Strawberry Hill

by Catherine Anderson

  PRAISE FOR CATHERINE ANDERSON’S NOVELS

  “One of the finest writers of romance.”

  —#1 New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber

  “Catherine Anderson doesn’t shy away from characters who face life’s toughest challenges—but she also gifts readers with a romantic tale that celebrates the hope and resilience of the human spirit.”

  —#1 New York Times bestselling author Susan Wiggs

  “Catherine Anderson writes with great emotional depth and understanding of complex relationships and family dynamics.”

  —#1 New York Times bestselling author Sherryl Woods

  “Catherine Anderson weaves beautiful stories overflowing with emotion and heart. The Christmas Room is an absolute keeper, destined to be read again and again.”

  —New York Times bestselling author RaeAnne Thayne

  “Master storyteller Anderson has skillfully penned the heart-wrenching story of domestic abuse and its aftermath . . . compelling.”

  —Booklist (starred review)

  “The minute you open an Anderson novel, you can immediately feel the vision of humanity and warmth that runs through all her books. No one does heartfelt romance better!”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Romance veteran Anderson is a pro at making readers weep.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “[Anderson] has such a way with characters, making them real and lovable, that makes it impossible to put the books down.”

  —Bitten by Love

  “New Leaf is about family, starting over, and the lengths you would go to for a child. . . . Anderson created good tension and anticipation, but also balanced that with moments of humor.”

  —Harlequin Junkie

  “I am totally hooked. . . . Thank you, Catherine Anderson, for this wonderful story.”

  —The Reading Cafe

  “Sweet and inspirational.”

  —Smitten by Books

  “Mystic Creek was a close-knit, loving community that made you feel warmth and a giving human spirit . . . [a] heartwarming romance.”

  —The Reader’s Den

  “Heartwarming and heart-wrenching.”

  —Open Book Society

  “A good winter read in which love heals the worst wounds.”

  —The Romance Dish

  TITLES BY CATHERINE ANDERSON

  “Mystic Creek” Novels

  Silver Thaw

  New Leaf

  Mulberry Moon

  Spring Forward

  Strawberry Hill

  “Harrigan Family” Novels

  Morning Light

  Star Bright

  Here to Stay

  Perfect Timing

  Contemporary “Coulter Family” Novels

  Phantom Waltz

  Sweet Nothings

  Blue Skies

  Bright Eyes

  My Sunshine

  Sun Kissed and Sun Kissed Bonus Book

  Historical “Coulter Family” Novels

  Summer Breeze

  Early Dawn

  Lucky Penny

  Historical “Valance Family” Novels

  Walking on Air

  The Comanche Series

  Comanche Moon

  Comanche Heart

  Indigo Blue

  Comanche Magic

  Other Berkley Books

  Always in My Heart

  Only by Your Touch

  Coming Up Roses

  Cheyenne Amber

  The Christmas Room

  A JOVE BOOK

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019

  Copyright © 2018 by Adeline Catherine Anderson

  Excerpt from Spring Forward by Catherine Anderson copyright © 2018 by Adeline Catherine Anderson

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  A JOVE BOOK, BERKLEY, and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN: 9780399586378

  First Edition: December 2018

  Cover art: Polar bear cub by Eric Isselee; Strawberries by Lubava

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  This book is dedicated to my sons, Sidney Jr. and John, who have both been the joys of my life, each in his own way, and to my wonderful grandsons, Joshua, Liam, and Jonas. They carry forward my husband’s surname and are doing so in a way that would make him extremely proud.

  I also wish to thank my editor, Kerry Donovan, for all that she did to support me during the completion of this novel. I’m also very grateful for others at the publishing house who were supportive of her efforts and of me as a writer.

  Contents

  Praise for Catherine Anderson’s Novels

  Titles by Catherine Anderson

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Epilogue

  Dear Reader

  Excerpt from Spring Forward

  About the Author

  Prologue

  It’s too quiet here. Not a peaceful quiet, but the kind that makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck. Slade Wilder drew his horse to a halt. He didn’t travel this trail often, only when he rode for pleasure, but he knew the area like the back of his hand. About five feet ahead and off to his left was an avalanche area where rocks, both large and small, precariously blanketed a steep slope. The stones periodically broke loose and rained hell on anything in their way. Slade always practiced caution as he passed over this section of trail, but never in his memory had being here given him the heebie-jeebies. It’s almost as if something terrified is watching me. Some people would laugh at that notion, but he never had, especially not in a wilderness area. Any woodsman knew that a sixth sense did exist in both animals and humans, and to make light of it was foolhardy.

