almost before the motor had stopped running. She mounted the steps and crossed the porch to pound on the door.

Heavy footsteps approached on the other side of the door, then Josh stood before her. “Amy! What’s wrong?” He took his keys from a table by the door and started out onto the porch, but she put a hand on his chest and pushed him back inside.

“The only thing wrong is your butting your nose in my family’s business.” She took the flyer from her purse and shoved it at him.

He glanced at the paper. “I might have known you’d take this the wrong way,” he said.

“How is there a right way to take this? You think my grandmother needs help, but instead of talking to me about it, you tell the whole town.”

“Maybe I thought you had enough going on, with your job and your kid—and your plans to move away. The way you talk, you won’t even be here come harvest time.”

“I haven’t said when I’m leaving, but it won’t be until I’m sure Grandma is all right.” To her horror, her voice broke. She turned away, blinking back tears.

“Hey.” His voice was surprisingly gentle. “Take this.” He held out a handkerchief. She snatched it up and blew her nose. The white linen square smelled of bleach and sun-dried cotton, and was worn and soft as flannel.

“Thank you,” she muttered, and crumpled the handkerchief in her hand.

“You’re welcome.” He squeezed her shoulder, a gentle, comforting caress that she felt all the way to her toes.

She wanted to close her eyes and let him take away all the worry and confusion that battled within her. “I just—I don’t like to think of Grandma as even needing help. She’s always been so strong.”

“I know. And she still is strong. Strong enough to know when to accept a helping hand.”

She felt collected enough to face him again. Her initial anger had abated, replaced by weary frustration. “Does she know about what you’re doing—about the volunteers you’re recruiting?”

“Not yet. And I wouldn’t be surprised if she acted the same way you did when she finds out. But she’s been a part of this community a long time, and she knows people here pitch in to help each other out.”

“So many names.” Amy picked up the flyer and smoothed it. “Charla said you had two more pages.”

“Four. I had flyers at the grocery store, too.”

“They know picking apples is hard work, right?”

“They know. But your grandmother has helped more than one of them out in her day, so they’re happy to repay the favor.”

She managed a smile at this. “I’m sorry I went off on you,” she said. “It’s just...hard. Hard to see her get old. She’s even talking about selling the farm.”

“She may have to. It doesn’t make sense for her to keep running it herself.”

“I know.” She sniffed. Aargh! She hated crying in front of other people.

“It’ll be all right.” He put a hand on her shoulder. The gesture was so warm and reassuring, she wanted to lean into it.

“It’s been a long time since anything in my life felt all right,” she said softly. She and Brent had married with a sense of adventure and great plans for the future, but the reality of needing to make a living and raise a daughter had reined in some of their big dreams. Then he’d enlisted in the army, almost on a whim, it seemed to her, and been swept away on a tide that bypassed her. She’d spent the next few months trying to figure out how to live life on her own with Chloe, everything on hold. When he’d died she’d been too stunned to do anything but survive.

Here in Hartland, she’d begun to feel whole again. Ready to move forward—if only she knew for sure which direction to take.

“You’ve had a rough time of it,” Josh said. “People do a pretty good job of remembering veterans, but they forget about the families, and all they suffer.”

“I’ve had it pretty good, considering. I have Chloe, and my grandmother to run to. And everyone here has been so welcoming.” She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief, then folded it into a rumpled square. “Even you’re not so bad, most of the time.”

“Considering you came over here this afternoon to rip my head off, I’ll take that as high praise.” He offered his hand. “Friends?”

She slipped her hand into his, his calloused palm rough and warm, his fingers closed gently around hers. “Friends.”

He gave her hand a light squeeze, and a warmth that went beyond friendship ran through her. As she had at the barbecue, she became acutely aware of Josh as a man, and of herself as a woman who hadn’t known the thrill of a man’s arms around her in a long time.

His eyes met hers and she saw in them the same awareness. “Josh, I—”

But she never completed the sentence. His kiss cut off the words and banished any thought of protest. His lips were warm and firm but gentle, not forcing her but inviting her to join him. She tipped her head slightly to press her mouth more firmly to his and slipped her arms around his neck to pull him closer.

When he finally lifted his head, they were both a little breathless. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he said, his voice husky.

“Yes.” She felt his gaze on her, but she refused to meet his eyes. The temptation to kiss him again was too strong, and she wouldn’t let this go any further—not now.

