A hero in need of forgiveness

Corporal Reid Macfarland has one mission: to make amends for the mistake he lives with every day. That friendly-fire incident in Afghanistan that killed a fellow soldier haunts him. Maybe if he can help the widow, he’ll find some peace.

Amends are easier said than done. Just one meeting with the independent and engaging Parker Dean makes it clear that forgiveness is a little more complicated than money or “I’m sorry.” If he really wants to help, Reid will need to stick around for a while. The more their daily lives intertwine, the more he realizes her forgiveness isn’t the only thing he needs—he needs her.

Did he miss having someone to be close to?

Or did Reid wish he could be close to her?

“You’re not sleeping,” he said, studying her face a little too closely for comfort.

“Few of us are these days.” Parker breathed in, and regretted it when the smell of male sweat lured her eyes down the length of his body.

“Remember when I said our arrangement made me feel as if I’m betraying Tim?” She pushed back her shoulders and looked up. “It’s more than the arrangement that’s making me feel that way.”

Reid moved forward again and this time she did back up, but only because she needed the support of the wall behind her. He was breathing fast again, his heavy-lidded gaze riveted on her mouth. Then he tugged on the drawstring to pull her toward him, and at the same time dipped his head. She watched his handsome face come closer and her stomach went into free fall.

He. Was about to kiss. Her.

Dear Reader,

Thank you for being here! I’m so glad you’re able to help me celebrate my debut with Harlequin Superromance! This series has long been one of my favorite lines, and having the opportunity to contribute a story is a dream come true. Pardon the cliché.

Let me get you a cup of punch and a slice of cake and I’ll explain how The Other Soldier is the book that almost wasn’t. All set? Here goes. I sold the story as a result of Harlequin’s online Memorial Day Challenge, a contest I very nearly didn’t enter. I was in the midst of revising a romantic suspense I’d already used way too many excuses to avoid editing, and I’d never written a military hero before (a tad ironic, considering I’m a civilian working for the air force on a navy base). Eventually I realized that getting feedback from the editors managing the very same line I wanted to write for was too good an opportunity to pass up. So I did a lot of research—what better pretext for watching four seasons of Army Wives?—drafted my 1,000-word entry and sent it in. Two months later, on Halloween, I received a voice mail from Superromance editor Megan Long—Harlequin wanted to buy my book!

(Cue Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus”)

I shared all of the above for a reason. Yep, I actually do have a point. The main theme of The Other Soldier is forgiveness, but there’s an underlying theme as well—hope. Reid hopes Parker will forgive him, Parker hopes she can keep her business afloat and Nat hopes Reid will become a permanent part of her life. Of course, this is fiction and none of those hopes are real, but I’m certain you have hopes and dreams of your own, and my wish for you is that they’re realized. The combination of dreaming and effort is a powerful one—heck, it brought us together for the next few hours!

May this story inspire you to have hope.

All my best,

Kathy Altman

The Other Soldier
Kathy Altman

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kathy Altman writes contemporary romance, romantic suspense and the occasional ode to chocolate. Her work has received numerous awards, including the prestigious Daphne du Maurier Award. She’s also a regular contributor to USA TODAY’s Happy Ever After blog. When Kathy’s not writing, reading or putting in her forty hours a week as a computer programmer for the air force, she enjoys baking, watching the Ciarán Hinds version of Persuasion and making other people feel superior by letting them win at Scrabble.

She lives in rural Virginia with a crowd of cats and her sweetie, who’s a fellow book addict and an avid fly fisherman. Kathy lives in hope that one day he’ll actually agree to use their passports (before they expire again). Kathy is a member of Romance Writers of America (RWA) and Washington Romance Writers (WRW), and is active in Harlequin’s online community. You can find her online at www.kathyaltman.com, or email her at kathy@kathyaltman.com—she’d enjoy hearing from you!

To my family, with love, especially Mom, for fostering my affection for books; Mary, for helping me convince my heroine to forgive my hero; Bill, for providing suggestions for pen names; Jerry, for the insight that improved the opening scene; Stephen, for always asking about my writing (you’re too young to read the book, but the Taylor Swift and M110 sniper rifle references are for you); and Dan, for the plot discussions and stellar steak dinners. And, Dad, I’m no Louis L’Amour, but I know you’d have been happy for me, anyway.

