Rick curled his fingers around hers, wondering if she could feel the increased tempo of his own heart.

“I should go help…help my mom,” Becky whispered. But even as she spoke, she took a slow step closer.

“I think your mom can manage.” Rick rubbed his thumb along the back of her hand, wondering what his next step was.

He didn't usually have to second-guess the next move. A hand under her chin. An encouraging smile. Then the kiss. All carefully choreographed and planned.

But he didn’t want to treat her the same as he treated other women. She was special. He wanted to share more than a kiss. More than the physical expression of love. But she was a sincere Christian who loved her Lord. And he didn’t know if he could share that with her.

CAROLYNE AARSEN

has honed her writing between being a wife, stay-at-home mom, foster mom, columnist and business partner with her husband in their cattle and logging business in northern Alberta. Writing for Love Inspired is a blessed opportunity to combine her love for romance with her love for her Lord.

A Heart’s Refuge
Carolyne Aarsen

…his delight is in the law of the Lord…. He is like a tree planted by streams of water, which yields its fruit in season and whose leaf does not wither.

—Psalms 1:2 and 3

I want to dedicate this book to Dr. Randy Blacketer and Sandy Blacketer, our pastor and youth pastor.

Two people who complement each other and our community in so many ways.

Thanks for your gifts of time and talents.

As well, I’d like to thank Laurie Carter from Okanagan Life and Karen Ball for their input on the magazine business.

Contents

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

Epilogue

Letter to Reader

Chapter One

Becky Ellison pressed her back against the outside door of Going West’s office, balancing her muffin, coffee cup and a batch of folders. Don’t panic. You’re just a little bit late.

“Hey, hon. Welcome back. How was the holiday?” Trixie sang out as Becky entered the reception area.

Becky set everything on the waist-high divider separating the entrance from Trixie Langston’s domain and blew her breath out in a gusty sigh. “Breakfast on the run my first day back. Orders from our new boss that I’m deciphering late last night after spending ten days with hormonal teenage girls at Bible camp.” She grabbed her hair in a ponytail and twisted an elastic around it. “You fill in the blanks.”

“And such a lovely hairdo to impress our new boss.” Trixie frowned as her eyes flicked over Becky’s plaid shirt and blue jeans. Trixie, as usual, was immaculately groomed. Artfully windblown hairstyle. Pale pink sweater and gray skirt. Makeup. Earrings. Becky had never sought to emulate Trixie’s style, but once in a while she wondered if people would take her more seriously if she did. “If this is your good impression,” Trixie continued, “I would hate to see the slob version.”

“Mom’s wash machine broke down. The sewer backed up while Dad and Dennis were out in the orchard. After cleaning up that mess, this was all I had left to wear.” Becky anchored a few loose strands behind her ear and bit her lips to make them red. “Okay, enough primping. I’ll get my messages after the meeting. By the way, how late am I?”

Trixie glanced at the clock in the foyer of the magazine office. “I’d love to say everyone else is running their usual fifteen minutes behind, but for once everyone is early. Except you.”

Becky pulled a face at Trixie, stifling the dread that clutched her midsection. Rick Ethier. Here in Okotoks. What were the odds that he remembered who she was? Probably slim to none. She probably knew more about him than he did about her. She sucked in another breath. “My friend, wish me luck.”

“Give him your best smile and you’ll do fine,” Trixie said, flashing her a thumbs-up.

The door of Nelson’s office was shut and the only sound she heard was an unfamiliar deep voice. Rick, most likely. New publisher of the magazine her father started and Rick’s grandfather, Colson Ethier, recently purchased.

Up until three weeks ago, office gossip was Nelson, the previous publisher, would stay on after the purchase. Then, just before she left on her so-called holiday—camp counselor to ten teenage girls—she was stunned to discover that Rick Ethier, Colson Ethier’s grandson, would take over Nelson’s job. Now she would be making an entrance, and a poor first impression, in front of the man who had shattered so many of her hopes and dreams.

She smoothed one hand over her still damp hair, drew in a slow breath, sent up a quick prayer and carefully opened the door. Flashing everyone an apologetic smile, she dropped into her usual chair beside Nelson’s desk, uncomfortably close to her new boss. She dropped her papers on the corner of Nelson’s desk and chanced a look at Rick Ethier standing beside her.

His face was all too familiar, though the grainy magazine picture indelibly imprinted on her mind didn’t capture the reality of his good looks in person. Shaggy blond hair framed the kind of face that would make women of any age stop and take a second look. The hint of a dimple in his cheek balanced out the self-assured cockiness of his smile, and his eyes were so intensely blue it was as if they glimmered with an interior light. His clothing was a mixture of casual and stylish. He wore a soft cotton cream-colored shirt, a deep brown corduroy blazer and fitted blue jeans.

And as he glanced Becky’s way, a frown.

Please don’t let him state the obvious, she thought, carefully setting her coffee cup on the floor beside her.

Instead he glanced at his watch. Almost as bad.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said with a quick smile as she reached over and shook his hand. “I’m Becky Ellison.”

“Our editor,” Rick said, returning her smile with a cool one of his own. “Glad you could make it.” He held her gaze a moment, as if establishing his territory, then he turned to face the rest of the gathered staff of the magazine, dismissing her. “As you all now know, I’m Rick Ethier, grandson of Colson Ethier, the new owner of Going West. I’m sure you’re wondering why my grandfather, whose holdings are fairly substantial, would bother himself with one small, regional magazine. Trust me, I’m as baffled.”

A few titters greeted that comment, but Becky heard the faint cynicism in his remark. A trademark of his.

Rick Ethier was a travel writer for Colson Ethier’s flagship magazine. Though he couldn’t be more than thirty, his stories and articles usually held a shadow of world-weariness. As if he’d seen it all. Done it all.

And as Becky listened to him, one part of her mind easily resurrected other words of one particularly scathing article. “Sentimental claptrap” and “shamelessly manipulative.” These less than flattering descriptions came from a monthly book review column Rick wrote for the same magazine. A column in which Rick wrote about the first book Becky had published. Her pride and joy. And thanks to that negative review, Becky hadn’t been able to get a second contract with her publisher.

Focus on the now, Becky, she reminded herself, taking a long slow breath to ease away her irritable emotions. This was her new boss, and no matter what, she had to learn to get along with him. The past was past.

“I’ve done my research on this magazine,” Rick was saying, “but for now, I want to go around the room and ask each of you what you see as the purpose of Going West. The vision, so to speak.”

Feet shuffled, a few throats cleared as the staff glanced around the room at each other. Becky sat back in her chair, crossing her feet at the ankles, surprised at the momentary blankness in her own mind.

Going West was supposed to have a vision?

Nelson, the previous publisher and her father’s partner, had set the tone and layout of the magazine from its inception. He had reviewed, accepted and or rejected freelance articles. Since Becky started working as editor, she had simply followed his lead, hoping she caught the idea of what he wanted for that particular issue.

Never had they sat down and reviewed—or even spoke of—any kind of long-term vision.

“Why don’t we start with you, Becky, now that you’ve deigned to join us.” Rick stood beside his presentation board, his arms crossed, his legs apart, his head tilted to one side.