With things so unsettled, she couldn’t let one kiss distract her from figuring out the best way to handle her future. She took a step back and picked up the flyer again. “You’d better keep this,” she said.

“I will,” he said after a long moment. “And try not to worry about your grandmother. Whatever happens she’ll be fine.”

“I know.” Her grandmother
would
be fine. Maybe she’d settle down in a little condo in town, or take a trip around the world, or decide to elope with Neal Kuchek. She’d be safe and happy, and it wouldn’t make any difference if Amy went to Denver or Timbuktu.

But if her grandmother sold the farm, Amy would have no familiar place to retreat when the rest of the world overwhelmed her. She’d have no place to bring Chloe to teach her about family and tradition and roots that ran deeper than those of the apple trees.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“I
CALL
THIS
meeting of the Hartland Tourism Committee to order.” Charla banged the wooden meat mallet she was using in lieu of a gavel on the marble-topped table in the coffee shop. “It looks as if we’re all present and accounted for.”

In addition to Charla, Teresa Fischer, Stephanie Oleski and Amy had gathered on a Wednesday evening in mid-July. “Why don’t we start by going around the table and reporting on the projects we’ve been working on,” Charla said. “Teresa, you start.”

“I’ve placed an ad on the state tourism website, and in the little magazine they give out to people who write in and ask for information.” She ticked these items off on her fingers. “And I’m designing some flyers and as soon as we get the money to print and mail them, we can send those to the state visitors’ bureaus. The paper let me use some of the pictures Amy took, so they turned out really nice.”

“That’s great,” Charla said. “I’ll see whose arm I can twist—I mean, who I can persuade—to give us money for the printing and mailing. Stephanie, what do you have?”

“My job was to come up with more items to list as attractions.” She consulted a small notebook. “Somebody mentioned the historical marker out on Highway 50, but I looked at that thing and all it is is a big chunk of rock with a plaque on it saying some explorer nobody ever heard of stopped and ate lunch there. That doesn’t sound terribly historic to me.”

“The state must have thought it was historic, to place a marker,” Teresa said.

“I think what happened is that the sandwich shop across the street thought if they could remind people that this explorer ate lunch there it would plant the idea that everybody should eat there and they’d sell more sandwiches.” Stephanie sniffed. “Since they went out of business last year, that didn’t work very well, did it?”

“Hmm.” Charla managed to look concerned, but Amy could tell she was biting her lip, trying not to laugh. “Anything else?”

“Yes.” Stephanie consulted her notebook again. “I think we should add the community gardens to our list of tourist attractions. Since Amy wrote that article for the paper about the vandalism, people have turned out in droves to rebuild. Now they have twice as many beds and the plants are growing like crazy. There are paths and birdhouses and that crazy Erica Bridegate’s boyfriend welded this metal sculpture out of old tractor parts. He says it’s a scarecrow and that it’s public art. If that doesn’t make it an attraction I don’t know what does.” She looked around the table, as if daring the others to disagree with her.

“We’ll add it to the list, then,” Charla said, scribbling a note. “Amy, do you have anything for us?”

“I do.” Amy let out the smile she’d been biting back all afternoon. “
Colorado Byways
magazine has agreed to run my article about Hartland.”

“Oh, honey, that’s fabulous!” Charla jumped from her chair and came around the table to envelop her friend in a crushing hug. “Your first big sale.”

“It wasn’t a big sale,” Amy protested, though she was immensely pleased. The editor at the magazine had raved about her piece, saying it was “exactly what our readers are looking for.”

“It’s still a sale to someone other than the
Hartland Herald.
” Charla settled into her chair once more, and smoothed the skirt of her black-and-white-polka-dot pantsuit, which coordinated with the daily special of Oreo frappucinos and black-and-white cupcakes. “And it will be a good thing for Hartland. Now, what else is on my agenda?” She scanned her notes. “Oh, yes. I still think we should have a harvest festival. Maybe we could do it in conjunction with the apple harvest at Bobbie Anderson’s place.”

“That’s not going to work,” Amy said. “Bobbie’s in enough of a tizzy about having all her friends and neighbors running around the orchards. She’d never stand for strangers gawking at her or getting in the way.”

“Besides, with everyone picking apples, there wouldn’t be many people left to feed and house and cater to the tourists,” Stephanie said.