  He studied the path ahead, which had been chiseled into the mountainside by human hands and then worn to a curvy ribbon by countless human and equine feet. Bordered on the north side by rocks, the narrow track gave way on the right to a sharp, boulder-strewn decline where lofty pines, still skirted by a thin crust of snow in mid-April, struggled for purchase to remain upright. One
stone about a foot in diameter lay at the trail’s center, surrounded by a scatter of smaller rocks. It was due to recent shifting, Slade knew, because the debris hadn’t been there when he’d ridden up the mountain earlier. Normally he’d hear squirrels chattering and birds singing, but right now even the wind seemed to be holding its breath.

  Slade couldn’t recall ever having felt this uneasy here. Acutely aware of everything around him, yes, but never edgy. His family’s ranch, which he now operated, rested about a mile away at the base of this peak. As a youngster he had played in these woods with his friends. Later as a teenager he’d pitched a tent under a tree, gathered tubers and berries, cooked his supper over an open fire, and stayed the night alone. This whole mountainside had been an extension of his backyard. Heck, he’d even lost his virginity under one of those pine trees.

  Slade released a breath and refocused on the present. The rockslide had apparently frightened all the wildlife in the immediate area, so he assumed it had happened just before he got within earshot. He pictured chipmunks sitting motionless on tree limbs, deer frozen in their tracks, and other creatures hiding in their burrows. While shifting in the saddle, he realized that his Wrangler jeans had gone damp with sweat where his thighs pressed against the leather. All his mental alerts still jangled. With over sixty years of wilderness experience under his belt, he knew better than to ignore his feelings. They had saved his ass more times than he could count, allowing him to live long enough to get arthritis and so much silver in his dark brown hair that he was tempted to dye it.

  Even Bogey, Slade’s trusted red roan, felt tense beneath him. The gelding didn’t like the vibes he was getting, either, Slade guessed. When a woodland went this quiet, both man and beast paid attention.

  Keeping his mouth closed, Slade drew in a breath. It was then that he smelled it. Fresh blood. It was faint but unmistakable, a metallic scent, and made his skin pebble with goose bumps. Next he caught the almost imperceptible scent of black bear, which he’d always likened to a wet hound that had wallowed in something rotten. Online environmentalists claimed that bears didn’t stink, that they smelled like the berries and other things they ate, which might be true at a zoo or rescue site, but it wasn’t in the wild. A bear was an opportunistic diner, an omnivore that fed on both vegetation and meat, the latter sometimes carrion that stank to high heaven. The odor clung to them.

  He studied the rocks that blanketed the mountainside. Nothing alarming. All the boulders looked firmly reseated. Then he saw a glisten of crimson on the side of one slab. He homed in with his gaze. Something blackish brown protruded from under the stone. It was the front paw of a bear.

  Just then Slade’s dog, Pistol, burst from the forest onto the trail. He’d been off chasing a squirrel or rabbit and still wore a goofy grin. Of undetermined lineage, the canine had the coat of a collie, the coloring of a Rottweiler, and the agile build of an Australian shepherd. He had appeared on the porch six years ago, the scraggliest and skinniest pup Slade had ever seen. He hadn’t wanted a dog. In fact, he’d sworn years before that he would never have a dog again, but he hadn’t had the heart to call Animal Control. He’d never once regretted the decision. Pistol was the best all-around canine friend that Slade had ever had, adept at herding cows, friendly with horses, smarter than some men, and beautiful now that he received proper care. The dog skidded to a stop by Bogey’s left knee, swung around, and bristled.

  “Yep,” Slade said. “You smell bear. Heel up. Don’t get all crazy on me and go into those rocks. You’ll get us all killed.”

  Pistol aligned his shoulder with Bogey’s front leg. After swinging out of the saddle, Slade gave the gelding a comforting pat, then snapped his fingers and pointed at the ground to make Pistol sit before he approached the steep bank. Crawling up into that jumble of rock would be foolish. Instead he remained on the trail and moved eastward. Then he turned and saw the hindquarters of the bear. She lay on her side, rear legs sprawled. Definitely a sow. Her teats were swollen with milk. Now he understood the faintness of her scent. Well over half her body was buried.

  A full-time rancher and a seasonal outfitter and hunting guide, Slade had been raised on wild game and homegrown beef, so he didn’t think of himself as a tenderhearted man, but he hated to see a dead mama sow. Her offspring might not survive without her. Black bears normally bore litters of one to six cubs, typically two, sometimes more, and it was only April. Snow, bluish white in the shadows, still defied the advent of warmer weather. Sows were probably just now emerging with cubs from their dens.

  He sighed and turned in a full circle, watching for any sign of movement. Then he studied all the nearby trees. Frightened cubs often shinnied up a trunk and held on until their mother told them it was safe to get down. Sadly he saw no babies. Not that he knew what he’d do for them. He supposed he could call the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife. Until cubs grew older, they needed their mother’s milk.

  He strode back to his horse. Bogey snorted and flung his head. Pistol whined. “Now I know why you didn’t spook, Bogey. You smelled the blood before I did and knew she was dead.”