Acknowledgments

It’s a humbling exercise listing the names of the people who’ve helped you realize your dream. I mean, how can you ever hope to repay them? (A side note for those of you receiving a nod below—you do realize I’m talking figuratively here, right?!) :-) My deepest appreciation to my family, for their unqualified love and support over the years I worked to become a published author. Thank you, Dan, and thank you, Mom, Mary, Greg, Stephen, Jerry, Bill, Denise, Devon and Joshua. My most sincere gratitude also to the talented and oh-so-patient ladies who made this book all that it could be: Carina Press author and better-than-brilliant critique partner Toni Anderson, fellow Washington Romance Writers (WRW) member and on-the-ball beta reader Robin Allen, and the fabulous editorial pair who provided the opportunity that led me here, Harlequin’s Victoria Curran and Megan Long.

There are so many other readers and writers who helped me get here and continue to urge me onward—and I bet most of them have no idea how much their advice and encouragement have meant to me. Big, huge, mammoth thanks to Laura Baker, Nancy Bartholomew, Mary Buckham, C.J. Carmichael, Lisa Chaplin, Julie Cohen, Kate Duffy, Susan Gable, Margie Lawson, Jennifer Lewis, Jeannie Lin, Susan Litman, Kathy Love, Jennifer Massey, Patricia McLaughlin, Nam Nguyen, Robin Perini, Lani Diane Rich, Christine Rimmer, Roxanne Rustand, Cyndi Slevin, Linda Style, Jeannie Watt, Leslie Wainger and especially WRW members Judy Eary, Sally Eggert, Gail Barrett and Joyce Lamb. Hugs to all. And if you’re reading this, then you deserve a big, squeezy hug yourself! :-)

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

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

PARKER PATTED THE SUN-warmed dirt she’d scooped around the young plant, singing along with John Travolta as he bragged about making out under a dock. When Olivia Newton John started trilling her side of the story, the MP3 player cut off.

Darn, darn, darn, darn, darn. And how typical. The man gets to finish while the woman barely gets started.

Parker fished the device out of the bib pocket of her overalls and sat back on her boot heels. The screen had gone dark. She’d forgotten to charge the dumb thing. Again.

She tugged the earbuds free with a sigh and stuffed the whole mess into her pocket, ignoring the dirt she should have brushed from her gloves. Just as well. If Harris had walked up on her while she was singing, he’d have demanded hazardous duty pay.

Or not. She pressed her lips together. Harris Briggs knew better than anyone that she couldn’t afford even regular wages.

A feisty spring breeze carrying the scent of damp earth and lilacs chased the thought away. She rose to her knees and pulled off her hat, enjoying the rush of air that cooled her sweat-soaked head. Hands on hips, she surveyed the progress she’d made since lunch. A stubby string of bright green plugs stretched away from her. A little compost, a little water, a lot of sun, and next June, Castle Creek Growers would have its first crop of strawberries.

Parker grunted and snatched up her water bottle. If only a child were that easy to raise.

“Ma’am?”

She jumped. The bottle slipped from her grasp and hit the ground with a sloshing thud. Lukewarm water pooled beneath her right knee. An unfamiliar male voice clipped out an apology and she lifted a hand to shade her eyes. Standing at the edge of the strawberry bed was a tall, well-built man wearing a black beret, tinted sunglasses and a class-A U.S. Army uniform.

Tim.

She blinked, then sat down hard. A swell of grief crowded her lungs and she struggled to catch her breath.

Not Tim. Of course not Tim.

It could never be Tim.

The soldier muttered something and dropped into a crouch in front of her. His sunglasses dangled between his fingers. She lifted her gaze to his face and winced at the grim remorse she saw there.

Don’t be so pathetic, Parker Anne.

“Forgive me,” he said.

She stared into eyes the color of maple syrup, eyes that looked so much older than the rest of him, and slowly shook her head. Then realized he might take that as a refusal. “No need,” she finally murmured. She pushed to her feet, waving away his offer of help. “I’m fine.” She stepped back from his spotless uniform and slapped at the mud clinging to her knees. Head bent, she blinked like a madwoman.

“You sure you’re okay? You went white there for a second.”

