A Dream To Share (Heartland Homecoming)

by Irene Hannon

  Another name for secretary. What was he supposed to learn from a secretary? The next thing he knew, she’d be pairing him up with the janitor.

  At his mutinous expression, Abby folded her arms across her chest and leaned back in her chair. “Do you have a problem with my plan?”

  Amusement glinted in her eyes, and Mark bit back a retort. Thanks to his dad, she had the upper hand. His best hope of sidestepping this assignment—and the extra days it would entail—was to remain calm and use logic.

  Striving to appear unruffled, Mark picked up his Montblanc pen and balanced it in his fingers. “I still have quite a bit of work to do on the books. I’m not sure I need to shadow everyone.”

  “Who would you leave out?”

  “Well, it may not be necessary to spend two days with every reporter.” His tone was careful, measured. “And I already work with Joe. I’ve dealt with Molly, too.”

  Folding her hands on the table in front of her, Abby spoke in a quiet but firm voice. “Every person on this staff makes a vital contribution. I think it’s important for you to spend time with everyone. If you disagree with my plan, I suggest you take it up with your father.”

  A muscle twitched in Mark’s cheek. He was stuck. There was no way he was going to call his father about this. After all, Abby’s plan was consistent with what the older man had said to him in his office when he’d given him this assignment. He’d been asked to do an operational audit. To check out the management style, sit in on editorial meetings. To gain an understanding of the heart of the business as well as the numbers.

  Considering Abby’s plan, he’d need every bit of those twelve weeks his father had allocated to the project, he realized, stifling a resigned sigh.

  “We can try it your way,” Mark capitulated with a shrug. “But I still need to work on the numbers and…”

  A flicker of movement at the door caught Abby’s attention, and she turned to find Molly hesitating on the threshold.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” the woman apologized.

  “No problem,” Abby replied. “What’s up?”

  “I thought you’d want to see this right away.” She held up an envelope addressed in block printing. “It came in the mail.”

  “Thanks.” Abby extended her hand, and the woman passed the envelope over before disappearing back through the door. “Sorry, Mark. You were saying….” Even as she spoke, she withdrew a single sheet of paper and scanned it.

  “Just that I appreciate your efforts to familiarize me with all aspects of the Gazette, but I’m concerned that my focus will be distracted and…” His words trailed off. Abby’s complexion had gone pale as she read the paper in her hand, and it was clear that she hadn’t heard a word he’d said. He leaned toward her. “What’s wrong?”

  It took Abby a second to disengage from the vulgar and mildly threatening letter in her hands, sent by a reader who had not appreciated her editorial on hate crimes—and warning her to drop the subject. When she looked up, Mark pinned her with intent brown eyes.

  “Nothing. Just a letter from a reader.” She refolded the sheet of paper and started to slide it back into the envelope.

  “It doesn’t look like nothing.”

  Her hands stilled as she recalled Spencer’s request to acquaint his son with all aspects of the newspaper business. This wasn’t a pretty one, but perhaps it was important in helping him understand the nature of the work. Slowly she handed over the piece of paper.

  Mark didn’t release her troubled gaze at once. But when he did, long enough to scan the short, typed message, he understood her reaction. The vitriolic tone of the crude note sent a shock wave rippling through him.

  Appalled, he stared at her. “Do you get many of these kinds of letters?”

  Lifting one shoulder in a dismissive gesture, Abby reached for the letter, then stood. “It happens. It goes with the territory if you tackle the hard issues.”

  “But I read that editorial. You were right on the money. How can anyone condone prejudice?”

  The whisper of a smile stirred her lips as she regarded him, like the faintest breeze on a still summer day. “I don’t know. Perhaps a lot of people don’t realize they are prejudiced. I’ll tell Molly to expect you to stop by and set up a schedule with her.”

  With that, she turned and disappeared through the door.

