by Jayna Morrow
In seconds, the hulking bulldozer towered over her, a giant metal force to be reckoned with.
No turning back now.
Noise from various pieces of heavy equipment roared in her ears. She grabbed a stick off the ground and hit the bulldozer, snapping the twig in half. She threw it down. The mammoth machine rolled by, and Micara jumped up on the platform, pounding the cabin window with her fist. Her banging sounded like nothing more than insignificant taps, but it drew the attention of the driver, whose eyes grew wide. He pressed the brakes and turned the ignition keys. The machine sputtered to a stop and died with a rush of air. She hopped down and stood with her chin out, hands planted on her hips.
The driver jumped from the cab, heavy brows pulled together, lips set in a tight line. His heavy boots marked the ground when he landed—hard—right next to her. For the first time since she’d stopped her car, fear sent an icy trickle up her spine.
“What in the world are you trying to pull, lady?”
“I... I...” Micara had no words. The man’s sweaty, dirt-streaked face was scowling, and every ounce of bravery left her. What had she intended to accomplish with her impulsive actions, so out of character for her? What a ridiculous spectacle she’d made of herself. Heat burned in her cheeks and in waves over her entire frame.
“You wanna get yourself killed?” With fuzzy brown hair and beard, and two prominent front teeth, the man resembled a furry beaver, but his brown eyes were kind in spite of his fury.
Micara shook her head. A bead of sweat trickled down her forehead, and she swiped at it with one sleeve. It was so hot out, and she’d been working in the heat at Gabriel’s place all day. She was supposed to be taking a lunch break, and then she’d head right back over there. “I’m sorry. I—I’m really sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.” Tears brimmed.
She swung around and hurried to her car.
The man cursed in a deep, gravelly voice. Several beeps and the bulldozer’s engine roared to life once again. Smoke escaped the pipes at the top of the machine. A cloud of dust puffed out from underneath. Was that vibrations she felt traveling through the ground or numbness from the shock of what she’d done?
Micara took a moment to calm down, fighting the tears that threatened to fall. She’d not handled that well. Not at all. She dialed Pippy’s number with a trembling finger. After several rings, it went to voicemail, and she waited for the beep. “Pippy, it’s Micara. Having a moment. Call me when you can. Bye.” She eased onto the street toward Gabriel’s house.
~*~
“Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!”
The concrete walls of Sweet Home High School, where Garrett taught Senior English and coached football, echoed the disturbing chant. Garrett rounded the corner. He couldn’t see through the ring of students, but whatever was going on inside that ring couldn’t be good. Pushing past two skinny boys, adrenalin shot through him and sucked the air from his lungs.
Their chanting pounded. “Fight! Fight! Fight!”
Inside the circle of teens were two figures in bright clothing. Fists thrashed through the air. He opened his mouth to tell them to break it up, but before he could utter a word a fist slammed into his jaw, and he hit the ground.
“Dude, you hit Coach Hearth!” Garrett heard the voice through the thick haze in front of his eyes and the ringing in his ears.
The two fighters, arms entangled, froze in place and turned.
The haze cleared.
Their eyes widened when they saw him struggling to get up.
Regaining his footing, fury pumped through his veins and he faced them. He grabbed the fighter closest to him and pressed him up against the concrete wall. He wouldn’t hurt the kid, but Garrett wanted to make it clear he wouldn’t be pushed around.
The boy struggled and turned his red face toward Garrett.
Garrett was stunned. This student wasn’t a troublemaker. “Matthew?”
This kid didn’t have two dimes to rub together, but Matthew had an exceptional mind and incredible athletic ability. Now in his senior year, he’d already been scouted by several colleges to play football.
Garrett dropped his hands. He spun in time to spot the other kid jogging out the side door and toward the student parking lot. “Hey!” He took off after the youth, shoving students out of the way. About twenty feet into the chase, the hurting shot through his leg, and he went down. Not now. Not again. Pain blossomed like a burst of fireworks and light exploded behind his eyes.
Several students, including Matthew, rushed to his side. The rest ran for help.
All Garrett could do was grip his knee and writhe in agony.
Moments later, heels clicked on the hardwood floor.
“Mr. Hearth, everything’s gonna be OK,” the principal knelt to the floor beside him. “I’ll take you to the hospital in Bishop.”
He heard her voice, but the words made little sense. He craned his neck until he made eye contact with Matthew Bertram. “What were you thinking?” His voice was rough. “You could lose your scholarship if you get suspended.” Pain threatened to make him hurl his lunch, so he shut his eyes.
“I didn’t start it, Coach. And I didn’t hit you, either. Austin did.” Matthew swiped at a tear. The thought of losing a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity would make any man cry. Garrett knew the feeling first-hand. No amount of physical pain could amount to the level of emotional distress he’d felt the day his football career ended.
“Austin Harris? Or Austin McKean?” Helping Garrett stand on his sturdy leg, the principal shifted into discipline mode.