“I just—” She swallowed hard and straightened. “I thought you were someone else.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He removed his beret, revealing dark, close-cropped hair. “Your husband.”

“You…served with him?”

For a split second his features went rigid. “No, ma’am. I’m with the 1st Infantry Division out of Fort Knox. But I was deployed to Helmand province, same time as Sergeant First Class Dean.” He hesitated, then extended a hand. “Corporal Reid Macfarland.”

She peeled off her right glove and took his hand. His grip was strong and confident, and despite the remoteness in his eyes he made her feel…wistful.

And we’re back to pathetic. “Parker Dean,” she said, and let go. “Kentucky’s a long way from Pennsylvania. What brings you to Castle Creek?”

“I hoped we could talk.” He picked up her hat. “Somewhere out of the sun?”

Apparently he’d noticed the whole red hair and freckles thing. And although she should know better, his concern defused her internal I’m-alone-with-a-strange-man alarm. While she debated whether to lead him to the house or to the potting shed that doubled as her office, he slipped on his shades, paused, then pulled them off again. She couldn’t help noticing the slight shake in his hand.

The corporal outweighed her by a solid fifty pounds and out…well, outheighted her by five or six inches. He was a soldier. He’d survived combat. In Afghanistan.

And he was nervous?

Not good. Sudden tremors rippled up and down Parker’s legs. Her little family couldn’t handle any more bad news.

“Tell me why you’re here.” Then go. Before he could answer, her stomach dropped. “The death gratuity.” She’d invested that for Natalie. For college. No way she’d let them—

“No, ma’am. I’m not here in any official capacity.”

“But you’re…” She gestured, and he glanced down at his crisp class-A’s.

“I wanted to show my respect.”

“I see.” Though she didn’t. Not at all. She backed away again, fighting the urge to tug that uniform close, to wrap her arms around it and rest her cheek against the familiar green wool. She hadn’t seen dress greens since the funeral.

“Might as well spit it out,” she said, with a lift of her chin. “Nothing you can say could be worse than what I heard thirteen months ago. Friendly fire, they told me—” She swallowed, and jerked her shoulders up and down. “I doubt you can top that, Corporal Macfarland.”

“I’m sorry.”

She grimaced and wiped a wrist across her forehead. “No. I’m sorry. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“Actually, I do.” His jaw flexed. “Your husband was killed by a missile fired—”

“From a U.S. drone. A Hellfire, they said.” Did she really have to hear this again? “What’s that got to do with you?”

“Everything.” He straightened shoulders already level enough to make any carpenter proud. “I’m the one who sent the drone.”

* * *

WIDE-EYED SILENCE. Then the distant bark of a dog and a rushing noise as a mass of starlings flew overhead, the sound like rows and rows of clothes-pinned sheets flapping in the wind.

The woman he’d made a widow stared back at him, face rigid, lips parted. Red chased the pallor from her cheeks and her hands clenched at her sides. She seemed to shrink right in front of him, every muscle tightening, clenching, compacting her into a monument to rage.

“You s-sent it? On purpose?” Her voice started out no stronger than a thread and ended up a hallelujah chorus of bitter fury. “Are you saying my husband was collateral damage?”

“No. No.” Jesus. He’d screwed it up already. “I’m saying it was…my mistake.”

“Are you—you—why would you even think you could come here and—my God—” She stumbled back a step and threw out an arm. Her glove sailed away and landed in a distant patch of clover. She pointed toward the gravel driveway, where he’d parked his Jeep, her entire body trembling. “You need to leave. Now.”

He wanted to. God knew he wanted to. But he’d be damned if he’d add “coward” to all the other labels he was lugging around.

He’d come to make whatever amends he could. Do something, anything, to ease the loss he’d caused. His counselor had advised against it.

His counselor didn’t have nightmares.

“Hear me out. Please.” He pulled in a slow breath. “I need to apologize—”

“Apologize?” She made a horrible, strangled sound he figured was meant to be a laugh. She drew a wrist across her face again, but this time it wasn’t sweat she was wiping away. He cleared his throat.

“I’m not asking for forgiveness.”

“Good. That’s good. Because you won’t get it. Your ‘mistake’ cost my husband his life. His life.” Her voice broke and she jammed the heels of her hands to her eyes. He doubted she noticed she was still wearing one glove. She dropped her arms and glared. “How dare you. To come here like this without… What were you thinking?”

