Love Is Patient and A Heart's Refuge (19 page)

“Will your grandfather still own it?”

“I don’t know. You could buy it if you wanted.” His casual words held a lash of mockery.

“I’ve got my own plans,” she said softly.

“And what would those be?”

Try to ease away from the relentless deadlines of magazine work. Write a book that would make her current editor sit up and take notice. Offer her the temporary stability of a multibook contract.

But Rick Ethier was the last person she was going to dump her “treacly” dreams on.

“I’ve got a few things on the go.” She drew in a slow breath and looked up at him again. He was watching her, his head canted to one side, his mouth softer now that it no longer was twisted into a cynical smile.

And in spite of her negative feelings toward him, she felt a nebulous connection spark between them, then lengthen into a gentle warmth.

She was the first to look away, confusion fighting her initial antagonism. What was wrong with her? So he was good-looking. So he possessed a certain charm that it seemed even she wasn’t immune to.

He was her boss. And the man who had a hand in delaying her dream.

Rick cleared his throat and shuffled some file folders on his desk. “I understand from Nelson that you have been working on setting up an appointment with the Premier of Alberta?”

“I don’t have a firm commitment, but I’m in communication with his secretary.”

“Congratulations. That’s quite a coup. I’ve been trying to get an interview with him since he was voted in with such an overwhelming majority.”

“Jake’s pretty private.”

“I’ll say. He guards his private life like a Doberman. I’ve tried a few times to get an interview for Colson’s
magazine, but I’ve always been turned away with a polite but firm no.”

Becky knew this about Jake. In fact, he had said the only reason he would consider an interview with her was because he knew it wouldn’t turn into a gossipfest. Before he had become premier of Alberta and after, she and Jake Groot had been members of a province-wide committee devoted to preservation of native grasslands. They had gotten to know each other on a social as well as committee level and Becky had used that leverage to snag this formal interview.

“I’d like to help you with that article.”

The cold finger she had felt before became an icy fist. “Actually, I always work on my own,” she said quietly but firmly.

“When is the interview?” he asked, ignoring her comment.

“Not for a few months.”

“Keep me in the loop, then.”

He’s your boss, Becky reminded herself when she looked up at him. “Okay, I’ll do that,” she said quietly. More than that she wasn’t going to promise. Jake would not be pleased if she dragged along a whole phalanx of people.

She gathered up her papers and Rick laid his hand on hers. She flinched as if she’d been burned.

“Sorry, I believe that’s mine.” He pointed to the small burgundy engagement calendar in her hands.

“I don’t think so,” Becky said, shifting the papers that were threatening to spill out of her arms. “It has my initials on it.
R.E.
”

Rick held up a similar calendar and frowned down at it. “This one has the same initials.”

Becky flipped hers open to a page with a butterfly sticker in one corner and a reminder to pick up butter scribbled in purple pen on a stained and dog-eared page.

“This is mine,” she muttered, closing it and slipping it between her papers and her chest.

“I’m sorry,” Rick said, tapping the folder he held against his other hand. “I’m guessing Becky is short for Rebecca.”

Good-looking
and
smart, Becky thought with a touch of her own cynicism. “You’ve got that right,” she said, flashing him a quick smile.

And as she left his office, she blew out a sigh. One day down. Only three hundred and sixty four to go.

“You knew Rick Ethier was going to be taking over from Nelson, so why are you so angry?” Sam Ellison asked, crouching down beside another sapling.

“I guess the reality was harder than the idea.” Becky dug her hands into the sun-warmed dirt of the new apple orchard. An early-evening breeze fanned away the warmth of the sun, and she could already feel the peace of the orchard easing away the tension of the day. “I mean I just found out before I went to camp. That hardly gave me time to get used to the idea.”

“You’ll get used to it. Hand me the budding knife please.”

She pulled the small, but deadly sharp blade out of the toolbox her father carried with him and watched while he painstakingly cut a T shape in the bark of the
young sapling. “I got the impression from Colson that he’s quite proud of his grandson,” Sam continued. “Rick’s travel articles are quite insightful.”

“As are his nasty book reviews.” Becky couldn’t keep the disdainful tone out of her voice, netting her a light frown from her father. “I still don’t understand why such a prestigious magazine chose my book to review.”