Definitely hostile body language, thought Becky with a surge of anger. She shouldn’t have been late. But that was also past.

“We can do that.” Becky licked her lips, buying time as hazy, insubstantial thoughts slipped past her defensive emotions. C’mon, Becky. Think. This is your chance to show Rick Ethier that you are intelligent and articulate. Not sentimental in the least.

“I’ve always seen Going West as firstly a regional magazine,” she said, grasping at an idea that she knew to be true. “Our second mandate is to be a magazine disseminating a viewpoint peculiar to Western sensibilities.”

Rick nodded, his lips pursed. “Can we try that in English?”

Becky held his direct gaze, trying not to be unnerved by his glinting eyes. In spite of her resolve to forget, snatches of his nasty book review sifted through her head. “Verbose, treacly and unrealistic.”

“It’s a cowboy and farmer magazine,” she snapped.

“That’s probably closer to the mark,” Rick said with a humorless half grin.

Becky held his gaze a moment, as if challenging him, but she was the first to look away.

The meeting went downhill from there. People who had received minimal guidance from Nelson or, to be honest, her father, now had to come up with a thumbnail sketch of what the magazine was supposed to accomplish.

Advertising. Art. Circulation. While they struggled through their answers, Becky felt embarrassed and exposed.

They should all know, she thought, taking a pencil out from behind her ear. But Nelson’s editorial meetings tended to be haphazard. He and Becky sat down once a week going over articles and their status, laying out the magazine’s plan for that particular month. When they wrote up the schedule for the upcoming magazines, there was an underlying cohesion, but a person had to go looking to find it.

But vision? Simply not there.

She scribbled a few things down on paper, took a few notes from what people were saying.

“So you can see—” Rick flipped over the first page of the presentation chart “—all this vagueness has translated into this.” He pointed to a listing of numbers he had written down.

“Circulation is down, subscription is down. Advertising revenue is down. And I’m going to attribute all that to what I’m hearing in this room this morning.” Rick looked around, letting his direct gaze tick over each of them, then finally coming back to Becky. “Which is a lot of vague words, but no single, clear statement that outlines what this magazine is really about. And that is going to change. As of today.”

He had done his homework, Becky thought with grudging respect.

“So what’s your first step?” Becky asked. Rick’s language made it very clear that he was lead dog. She just needed to know where he was heading.

“Sitting down with my editor and laying out my vision for this magazine.”

A cold finger of apprehension snaked down her back. “Your vision?”

Rick shrugged, rocking lightly back on his heels. “Media is all about communication. I haven’t heard much in this room, other than your cowboy and farmer comment, that creates a concise and clear idea of what Going West is supposed to be.”

He didn’t know the community. The surrounding area. How was he going to come up with the direction of the magazine? And where did he see it going?

“Branding is the name of the game in publishing,” Rick continued. “Now I need to figure out what brand of magazine we are going to become.”

His words were not comforting.

“I’ve already commissioned a marketing analysis team to do surveys, interview focus groups and send out questionnaires to our current readership. That won’t be coming in for a couple of months, but that doesn’t mean we can’t make some changes now.” He perched on the edge of Nelson’s desk and glanced around the room. “I’m going to be sitting down with each member of the various departments and going over what we’ve got coming up and what we can possibly change for now.”

Becky rubbed the back of her neck. Rick’s plans translated into work she didn’t have time for. She had a long-term commitment to the youth choir at church. She had promised the school librarian she’d help weed through books that needed to be sold or discarded. A fund-raising committee had asked her to write copy for their brochure.

She had Bible study. Book club.

And somehow in the middle of all this she needed to put together a stellar proposal that would negate any second thoughts her publisher had about working with her.

“I hope this isn’t going to be a problem, Miss Ellison?”

Becky looked up. Had her disappointment shown on her face?

Rick faced her, his eyebrows raised, his eyes boring into hers. “You seem disheartened.”

It had shown.

Becky glanced around the room. She wasn’t the only disheartened one, but somehow Rick had zeroed in on her.

She stifled her resentment and chose her words carefully. “I’m just thinking about all the work ahead for each department. It’s going to be difficult to turn the direction of this magazine around midstream.”

Rick flipped his hand to one side, as if dismissing her concerns. “Any change we implement is going to take some sacrifice and time.” He gestured toward the chart behind him. “The figures speak for themselves. If this magazine keeps going in the direction it is, most of the people in this room are going to be out of a job. The only choices available to you now are hard work.” Rick looked around the room, his arms crossed, his legs spraddled in a defensive posture. “Or no work.”

There was nothing more to be said. Rick waited a heartbeat more. “Meeting’s over,” he said. “You’re dismissed.”

Cliff Thiessen let his chair drop back onto the floor with a thud and got up. “Well, better get back to it,” he muttered to no one in particular. As the rest of the staff left, there was some muttering, but for the most part people were subdued by what their new boss had told them.

“Becky, I’d like to see you a moment,” Rick said as she gathered up her papers in preparation for leaving.

Panic tightened her chest, but she masked it with a vague smile. She thought she had done pretty good up till now. She didn’t know if she could handle a face-to-face meeting quite yet.

She shuffled through her papers while the room emptied, buying some time.

“What can I do for you?” she said, once the door closed behind the last person.

“I just wanted to take a moment to speak with you privately.” Rick walked around to the other side of Nelson’s desk, glancing out the bank of windows that filled one wall. Becky couldn’t help follow the direction of his gaze. Beyond the roofs of Okotoks, the golden prairie rolled toward the soft brown of the Porcupine Hills, which nudged against the jagged peaks of the Rocky Mountains, faintly purple in the morning sun.

“It’s a beautiful view, isn’t it?” she said quietly.

“It will help compensate for having to live out here for a while.”

Cynicism again. She shouldn’t have been surprised. “What do you mean?”

Rick turned back to her and rested his hands palms down on his desk. “You may as well know, I’m here a maximum of twelve months and that’s it. My grandfather issued me an ultimatum I have a lot of incentive to keep.”

Becky frowned lightly, but held his steady gaze. “What ultimatum?”

“Turn this magazine around in twelve months and he’ll leave me alone to go back to traveling and living my life as I see fit.”

“And then what happens to the magazine?”

Rick shrugged and pushed himself off from the desk. “Not my concern.”

“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 connect?” 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.”

The harsh click in her ear told Becky how soothing her words had been.

Becky shoved her hands through her hair and grabbed the back of her neck. It felt as tight as a guitar string.

And in five minutes she had to face Rick Ethier.

She wondered if she had time to run across the street and grab a bite to eat. Better not. Instead she pulled open her desk drawer and pulled out the grease-stained bag. She shook out the rest of the muffin into her hand and popped it into her mouth. Two days old, but it was a much-needed snack.

She gathered up her papers and slipped them all into her portfolio, along with her Day-Timer. A paper covered with scribbles fluttered to the floor and she bent to pick it up. Notes for her most recent book.

Since Rick had come, she hadn’t had a spare minute to work on it. And if the past few days were any indication of the work Rick required to change the magazine’s direction, she wouldn’t have any time until Rick left.

In twelve months.

Dear Lord, am I ever going to get anywhere with my writing? The prayer was a cry of despair. She looked over at her crowded bookshelf. Her own book sat tucked away amongst all the others. But one book does not a career make, and if she wanted to live her dream, she needed at the least a multibook contract.

