Her Cowboy Soldier (14 page)

“I was just saying we might not be able to get enough workers to harvest the apples this fall,” Bobbie said.

“Make the orchards pick-your-own,” Charla said. “Tourists love that. Amy can write about it in her article.”

“What article is that?” Josh asked.

“Charla wants me to write an article promoting Hartland as a tourist destination,” Amy said. “What do you think, Grandma? Could we make the orchards into pick-your-own fields?”

“The ones up by the road, maybe. But I don’t see bringing in enough tourists to strip ten acres of trees.”

“I think you probably need special insurance if you have people coming onto the farm like that,” Neal said. “That could get expensive.”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Bobbie said. “But I’m not going to let it ruin this afternoon. Charla, tell us all why you think tourists would be interested in Hartland?”

“Or why we should be interested in tourists,” Mitch said.

“You folks that have lived here all your lives don’t realize there are plenty of city people who would love to come soak up all this peace and quiet and beautiful scenery,” Charla said. “They want to visit a ranch and ride horses and watch cowboys work cattle. They want to pick fruit and go fishing and poke around in little shops looking for treasures.”

“I don’t need any greenhorns getting in my way when I’m trying to herd cattle,” Mitch said. “It’s bad enough getting the herd through the cars on either side of the road when we change pastures, and at least most of those folks are neighbors, who know not to step out in front of a herd of cows to get a good picture for their friends back home.”

“You can’t keep people away forever,” Charla said.

“We get plenty of travelers stopping at our farm stand,” Bobbie said. “They seem like nice enough folks. If they want to spend the night at Marsha Phelps’s B and B or hire Fred Adams to take them fishing, I don’t see the harm in it.”

“Exactly.” Charla poked Amy in the shoulder. “Are you taking notes, Ms. Reporter? You should put all this in your article.”

“Just don’t mention the Bar S,” Mitch said. “I don’t want any sightseers poking around.”

“I did get some good pictures this morning,” Amy said. “I’d like to use those, but I wouldn’t have to use the name of the ranch.”

“I don’t know—” Josh began, but his father cut off his protest.

“That would be okay,” Mitch said. “Make people think this place is the Wild West, just crawling with cowboys.”

The gruff tone of his voice might have fooled her into thinking he was rebuking her, but the sly wink he added surprised her into a laugh. “Thanks, Mr. Scofield,” she said. “I appreciate it.”

“You just call me Mitch, young lady. We’re all friends here.”

“All right. Mitch.” She glanced at Josh, who was staring at his father as if he’d grown two heads.

Josh pushed back from the table. “Excuse me, folks. I’ve got work to do.”

“That boy never could sit still for long,” Mitch said, and turned his focus to a bowl of peach cobbler.

Josh’s sudden departure struck Amy as a criticism of her behavior—as if he resented her friendliness with his father. As if his father’s easy acceptance of her was an insult to him.

Charla was deep in conversation with Neal, and Chloe was entertaining Bobbie with her description of a new trick she was teaching General, which involved helping her to make the bed in the morning by tugging the covers over the pillow. Amy took the opportunity to slip away from the table and go after Josh.

“What was so urgent that you had to leave the table practically in midconversation?” she asked, catching up with him.

“I told you—I have work to do.”

“What kind of work?”

“None of your business.” He increased the length of his strides away from the picnic area beneath the trees, so that she had to break into a jog to keep up.

“I’m allowed to be friendly with your father,” she said. “He’s a nice man.”

“Trust me, if you were a man from the city instead of a woman, he wouldn’t give you the time of day. My dad likes to flirt.”

“I am not from the city,” she protested.

“You moved here from Denver, didn’t you?”

“After a lifetime of living in some of the most remote places on Earth. I’ve hauled water from wells in Africa and lived in a yurt in the mountains of Mongolia. I’ve eaten fried grasshoppers and drunk water buffalo milk and roughed it in ways you can’t even begin to imagine. I’m not some pampered flower who’s afraid of her own shadow.”