“That was a year ago, Becky.”

“And since then, the publisher has been pretty hesitant about buying another book.”

“Your editor is behind you.”

“He’s been great, but if he can’t sell it to the marketing people who seem to have a copy of that nasty review branded on their brain tissues, I’m just spinning my wheels.” She leaned forward, yanking an isolated stalk of grass from the newly cultivated dirt. “I don’t know if Rick even realized it’s my book he slammed—a casualty of his cutting words. I’m left bleeding on the sidelines while he moves on, blithely unaware of what he had done.” With a dramatic flourish she raised her face to the sky and pressed her hand to her chest.

“When you’re finished declaiming, you can hand me that whip please. The Alberta Red.”

“See, not even my own father appreciates my pain.” With a grin Becky plucked a tree branch out of the bucket of water. She carefully sliced the bud off it herself, taking a large piece of bark with it. Turning it over she plucked the pith away from the backside of the slice and handed it to her father.

“Change isn’t always a bad thing, Becky. Life is always about adapting.” He inserted the slice in the cut,
against the live flesh of the sapling, pulled the bark back over top and secured it with a rubber band. “Rick can bring in a new way of looking at things.”

“He talks about finding a new direction for the magazine, but how can he when he doesn’t know the community it targets?”

“That can be good. He’ll bring his own perspective and skills to the magazine. Like bringing new genetic material into the orchard and grafting it onto established and mature stock.”

“Except he’s only here for a while, which makes me wonder if the ‘graft’ will take. He’s a wanderer, just like Trevor was.”

“Don’t tell me you’re still mooning over him?” Sam held out his hand. “Can I have that pine tar please?”

Becky handed him a small tin and a flat stick. “Hardly mooning. Trevor was a high school romance and a reminder to stay away from guys who can’t commit.” She curled her legs closer to herself and hugged them. “Anyway, Rick said he’s only going to be around a year. Maybe less. That’s hardly long enough to make a real difference. I’m sure he wants to go back to his traveling. Last I heard it was Malta. Before that Thailand.”

Sam wrapped protective covering over the wound and gave Becky an indulgent smile. “Seems to me you know a fair bit of what is going on in Rick Ethier’s life.”

Becky avoided his eyes. She could try to make some lame excuse about her knowledge of Rick’s comings and goings but she had never been a very good liar.

“How in the world did you and Colson even con
nect?” Becky asked, handing her father his toolbox as he pushed himself to his feet.

“Years ago, Colson lived in Calgary and had courted your grandmother. He decided the real money was back East, but she wouldn’t leave Okotoks.” Sam gave Becky a hand up. “Maybe he is taking a short trip down memory lane, buying this magazine.”

“And taking a very reluctant passenger with him. Rick.”

“Well, you make sure to invite him out here sometime.”

Becky sighed as she slipped her arm through her father’s. “Give me some time to get used to the idea that he’s even here in Okotoks. In my office.”

The heat emanating from the dark plowed ground gave way to a soft coolness as they entered the older orchard.

“I’m going to have to get rid of some of these trees,” her father mused, looking up at the gnarled branches. “Though I hate to.”

“‘Every tree that does not bear fruit must be cut down and cast into the fire,’” Becky quoted, giving her father’s arm a jiggle as if to remind him.

“God gives us lots of chances. I think I might let these trees go another year or two.” He reached up and touched one branch, the dearth of apples on it a silent testimony to their uselessness. “I can still take a few cuttings from them.”

“You say that every year, Dad,” Becky said with a smile.

Becky’s maternal great-grandfather started this orchard when he first immigrated from Holland. It was a gamble to expect to create an oasis on the harshly bald
prairie. But the soil proved fertile and the poplar trees planted as windbreaks shot up, creating a refuge necessary for the apple trees to flourish. Irrigation came from a creek that flowed through the property.

The orchard had gone through three generations and various changes. Becky’s mother, Cora, inherited the orchard. When Cora Bruinsma married Sam Ellison, he slowly worked his way into the family business, helping to cultivate the orchard and keeping the magazine going at the same time.