“Ma’am, I can only say—”

“No. No. Don’t say anything.” She was shaking her head at him, eyes shimmering with unutterable grief. “I don’t know what you want from me, but you’ve already taken enough.”

He winced. “I only wanted to—”

“No. You don’t get to want anything.” She choked on a sob. “I can’t…I can’t do this.”

He watched her stalk away, her path not entirely straight. She headed for the nearest of a trio of plastic-wrapped Quonset huts that looked like they’d survived a hurricane—barely. Reid’s insides ached, as if he’d taken a knee to the gut. But she hadn’t said anything he hadn’t already said to himself.

“Parker!” She ignored the shout that came from somewhere behind them and disappeared into the greenhouse. Ten seconds later a sixty-something man in baggy overalls—must be some kind of uniform—strode around to face Reid, brawny hands on hips, no hair above his neck save for the steel-colored eyebrows that shaded a narrowed gaze.

“What’s goin’ on? Who’re you?”

Reid sized up the other man. Rough, no-nonsense, shoulders like a lumberjack. Carried himself as if anything in his way had better get the hell out of it. Ten to one a former Marine.

Huh. Could be he’d go back to Kentucky sporting a cracked rib or two.

Things were looking up.

“Corporal Reid Macfarland.” He hooked his shades in his breast pocket and offered his hand. “I came to see what I could do.”

“Harris Briggs.” He gestured with his head at the greenhouse where Parker Dean had sought refuge. “You in her husband’s unit?”

“No, sir. I’m the one who killed him.”

Briggs sucked air and his eyes stretched wide. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered. He looked down at the ground, scratched his chin, looked back up. “You mean to kill him?”

“No, sir.”

“They call that an accident.”

“They call that fratricide.”

Briggs eyed Reid’s stripes. What was left of them. “Got away scot-free, did you?” When Reid didn’t answer he pulled a pack of gum from his bib pocket and held it out. Seriously? He’d just admitted to manslaughter and the old guy offers him a stick of gum? Reid’s muscles were clamped so tight he couldn’t even shake his head. Briggs shrugged and tucked the pack away, unopened.

“Tell me somethin’, Corporal. What happened over there?”

“No offense, Mr. Briggs, but you’re not the one I came to see.”

“Fair enough.” He moved past Reid and plucked Parker Dean’s water bottle from the strawberry patch, used it to motion toward the greenhouse. “Wouldn’t listen to you, huh?”

“Can’t say I blame her, sir.” Reid nodded once. “I’ll be on my way.”

“Why is everyone in such a blasted hurry?”

Reid blinked. “With all due respect, shouldn’t you be chasing me off the property?”

“Ain’t my property.” Briggs caught his eye and shrugged. “Been over a year. Talkin’ it out might help her move on.”

Move on. Right. As hard as it had been for Reid, he couldn’t even imagine what the widow had been through. Not to mention her kid.

“You overseas all this time?”

“I came when I could.”

“So what now? You headin’ back home?”

“I wanted to apologize. It’s the least I can do.”

“What’s the most?”

“Sir?”

“You said apologizin’s the least you can do. What’s the most?”

Reid shifted. Talking to Briggs was like having a conversation with his own conscience.

“I’m on thirty days’ leave. I didn’t know what I’d find here, but I’d planned to offer to help. Any way I could. Always supposing—” he eyed the greenhouse “—Mrs. Dean was willing to have me around.” Which, clearly, she was not.

Probably figured he’d go after her kid next.

His neck muscles locked. Suck it up, soldier. He’d never expected this to be easy. Had counted on the exact opposite, as a matter of fact.

“Good idea, offerin’ to help.” With a sweep of his muscled arm, Briggs indicated the farmhouse, the garden plots, the greenhouses. “We could use it.”

Reid studied the house. Two stories of weathered wood standing in a copse of trees bordered by acres of flatland. A tired-looking Toyota hunkered in the yard, flanked by an oak tree sporting a tire swing and an unruly hedge showing off sunshine-yellow blooms. A pink bicycle with a purple bear duct taped to the handlebars lay on its side in the grass.

In comparison to…everything…his five-year-old Jeep looked brand spanking new.

Beside him Briggs stroked his chin. “Sure does need a paint job.”