  Her quick change of subject disconcerted him for an instant, but her parting message wasn’t lost on Mark. He, too, had exhibited prejudice when he’d balked at working with other staff members, thinking he was above them. A sense of shame washed over him as he recognized the truth in her comment.

  At any other time, he might have resented her for once again pointing out his shortcomings. But now he was distracted by another emotion.

  Worry.

  It had never occurred to him that Abby’s job could be dangerous. Yet once past her initial shock, she hadn’t seemed too concerned about the threatening tone of the letter. It was almost as if she’d already put it out of her mind and moved on to the day’s next task.

  He needed to do the same. The detail journal spread out on the table in front of him required his absolute focus. If Abby wasn’t worried about the danger hinted at in that letter, then he shouldn’t be, either.

  But for some reason, he couldn’t get it out of his mind.

  By the end of the day Mark had managed to subdue concerns about Abby’s disturbing letter. But he hadn’t been able to forget the sudden pallor on her cheeks as she’d read it. She might have acted nonchalant about the venomous missive, but for a few seconds it had thrown her off balance. Their paths hadn’t crossed for the remainder of the day, and he assumed she was fine. Yet he was reluctant to leave without reassuring himself of that fact. Why, he didn’t know. Nor did he allow himself to dwell on that question.

  After turning over the books to Joe for safekeeping, he retrieved his briefcase from the conference room and flipped off the light. Abby’s office was at the opposite end of the hall from the exit, and he headed that way.

  Her back was to him as he drew close, and knocked on the door. Surprise flickered across her face when she turned, and she removed her glasses.

  “I wanted to let you know I talked to Molly. I’ll be working with her half a day tomorrow.”

  “Oh. Good. I’m sure you’ll find it beneficial.”

  She looked more like herself, Mark decided. Her color was high—perhaps a little too high. But at least she seemed to have gotten past the initial distress caused by the nasty letter.

  There was no reason to linger. She seemed fine. Yet he found himself reluctant to leave. Unlike the blonde on Saturday night, whose self-absorption had quickly turned him off, Abby intrigued him. He’d witnessed her intensity and dedication, her innate kindness to the staff. The more he learned about her, the more he wanted to learn.

  There had been a time—in the very recent past, in fact—when he wouldn’t have given her a second look. But he was beginning to sense that there were fascinating layers to this disciplined, self-contained woman, and the temptation to discover them was growing stronger.

  Propping a shoulder against the door frame, Mark stuck one hand in the pocket of his slacks. “Since it appears I’ll be in town a while, what do people do for fun around here?”

  “Fun?” Abby stared at him.

  “Yeah. You know. Fun.” A grin tugged at his lips. “A diversion that’s entertaining and amusing.”

  “I’ve heard the word.”

  “Good. For a minute there I was worried. I know you work late, but everyone else cuts out by five. What do people do at night around here?”

  “We sleep. We’re country folk, remember? Early to bed, early to rise.”

  “I must admit I’ve altered my bedtime since I arrived. But there are still quite a few hours to fill until ten o’clock.”

  “There’s a movie theater on Main Street.”

  “I saw that film weeks ago.”

  Folding her arms across her ch
est, she pretended to give his dilemma serious consideration. “Let’s see…there’s a bowling alley in Steelville. And there’s bingo at the American Legion hall on Friday nights. Then there’s Oak Hill’s annual ice cream social, which is coming up in two weeks. You wouldn’t want to miss that. It’s the highlight of the season. And my church has a pancake breakfast on the first Sunday of each month. Things are hopping here.”

  The teasing twinkle in her eyes stirred the rumble of a chuckle deep in his chest. “I can’t wait.”

  The jarring ring of her phone intruded on their conversation, and Abby picked it up, grateful for the interruption. This new, sociable Mark had thrown her off balance.

  Pushing away from the door frame, he smiled. “Have a nice evening.”

  He was gone before she could respond. And that was fine with Abby. She wasn’t good at light, breezy banter. At…flirting.

  That’s precisely what it had been, she realized with a start. Though she didn’t have much experience in that department, it was easy to recognize.