All her life she had wanted to be a fiction writer. But she had loans to repay and she had to live. So she took the job her father offered and for three years she had poured her heart and soul into that first book in her infrequent spare time.

When she received the call that this, her first book, had been bought, she broke down and cried like a baby. Then she celebrated.

Though her parents were overjoyed for her, her mother had given her the best advice. Advice, she was sure, countless other authors had received.

“Don’t quit your day job.”

So she stayed on with Going West, editing and writing nonfiction during the day, writing fiction in the evening, begrudging each minute away from her work as she put together her next book.

Then came Rick’s review, the sales figures just behind that, and her publisher started stalling on a contract for her option book. And now she didn’t have the time to work on it.

Becky pushed herself away from her desk. Enough wallowing. She had other things to discuss with Rick.

Such as maintaining her “day job.”

Chapter Two

Becky strode down the hallway to Rick’s office but was stopped when she faced the closed door. One of the many changes that had swept through this office since Rick took over. She knocked lightly.

“Come in.”

To her surprise, Rick wasn’t elbow-deep in the computer printouts that dominated his desk, but instead stood by the window, looking out over the town to the mountains beyond.

“I love the view from this office,” Becky said with forced cheer. She was going to be nice. Going to be a good example of Christian love. “Though it always makes me want to quit what I’m doing and head out to the mountains.”

Rick shrugged. “I suppose it could, if you were the impulsive type.”

In spite of her good intentions Becky felt her back bristle.

Nice. Nice. I’m going to be nice.

“So what did you want to discuss today?” she asked, sitting in her usual chair in one corner of Nelson’s office.

She wanted to give him a chance to talk before she brought up her own grievances.

“I’ve been working on clearing up the deadwood.” Rick dropped into his chair, massaging his temple with his forefinger. “This magazine is practically in the Dark Ages.”

“Considering that we don’t use a Gutenberg press to put out the paper, that seems a bit extreme,” Becky said, tempering her comment with a smile.

Rick gave her a level glance but Becky held her ground. She had promised to be nice, but he didn’t need to be so cutting.

“Just because Going West has a glossy cover doesn’t mean it’s keeping up.” Rick pushed himself ahead, pulling a pencil out of the holder on a now-tidy desk. “We’ve got to move forward.”

“From the phone calls I’ve been getting, that means leaving behind people like Gladys Hemple and Alanna Thompson.”

Rick shrugged again. “Alanna was a terrible writer. Overly emotional and bombastic. Gladys, an anachronism.”

“I would think that would be my call to make.” Her words came out clipped. Tight.

“Would you have cut them?”

Becky held his gaze, trying to distance himself from the harshness of Rick’s words, so close to what he had said about her own writing.

“I don’t know. I guess it would have depended on this ‘vision’ we are going to talk about right now.”

“They don’t fit. I would have told you to cut them anyhow.”

Becky held his gaze, realizing that she was dealing with a far different sort of publisher than Nelson and his easygoing approach.

“And who or what are we going to replace them with?”

“I’ve got a guy lined up to do a weekly column. Gavin Stoddard.”

Becky struggled to keep smiling. To stay positive as her brain scrambled for words that weren’t confrontational. “Gavin has a rather cynical take on Okotoks. What would he do a column on?”

“He’s on the local chamber of commerce. He has a thriving business in an area that’s expanding. He’s exactly the kind of person that can give some helpful advice to other businesses.”

“So that’s your focus? Business?”

Rick leaned forward. “In order to increase advertising revenue, we have to make the magazine appealing to the business sector of our readership.”

“But more ads means fewer features. That would make it…” She stopped just short of saying “boring.” Too confrontational.

“Make it what?”

She waved the comment aside. “I would like to get back to Alanna and Gladys. Please let me know before you do something like that again, so we can discuss this together.” She held her ground, knowing that she was right. “It makes my job difficult otherwise. I’m still editor and I prefer that we work together.”

Rick swayed in his chair, his finely shaped mouth curved into a humorless smile. “Do you think that can happen?” he asked.

Becky accepted the challenge in his gaze even as she thought of the book she couldn’t finish. She needed this job for now, but she wasn’t going to get pushed around.

“I think it can. As long as we keep talking.”

But even as she spoke the words, Becky realized he had been right about one thing that he had said earlier.

Twelve months was going to be far too long.

The day had disappeared, Rick thought, looking up at the darkening sky with a flash of regret.

This morning, when he came to the office, the sun was a shimmer of light in the east, the dark diminishing in the west. Now the bright orange globe hovered over the western horizon. In the east, the dark was now gaining.

While he was tied to his desk, dealing with reluctant employees, courting new advertisers, wrestling with his editor over the new plan for this magazine, the sun had stolen across the sky and he had lost an entire day.

Glowering, he walked to his vehicle, a battered and rusty Jeep. He patted its dented hood, as if commiserating with it. “Only eleven months and twenty days to go,” he murmured, “and we can be on the road again. Outside during the day, the way we should be.” He glanced around once more. The town looked complacent this time of evening. Most people were, he was sure, sitting at the dinner table, eating with their families.

Domestic bliss.

An oxymoron as far as he was concerned. When he and his mother lived with Colson, all he remembered of domesticity were large cold rooms that echoed as he walked to the wing of the house that his grandfather had set aside for Rick and his mother. He remembered sad music and the sounds of his mother’s muffled crying.

When she died, Rick’s life became a round of boarding schools during the year, and nannies and housekeepers over the summer months.

Colson remained a shadowy figure in Rick’s life. A figure to whom Rick spent most of his youth trying to gain access. And trying to please.

Rick did a monthly book review column for his grandfather’s magazine, one of Colson’s many enterprises, as a way of acknowledging Colson’s contribution to his education. Through it he enjoyed the chance to take a contrary view of some of the more popular literary works lauded by other critics.

But it was traveling that ignited a passion in him he didn’t feel for anyone or anything else. It provided a ready-made conduit for his articles, and the money they made him became a way to finance more trips. He usually found time to make semiannual duty trips back to Toronto to connect with his editor and, of course, to see his grandfather.

Going home always turned to be a straightforward debriefing of what he had done, how he was doing. But in the past year Colson had been getting more involved in Rick’s life—putting increased pressure on him to join the family enterprise, inviting him to supper, with eligible young women in attendance.

This put Rick in a quandary. He felt he owed his grandfather, but at the same time didn’t think he had to mold his entire life around Colson’s whims. It came to an ugly head in a confrontation, which led Colson to offer Rick this ultimatum. Bring this small-town magazine Colson had bought on a whim to profitability in twelve months and Colson would leave him alone for the rest of his life. That was all Colson required of him and Rick had reluctantly accepted. It was only the thought that he wouldn’t have to listen to Colson’s tired lectures on Christian faith and Rick’s lack of it that made Rick accept this position.

Rick stopped at one of the few streetlights in town and glanced over at the café, the lights and the bustle within luring him on. He was hungry but didn’t feel like eating alone in the furnished apartment he had rented. At least at Coffee’s On, the crowd would provide some semblance of company.