“Like a desert needs water.”

“That mean you’re stayin’?”

“That’s up to Mrs. Dean.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket. “My cell number. Unless Mrs. Dean calls and tells me not to come, I’ll be back in the morning.”

“Where will you be till then?”

Reid put on his beret. “I’ll find a motel.”

“We only got one. Joe’s not officially open, but I guess he’ll put you up.” Reid nodded his thanks and Briggs hooked his thumbs in the straps of his overalls. “This mean you won’t be coming back if she says she doesn’t want you?”

“That’s right.” Hadn’t Reid done enough to this family?

“You, uh, never met Tim Dean, did you?”

“No, sir.”

“Neither did I. But I can tell you he’d believe his wife and daughter deserve better than a personal check.”

Reid stiffened. Briggs had read his mind. But what choice did he have? Financial help made perfect sense, considering Reid had caused the death of the family’s breadwinner. A death that had left a widow and a child to fend for themselves.

He tamped down a surge of regret he’d let play out later. Much later, when it was just him and a bottle of beer.

Reid didn’t have many expenses, and he sure as hell didn’t spend much of his pay while deployed. He’d already talked to his bank about a loan. Whether or not she let him pitch in with physical labor, he’d planned to give Mrs. Dean enough money to keep her family solvent. He’d hoped to have a frank discussion with her about that. Given her reaction, it seemed a check in the mail was the best bet.

Yeah, it was guilt money. Didn’t matter. Still had to be paid.

He frowned at Briggs. “I’d like to help, but I have to respect Mrs. Dean’s wishes.”

“Never mind her. I’ll talk her around. Woman’s too stubborn for her own good. I know what you’re thinkin’—she can hire help. Easier said than done here in Castle Creek. And even if we do find someone, she can’t afford to pay what they’d be asking. You gonna walk away from a war widow in dire straits?”

Reid’s mouth flattened. “If she wants me to.”

Briggs waved a hand. “Now, don’t go gettin’ your dress over your head.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I’ll see what I can do. You prepared to work if she takes you up on your offer?”

That was the idea. He’d put her in this position. It was up to him to get her out. And he had a month to do it. Assuming Briggs could talk her into letting him back on the property.

Reid squinted. “Long as you don’t expect me to wear overalls.”

“You can wear a tutu for all I care. Might even draw some customers.”

Reid grunted. Tutu, hell. He should have packed his tactical gear.

A loud, rumbling sound. The two men looked toward the road, and watched a school bus lumber to a stop at the end of the gravel driveway. A black Labrador retriever rounded the far side of the house, tail high, bark impatient, legs a blur. A young girl in bright pink jeans and a matching shirt stepped off the bus. She walked a few feet and dropped her backpack at the same time as she fell to her knees in the grass. Her arms went around the dog and she nestled her face in the shiny jet fur.

Reid’s scalp started to prickle. He resisted the urge to tug off his beret.

The dog wriggled free, ran a short distance and stopped, inviting the girl to give chase. She went along with the game, running after the Lab and covering half the distance to the strawberry patch before noticing Reid. She stumbled to a stop, mouth open, russet hair swinging around her face. Briggs called out to her but she ignored him, turned and dashed for the house as if suddenly caught in an icy downpour.

Like mother, like daughter.

The dog, on the other hand, greeted Reid as if he were packing bacon. He pushed his nose at both palms, snuffled up and down both legs, and ran figure eights around both men. When he paused to conduct another inspection Reid stroked his silky head, fighting the urge to hug him just as the girl had.

“What’s his name?”

“Chance. Sweet dog, but dumber than chickweed.”

“Hey, boy. Hey, Chance.” At the sound of his name the dog barked and jumped up onto his hind legs. He braced his front paws against Reid’s dress jacket.

“Careful, now. Don’t want to sully that uniform.”

Reid’s fingers tightened in the Lab’s fur and he glanced over at the farmhouse.

Too damned late.

* * *

PARKER’S SHOULDERS ACHED but she didn’t dare ease up on the scrub brush. Best thing in the world for emotional overload? A bucket of warm soapy water, a flat surface and a set of nylon bristles.

Unless there was something in dropkick range. But she couldn’t afford to play soccer with her plants.

