by Myra Johnson
Next time? How many more reminders did Kent need that he was on the outs with God? Even his parents didn’t put this much pressure on him—maybe because they lived more than five hundred miles away and he didn’t see them that often.
Through the rest of the meal, Avery chattered on about her school day and getting to help her teacher clean out the gerbil cage again. Kent didn’t get a chance to ask how Erin’s first week at work was going until Avery ran off to play after supper ended.
“I’m enjoying it,” Erin said as she set a dish of leftovers in the fridge. “When Greg told me I’d be working at a gift shop, I never realized my interior design education would turn out to be such an asset. But already, several customers have asked me for decorating advice before deciding on a purchase.”
“Good, you’ll be getting plenty of practice before I need you to start on my place.” Kent gathered up his hat and toolbox.
“Have you found out anything more from the historical society?”
“Went by after work yesterday to apply for official designation and got a copy of the guidelines. A lot of mumbo jumbo I need to wade through.”
Erin followed him through the den. “When you figure it out, let me know how I can help.”
“Appreciate it.”
On his way out, he happened to glance through an open door into what appeared to be Erin’s workroom. A large half-finished basket, more than a foot across, sat on a folding table amid several thin twigs and long strips of some kind of grass. Kent did a quick change of direction and strode into the room.
“Couldn’t resist a closer look,” he said as Erin stepped up beside him. “What’s your plan for this one?”
“Not sure yet. I just started on it a couple of days ago.” She picked up a twig and began working it through the basket ribs.
Following the deft movements of her fingers, Kent wished he had all day to watch. “Will you show me the finished product when you’re done?”
She looked up at him, her expression thoughtful. “I’ll do even better. It’ll be my thank-you gift for all the help you’ve given me.”
Kent gave a low whistle. “Wow. It’ll sure catch everyone’s eye when they come out for the sesquicentennial tour.”
Her smile in response skewered straight through his heart.
* * *
On his way home from the hardware store on Friday, Kent stopped at the mailbox before turning up the driveway, and the sight of his own tilted, weathered post evoked fresh thoughts of Erin.
As he stepped from the pickup, the blast of a horn jolted him like an explosion, and for a paralyzing moment, he was back in Afghanistan. Would he ever completely get past the PTSD he’d battled off and on since leaving the service? After several steadying breaths and an apologetic wave to LeRoy, his crusty neighbor, he grabbed his mail, then jumped back in the truck and pulled into the driveway.
When he stepped through the screen porch into the kitchen, Skip met him with a wagging tail. The old dog might be lazy and shed like crazy, but he truly was a comfort.
“Decided to get up off the couch, huh?” Kent scratched the dog’s head with one hand and flipped through the mail with the other. He tossed a couple of bills onto the stack he planned to work on this weekend and dropped the advertising fliers into the plastic recycling tub on the porch.
One piece of mail caught his eye, the Nebraska return address as unfamiliar as the sender’s handwriting. Even more confusing, the letter hadn’t been directed to Kent personally but to Owner at Kent’s address.
Plopping down in a kitchen chair, he pried open the flap and pulled out a folded sheet of cream-colored stationery. The same looping handwriting filled the page, and tucked inside was an old-style color photograph. A haunting sense of familiarity gave him pause as he studied the picture of a stately white farmhouse. Neatly trimmed shrubbery and beds of flowers in full bloom surrounded the house. A wide expanse of green lawn filled the foreground.
Then it dawned on him. This was his house!
Stunned, he turned his attention to the letter.
To whom it may concern, it began, and went on to explain that the sender’s elderly father, Nelson Gilliam, had grown up in Kent’s house. The man now suffered from heart failure, and as his condition worsened, he reminisced more and more about his boyhood days on the ranch.
The writer continued:
I recently heard about the Juniper Bluff sesquicentennial planned for next year, but the doctors have serious doubts my father can survive that long. It would mean so much to him if he could see the old place one more time. Could we prevail upon you to permit us to visit, possibly early this summer?
The letter was signed by Mr. Gilliam’s daughter, Jean Thompson, and included her phone number and email address.
Kent laid the letter on the table, then briskly rubbed his eyes. Much as he’d like to honor her request, how could he? The way things looked now, the old guy probably wouldn’t even recognize the place—or if he did, it might distress him even more. Thoughts roaming beyond the walls, Kent pictured the unkempt shrubs, the flower beds he’d surrendered to weeds, the lawn sparse and brown. The house itself desperately needed painting, and the porch steps could easily swallow a man whole if he didn’t tread carefully.
And if the outside looked so beautifully kept in Jean Thompson’s photo, Kent could only imagine the care her grandparents had given the inside.
Besides, summer was only a couple of months away, and Kent had been counting on at least a year to spruce up the place, not to mention getting his head around having a bunch of strangers wandering around. If it weren’t for the tax-reduction incentive and how badly he needed that bull, he wouldn’t have been considering the historical designation at all.
Heaving a groan, he shifted to the other end of the table, where his laptop computer was buried beneath ads from last Sunday’s paper, his cattle tally book, the documents from the historical society and the cereal bowl that never quite made it to the sink that morning. After shoving everything aside, he opened the computer and clicked the icon for his email program. He copied Jean Thompson’s address into the to line and then gnawed the inside of his lip while he figured out a sensitive way to decline.