The café was surprisingly full, this time of evening. Rick paused in the doorway, letting the clink of cutlery, the chatter of conversation wash over him. He nodded at the owner of a car dealership he had met yesterday on his trip with the sales team around town, smiled at one of the waitresses who hustled past him.

He glanced around the café looking for an empty table. As he walked farther inside he spotted one beside Becky Ellison.

Becky sat at her table, chin in hand, staring out the window, her laptop open in front of her. The overhead light caught flashes of red in her auburn hair, burnished her skin glowing peach.

When she had bustled into the meeting room, that first morning, late, laden with papers, coffee and a muffin, he couldn’t help feel a frisson of energy and attraction. There was something beguiling about her that drew his eyes, his attention to her. He didn’t want to be as firm with her as he had, but the magazine staff had been working together for some time, making him the interloper.

Something that was made fairly clear to him the first time he and his editor spoke.

Antagonism radiated from her from the moment she raised her hazel eyes to his. And in most of the meetings since then the feeling only seemed to grow.

But tonight there were no other empty places, so with some resignation Rick walked over to the table beside hers and sat down.

Becky’s gaze was averted so she didn’t see him. She wore her hair down today instead of pulled back in her usual clip. A half smile played over her lips as she absently toyed with her hair.

If it wasn’t for the fact that Rick knew Becky didn’t care much for him, he’d be more attracted than he was.

“Coffee?” The waitress came between his table and Becky’s and he looked up.

“No. Just a glass of water. And you can bring me the special.”

Her wide smile gave Rick’s ego a light boost.

The sound had broken Becky’s reverie. As if waking from a dream, she blinked, straightened up, then looked around.

Rick could tell the instant she saw him. Once again the smile faded and once again he was treated to a detachment that negated the little lift he’d gotten just seconds ago.

“Hey, there,” he said, leaning back in his chair. He folded his arms across his chest, a defensive gesture, he had to admit. “Taking work home?”

Becky glanced at her computer and gently closed the top, a surprising flush coloring her cheeks. She looked as if he had caught her doing something illegal. “No. Just a writing project I’ve been spending my scant spare time on.” Her tone was careful, almost resentful.

Writing project. Obviously not work, or she would have said so. Formless thoughts tumbled through his head.

“What kind of writing project?” he asked, intrigued in spite of himself.

“A book.”

“That takes a lot of time.”

“Exactly. Trouble is, I can’t seem to find the time.”

Rick grinned. “One thing I learned is that you don’t find time to write. You make time and then defend it. You’ll never get a book written by ‘finding’ time.”

“I have written one book already,” Becky said, her voice taking on a defensive note.

“Really? What kind?”

She lifted her chin in a defensive gesture. “Fiction.”

Rick could only look at her as his thoughts coalesced. Becky. Rebecca. “You wrote a book called Echoes.”

She nodded.

“I did a review of one of your books, didn’t I? For my grandfather’s magazine?”

Becky’s only response was to look away, but he knew he was right. He remembered now.

“I gather the review wasn’t favorable.” He couldn’t remember the details of what he had written. The editor of his grandfather’s magazine liked Rick’s reviews because he wasn’t afraid to go against the grain and pronounce a currently popular literary novel prose without purpose.

Obviously he had done just that with Becky’s book.

“‘Wasn’t favorable’?” she repeated, fixing him with a steady gaze. “Try unnecessarily cutting. Or sarcastic.” She looked like she was about to say something more, but she pressed her lips together.

Rick let her words wash over him as he had done with other authors and authors’ fans. He refused to take her seriously, his opinion was his own opinion, and as he tried to explain again and again, it was one opinion. If writers couldn’t take criticism, they had better try something else.

“So it’s not because I’m some Eastern interloper that you tend to be slightly ticked off at me.”

Becky angled her head to one side, as if studying him. “That, too.”

Rick leaned forward and cocked her a wry grin. “Get used to it, sweetie. I’m around for a while.”

She held his gaze, her eyes steady. “Don’t call me ‘sweetie,’” she said quietly. “It’s insincere.”

Was it?

Maybe she wasn’t a “sweetie,” per se—her tawny eyes and crooked grin negated that image—but there was definitely something about her that appealed. In spite of her off-putting attitude. “Maybe I’m teasing,” he said.

“Maybe you should be nice.”

“You could teach me.” The comment sounded lame, but he couldn’t think of anything snappier to say.

“Well, you know the saying, if you can’t say something nice, become a reporter.”

He couldn’t stop his burst of laughter. “You are in the right job.”

The waitress came just then with his order. “Here you go. I hope you enjoy.” She gave him a broad smile, lingered just long enough to show her interest but not long enough to create an embarrassing situation, and was gone. But she didn’t hold his interest.

The woman who did was packing up, and to his surprise, Rick felt a twinge of disappointment. It had been a while since he’d spent any time with a pretty woman. An even longer time with one who didn’t seem to be afraid to challenge him.

“The muse desert you?” he asked, unwrapping his utensils.

“She’s been a bit flighty lately.” Becky slipped her laptop into a knapsack.

“You’re so fond of mottoes, surely you know that for writers, when the going gets tough…” Rick let the sentence trail off.

“The tough writers huddle under their desk chewing the cuffs of their sleeves,” Becky finished off for him.

He couldn’t help it. He laughed again.

She slipped her knapsack over her shoulder and pulled her hair loose from the straps, shooting him an oblique smile as she did so. With a muttered “See you tomorrow,” she left.

As she wended her way through the tables, someone called out her name and she responded, her smile genuine now. She stopped at one table to chat someone up, waved at another person across the café and joked with Katherine Dubowsky, the owner of Coffee’s On, while she paid her bill.

Then with a laugh and the tinkle of the door’s bell, she was gone.

Rick turned back to his food, feeling curiously deflated, as if the day had lost even more light. He finished his supper quickly, then left for his apartment and his own brand of domestic bliss.

“I don’t know if I like the emphasis in this article.” Rick pushed the paper across his desk toward Becky and leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled under his chin. He wore a black cotton shirt today, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His usual blue jeans. The subdued morning light highlighted the blond of his hair, shadowed the faint dimple in his cheek. He looked more like the cowboy she had written about in the article, than a publisher of a magazine.

Becky glanced down at the article, wishing for a moment that Rick Ethier weren’t so physically appealing. Not because she was attracted to him, mind you, but because the women in the office were starting to annoy her. And it was starting to interfere with her own objectives. She needed people on her side if she was going to maintain a toehold of control over this magazine.

Just this morning she had to listen to Trixie wax eloquent about those eyes, that careless hair. The way he, “well, you know, Becky, kind of strolls. Like he’s in charge of his world.” Which he was, of course.

Trouble was, it was also her world.

“It’s a fairly basic profile. What’s the problem?”

Rick rocked a couple of times in his chair, then leaned forward. “Here’s the deal. You’ve got an article about working cowboys who make lousy wages, yet you write it like these guys are the happiest men alive.”

“It’s what they told me.”

“That they were the happiest men alive?”

“That they loved their work. That it wasn’t a job as much as a vocation.”

Rick acknowledged this with a quick nod. “That may be, but you don’t bring up any of the negatives. And don’t tell me they didn’t talk about any.”