He stopped so abruptly she almost slammed into him. He reached out to steady her and held her at arm’s length, his fingers curled around her upper arm, the heat of his touch burning into her, the heat of his gaze searing deeper. “So why are you in such a hurry to go back to the city?”

His fingers pressed into her flesh—not hurting, but insistent, a connection that made her more aware of the pounding of the pulse at his throat that matched the tempo of her own heartbeat. She swallowed hard, struggling for control. “Because I can get a better job in the city,” she said. “Because there are more opportunities for Chloe in the city.”

“I thought writers could work anywhere. And this is a great place to raise kids—Chloe loves it here.”

“Then maybe I don’t want to live somewhere where everyone knows all about me and my history and my business.”

He released his hold on her, and she immediately felt cold despite the warm day. She fought the urge to move closer to him “You don’t want to live where you might have to get close to people,” he said. “And see them as more than material for your stories.”

Rising anger made her want to hurl words at him like arrows. “Or maybe I want to live my own life—not the life my parents or grandparents planned out for me.”

“Yeah, my family tree is just full of science teachers and baseball coaches.”

“And cowboys.”

“There’s a difference between falling into a way of life because you can’t do anything else and choosing to hold on to your heritage,” he said. “But first you have to have a heritage to hold on to. And that means staying put long enough to really get to know people, instead of running away whenever they try to get close.”

“You’re the one who couldn’t sit at the table long enough to have a conversation.”

“Only because I hate to see my dad duped. He thinks you’re his friend Bobbie Anderson’s granddaughter—someone he can trust. I know you’ll tell him one thing, and then print whatever you please in your articles.”

“Josh Scofield, will you just grow up!” She clenched her hands into fists at her sides and glared at him. “That accusation against me was lame the first time you used it. I thought by now you’d have given it up. I’m sorry I hurt your feelings with my little article, but you know what? I’m tired of you using that against me.”

“You can’t blame me for not trusting you.”

“Maybe the person you really don’t trust is yourself. You’re afraid of what you might say or do, so you run away.”

“I’m not running way.”

“Well, you’re certainly walking away fast.”

“And you came after me. Why?”

Why had she pursued him? She’d felt insulted by his behavior and wanted to demand an apology—but an apology for what? His continued misjudgment of her? His surly attitude of late? The fact that he never behaved the way she wanted him to? Maybe Josh wasn’t the only one who needed to grow up and let go. If the man annoyed her so much, why didn’t she leave him alone, instead of running after him to pick a fight? Her five-year-old would have handled the situation better. “Never mind,” she said. “I’ll leave you alone.”

She turned to walk away, but he pulled her up short, his hand on her arm. “Did you drive your husband this crazy?” he asked.

He was staring at her lips, as if measuring their fit against his own. “Y-yes,” she stuttered. “He used to say our fights kept the marriage interesting.”

“I’ll bet.” He pulled her closer, one arm encircling her waist until she was snugged against him.

“Josh?” she whispered.

“What is it?”

“I don’t think this is a good idea.”

He released her so quickly, she stumbled back, but quickly righted herself. “Go on back to the others,” he said. “I can’t think straight when you’re around.”

Clearly, neither could she. She’d been ready to kiss a man she wasn’t even sure she liked. Her earlier anger had given way to confusion and she fled, back to the safety of the crowd of picnickers, away from the unyielding, resentful cowboy with whom she walked a tightrope of attraction and dislike.

CHAPTER TEN

O
N
THE
LIST
of stupid things Josh had done, he decided almost kissing Amy would have to be near the top. The woman was the most maddening, contrary, unpredictable female he’d ever met—and he was determined to stay away from her. But she kept turning up under his nose, her camera and reporter’s pencil at the ready, her brown eyes studying him with all the intensity of a heeler herding a contrary bull.

He felt like that old bull—grumpy and out of sorts and annoyed at the world. Seeing his dad doing his charming old man act with Amy had been the last straw. For some reason, women loved the old man. Not that he was ever for a minute unfaithful to Josh’s mom—but he loved to flirt and charm them into making a fuss over him. “Call me Mitch.” Josh snorted. They ought to call him an old fool.