Dear Mrs. Thompson, he began.
I received your letter today, and I’m very sorry about your father’s condition. But I’m afraid the house isn’t the showplace it used to be—
Scratch that. Did he really want it to sound like he’d totally neglected everything? Even if he had?
But a lot of time has passed, and I’m afraid things won’t look quite like your father remembers them.
Better.
So I would hate for you to bring him on such a long and tiring trip only to be disappointed. I appreciate seeing the picture of how things used to look, though. Please let me know if you’d like it returned.
Nodding with satisfaction, Kent typed his name and hit Send.
He sat back and stretched out one leg, only to find Skip staring up at him, one eye narrowed as if the old dog were judging him for his cowardice.
“Don’t look at me that way.” Kent shook a finger at the dog. “I can’t be this guy’s hero and make his last days better.”
Truth was, he was no kind of hero at all. Just a cowboy doing everything in his power to live a peaceful, uneventful life.
* * *
The following Sunday morning, Palm Sunday, Erin laughed with Christina as their daughters marched out after the worship service, waving their palm branches and singing “Hosanna in the highest!” at the top of their lungs.
“That’ll probably go on all day,” Christina said, pushing the twins in their stroller. “And I’m so glad Eva has made such a good friend.” She’d told Erin how timid Eva and her brother Joseph had been when Christina first came to Serenity Hills.
“I’m glad to have made a friend, too.” Erin offered a w
arm smile. “And we still need to reschedule that shopping trip.”
Christina drew Erin into a quick hug. “Maybe one day this week? After the Camp Serenity kids leave this afternoon, I’ll be more than ready for some retail therapy.”
“Sure. Give me a call.” Erin said goodbye and walked with Avery over to their sedan.
“I wish I could do the camp,” Avery said as she climbed into her booster seat. “I bet they’re having so much fun.”
Buckling in behind the wheel, Erin caught Avery’s eye in the rearview mirror and beamed a sympathetic smile. “I’m sure they are, honey. But you know the camp is for kids who don’t have all the nice things you do.”
“But aren’t we poor now, too? You always say we can’t buy stuff because you don’t have any money.”
Leave it to a seven-year-old. Erin turned out of the parking lot to head home. “It’s still not the same, Avery. Many of the campers have difficult lives at home. Or they may not even have a real family—a mom and dad who are able to care for them like they should.”
Avery lowered her voice to barely above a whisper. “Well, I don’t have a daddy anymore, either.”
Regret tightened like steel bands around Erin’s chest as she prayed for the best way to respond. No matter how badly Payne had hurt her, both physically and emotionally, she’d tried her best not to speak badly of him to their daughter. “You do have a daddy,” she said with as much assurance as she could muster. “Even though we don’t live with him any longer, he’s still your dad, and I know he loves you very much.” As much as her self-centered ex-husband could love anyone.
Avery spent a few moments in silence as Erin drove through town. As they turned up their street, she said, “Eva’s daddy is nice, so all daddies prob’ly aren’t mean.”
“No, honey.” Erin could hardly force the words past her aching throat. “Most daddies are very, very nice.”
Arriving home gave Erin the chance to change the subject as she reheated the leftover chicken casserole from Thursday’s supper with Kent. Recalling his lame attempt to sing along with their table prayer, she smiled. Even if he’d only tried for Avery’s sake, there was a man who’d know how to be a good father.
The instant the thought formed, Erin banished it. She was nowhere near ready for anything resembling a relationship—with Kent, or any other man on the planet. Least of all with someone so resistant toward God.
Later, while waiting for her brother to come by after finishing up with the Camp Serenity kids, she worked on the basket she’d decided to give to Kent. Hearing the doorbell, she hurried to the entryway in time to see Avery wrapping her uncle in a big hug.
Greg grinned at Erin over the little girl’s head. “Apparently, I’m not the only one arriving on your doorstep this afternoon.” He tipped his head toward the driveway, where Erin glimpsed a familiar tan pickup. “This guy says he’s your handyman?”
“Yes, he’s been doing some repairs around the house.” Erin peered around her brother to see Kent hefting a large cardboard box from the back of his truck. “What in the world—”
Arms full, Kent greeted Erin with a nod as he ambled up the walk. “Guess I should have called first.” He acknowledged Greg with a hesitant smile. “Didn’t mean to intrude.”
“That’s okay,” Greg replied. One eyebrow raised, he cast Erin a meaningful glance. And, boy, did she catch his meaning. Greg opened the door wider for Kent. “Need any help?”
“Got it just fine.” Kent eased past Greg. To Erin, he said, “Mind if I take this straight to your workroom?”
She looked at him askance. “First, maybe you should tell me what’s in the box.”
“Just some interesting stuff I’ve collected while riding through the pasture. Thought you might use some of it for your baskets.”
“Really? Thank you.” Heart fluttering, she showed Kent into the workroom, where he set the box on the floor next to her table. She peeked inside to find a variety of grasses, plant stems and pliable twigs. “This is wonderful! How did you know I was running low on supplies?”