  Bogey chuffed and flared his nostrils. Slade gave him a scratch along his poll before swinging up into the saddle. The horse didn’t like the smell of bear, whether it was alive or not. “Heel, Pistol. Let’s circle the area before we head home. See if we come across those babies.”

  Slade spent the better part of an hour combing the vicinity. Mostly he watched his dog. Pistol had a sharp nose and found some scents that interested him, but nothing was fresh enough to excite him. If the cubs had stayed near their mother’s body, Pistol would smell them.

  Heading downhill through the forest, Slade picked up Flotsam Trail again about a half mile south of the rockslide. He was in no particular hurry to reach the ranch, but his pleasure in the ride had diminished. He couldn’t get the possible fate of the dead sow’s offspring out of his mind. Damn. At this time of year, they’d be so little, and by now their tummies would already be panging with hunger. The thought saddened him.

  And also made him think of Vickie, his one and only love. Ignoring the advice of nearly everyone in their hometown of Mystic Creek, she had once rescued a cub. Now that Slade was older, it was funny how memories popped into his mind, as shiny as new pennies. Images of her holding that baby on her hip played on his mental screen like a video clip. She’d been a little gal with an unruly mane of curly auburn hair and arresting green eyes. He’d been so besotted that he would have laid down his life for her.

  Slade tried to school his thoughts. It was nuts to be thinking about Vickie now. For all he knew, she could be dead. He hadn’t seen or heard from her in almost forty years, and good riddance. If she were with him, he’d still be looking for that dead sow’s cubs, and then if he found them, he’d be trying to convince her that caring for them was a bad idea. Nope. He was better off alone. A woman messed with a man’s head, led him down a merry path, and then ran off with a big chunk of his heart.

  Screw all of that. He would have been a rotten husband anyway, and probably an even worse father. He’d cared too much about horses, cows, and bull busting in his younger days. He’d probably still be following the rodeo circuit if his body hadn’t given out on him. Losing Vickie had left him free to grab life by the tail and hang on for the ride. In his wild days, it had been a rough one.

  On a bridle path, Pistol liked to take the lead, and he was three horse lengths ahead of Bogey when a high-pitched shriek rent the afternoon air. Still lost in the past, Slade jolted to awareness and drew back on the reins as he attempted to place the sound. Spooked by the noise, Bogey hopped sideways. Slade almost went one direction while his mount went the other. He grabbed for leather and quickly righted himself.

  Pistol let out a bark and pointed like a bird dog. “No!” Slade said. “Heel up. Whatever that is, it doesn’t want company.”

  Black fur rippling as he ran, Pistol circled to stand by B
ogey’s left front leg. Slade was still trying to determine where the noise had originated when another scream echoed through the trees. His stomach muscles snapped taut. It was like nothing he’d ever heard, the cry laced with terror and what had to be pain. Pulse accelerating, he urged Bogey farther downhill. It had to be an animal, Slade reasoned, only for the first time in his life he couldn’t identify a species by the sound it made. He reined Bogey to the right, heading toward a copse of underbrush canopied by pine boughs. Within seconds he heard another wail and then came the sound of thrashing in the woodland brush. Slade saw a flash of yellow about fifty yards down the slope. Cougar was his first thought. But as he trained his gaze on the spot, his stomach felt as if it dropped to the ground and bounced back up into his throat. A blond bear cub. Just as Slade realized what it was, it flipped head over heels in the air, slammed back to the earth, and shrieked again. He also heard the rattling of metal chain.

  “Damn it! Down, Pistol! Down!”

  Whining and trembling with eagerness, Pistol lowered his rump to the dirt. Slade dismounted, tied Bogey to a small tree, and then pushed through the brush to get closer. The cub was a blur of golden fur, frantically trying to free its right front foot from the jaws of a coyote trap. Slade’s blood boiled. What kind of idiot set a trap so close to a trail? It was a wonder that Pistol hadn’t stepped in it as they came up the mountain. If the steel jaws of a leghold trap snapped closed at just the right angle, bones could be fractured or crushed. The last thing Slade needed was a crippled dog.

  As he drew closer, the baby panicked. Not wanting to make the cub hurt itself any worse, Slade retreated to a less threatening distance. He scanned the area, looking for the tracks of a sow or other cubs. His trained eye saw nothing. He also sniffed the air, hoping not to catch a whiff of an adult bear in the vicinity.

  He finally concluded that the cub was alone. Otherwise the mother would be facing off with him to protect her trapped offspring, a turn of events that Slade preferred to avoid. Now the question he had to ask himself was, where was the mother? Sows wandered away from their cubs sometimes, and vice versa, but normally a mother and her babies stayed within earshot of each other. This cub was making enough noise to wake drunks on Sunday morning.