“Of course they did. They work long hours. Get hurt a lot. Have to work with rank horses and ornery bosses. As many more of us have to.” The words slipped out before she could stop them.

Nice. Nice. Be nice.

“I’m going to take that last comment as a generality.” Rick got up from his desk and stood by the window, his hands shoved in the back pockets of his pants. “But none of what you just told me made it into the article.”

“That wasn’t the point of the article.”

Rick turned to her, a dour smile on his face. “And that’s my point. You took your own preconceptions to the story and only used facts that worked with what you wanted to show.”

Becky didn’t have time for this and wondered that he did. She was behind on her own work and phone calls. She knew he was busy consulting with his marketing and focus group on the redesign.

“So what do you want me to do? Rewrite it?” She bit back the anger that was starting up again.

“No. I’d just like to see a bit more balance in what you’re doing.”

“In keeping with the vision of the magazine,” she finished with a light sigh. She wasn’t going to concede immediately.

“The vision is more business oriented. As well, I’m also trying to shape this magazine into a more honest view of life in this part of the country.”

“Oh, you made that very clear.” Becky stopped. Took a breath. “But business isn’t all grimness and focus. There are people who enjoy what they do. I wanted to show that in this article.”

“The glass is half-full.”

Becky frowned, then caught his inference. “Okay. So I’m an optimist. You say it’s half-empty. Neither of us is wrong. It just depends on what you want to focus on.” She felt, more than heard, the hardness creeping into her voice and tried to inject a note of humor. “And if you were our art director, you would say we would need a different glass.”

Rick frowned. He didn’t get it, obviously. “Water management aside, I’d also like to see the article shorter if possible.”

“Design will have problems with that.”

“We need the space for ads.”

“It’s a magazine, not a shopping network.”

“But ads pay the bills and our salaries.”

Becky bit back a comment. In the few days Rick had been here, she realized one thing. Money talked to this man. Loud and clear.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said. “Anything else you want to discuss?”

“I’m calling a meeting tomorrow to go over the results of our market survey.”

Becky pulled out her Day-Timer and flipped it open to the date. “Sorry. I’ve got a practice with the children’s choir.”

“How about after?”

“After, I’m supposed to be meeting with the banner committee to discuss the new designs for the Thanksgiving service in the fall.”

Rick drummed his fingers against his thigh. “How about the next night?”

Becky flipped the page and shook her head as she glanced up at Rick.

“Don’t tell me,” he said, holding his hand up, palm out. “Whatever it is, cancel it. This is important.”

Becky stifled a flare of resentment. “So is my meeting.”

“Find someone else. This is your job.” Rick picked up a folder and flipped it open. “While we’re talking about your job, I also want to comment on the lack of letters to the editor.”

“People here are generally low-key. If they like something, they don’t say anything. If you want a reaction, you have to stir up the nest.”

“Not something you’re prone to doing.” He tilted her a half smile that, in spite of their momentary antagonism, slipped past her defenses and kindled a faint warmth.

“I think I’ve done a good job.”

“But I don’t want good,” Rick said, holding her gaze. “What I want from you is your best.”

Becky frowned, uncomfortable with this new tack. Did he think she was doing a mediocre job? “And that’s what you’ll get,” she said softly. She gathered up her papers and left without another look back, a self-doubt niggling at her confidence.

As she walked down the hall, she reread the article. Had she been overly positive? Had she done a mediocre job?

She thought of the wry grins of the cowboys as they talked about their work. She recognized the griping. Her brothers talked the same way when they had a particularly unpleasant chore. Yet underneath the words, she knew there was a love of a challenge. A pride in their work.

“Hey, Becky, eyes on the road.” Cliff caught her by the shoulders and set her aside. He angled his chin toward Rick’s office. “Had your bi-hourly meeting with the boss?”

Becky resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Cliff didn’t need to see her own frustration. Rick was ruffling all kinds of feathers, but in public she needed to stand behind him. “We had to discuss an article he wants me to look over.” Among other things.

Cliff drew her aside and lowered his voice. “Becky, you got to help me. This Rick guy is driving us nuts. He wants us to redo the layout for the next issue. Unless we work 24/7, it’s not going to get to the printer on time. Can you make him see sense?”

Becky took a deep breath and drew on the devotions she had read this morning.

“…in humility consider others better than yourselves.”

She had seldom stumbled over that passage. Until now.

“You know what’s at stake here, Cliff. We’re in transition.” She’d had to face the reality herself. As well, for the sake of unity in the office, she had to at least publicly toe the same line as Rick, though she disagreed with him in private. “It’s sort of like sharks. We don’t move, we die. And if moving means putting in more hours until we know where this magazine is going, I guess you should return those videos you rented for the weekend.” She flashed him a smile, hoping to soften her comment.

Cliff glared at her. Scowled at the door of Rick’s office. For a moment Becky thought he was going to charge in and give Rick a blast of his infamous temper.

“It’s just for now, Cliff,” Becky said, laying her hand on his arm to restrain him. “In a few months it will all settle down.”

Cliff’s glare shot to her. She smiled back. Held his gaze.

“He wants me to use more stock photos instead of photo shoots for the next issue. How’s that supposed to make us stand out from the other magazines?”

Becky gave him a light shake. “It’s just for now. Once we get the magazine turning a better profit, you can unleash your creativity once again.” She hoped.

Thankfully, his shoulders slumped. He fingered his goatee and Becky knew the moment had passed.

“I’m doing this for you, Becky. Okay? Just so you know.”

“Thanks, Cliff.”

The door to Rick’s office opened and Cliff glanced back over his shoulder at Rick, looking guilty. He flashed Becky a quick grin and ambled back down the hallway.

“Problems?” Rick asked, raising one eyebrow.

“Not anymore.” Becky held up the papers. “Got to get back to work here.” She scurried down the hallway and ducked into her office. Retreated into her sanctuary to regroup and hoped she didn’t have to deal with anyone else’s complaints about what was happening at the magazine.

Ever since Rick started, she spent as much of her day calming irate people and putting out fires, trying to be optimistic about what he was doing.

Which she wasn’t.

And what kind of reaction were people going to have when Gavin Stoddard started spewing his opinionated coffee-shop talk all over the magazine each month?

Alanna may have been emotional. Gladys may have been anachronistic. But neither generated the kind of mail she was sure Gavin would.

Becky pressed her fingers against her eyelids, pushing back the stress lurching in her midsection. She had head space for only one disaster at a time. And for now, this article took priority.

As she spread the papers in front of her, she felt a twist of frustration. The whole time she was working on the article, she had tried to make sure it was a balanced depiction of what these men did for a living. Yet at the same time she wanted to show their obvious pleasure in their work. Had she been “overly sentimental” again as Rick had once accused her of?

Misgivings slithered through her mind as she read the article through once more. She should listen to the interview tapes again. She had the number of the tape written in her Day-Timer.

Day-Timer. She groaned as she realized where she’d last seen it.

Becky swallowed her pride, got up and walked back to Rick’s office. He was on the phone but gestured for her to come in. She pointed to the burgundy folder on the desk and he nodded, not missing a beat in the conversation.

She picked it up and left. But as she closed the door, she caught him looking at her.

And frowning.