“Didn’t really. Just saving you another adventure in the wilds of the Hill Country,” he added with a wink. With a hesitant glance at Greg, he tipped his hat and shuffled toward the door. “Best be on my way. Y’all have a nice visit.”
“Don’t rush off on my account.” Greg still hadn’t wiped the mischievous grin off his face. With an arch look at Erin, he said, “Yes, do tell me more about your adventures, little sis.”
“It was nothing. I accidentally ended up on Kent’s property the other day while searching for some basketry materials.”
“It was for my birthday basket,” Avery chimed in. “And Mommy just told me yesterday that she even got to ride Mr. Ritter’s horse that day.”
“Is that so?” Greg turned to Kent and thrust out his hand. “Then let me congratulate you for accomplishing a feat no one else has been able to achieve.”
Erin winced. “My brother and niece have been trying to get me to ride for years, but I’ve been too scared.”
“I thought you did just fine.” Kent’s gaze softened into a look that made Erin’s pulse quicken.
Never in all the years she’d been married to Payne had he ever looked at her quite that way. Never with such tender understanding. Never with such quiet admiration.
“Well—” Kent dipped his chin “—I should go.”
“I’ll walk you out.” Following him, Erin shot her brother a sharp warning glance.
Kent paused on the porch, his lips parting as if he wanted to say something. Then his jaw clamped shut, and with a brisk nod, he settled his hat deeper on his head. “Be seein’ ya.”
“Thank you again for the supplies. I still can’t believe you did that.”
“Just bein’ neighborly.” Lips askew, he sidled toward the front walk. Clearly, something else was on his mind.
Thinking quickly, Erin said, “I’ll probably finish your basket by tomorrow. Maybe I could bring it by your place before I pick up Avery from school?”
“No need to make a special trip.”
Erin cast him a dubious frown. “Isn’t that what you did for me this afternoon?”
“I was coming to town anyway. For groceries and...stuff.”
Why didn’t she completely believe him? “Well, I might be driving out in the country after work tomorrow for...stuff.” She punctuated the word with a wiggle of her brows. “So if I happen to drop by with your basket, would that be okay?”
Looking toward the street, Kent scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah.” When he stepped off the porch, they were at eye level, and he met her smile with a shy one of his own. “I’ll be sure to stay close to the house.”
“Great. See you then.”
* * *
Kent drove away wondering what had possessed him today. Lately, he’d been doing and thinking things so completely out of character that if it weren’t so disconcerting, it would have been hilarious. Seriously, Kent Ritter, the man without an aesthetic bone in his body, scouting for pretty grasses and plant parts to present as a gift to a woman he barely knew?
Well, he did have an ulterior motive. Not long after he’d emailed his response to Jean Thompson, she’d replied with another plea for his indulgence.
I sincerely hope you’ll reconsider, her message began.
My dad hasn’t much left besides his memories. I wish you could see how his face lights up when he’s reminiscing about growing up on the ranch or telling stories from his navy days. I’ve even tried contacting one or two of his navy buddies, but those he was closest with have already passed away.
The mention of Nelson Gilliam’s naval service had struck a nerve with Kent, and now he was second-guessing his refusal. How could he deny a fellow veteran what little happiness seeing his childhood home might bring? But no way could he crush the man’s memories by letting him se
e the house and grounds looking so neglected. If he was going to change his mind about letting Mrs. Thompson and her father visit this summer, he’d have to drastically accelerate his timetable for sprucing things up.
He’d been all set to share the change of plans with Erin when he’d dropped by, but her brother had just gotten there, and Kent felt awkward about intruding—especially when he caught the matchmaking glint in Greg O’Grady’s eyes. Kent had seen that look so many times before on the faces of his Juniper Bluff acquaintances. Somebody always had a sister or friend or niece or granddaughter Kent ought to meet. Or if he offered the least bit of polite attention to an attractive single woman, people were ready to start planning his engagement party.
It was getting downright embarrassing.
Home from his shift at the hardware store on Monday, he grabbed a bite for lunch and did a quick check on the herd, then berated himself for pacing between the house and barn while watching the road for a glimpse of Erin’s car. Even lazy old Skip had picked up on Kent’s agitation. The dog trailed his steps and whined as if anticipating something momentous—which, in Skip’s narrow world, usually involved extra treats or a truck ride to see the vet.
Shortly before two, Erin’s car rolled up the driveway. Kent had just finished washing out the horses’ water pails and feed pans, and with all the splotches on his T-shirt and jeans, he wished he’d had a chance to clean up before she arrived. Oh, well, too late.
He reached her car as she lifted the finished basket from the back seat. “Ah, man,” he said, whistling out a breath. “That is amazing.”
“Do you really like it?” She smiled up at him, the need for approval shimmering in her blue eyes.
“Are you kidding?” Kent took the basket from her and turned it in every direction so he could admire the intricacies of Erin’s handiwork. When Skip stretched up to sniff the basket, Kent moved it out of reach. “No, fella. This is definitely not a dog toy.”
“This is your dog?” Erin was already giving Skip a good scratch behind the ears.