  Less easy to identify was Mark’s motivation. If there even was one. Someone with his good looks would be used to women fawning all over him, and such conversation was probably as natural as breathing. Since she was the sole eligible woman in the office, he had no one to parley with except her.

  As she greeted her caller, Abby accepted that explanation. It was the sensible conclusion. The very notion that the handsome publishing heir might find her attractive was laughable. But as she pulled a pad of paper toward her and began to take notes, she caught herself doodling a heart on the paper.

  Appalled, she scratched it out, destroying all evidence of her flight of fancy. She wasn’t interested in a romance with Mark. He was the enemy. And she didn’t intend to have any more cozy chats with the man who held the fate of the Gazette in his hands.

  Even if her heart suddenly wished otherwise.

  He couldn’t take one more night of the NordicTrack.

  Though he was grateful to Marge for making the exercise equipment in her basement available, after two weeks Mark had had enough of the dingy, musty cellar. He wanted to exercise outside—even if the mid-September air was still as hot and humid as it had been in August.

  On impulse, he pulled into the hardware store on Main Street. He didn’t have a whole lot of hope that the small shop would carry sports equipment, but to his surprise it had a few items in stock. Five minutes later, a dusty basketball on the seat beside him, he headed back to the B and B to change into shorts and a T-shirt. Ten minutes after that, he was shooting baskets on the asphalt lot of a nearby church, where he’d spotted a hoop a few days ago.

  Only the thump of vinyl on the pavement and the rattle of the hoop when the ball made contact broke the stillness of the evening. It had been years since he’d shot baskets, and the simple exercise felt good after the fitness routine he was used to following at the upscale health club he frequented in Chicago. It brought back memories of his years on the varsity team in high school. Good memories. On the court he had been able to lose himself in the game. After Bobby died that had been the one place he could find peace.

  Bobby Mitchell.

  The name had been popping up with disturbing frequency over the past few weeks, Mark mused. And he wasn’t sure why. For years he’d kept memories of his friend at bay. In the beginning, it had hurt too much to recall the good times they’d shared, knowing that they were gone forever. But eventually he’d begun to recognize that his reluctance to think about those days was about more than missing his friend. That the end of Bobby’s life had marked the end of other things, too—all compounded by his mother’s death soon after. Things like childhood dreams. Illusions about forever. Ambition. Faith.

  After Bobby and his mother died, Mark had drifted. And he’d been drifting ever since. What was the sense in planning for a tomorrow that could be snatched away with no warning? Instead, he’d chosen to live for the day, adopting a simple philosophy: Enjoy each moment, because you might not have another.

  That was in sharp contrast to Abby’s philosophy, he reflected as he took a free throw, not at all sure why she’d come to mind. Rather than enjoying each moment, she seemed to believe in making each moment count. He hadn’t seen her much since the day she’d received the threatening letter. It seemed as if she was avoiding him. But he had learned quite a lot about her as he’d begun to shadow the staff members.

  From Molly, he’d learned about the studious, diligent little girl who used to follow her father around the newsroom after her mother died, spunky and smart and hardworking. He’d learned about the teenage Abby who’d spent every spare minute at the Gazette instead of enjoying the normal high school frivolities. He’d learned about Abby the college student, who’d taken heavy class loads and bypassed the campus party scene to come home each weekend and help out at the newspaper. And he’d learned about the day a grieving, shell-shocked Abby had been called home to take over the reins of the paper when a heart attack felled her father.

  Joe had his own stories about the Gazette editor. Of her kindness and understanding, reflected in her care and concern over his wife’s problem pregnancy, and her insistence that Joe put his wife’s needs over his work duties. Those stories mirrored the tales of other staff members, whose respect and esteem for their boss on both a personal and professional level was clear.