Becky grew up with her time split between the hustle and bustle of the magazine and the peace of the orchard. Her first love was writing, but her home was her sanctuary. Her plan had been to stay at home until she had her second book published and a contract for another. Only then would she feel she had the financial wherewithal to buy a place of her own and move out.

Which hadn’t happened yet.

And if she didn’t get working on this next book, wasn’t likely to happen for at least another year.

“
Going West.
Becky speaking.” Becky tucked the phone under her ear, she pushed the sleeves of her sweater up and drew the copy of the article she had been working on toward her. Sneaking a quick glance at her watch—2:15 p.m. She had fifteen minutes yet.

“Becky? This is Gladys Hemple. I do the cooking and preserves column.”

“What can I do for you, Gladys?” Becky’s pencil flicked over the paper, striking out, putting in question marks.

Gladys didn’t reply right away. Becky heard a faint sniff, then…

“You know I get a lot of compliments on the column,” Gladys said, her voice suspiciously thick. “Lots of people say they read it all the time.”

“So what’s the problem?” Becky frowned when she heard another, louder sniff over the phone.

“I’ve been asked not to do it anymore.” Another sniff. “By some man named Rick who says he’s the new publisher.”

Becky laid her pencil down, her full attention now on her caller. “What exactly did he say, Gladys?”

“That he’s changing the focus of the magazine and that what I do didn’t mesh with the vision. Or something like that.” Gladys paused and Becky heard her blowing her nose. “Becky, I’ve been doing that column for the past twenty-five years and I was never late. Not even once. What did I do wrong?”

Becky clutched the phone in her hand and leaned back in her chair. “Gladys, I’m sure there’s been some mistake. I’ll go talk to Mr. Ethier.”

“Could you do that please? I’ve just finished taking pictures of the chocolate cake for this week’s recipe. I hate to see it all wasted.”

“You just get those pictures developed. I’ll deal with Rick.”

And bring that cake over here.

Becky stomach growled at the thought of Gladys Hemple’s chocolate cake. She hadn’t eaten or taken a break since she’d grabbed a couple of bites out of the stale muffin she’d found while scavenging
through her desk for a pen that worked. That had been eight-thirty.

In fifteen minutes she had a meeting with Rick and she still had a couple of articles to go over. Becky had re-edited half of the articles already slated for the next issue to nudge them in the direction Rick wanted to take this magazine. The extra workload had meant she’d missed her bible study and had to cancel another library board meeting.

The phone rang again.

Becky stifled her resentment and put a smile on her face. “
Going West.
Becky speaking.”

“This is Alanna Thompson.”

Becky closed her eyes, massaging the bridge of her nose with her fingers, and sent up a prayer for patience and peace. Alanna wasn’t known for her reticence. And noting the restrained fury in Alanna’s voice, Becky was pretty sure she knew the reason she was calling.

“How can I help you, Alanna?”

“What in the world is going on there? I just got a phone call from some guy named Rick Ethier. He just told me he’s returning the four articles that the magazine bought. Who is this guy?”

Becky blew out her breath, suddenly aware of the tension in her shoulders. Which columns to cut and which articles to send back should have been her call. Not Rick’s. At least he could have waited until their meeting this afternoon to consult with her.

“Rick is our new publisher.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“With a new publisher comes a new direction,”
Becky offered, struggling not to let her own anger seep into her voice. “Rick obviously has a different idea of how he sees
Going West
than Nelson did.”

And from the sounds of things Rick’s vision didn’t include baking or horses, cowboys and farmers.

“You know how much time I spent on those? How many horse trainers I interviewed? All the pictures I took? And not on spec. You told me the magazine would buy them all.” Alanna’s fury grew with each sentence she threw at Becky. “I got some great material together.”

“You’ll be released to submit them elsewhere,” Becky said, her frustration growing. “And of course there’s our kill fee.”

“There had better be.”

“Look, I’m sorry.” A faint nagging pain started at one temple, threatening to take over her whole head. Alanna’s yelling only intensified her frustration with Rick. And her headache. If she didn’t get something to eat pretty soon, she was sure it was going to become a full-blown migraine. “I’m sorry about this, Alanna,” Becky said, trying to keep her voice quiet. Soothing. “You’ve done great work for us in the past and I appreciate all the hard work you’ve put into all your articles. Good luck selling the articles somewhere else.”