Her Cowboy Soldier

by Cindi Myers

  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 Heral
d, 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.