by Cindi Myers
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.
* * *
WHAT THE HARTLAND 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.
The band segued into “You’re a Grand Old Flag,” and the driver, a volunteer fireman dressed in vintage bunker gear, revved the motor on the old engine. “Here we go,” he said, and they began to move forward.
The fire engine exited the school parking lot and rolled onto Main Street. People lined the street on either sides, some standing, others in lawn chairs. Josh spotted at least as many dogs as children, and more children than adults. Everyone’s grandkids must be in town for the summer—or Hartland had had a baby boom he hadn’t heard about.
Cheers rose up as the engine rolled past, the sound startling Josh. “That’s for you,” his driver said. “Wave.”
He waved, remembering to smile. Little girls and grandmothers waved, and a few men saluted. A toddler in a stroller blew him a kiss and for a terrifying second, Josh feared he might tear up and start blubbering. Being fawned over and feted by neighbors and friends was not the awkward, uncomfortable moment-under-the-microscope he’d feared, but more like the warm welcome home he’d previously avoided by arriving at the Junction airport unannounced late at night.
He managed to gain control of his emotions in time to pass Amy and her mother, with Bobbie and Chloe, lined up in matching lawn chairs in front of Charla’s coffee shop. Chloe waved with both hands, bobbing up and down in her chair. Amy’s salute was more casual. She’d been doing a good job of avoiding him since that day at his house, when he’d kissed her. He wouldn’t regret the move, even if it had made her skittish. No matter how much she confused and frustrated him, he was beginning to care for her, and he wanted her to feel that care and concern, though he couldn’t put his feelings into words just yet.
As he passed by, Amy raised the camera to her eye and snapped off several photos. No doubt one of these would make it into the paper; he resigned himself to the fact.
At the end of Main Street, the parade vehicles dispersed, the parade over. “I’m headed back to the firehouse,” Josh’s driver said. “Want me to drop you off somewhere?”
“That’s okay. I’ll walk back to my truck.”
He headed back down Main, greeting friends along the way. “Happy Independence Day,” several people called, and he returned the sentiment.
He found Amy and her mother in front of the coffee shop, still seated, Amy scribbling in her notebook. “Hello, ladies,” he said.
“Hello, yourself,” Katherine said. She tucked her streaked blond hair behind one ear, revealing carved wooden earrings. “Did you enjoy the parade?”
She gave him a flirtatious look and he almost laughed. He could see why his dad had been attracted to her when they were younger. “It wasn’t as painful as I feared it might be. What about you? Did you enjoy it?”
“It was fun seeing it again,” Katherine said. “Such a sweet, ragtag affair. Very Norman Rockwell.”
“Grandma and Grandpa took me every summer when I stayed with them,” Amy said. “It was the only
time I got to eat all the candy I wanted.”
“They did spoil you terribly, those summers,” Katherine said. “I hate to think how you’d have turned out if I’d given in to their pleas to keep you.”
“Oh, I imagine I’d have been all right,” Amy said.
“You’d have been bored silly.” Katherine glanced at Josh. “No offense. But some of us just aren’t cut out for small-town life. I’ve been trying to talk Amy into bring Chloe to come stay with us in Chile for a while. I think it’s just what she needs now that Mother is recuperating so nicely.”
“You aren’t taking her up on the invitation?” Josh asked, watching her face for some clue to her feelings.
“No. Chloe starts school in the fall and I want her to be settled by then.”
So she was determined to leave before school started, he thought. Only a few weeks away.
“You know you’re always welcome if you change your mind,” Katherine said.
“I brought refreshments.” Charla joined them with a tray of iced coffees. She handed one to each of the women and offered one to Josh.
“No thanks,” he said.
“More for me.” She sipped the coffee. “What have I missed? Are you talking the latest gossip?”
“What’s the latest gossip?” Josh asked.
“I heard Rick’s been arrested for the vandalism at the school gardens.”
“I guess we all knew that was coming,” Josh said. The town had been buzzing about it for two days. He turned to Amy. “Did you really catch him red-handed?” Theresa at the bank had held up the line while she shared the story with Josh.
“I didn’t even know he was there,” Amy said. She brushed at her slacks. “He pushed me down. I had my camera in my hand, and I managed to get a lucky photograph that made him easy to identify.”
Rick had pushed her down? He felt his jaw getting tighter, his fist clenching. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. The ground was wet and muddy, so it was pretty soft. I came away with nothing worse than muddy jeans.”
He studied her and decided she was telling the truth. Still, Rick was lucky the cops got to him before Josh did. He had some pretty old-fashioned ideas about how to treat a woman, and that didn’t include pushing her into the mud.
“But did you hear why he did it?” Charla asked.
“No.” Josh had assumed it was because Rick was irrational on the subject of the school spending any money—or even the appearance of them spending money, since almost all the expenses of the garden had been donated.
“His wife left him. Took their boy and moved to Junction, full-time,” Charla said. “He blamed her losing her school job for the rift, since that meant she had to leave town to work.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Josh said. He meant it. A family splitting up was sad news.
“He’ll probably get off on a reduced charge,” Amy said. “But he’ll lose his job at the school. He’s already talking about moving to Junction to work and try to get back together with his wife.”
“At least he’ll be close to his son,” Charla said.
“And he’ll be off Josh’s back.”
Josh ought to have felt better about Rick being out of his life, but he was still struggling with the idea that Rick might have hurt Amy. “You’re sure you’re okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine. Really.” She smiled, and the warmth of the look burned into him.