Though maybe Josh was the fool, letting Amy tie him up in knots this way. It was so bad that when he spotted her blue Subaru in the parking lot of the local grocery store, he ducked into the shadows to avoid being seen. Only when Bobbie emerged from the market, plastic grocery bags looped over her wrists, did he step forward to help her.

“Let me get that,” he said, taking the bags.

“Thank you, Josh,” she said. “I keep thinking I can manage, but I forget about how awkward everything is with this cane.”

“It looks like you’re managing pretty well.” He followed her across the gravel parking lot.

“As well as can be expected, the doctor says.”

“I see you’re in Amy’s car today. Is something wrong with the truck?”

“It’s easier for me to get in and out of the car with my bum hip.” She took the bags from him and began arranging them in the back of the car. “The doc tells me I might always have a limp, and I should keep the cane handy, just in case.”

“That’s too bad, but considering where you were, you’ve come a long way.”

“Not far enough.” She leaned against the bumper of the car and regarded him. “I’m thinking about selling out. I’m getting too old to haul plants in and out of greenhouses and climb ladders pruning trees and picking apples. It’s time I faced facts.”

“What does Amy think about that?”

“I haven’t said anything to her. Don’t you go spilling the beans, either. I haven’t made up my mind, though I’m leaning in that direction.”

“I doubt if I’ll see her to say anything.” Not if he could help it, at least. He was still embarrassed about what had happened at the barbecue last weekend. “Is she still planning to move away?”

“She seems set on it. Though she hasn’t said when. To tell you the truth, I don’t think that girl knows what she wants.”

“From what I understand, she hasn’t had the most stable life.”

“I did what I could, but her mom and dad were bitten by wanderlust and insisted on dragging her along. I’m not so sure Amy’s cut from the same cloth, though. She doesn’t like to admit it, but she’s fit in pretty well around here. Charla’s got her volunteering with the Chamber, and Ed over at the paper loves her.”

Josh didn’t agree that Amy was fitting in. It seemed to him she deliberately held herself apart. Maybe she thought she was too good for a backwater town like Hartland.

“This afternoon she’s interviewing Marsha Phelps about her B and B,” Bobbie continued. “Usually, she does the grocery shopping, but since she was so busy, I said I’d do it if she’d let me use her car. Now I’d better get home before the ice cream melts.”

Josh leaned over and opened the driver’s side door for her. “Thanks,” Bobbie said. “And thank you for building that fence and putting in the dog door for General. That little dog means the world to Chloe—and I’m pretty fond of him myself.”

“Glad I could help. Though I think Amy resents me for butting in.”

“Don’t be too hard on the girl. Brent’s death hit her hard, and she’s still trying to figure things out.”

“I guess she loved him a lot.”

“I’m sure she did, but when you lose someone like that, it’s a mix of emotions. The unfinished arguments can hurt as much as the unfinished love. You feel cheated out of both.” She shrugged. “Amy had a plan for one kind of life, and now she’s having to chart a new course. That’s not so easy when you’ve never had to make those kinds of decisions before.”

“Yeah.” He’d done plenty of recharting of his own, from his decision to enlist rather than stay on the ranch, to taking the job as a teacher and coach. Even his move from his parents’ house to his cabin on the ranch had been a kind of course correction—though he still wasn’t sure he was headed in the right direction. “You know if either one of you needs anything, you can call me,” he said.

“You’re a good friend, Josh. And a good neighbor. You should come to dinner again sometime.”

“Maybe I’ll do that.” When Amy was safely out of town and he wouldn’t risk playing the fool for her again.

* * *

K
ATHERINE
A
NDERSON
C
ARRUTHERS
was a strong, slender woman who looked ten years younger than her age and had the kind of boundless energy that made lesser souls weary just being in the same room with her. Amy felt that way now, as she watched her mother—trailed by Amy’s father, Dan—haul yet another pair of bright nylon duffel bags in from their rented Land Rover and deposit them in the living room. The floor looked as if someone had spilled a bag of giant jelly beans.