“It was just an idea.” Charla pushed out her lower lip in a pout.

“Maybe next year,” Amy said. “Grandma said she might turn some of the orchards into pick-your-own groves, if she can get the insurance situation straightened out.”

“I thought she was going to sell the farm.” Teresa covered her mouth with her hand. “Or was I not supposed to say that?”

“She talked about selling at one time,” Amy said. “But I think that’s only as a last resort. I’m trying to help her find a way to hang on to the place.” Amy had looked into everything from leasing out the greenhouses to purchasing a mechanical apple picker. So far, Bobbie had refused to commit to anything.

“I must have misheard, then,” Teresa said, two spots of bright pink on her cheeks betraying her embarrassment.

“So we’ll think about the festival next year,” Charla said. “I have some pretty exciting news of my own.”

“Oh?” Amy regarded her friend skeptically. Charla’s cheeks were pink and her eyes sparkled. This must be big news indeed.

“The highway department has decided to replace the bridge over Cutler Creek and widen the highway. And they’re going to add a turning lane.”

“Charla honey, maybe you need a vacation,” Stephanie said. “You seem far too excited over the prospect of highway work.”

“How is that going to help our tourism efforts?” Teresa asked. “People hate road work.”

“Road work means crews here all of next summer. And engineers and surveyors and supervisors before that. Men. New men, some of whom are bound to be single.”

“Sounds like a good idea to me,” Teresa said. “Maybe we should dump the whole tourism idea and start lobbying the state legislature to fix all the roads in the area.”

“I think this is my cue to excuse myself from the meeting.” Amy pushed back her chair. “It’s almost Chloe’s bedtime.”

“I’d think you’d be interested in more single men in town,” Teresa said. “Or are you and Josh Scofield an item?”

“Josh Scofield and I are not an ‘item.’” Amy knew her words might have been more convincing if a blush hadn’t warmed her cheeks.

“I just thought—” Teresa shook her head. “Never mind. Obviously I was wrong.”

You thought what?
Amy wondered. But this really wasn’t a conversation she wanted to pursue. “Good night, ladies,” she said. “And good luck with the road crews.”

Dusk bathed the town in silvery light, the moon a faint sliver on the horizon, rising in the afterglow of sunset. Amy walked down the street to her car, stopping to admire a new display in the window of a boutique. Somewhere far off a dog barked, and she heard a door slam—sounds she’d never hear in the city, where the hum of traffic tended to drown out everything else.

She wasn’t so sure she wanted the rest of the world to discover Hartland. Despite the vandalism at the community gardens and her worry over Bobbie selling the farm, she still saw Hartland as an oasis of peace amid the chaos of life. Yes, she wanted to do more than write stories about town council meetings and women’s club bake sales for the weekly paper. She wanted Chloe to see and experience different cultures and countries. But she treasured the idea that a place existed she could think of as home, even if she only visited every few years.

She paused again at her car to look up. The first stars shone, sharp pinpricks of light against a sky the color of soot. She recalled the spring night when she’d stood in the parking lot with Josh, discussing how the same stars shone in countries half a world away. Only two months had passed since that time, but it seemed much longer. She felt stronger now, more able to build a new life on her own. The challenge now lay in choosing what that life would look like, and where her personal adventure would take her.

Intrigued by Stephanie’s description of the new additions to the school garden, she decided to swing by there before she headed back to the farm. Maybe she could get a good picture of George’s “scarecrow” for the paper.

The school building cast the garden area in darkness; Amy would have to ask Erica why there weren’t any security lights around the beds. More light would probably help to deter vandals, plus they’d make the gardens more visitor-friendly in the evenings. She pulled her car as close to the beds as possible, checked her camera and stepped out into the darkness.

George’s metal sculpture was elevated on a pole above the rows of corn in one bed, illuminated by pale moonlight. With its outstretched arms, wide smile and jagged teeth it resembled the monsters from her worst childhood dreams. She shivered. Was this going to give the children who helped care for the gardens nightmares? Or would they come to see this “monster” as the friendly sort who protected their vegetables?

Instead of striding confidently toward the sculpture and searching for the best angle for her photograph, Amy found herself tiptoeing toward it. The still darkness surrounding the beds seemed almost sinister, and a shiver raced up her spine. She wanted to run back to her car and return for her photo in daylight, but she told herself she was being ridiculous.