He took a step back. “I’d better be going.” He touched his fingers to his hat brim in salute, but forgot himself and reached up with his right instead of his left. He felt the women’s stares, though they all quickly averted their eyes. The way Amy’s eyes slid away from him hurt worse than the stares—why had he never noticed her reaction before?
He turned and fled before anyone could say anything else. Maybe he hadn’t paid much attention to Amy’s response to him before because he didn’t care. Indifference was a shield he carried—if he pretended he didn’t care what people thought, if he flaunted the hook on the end of his arm and dared people to stare, then he could ignore the taunting voice inside that told him he wasn’t good enough. He’d never be the rancher his father was, or the man a woman like Amy, who had already lost so much, would ever want to be with.
* * *
“AMY, I WANT you to write a weekly column for the paper. People like that stuff you do.” Ed Burridge, publisher of the Hartland Herald, regarded Amy over the tops of his dime store reading glasses.
“That stuff I do?” Amy didn’t know whether to be angry or amused by this description of her work.
“That creative nonfiction stuff.” Ed waved one hand as if conducting an invisible orchestra. “All that description and emotion. It’s not the journalism I was taught, but people like it.”
“That’s good to know.” This was as close as Ed ever got to a compliment, so she allowed herself a small rush of pride. “What do you want me to write about in this column?”
“Anything you like. I’m giving you free rein. Just give me one column a week.” He turned his attention to his computer again—conversation over.
“Do I get a raise for the extra work?” she asked.
“A raise?” His voice rose, as did both his bushy eyebrows.
“I’m already working more hours that we agreed on when I started. And except for Cody, I’m the only reporter you have.”
“We’re on a tight budget. With only one issue a week, it’s a struggle getting the ad revenue we need. And printing costs are going through the roof, not to mention—”
“If I’m doing more work, Ed, I deserve a raise.” She cut him off before he could sail into a tirade about the paper bleeding him dry.
The eyebrows lowered and his shoulders sagged. “All right. I can give you another fifty dollars a week.”
She took a deep breath. “A hundred.”
His scowl grew fiercer, but at last he nodded. “A hundred. But you’d better be brilliant.”
“Of course.” She turned, hiding her smile until she left his office. Then she all but danced to her desk. If she’d known she’d get such a rush from standing up for herself, she would have spoken up sooner. She lifted the phone, eager to share the news of her triumph.
As the phone rang at the other end of the line, she realized with a start that she’d automatically dialed Josh’s number. Her heart fluttered wildly. What was she thinking? And how had she memorized his phone number when she’d only called him a couple of times making arrangements to attend the science bee? He’d be happy for her, she was sure, but so would Bobbie, or Charla.
She replaced the receiver in the cradle before he could answer, and sank into her chair. If she called Josh to gush about her news, he might get the wrong idea. He might misinterpret her feelings, think she was calling as more than a friend. The idea would no doubt horrify him.
Yes, they’d shared one kiss. But a single kiss couldn’t make up for all the differences that still lingered between them. If Brent was still alive, she would have called him. She tried to imagine the phone call, hearing his voice congratulating her. But all she heard was...nothing. She couldn’t picture her husband saying anything. The place in her brain where his voice had once lived was a closed door she couldn’t open. If she concentrated, she could remember him saying other things—a funny story he’d told her during those early days together in Afghanistan, his chatter with Chloe when she was a baby, the last argument they’d had when he joined the army....
But even those words didn’t carry the hurt they once had. Time and distance had dulled the pain. She still wished things had turned out differently, but she was letting go of some of the guilt. Maybe not being able to imagine him congratulating her now meant she was finally healing. Brent was a part of her past. He would always be there, but she was building a present and a future without him.
So maybe she didn’t need to call anyone and share her triumph. She’d done this on her own—she could savor the victory on her own, as well. In the meantime, she had to figure out what she was going to write about— brilliantly—every week.
* * *
“JOSH, CAN YOU come with me to Junction this morning for the livestock auction?”
Josh’s dad surprised him with this invitation one morning in mid-July. “Sure, Dad.” Mitch attended the auction in Junction at least once a month, but he hadn’t asked Josh to accompany him since Josh was a boy.
“I’m thinking of buying a new bull, and I want your opinion on some of these exotic crosses,” Mitch said.
“Exotics?” The cattle on the Bar S were Angus and Red Angus—good, solid American breeds. Mitch had never before expressed interest in anything else.
Mitch slipped on his reading glasses and opened an auction catalog to the page he’d marked. “A lot of cattlemen are getting into crossbreeds—Gelbvieh or Highland Cattle crossed with Angus.”
“Well, the theory about crosses is that you breed for the best traits in both animals.” Josh took the catalog from his dad and studied the listings. “These Highland Cattle are supposed to do well in cold winters. They’re strong enough to dig through the snow for browse, and their thick coats keep them warm. And these Gelbvieh produce lean meat that’s tender.”
“I figured they talked about that kind of thing when you were in school. I was thinking about the Highland. But the Gelbvieh sounds good, too.” He folded the glasses and slipped them into the front pocket of his snap-button shirt. “Let’s go take a look. That is, if you’re not too busy.”
“Sure, Dad. I’ve got time.”
“I haven’t seen you around too much the last couple of days,” Mitch said a short while later as he guided his truck toward Junction. Like every truck of his that Josh could remember, this one was a black Ford—they varied only in body style and amenities, Mitch having opted for fancier stereos and climate control as his age and fortunes increased.