“That’s the last of them,” Katherine announced. She brushed her hands on the thighs of her wrinkleproof khaki trousers and regarded her daughter. “You’re looking a little pale, dear. Are you getting enough exercise?”

To a woman who had climbed both Everest and K2, who routinely trekked across continents, exercise was the answer to every ill, from stomachache to heartache. When Amy had suffered the end of her first crush on a boy in ninth grade, her mother had prescribed a cross-country hike to “clear your mind and get you to focus on something really important.” The blisters Amy had developed as a result had certainly been a distraction, but they hadn’t made her feel better.

“I’m fine, Mom,” she said, accepting her mother’s hug. “Just surprised to see you. We didn’t know you were coming.”

“Neither did we, until the last minute,” Katherine said. “We were supposed to be leading a trek through the Brazilian rain forest, but the group canceled with short notice. We needed to come back to the States for some supplies and to meet with our marketing team, so we decided to make a quick stop in Hartland and see you.”

Amy turned to her father, who was bent over the duffels, unzipping and zipping pockets, rifling through the contents. “I’m sorry about the cancellation,” she said.

“It’s all right. The purchase price was nonrefundable.” His expression brightened and he pulled out a packet of gum. “Super Chew Spearmint,” he announced. “You know, you can’t get this stuff outside of the States.” He tore open the package and popped a stick in his mouth.

“Now you know what to get your father for Christmas,” Katherine said. She linked her arm through Amy’s. “How are you doing, dear?”

“I’m good, Mom. Really.”

“And how is darling Chloe?”

“She’s great. She should be home soon. Grandma took her to swimming class at the center where she has physical therapy.”

“Mother wrote me about her hip. I told her what did she expect, climbing around on ladders at her age. Of course she’s bound to break something.”

Katherine prided herself on her own perfect health. She’d once endured twenty-one days in a remote African village where everyone around her was suffering from dengue fever. She’d nursed them all and never suffered so much as a bad night’s sleep—or so went the tale she’d related to her daughter when Amy came down with a cold in Afghanistan and complained about the lack of over-the-counter medications.

“You do look better than the last time we saw you,” Katherine said.

“The last time you saw me was at Brent’s funeral,” Amy said. What woman wouldn’t look awful at her husband’s funeral?

“I know that, dear. I’m just saying you look better now—though a little pale.”

Amy felt the beginning of a headache throbbing at her temples. She was saved from coming up with an answer to this statement by the arrival of Bobbie and Chloe. “Grandma! Grandpa!” The little girl shouted her joy as she charged into the room. She landed somewhere in the middle of the pile of duffel bags, and hugged her grandfather tightly.

“Chloe, darling!” Katherine held out her arms and the little girl ran to her.

Amy watched the tableau of her mother’s sleek blond head next to her daughter’s lighter hair. “I’m glad you came, Mom and Dad,” she said. “I’m glad to see you, but I’m especially grateful Chloe gets to see you.” Brent’s father had died when Brent was a boy, and he wasn’t close to his mother, so Chloe had no other grandparents. She chatted on Skype with them, so they were part of her life, but communicating over a computer wasn’t the same as being able to sit in a lap or exchange hugs.

“Katherine, so nice of you to drop in.” Bobbie made her way into the room. Was it Amy’s imagination, or was she leaning on her cane more heavily than usual? “If you’d called ahead we could have prepared a proper welcome.”

“Now, Mother, you know you don’t have to go to any trouble for us.” Katherine kissed her mother’s cheek. “Dan and I wanted to surprise you. And we didn’t want you to make a fuss. Just show me where the clean sheets are kept and we’ll make our own bed, and I’m sure I can find something in the kitchen to fix for supper.”

“This is my house, and I’m sure I’m capable of feeding guests.” Bobbie bristled at Katherine’s attempt to take over, but as usual, Amy’s mom was undeterred. “Come on, Chloe,” She offered her hand to the little girl. “Let’s go see what we can find for supper. Dan, don’t forget to bring the cooler in from the car. There’s some wonderful buffalo mozzarella in there I’m sure I can use.”