She took another step toward the beds and warm dampness seeped around her sandaled toes. Looking down, she saw she was standing in a rivulet of water. More rivulets and puddles spread out across the area around the raised beds. Too much water, considering the last rain had been over ten days ago.

She turned to look toward the water tank; it was too dark to see any damage from here, but either someone had put another hole in it, or one of the main pipes had sprung a leak. If it was just a leak, maybe she could shut off a valve to save some of the water or something. She should have a flashlight in the car....

Someone pushed her from behind, hard. She fell, crying out as first her knees, then one outstretched palm, hit the mud around the beds. The other hand still held her camera. She pointed it toward the sound of running footsteps and held down the shutter, taking shot after shot of the fleeing figure. Then she reached into her pocket and punched the speed dial for nine-one-one.

In less than a minute she heard a siren; the town marshal must have been nearby when he got the call. She was brushing mud from the knees of her jeans when the officer arrived. “What happened?” he asked, rushing up to her.

“I stopped to take a picture of the new sculpture in the garden and I noticed a lot of water on the ground around the beds. I thought there might be a leak, but before I could investigate, someone pushed me down and ran away.”

Assured she was okay, the officer shone the powerful beam of his flashlight on the garden’s water tank. A jagged hole, very near where the first one had been patched, had been smashed into the fiberglass side. “Did you get a look at whoever pushed you?” the officer asked.

“No.” She positioned her camera so she could see the small screen on the back. “But I took some photos—maybe we can tell who it was.”

She zoomed in on the pictures and studied the shots that scrolled past. The first shot was dark and murky. Possibly a professional lab could make something of the blurry figure in the grayness, but she couldn’t recognize anyone.

The second shot was a little more in focus, but the man—she was sure it was a man—had his back to her. “That could be anyone,” she said.

She advanced to the third photo and gasped. There, face illuminated by the camera’s flash as he looked over his shoulder, was Rick Southerland.

* * *

W
HAT
THE
H
ARTLAND
Independence Day Parade lacked in professionalism, it made up for with inclusiveness. If you could walk, ride or roll, you could be in the parade. Costumes were optional, but candy to throw to the children in the crowd was encouraged. Though no one told the parade participants where to fall in line, tradition dictated some of the placements. The Hartland High Marching Band—what members weren’t away at camp or visiting relatives—kicked things off with a rousing rendition of “Stars and Stripes Forever.” The band from the New Hope Methodist church brought up the rear.

In between trailed everything from five moms with strollers—representing the local Mothers of Preschoolers group—to the Hartland Bank’s scale model of the Statue of Liberty mounted on a flatbed pickup. This was followed by the Elks Club flag corps, the Feed and Grain salute to American agriculture...complete with chicken wire and tissue paper apple trees, a plaster cow and real cornstalks, and enough costumed kids on trikes and bicycles to delight every parent and grandparent.

Josh, as Grand Marshal, rode in the town’s antique fire engine, just behind the marching band and ahead of the local Cattlemen’s Association members on horseback. Mitch, though a member of the association, declined to participate in the parade, but Josh saw plenty of familiar faces in the crowd. “Don’t be nervous.” Ashley Frawley adjusted the Grand Marshal banner draped along the side of the truck. “Just smile and wave to everybody.”

Josh forced a smile. The waving he could do, with his left hand. He intended to keep his hook out of sight in his lap.

“You look great.” Ashley beamed at him.

His mother would be glad to hear it. Though he’d vetoed her first choice of outfit— a flag-themed Western shirt that had made Mitch laugh out loud when his wife displayed it—she’d agreed to Josh’s preference for a starched white shirt, string tie and pressed jeans. At the last minute, Mitch had pressed his prized Silver Belly Stetson on Josh, as a replacement for his usual summer straw. As a boy, Josh had not been permitted to so much as touch this prized hat, worn only on special occasions. Most of the time, the hat was stored safely in a box on the top shelf of his parent’s closet.

The hat felt like a crown on his head, and Josh sent up a silent prayer that a sudden gust didn’t send it sailing. The thought of one of the horses behind him trampling the prized hat made him sick to his stomach. Or maybe that was just nerves. Though why he should be nervous, he didn’t know. Ashley had promised him he wouldn’t have to make a speech, people couldn’t see his hook from here and nobody had said the word
hero
out loud to his face. He was getting off easy, considering all that could have happened.