“McKean.” Garrett was shaky on his uninjured leg, but his memory didn’t waver. He knew the culprit. Austin McKean, the rogue member of his football team. Talented, but bothersome to manage. His attitude had often been a problem both on and off the field. It caused friction between his teammates and coaches.
“Noted.” She lowered him into a wheelchair the nurse brought out. Principal Sparrow Walker was new, but the school nurse had been through this a couple of times over the years. Wheelchair ride to the car and then a trip to the hospital. No doubt, the nurse had informed Principal Walker of Garrett’s...condition. He hated that everyone knew about his injury and that it continued to give him problems. Coach Hearth, the ticking time bomb who needed a campus plan to diffuse the situation in case of emergency.
Principal Walker’s cold gaze bored through him, but he was determined to speak his peace. “Matthew is telling the truth. I hope you’ll cut him some slack.”
“We take fighting seriously at this school.” Then she wheeled him out the door and toward the employee parking.
He wanted to argue, but the burning pain in his leg intensified. He allowed Principal Walker to help him into the back of her car, where he collapsed across the seat and closed his eyes. Thirty minutes to get to the hospital in Bishop, and he was in so much pain he wanted to vomit. He only hoped his stickler-for-the-rules principal drove fast.
~*~
Tests confirmed that he’d re-injured his knee, though not to the extent of the original injury, and he wouldn’t need surgery. A few days of home therapy and a week or two of wearing a leg brace, and he’d be back to normal life. Just what he needed at the start of football season. Keeping up with those high school boys was hard enough under normal circumstances. A brace would make it even more arduous with a limited range of motion and slower pace.
“What did the doctor say?” Sparrow Walker glanced at him, and then whipped her gaze to the road ahead. She had waited at the hospital and offered to take him home.
“Same old thing. Wear a brace and take it easy. It’s gonna be a tough task during football season.” He paused to adjust his cramped leg. “Speaking of football...I want to talk to you about Matthew Bertram.”
“What about him?” Her brow creased.
“He wasn’t the one who started the fight.”
“I understand he’s one of your best athletes, Mr. Hearth, but it doesn’t matter who started the fight.
”
“Matthew is a special case, and you know it, Ms. Walker.”
Her grip tightened on the steering wheel. “I can’t play favorites just because someone is an outstanding athlete.”
Garrett sighed and closed his eyes. He rested his head against the back of the seat before trying again. “You know what kind of student Matthew is, and you know about his scholarship opportunities. Are you really going to ruin his chance of playing college football because another boy jumped him?”
“I’m not ruining his chance. He did that himself when he made the decision to engage in that fight. And he will have to accept the consequences of his actions.”
The car drifted over the center line. She jerked it back into the lane and hauled in a deep breath. The woman didn’t like to be challenged. She was military, from a military family, and she insisted things run with military precision.
Garrett sighed. “I may be putting my job on the line here, but it’s not right to punish Matthew and ruin his future for a fight that he didn’t even start.”
Another sharp intake of air. “I can’t punish one and not the other, Mr. Hearth.”
Garrett threw up his hands. “Then let both of them go, let it all go. The other boy was in the wrong, but it can be overlooked for the sake of Matthew’s future.”
“Mr. Hearth, what I’m going to overlook is the disrespectful way you’re talking to me because I know you’re in a lot of pain, but I will not have my reputation ruined. If I let these boys go with a slap on the wrist, I’ll be known as a softy and have all kinds of trouble for the rest of the year, maybe even the rest of my career.”
Garrett placed his hands on his throbbing knee and gently massaged it through the brace “I’m sorry if I’m coming across as disrespectful. Just consider it, please. Think about Matthew.”
He laid his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. The next few minutes of the trip were silent. He couldn’t wait to get to his own place and crawl into his own soft bed. The pain meds they’d given him at the hospital were making him sleepy. This day had not turned out well.
When he opened his eyes from a short rest, the car moved past scenery that shouldn’t have been there. He lived in town, and this was not the right area.
When the paved road turned to dirt, Sparrow Walker turned left. Brush grew on both sides, and deep ruts led the way to a place he’d avoided as much as possible for several years.
“Where are you taking me?” A rhetorical question. He knew what stood at the end of this road.
“Your brother asked me to deliver you to him.” Sparrow winced as though she anticipated an explosion.
Most people in town knew the Hearth brothers weren’t on the best of terms.
“I called him about your nephew. As you know, Slade was absent again today, and I can’t ever reach his father. I considered it a miracle he answered this time. Anyway, he told me to deliver your sorry butt to his house.”
Garrett started to get defensive.
Sparrow put up a hand. “His words, not mine. I can tell there is some animosity between you two, and I hate that.”
Her words confused him. He’d never seen her show any concern for personal matters.
“You have no idea.” He ground the words between clenched teeth. Turning back to the view outside the window, his stomach lurched and his head began to throb. The thick brush gave way to well-manicured fields. Gabriel’s land was both farm and ranch. He operated a large dairy that employed many local residents.