Bobbie stomped toward the kitchen after her daughter. Amy glanced at her father, who was still on his knees, rifling through the duffel bags. “I suppose I’d better go after them,” she said.

“You’d better,” he agreed. “They might need a referee.”

In the kitchen she found her mother opening cabinets, while her grandmother rushed to close them. “How old is this penne?” Katherine asked, pulling out a cellophane packet Amy hadn’t even known was on the shelf.

“You gave it to me for Christmas one year,” Bobbie said. “I prefer macaroni.”

“It’s all pasta, Mom.” She set the penne on the counter. “Do you have any olive oil?”

“There’s corn oil in the cabinet by the stove.”

Katherine wrinkled her nose, but said nothing. “I know you have plenty of fresh vegetables. How are the greenhouses doing this year?”

“They’re doing well enough.” Bobby carefully lowered herself into a kitchen chair, apparently having surrendered to the impossibility of barring her daughter from the kitchen. “Amy’s been a big help. She has a real talent for gardening.”

“Really?” Katherine regarded Amy over her shoulder. “Do you like gardening, dear?” she asked, in the same tone she might have used to ask “Do you like digging ditches?”

“I do,” Amy said. “It’s fun to see things grow and experiment with different techniques.”

“Hmm.” She pulled a large pot from a cabinet next to the stove and began filling it with water. “And you’re still writing?”

“Oh, yes.”

“What are you writing?”

The way Katherine asked the question, Amy felt she should reply that she was writing a novel, or a biography, or some great treatise. “I’m working on a project about the tourist attractions in Hartland.”

“Hartland has tourist attractions?” She laughed.

“Sure. Well, a few.” Though she felt like a little girl called to recite before a stern teacher, Amy forced herself not to fidget. “Yesterday I toured a bed-and-breakfast in a restored Victorian home, and last week there was the Bar S roundup.”

“They’re still doing that?” Katherine smiled. “When we were in Argentina two years ago we saw cowboys—
gauchos
—working cattle and it reminded me of those roundups. Do the Scofields still run the ranch?”

“Mitch Scofield isn’t that much older than you, Katherine,” Bobbie said. “And his son’s home from Iraq now and helping out.”

“I remember Josh.” Katherine turned the burner up under the pot of water. “He turned out to be a very nice-looking young man, didn’t he? Of course, Mitch was quite the heartthrob when we were all in school. Not that I was ever interested. I knew I could never marry a man whose ambition was to stay here in Hartland forever.”

“Some people think stability and tradition are good things,” Bobbie said.

“I suppose they are, for some people.” She added salt to the water in the pot and put the lid on it, then turned to face her daughter and mother. Bored with the adult conversation, Chloe had let General in from the backyard and returned to the living room to help her grandfather unpack. “What’s your next assignment, Amy?”

“I’m supposed to tour the historical museum tomorrow.”

“That old place is still around? I’ll go with you and see if anything’s changed. I’ll bet it hasn’t. Nothing much ever changes in Hartland, though I thought I saw a coffee shop on our way through downtown.”

“That’s my friend Charla’s place,” Amy said. “We’ll stop in and you can meet her.”

* * *

T
HE
NEXT
MORNING
found Amy in the driver’s seat as her mother commented on everything they passed on their way to the Hartland Historical Museum. “I can’t believe the McDaniels’ old barn is still standing,” Katherine said as they passed a leaning gray structure. “That was there when I was a girl. Oh, look, the Scofields have a new windmill.”

The “new” windmill was probably ten years old, but Amy didn’t bother correcting her mother, who seemed content to bask in nostalgia. “You should come back more often,” Amy said. “I know Grandma would like that.”

“My mother and I grate on each other’s nerves,” Katherine said. “We’re both too stubborn for our own good sometimes. The best way for us to keep the peace is for me to stick to short visits every few years. Though I suppose now that she’s getting older I should make it a point to check in more often.”