Chapter Three

“How are you enjoying the West?” Colson Ethier’s voice sounded overly hearty as if he was trying to inject enthusiasm for his project into his guinea pig.

Rick cradled the phone in the crook of his shoulder as he made some quick notes on one of the papers spread out on the dining room table of his apartment. “The natives are restless and the weather is the pits.” Behind him the rain ticked against the glass of the kitchen window, as if testing it. Seeking entry. He had hoped to drive into the mountains this evening and do some photography, but the weather had sent him indoors.

“Have you met Sam and Cora Ellison yet?”

“Grandfather, the extent of my socializing has been to smile at the waitress at Coffee’s On.” And sitting around an empty apartment on weekends looking over spreadsheets and articles.

“How are you getting along with Becky?”

Rick rapped the table with his pen. “We’re not.”

A measured beat of silence then, “She’s a lovely girl.”

She was more than lovely. More than frustrating, too.

“I was hoping you two might get along,” Colson continued.

His grandfather sounded pained, and the suspicion that Rick had about Colson’s motives was immediately confirmed.

“Editors and publishers aren’t supposed to get along.” The timer on the microwave went off. “My supper is ready.”

“You better go eat then.” Colson Ethier paused, cleared his throat as if he wanted to say more. And quickly hung up.

Rick tossed the phone on the couch. “Goodbye to you, too, Grandpa.”

Rick couldn’t remember his grandfather ever saying goodbye. Since the age of seven, when the death of his mother put him into his grandfather’s guardianship, Colson would bring Rick back to the private boys’ school he was enrolled in, drop him off and drive away without a backward glance.

The housekeeper told Rick, Colson wasn’t comfortable around children, but Rick knew his grandfather was only uncomfortable around him. The evidence of his mother’s indiscretion. Consequently Rick and Colson didn’t spend a lot of time together, which cut down on the opportunities not to say goodbye.

Once Rick graduated and moved away to college, their farewells were limited to Christmas, Easter and occasionally Thanksgiving. So his grandfather’s new interest in Rick’s life was too little, too late.

Rick retrieved his dinner from the microwave sat down at the table and set his food in front of him. He paused a moment. Habit, more than anything. Colson Ethier always prayed before meals and had taught him to do the same. The boarding school he attended tried to instill the same religious beliefs.

After his mother died, Rick didn’t trust God much. Living on his own didn’t help. When he started traveling and started seeing what the world could be like for people less privileged, cynicism and reality slowly wore away any notions of a loving God in charge of the world.

Rick ate mechanically. The reheated food tasted lousy, but he had eaten so many different kinds of foods in so many different places that he had come to view it simply as fuel. A steady need that had to be responded to at least twice and, if he was lucky, three times a day.

Which reminded him, he had to talk to some of the restaurant owners about participating in a contest he hoped to run in conjunction with the launch of the new magazine. He’d had to scale down his original plan when he sat down with Trixie and the reality of the finances stared him in the face.

He dug through his papers and found his Day-Timer. It felt heavy in his hand and seemed fatter than usual. Frowning, he flipped it open.

The pages were crammed with scribbled notes written in every direction in various shades of ink. Butterfly stickers danced across the page and flowers decorated another. Phone numbers were written sideways.

He flipped back a page, scanning over the dates, trying to make sense of what he read. Was someone at the office playing a practical joke on him?

Then he saw his name, stopped and read, “What am I going to do about Rick?” The question was heavily underlined.

He read the words again, then checked the front of the folder. The initials R.E. were imprinted in the soft burgundy leather. He and Becky must have accidentally switched agendas.

Rick glanced over the rest of the pages, looking for other mentions of his name before he realized what he was doing.

Snooping. He closed the book with a guilty flush and set it on the table. He should let Becky know right away he had it. From the look of the jam-packed days, she was going to be lost without it.

“What am I going to do about Rick?”

The words snaked into his mind. Why had she written them?

He went back to the articles Gavin Stoddard had written.

“In order to move into the ‘new’ market, the Internet market, local business owners will need to rethink their calcified methods of doing business. The name of the game is education, or how to teach an old dog to double-click.”

Rick forced himself to concentrate on the rest of the column. But the little leather folder beside him drew his attention like a magnet.

“What am I going to do about Rick?”

What did she think she had to “do”? And what was the problem?

And why did he care?

“…this new way of doing business can be a boon for savvy business owners and a stumbling block to diehard traditionalists.” He continued to scan.

He wasn’t a problem that she had to solve, he thought, throwing down the paper in disgust. He was supposed to be her boss. If there was a problem to be solved, it was his problem with her.

His chair creaked as he pushed himself back from the table, dragging his hands over his face. He had too many things on his mind to be concerned with what his bossy editor thought of him. Tomorrow he was going to be attending a meeting with the chamber of commerce to talk about the magazine and its potential for the town. He had to get a speech ready, a spreadsheet together. He was operating on a shoestring budget and he didn’t think he was going to make the ends of the string meet, let alone keep them tied.

He dropped his supper dishes in the dishwasher, tidied the counter then went back into the dining room. As he straightened the papers on the table, he glanced at the burgundy folder again.

And opened it before he could convince himself otherwise.

While his agenda only had a week per page, hers had a page per day and held two months’ worth of booklets. Each page was crammed full of notes. She had a busier schedule than the prime minister.

He flipped the pages back to the day they first met, and started reading. “Met Rick Ethier, new boss and old enemy this morning. Too good-looking and I made a fool of myself. Of course I was late for important first meeting.”

Rick felt a moment’s surprise. He hadn’t imagined that brief spark of attraction after all, and the thought kindled a peculiar warmth that was extinguished with the words following. But “old enemy”?

“Got interview with premier.” Several exclamation marks followed that one. Obviously excited. “Call secretary and get background information.”

“Meeting with Rick. Again.” The hard double underline clearly showed her frustration. “Don’t like the direction but at least there is some. Praying for patience. Constantly.”

Prayers again.

He flipped the page over, skimmed over notices to call friends, an appointment with her hairdresser, a meeting that evening at the church, a reminder of another meeting the next night. Wondered who was the Trevor of “Trevor’s back,” written with a little heart beside it.

“Rick is driving me crazy.” No heart beside his name, he thought with a surprising flicker of envy. “He’s hired Gavin. Big mistake. Mom and Dad told me I need to pray for him. Said I need to see him as a child of God.”

Rick slapped the book shut and pushed himself away from the table. He knew he had made enemies at the magazine. If he’d had a couple of years to make the changes he wouldn’t have had to be so aggressive.

He glanced back at the Day-Timer. “I need to see him as a child of God” replayed through his head.

He wasn’t a child of God. Wasn’t a child of anyone.

He had to return this. Thankfully she’d written two phone numbers inside. No one was at home, so he tried her cell phone.

“Hey there.” Becky’s voice was almost drowned out by music and voices in the background.

“This is Rick,” he said, wondering what place in Okotoks could generate that volume of noise. “I think you’ve got something of mine.”

“Just a sec. Can’t hear you.” She said something unintelligible. The noise receded and was suddenly shut off. “Sorry about that. Who is this?”

“It’s Rick. I think you’ve got my Day-Timer,” he repeated.