Out of the five Hearth children, Gabriel’s share was the largest because it included their father’s dairy. At the time of the elder Hearth’s death, Gabriel had already been in the family business for many years. He made it known that Sweet Home was his home and that running the ranch and dairy was his life’s purpose.
One-by-one, three other Hearth children left to make lives in other places. They had been given land as well, but Gabriel maintained it, as had been decided when their father was still alive. He’d passed away following a heart attack a couple of years ago, and cancer took their mother a short time later—a double blow for the Hearth family. If their mother had lived, she might have forged a way for Garrett and Gabriel to work out their differences. But as it stood, the brothers had avoided each other as much as possible since their father died.
“Here we are.” Sparrow stopped the car in the dirt driveway. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve visited this house, looking for your brother and Slade. They just can’t seem to get their act together.”
In more ways than one. You have no idea. Garrett held his tongue.
Sparrow helped him out and steadied him on his feet. Her high heels sank into the earth, and she wobbled.
“I’m steadier in this brace than you are in those heels.” Garrett couldn’t resist the jibe.
“Don’t worry about me. I’m used to it.”
The woman had no sense when it came to footwear. He didn’t understand why someone like Sparrow Walker with a military background would want to wobble around the school on high heels.
A compact car hooked to a trailer was parked beside the house, but Garrett saw no sign of Gabriel’s white work truck. It figured he wouldn’t be here to greet them. He wanted his poor, injured brother in his home only because they were blood relatives and people might expect it. Gabriel had no actual interest in nursing him back to health. This was all for show.
“Garrett?” A familiar female voice called from the porch.
Micara. Brow furrowed, she yanked off her gardening gloves and flew down the stairs. “What happened to you? Here, let me help.”
She wrapped her arm around his waist and took over Sparrow’s job of guiding him to the house. She felt warm against him, warm from the sun. She smelled of earth and flowers. Just like yesterday. He found that he liked having her by his side, making a fuss over him. The thought frightened him. He wouldn’t be sucked in by a diehard Sweet Home-ite.
Sparrow darted ahead and opened the front door. A leather couch beckoned from the center of the room, but Garrett didn’t want to go into his brother’s house yet. He stopped at the bottom step of the porch.
“What’s the matter?” Concern flashed in Micara’s brown eyes.
“I’m feeling a little dizzy. I need to sit down for a minute.” He lowered his weak body onto the steps. Micara tightened her grip around his waist until he was on solid seating.
Sparrow crossed the porch, and a floorboard creaked behind him. “I gotta run, Mr. Hearth. Will you be all right?”
“He’ll be fine. I’ll get him into the house.” Micara smiled at Sparrow.
“Thank you.” Sparrow turned to Garrett. “Call me if you need a sub for tomorrow.”
Garrett shook his head. “I’ll be there. Don’t worry.”
Sparrow nodded, then stepped around them and picked her way to her car.
Potted plants covered the porch. Micara had started filling in the new flowerbeds, but a lot of planting remained. He didn’t see a crew, so she must be a one-woman show. Good. He didn’t need any more witnesses to his pain.
Sparrow drove away leaving a trail of dust.
He turned to his brother’s beautiful landscape artist. “What’s up with these flowers anyway? Gabriel’s never been into stuff like this.”
“It’s a gift for his fiancée.”
Garrett’s eyes widened. His brother was engaged?
“You look confused.” Micara’s eyes widened. “Didn’t you know about his fiancée? Or were you surprised that he would come up with something this romantic?”
He dropped his head then lifted it once more. “Both.”
~*~
How long had it been since she’d wrapped her arms around a man? Too long. Or maybe not long enough. Depended on how you looked at it. Not since P.J. Micara sighed. “How could you not know your brother is engaged?”
He hesitated before answering. “Gabriel and I haven’t been on speaking terms for quite some time.”
“Then
why are you here?”
“He sent for me when he heard about my leg.”
“Why would he do that if he’s upset with you?” She crossed her arms and stared at him.
“Probably didn’t want the townsfolk to talk bad about him behind his back or think he left his poor, injured brother to fend for himself. It’s an act. He brought me here for show.” Shifting a little, Garrett winced.
“That reminds me. You never did tell me how this happened.” She pointed a finger at his leg cocooned in nylon, hinges, and Velcro straps.
He waited so long to respond, she thought he might be trying to read her soul. Maybe he was debating whether he should tell her.
“I tore the ACL, a ligament in my knee, in high school. There were complications that even surgery couldn’t fix. My athletic career was over, and my leg has never been the same.” The hollowness she’d seen at city hall returned to his eyes. Harbored pain.
“Come on. Let’s get you inside.” Micara wanted to probe for more details, but she needed to get him comfortable first. “Put your arm around me.” She slipped an arm around his waist, steadied him and then opened the door. “I can’t carry you, so you’ll have to do your best getting up those stairs.”
“This ain’t my first rodeo if you know what I mean.”
He took the five steps with slow, painstaking care and made his way over to the couch.
Micara helped him prop his leg on a pillow before taking a seat in a nearby chair. “So how did you tear your ACL?”
He was silent for so long she thought he might not answer at all.