  Even Harvey, the janitor, had good things to say. Abby hadn’t suggested that Mark shadow him, as he’d once suspected she might, but he’d run into the man one evening when he’d come back to the office to check his e-mail. As he’d ducked into the conference room, he’d noticed the janitor in Abby’s office. Gray-haired and a bit stooped, a vacuum cleaner beside him, he’d been holding a cookie tin in one hand. As Mark had glanced his way, he’d removed his glasses and wiped a sleeve across his eyes.

  When Mark returned to the hall, the man had happened to be heading his way. Startled, he’d pulled up short and tucked the tin of cookies close to his chest.

  “Sorry.” Mark had extended his hand and introduced himself. “I came back to check my e-mail.”

  The man’s grip on the tin had eased, and he’d returned the clasp. “Harvey Thompson. I keep the place clean.”’

  “A challenging job in a newsroom, I’m sure.” Mark had gestured toward the cookie tin. “Looks like a treat of some kind.”

  A soft warmth had stolen into the man’s eyes. “From Abby. Ever since my wife died a few months ago, she’s been making me oatmeal cookies, like Mary used to. I mentioned once how much I missed them, and next thing I knew these tins started to appear. She’s something else. One of those people who doesn’t just read the Good Book but lives it, you know?”

  Yeah. He was beginning to.

  But if Mark had learned a lot about Abby, he’d also learned a lot about the newspaper business as he’d shadowed the staff members—proving that her orientation plan had been sound.

  He’d been to the hot, noisy printing company that had left his ears ringing for hours afterward from the incessant clacking of the presses. He’d attended a rancorous city council meeting, where a verbal disagreement had threatened to erupt into a fight. He’d watched a construction foreman slam a door in their faces when Laura had tried to get a quote for a story on a new, controversial strip mall. He’d been awakened at one in the morning to accompany Jason and Steve to a crime scene.

  He’d learned that there was no set schedule in the newspaper business. That the nitty-gritty world of journalism was far removed from the neat, orderly world of numbers that he’d inhabited up until now. And he’d learned that his shadowing assignment was wreaking havoc with his financial review, causing that work to go far slower than he’d planned.

  Taking aim, Mark sent the ball in an arc toward the hoop. Instead of the perfect basket he’d envisioned, however, it bounced off the rim, sending him running in a different direction. As he dashed to retrieve it, he lifted his arm and wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his T-shirt. With almost nine wee
ks remaining in his assignment, he’d have plenty of opportunity to polish his rusty basketball skills, he acknowledged.

  Funny. In the beginning the thought of an extended stay in Oak Hill had left him feeling almost physically sick. Now, it didn’t bother him at all. He wasn’t quite sure why. But he did know one thing.

  It had something to do with Abby Warner.

  Chapter Seven

  Four weeks into his assignment, Mark leaned back in the conference room chair and skimmed through the latest edition of the Gazette, sipping his coffee. In a few minutes, he’d turn his attention to the numbers, but there was no rush. For once, he should have a whole, uninterrupted day to focus on his financial review.

  On more than one occasion, though, he’d scheduled a day of financial work only to find himself pulled into a situation Abby thought would advance his understanding of the business.

  He couldn’t fault her judgment, however. He’d always learned from the experience. But the impromptu training sessions were totally disrupting his audit schedule. Today he was hoping for a peaceful, uneventful few hours back in familiar balance-sheet territory.

  Those hopes dissolved seconds later when he turned the page in the Gazette. As he read the bold headline—Hate Crime Victim Speaks: “It’s Been a Long, Tough Road”—he almost choked on his coffee.

  A quick scan of the story confirmed what the headline suggested. Defying the earlier warning, Abby had tackled the hate-crimes issue head-on. And put herself right in the line of fire.

  Clutching the paper in one hand, Mark shoved his chair back and strode down the hall toward Abby’s office, his jaw clenched. She saw him coming, and her eyes widened as he approached.

  “Do you realize how dangerous this is?” He waved the paper at her as he marched into her office.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Her genuine confusion only fed his anger. “This.” He glared at her as he threw the paper on her desk.