“You’ve accused me of that before, but I’ll check.” A rustling noise and, “Oh, brother.” Deep sigh. “You’re right. This isn’t good.”

She was probably remembering some of the things she had written.

“Where are you now?” he asked. “I could meet you so we can swap.” He didn’t have time, but a mischievous impulse made him want to see her face when they made the exchange. Impulse and a bit of bruised pride. He didn’t usually generate hostility in the women he met.

“I’m at the church, but I can come over.”

“No. I’m not doing much. Where’s the church?”

She paused and Rick smiled. She was probably squirming in embarrassment. Then she gave him directions which he noted. “See you in a bit,” he said with a hearty cheeriness.

A short time later, Rick pulled up to the front of the church, surprised at how large and new it was. Obviously religion went over well in Okotoks. He jogged through the rain, avoiding puddles on the crowded parking lot. The noise he had heard through Becky’s cell phone grew as he approached the building.

What was happening on a Friday night at church? The services he occasionally attended with his grandfather were held in a large stately church on Sundays, and as far as Rick knew, not much else happened there.

This place had cars and trucks in the parking lot and kids running around the outside of the building in spite of the rain that poured down. He opened the large double doors and stepped inside, brushing moisture off his hair and face. A few young kids were hanging around the foyer laughing and roughhousing.

“Thomas, Justin and Kevin. If you’re done with youth group, leave. If you’re supposed to be practicing, get in there.” The woman who spoke was tiny but her authoritative voice even made Rick stop a moment.

“Sorry, Cora,” one of the kids said. The teens scampered into the auditorium, letting out another blast of noise as they yanked open the doors.

The woman walked toward him, smiling as she held out her hand. “Naturally I wasn’t talking to you. Welcome. I’m Cora Ellison.”

Her gray hair was cut bluntly level with her narrow jaw, her hazel eyes laughed up at him. Rick caught glimpses of Becky in the generous mouth and pert nose. He guessed this was Becky’s mother. “I’m Rick Ethier,” he said, returning her firm handshake.

“Well, now. Finally.” Cora took his hand in both of hers, her grin animating her face even more. “I told Becks to invite you over, but she always says you are too busy. And here you are. This is great.”

Her exuberant welcome puzzled him. It was as if she knew him, but he doubted her information came from Becky. Not if her Day-Timer were any indication of what she thought of him.

The door beside them opened up and Becky rushed out, her coat flying out behind her, her hands clutching a folder identical to the one in Rick’s coat pocket. She saw her mother and veered toward her. “Hey, Mom, I have to step out a moment…” Becky’s voice trailed off as her eyes flicked from her mother to Rick. He didn’t think he imagined the flush in her cheeks.

“Hello, Becky,” he said, tilting a grin her way. “I believe you have something of mine.”

Becky looked down at the folder in her hands and her flush deepened. “Yes. Here.” She shoved it toward him without making eye contact. Rick slipped it into his pocket.

“You were expecting him, Becky?” Cora Ellison asked.

Becky nodded. “We, uh, accidentally switched Day-Timers.” She glanced up at Rick, her expression almost pleading. “Can I have mine back?”

“Oh. Sure.” Rick enjoyed seeing Becky a little flustered. It deepened the color of her eyes, gave her an appealing, vulnerable air. But he took pity on her and handed her the leather folder. “Safe and sound.” Luckily he wasn’t easily embarrassed or he might be flushing, too, knowing he’d read private things.

Becky took it from him and glanced down at it as if to make sure it hadn’t been violated. If she only knew.

“Thanks,” she said, and was about to turn away when her mother caught her by the arm.

“Becky. Wait a minute. You should have told me Rick was coming.” Cora turned to Rick. “Now I can ask you directly. We’d like to have you over for lunch. What about this Sunday? After church?”

Rick stifled a smile at Becky’s panicked gaze. He guessed she didn’t want him over, which made him want to accept the invitation. “That would be very nice. Thank you.”

“I’m looking forward to having you,” Cora said, folding her arms over her chest in a self-satisfied gesture. “It will be like the closing of a circle.”

Rick frowned at her comment. “What do you mean?”

“Your grandfather lived in Calgary years and years ago. When he was a teenager. Apparently he used to come courting my mother in those days.” Cora winked at Rick. “Bet he never told you.”

And a few more pieces of the puzzle that was his grandfather fell into place. “No. He never did. Is your mother still alive?”

“More than alive. Right, Becky?” Cora asked, drawing a reluctant Becky into the conversation.

“She’s a character, that’s for sure,” Becky said. She gestured toward the closed doors of the auditorium. “Sorry, but I gotta go,” she said vaguely, taking in both her mother and Rick. “Practice.”

“I’ll see you Sunday,” Rick couldn’t help but say.

She turned to him, her eyes finally meeting his, her lips drifting up in a crooked smile. “Church starts at ten-thirty. See you then.”

He felt a reluctant admiration for how neatly she had cornered him. Church was one of the last places he wanted to be on a Sunday morning, but he couldn’t let her get the upper hand. Not after what he’d read. “I’ll be here.”

She held his gaze, as if challenging him. But when she left, Rick felt a curious reluctance to hang around any longer.

“I should get going, too,” he said. “Gotta get ready for tomorrow.”

Cora’s light touch on his arm surprised him. “I’m looking forward to finding out more about your grandfather. I like a mystery.”

“Nothing mysterious about Colson Ethier,” Rick said. Except for a twisted desire to send his grandson on a trip down his own particular memory lane. He would be talking to Grandpa Colson as soon as he got a chance. “I’ll see you Sunday. Thanks again for the invitation.”

Becky tapped her fingers against her chin as she glanced around the foyer of the church once more. Rick better show up soon or she was leaving. When Cora Ellison told her she should be the one to make sure he’s welcome, Becky only agreed out of a sense of guilt.

She shouldn’t have snooped in his Day-Timer. Not that she found anything out. He had a year’s worth of dates written in his immaculate handwriting and none were of a personal nature. The only phone numbers were business related. His life looked empty, unappealing and sterile.

“Don’t do it, Becks.” Leanne, her sister, caught her hand as it edged toward her mouth. “Your nails are just starting to grow back.”

“And since when do you care about my nails, Leanne?” Becky said with a quick grin, slipping her sister’s arm through hers.

“Since I’m wondering if you’re ever going to get a boyfriend again.”

“A manicure isn’t going to do it and you know it.”

“Oh, please, not another ‘look not for the beauty nor whiteness of skin’ lecture. I get them enough from Mom.” Leanne squeezed her sister’s arm. “If you spent more time on your hair and makeup, you’d get a guy lickety split.”

“That’s a little simplistic. Besides, I have lots of guys.”

“But they’re all just friends,” her sister complained. “I can’t believe you don’t care about guys. I know Trevor didn’t break your heart that much.”

“He only dented it a little.”

“So why don’t you two go out again? I heard he’s back.”

“Trust me, he’ll be gone once the snow flies. I’m not going to date some guy who is just hanging around here, waiting for a chance to leave. This is my home and this is where I want to live.”

“If you found the right guy, I’m sure he’d be able to talk you into leaving.”

Becky tapped her little sister on the nose. “You see, that’s the problem. The right guy for me is one who doesn’t want to leave.”

Leanne pulled back, frowning. “I think I get it.”

“Let me know when you do.”

“So how long do we have to wait for this Rick guy?” Leanne said, brushing her long brown hair back from her face. “I promised Donita I’d sit with her.”

“Just a few more minutes.” Becky glanced at her watch, hoping Rick wouldn’t show. Now, or for lunch after church. But what she hoped even more was that he hadn’t read her Day-Timer. Like she’d read his.

“Okay, Becks. New guy alert.” Leanne tugged on her arm, her eyes riveted to the door. “Shaggy hockey hair. Nice mouth. Gorgeous eyes.” Leanne added a dramatic sigh. “He’s wearing a suit, but otherwise he’s movie-star adorable.”

Becky glanced toward the object of her sister’s gushing. And straightened as disappointment and a tingle of anticipation flitted through her. Rick’s suit gave him an authoritative air at odds with the haircut, or lack of it, that was currently labeled “hockey hair”—long enough to hang out the back of a hockey helmet. “He’s also my boss.”

Leanne’s mouth dropped. “That’s Rick Ethier?”

“Let’s go say hi and get that part over and done with.” Becky snagged her sister’s arm, and walked purposefully toward him.

Rick stood in the doorway, looking, she had to concede, a little lost in the wave of people drifting past him.

Someone caught her by the arm, halting her progress. Louise, a woman from one of the committees Becky was involved in. “Becky. Just wanted to know if you’ve had a chance to go over that banner idea Susan put together.”

“Not just yet. I’ll check it out this afternoon,” Becky said.

“I was thinking we could get your sister to help sew it.”

Becky nodded, keeping an eye on Rick.

“Sorry, Louise,” Leanne said, rescuing her. “We’ve got to catch someone before he leaves.”

And it looked like he was about to. He had his hand on the door when they caught up to him.

“Good morning, Rick,” Becky said, catching his attention. He turned to them and for a moment Becky saw a flicker of an unknown emotion in his blue eyes. Relief? Disappointment?

“Welcome to the service,” Becky said with a forced smile. “Mom asked me to make sure you were properly greeted when you came.”

Rick smiled back. “Well, tell your mother thanks.”

“You can tell her yourself,” Leanne said, glancing from Rick to Becky with avid interest. “You’re supposed to sit with us.”

Becky flashed her sister a warning glance, but Leanne studiously ignored her sister, her entire attention focused on Rick.

“By the way, Rick,” Becky said, wishing her sister was more circumspect. “This is my little sister Leanne.” Becky put heavy emphasis on “little” hoping she would get the hint.

But Leanne just ignored Becky.

“That’s okay. I’m sure I can find a place,” Rick said.

“No. Come and sit with us.” Leanne touched Rick on the shoulder, winking at Becky. “That way we don’t have to find you after church. Makes sense, doesn’t it, Becky?”

“Perfect sense,” Becky said dryly. “Now we better go.”

“Becky is going to be singing in the worship service later on. She’s got a great voice,” Leanne said as Becky led the way through the crowd.

“I’m looking forward to hearing her,” Rick said.

Becky’s heart sank at his words. When she had maneuvered him into attending church she had forgotten she would be singing this morning.

And when she saw her family all sitting together, she regretted her impulse even more.

Just about the whole shooting match was watching her as she and Leanne led Rick up the aisle to the empty spot beside her parents. The only ones missing were Colette and her boyfriend, Nick.

“Hey Dad. Mom,” Becky said, flashing her brothers and sisters a warning look to dampen their sudden interest in the man behind her. As if that would help. Her family was as curious as magpies and just as nosy. Becky showing up with a man in tow was going to cause a lot of chatter and unwelcome questions.

She dropped onto the pew, and started reading the church bulletin as if trying to show them by her disinterest that he meant nothing.

But Leanne, the little stinker, had positioned Rick so he was sitting right beside Becky.

“Are you going to introduce us?” her father asked, nudging Becky.

Becky looked up at her father with a pleading expression, but his steady gaze reinforced years of ingrained manners. So with a reluctant sigh she turned to Rick, but he was looking away from her.

She touched him lightly on his arm to get his attention. He turned to her then, his eyebrows arched questioningly.

“Rick, I’d like you to meet my father, Sam Ellison. Dad, this is Rick Ethier. And my mother, Cora, you already met.”

Cora leaned over and waved, then turned as her attention was drawn by one of the kids behind her. Sam leaned past Becky, shaking Rick’s hand. “Pleased to meet you finally. We’ve heard about you from Becky, of course.”

“Really?” Rick’s gaze flicked back to Becky, his eyes glinting. “I didn’t think she gave me a second thought once she left the office.”

Not only second thoughts. Third and fourth ones, as well.

Duty done, Becky returned to her reading. But her entire attention was focused on the man beside her.

Chapter Four

Would he look bored if he crossed his arms?

Rick shifted in his seat, fidgeted, then did it anyway. It had been years since he’d attended church. Not only did he feel out of the rhythm of the church service, he also felt out of place sitting with Becky’s obviously close family.

Beside him, Becky leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees, her chin planted on the palms of her hands, her attention on the preacher. Seeing her head canted to one side and her mouth curved in a half smile, he caught a glimpse of the girl he only saw when she was around other people. She wore a pale blue dress today in some kind of floaty, peasant-looking style. It enhanced the auburn tint of her hair, brought out the peach of her complexion. Pretty in a fun, semiflirty way. Not that she would be flirting with him.

“So I want to encourage all of us to pray for people who hurt us,” the minister was saying, and Rick pulled his attention back to the man. “Praying for our enemies frees us from bitterness. From hatred.” He paused a moment as if to bring the point home.

“As William Law said, ‘There is nothing that makes us love a man so much as prayer for him,’” he continued. “So Christ’s command to pray for our enemies is not only for our enemies’ good. It is for ours, as well.”

Rick looked down at the toes of his shoes as the minister’s words pushed him back to his last memory of his mother. She was sitting at a desk in her bedroom, her head bent over a book. When he had asked her what she was doing, she told him she was praying for him.

He looked over at Becky and wondered if she, too, had been praying for him as her parents had suggested. He doubted it.

The congregation got to its feet, breaking off his thoughts.

As the worship group came forward, Becky slipped past him, walked down the aisle and up to the podium. Without any announcement she picked up a cordless microphone, took her position on the stage and cued the group leader with a faint lift of her chin.

The music started quietly, the gentle chords of the piano picking out the melody, the electric organ filling in the spaces.

Becky faced the congregation, waiting as the rest of the musicians joined in. She stood perfectly still, holding the mike with one hand. An overhead light shone brightly on her, singling her out from the rest of the singers. At a pause in the music, she started singing.

Her voice rang clear as the words of an old familiar song poured out of her. “‘Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name.’”

Rick recognized the prayer. Had mumbled the words himself as a young boy still trying to please his grandfather.

But he had never heard them sung with such crystal sincerity. He couldn’t keep his eyes off Becky as she closed her eyes and her hand lifted up, palm up in a gesture of surrender. She was a woman in communion with her God, her prayer pouring out of her in song, peace suffusing her features.

And as she sang, he heard in the depths of his soul, a still small voice, familiar, yet long suppressed.

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