Unfortunately the scrubbing thing wasn’t really working, either. She could barely breathe, with all that fury blocking her throat. She’d been doing so well, no longer reminding herself to mail her letter to Tim, or wondering if he was using his sunscreen, or when he’d next get the chance to call home. Keeping it together for Nat—

She sucked in a scalding breath and felt it sear all the way up to her eyeballs. Forgive me, the corporal had said. Now she knew he’d meant for so much more than startling her.

“You’re rubbin’ that worktable like you think a genie’s gonna pop out.”

Parker stopped, stared down at the suds coating the table and slowly relaxed her grip on the brush. Then she whirled and threw the dumb thing at the bucket. The resultant spray of soapy water was nowhere near as satisfying as she’d hoped. She yanked off her lime-green rubber gloves and tossed them after the brush.

“Did he tell you who he was?” She snatched up the hose. “Unbelievable, isn’t it? What made him think he could… Why would he even think I would consider—” She squeezed the nozzle too hard and water jetted off the tabletop and ricocheted back into her face. “Damn it. What I’d like to know is, why is that man even still in the Army?”

Harris took the hose away. “You need to calm down, my girl.” He plucked a handkerchief from his back pocket and held it out. “Nat’s home. Why don’t you go check in with her and I’ll finish up here.”

“I can do it.” She wiped her face, jammed the handkerchief down into her bib pocket and grabbed at the hose. Harris held it out of reach and she frowned. “I can do it. Why don’t you go pester Eugenia?”

He scowled and flushed at the same time. “Don’t you think it’s time you learned to delegate?”

“Don’t you think it’s time you learned I’m in charge?”

He raised an eyebrow. Parker felt a gush of mortified heat sweep up through her chest and into her neck. While she struggled to find the words to apologize, Harris tucked the hose nozzle in the crook of his elbow and took his time unwrapping a stick of gum.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean it.”

“I know that, Parker Anne. Anyways, Eugenia and I aren’t datin’ anymore.”

When Harris got that look on his face Parker knew better than to push her luck. She collapsed back against the table, palm to her forehead. What she’d give for a handful of ibuprofen and a caffeinated soda. The last thing she needed to do was alienate her strongest ally. Thanks to Harris Briggs she’d finally come to terms with Tim’s death. And Nat’s nightmares had only just gone on hiatus. Neither of them should have to deal with an in-the-flesh reminder of what they’d lost.

And how they’d lost him.

Thank God she’d sent the corporal away before Nat got home.

“Nat knows to get started on her homework,” she said. “She’ll be fine.”

“She’s bound to have questions.”

She left her hand where it was and talked into her wrist. “About what?”

“About your visitor.”

She launched upright. Oh, no. Oh, God. “She met him?”

“Not met. Saw. And as soon as she saw, she ran.”

Parker’s hands shook. She turned and leaned on the table, palms pressed flat on the soapy surface. “I don’t need this. Nat doesn’t need this. Not now.”

She stared through the plastic sheeting at the row of feathery pine trees that separated the greenhouse from the “garage” that was little more than a leaky barn. “He came a long way for nothing. I don’t have the slightest interest in helping to ease that man’s conscience. If I were in his position I’d never presume to—” Emotion backed up into her throat again.

“The man’s tryin’ to do the right thing.”

Parker turned her head sharply. “You’re defending him?”

“It was an accident. More than a year ago. He wants to apologize. I think, my girl, you should hear him out.”

She shook her head, not believing what she was hearing. “You of all people,” she whispered. “You know what we’ve been through. You’ve seen—” Wait a minute. She turned, and crossed her arms. “I get it. Marines, wasn’t it?”

“That has nothin’ to do with it.”

Oh, please. Then something he’d said finally registered. “What do you mean, he wants to apologize? Isn’t he on his way back to Kentucky?”

Harris’s expression turned mutinous and Parker was tempted to grab the hose and turn it on him. The last time he’d wanted his way, he’d sulked until Parker had given in and ordered a dozen quince trees. Not one had sold.

And she never did get that jelly he’d promised.

He fingered a leaf on a geranium that sported blooms as red as a male cardinal. “He offered to stay. Help out.”

“He what?”

“He wants to make sure you and Nat will be okay.”

“We’ll be a heck of a lot more okay without him around. I couldn’t look at him without thinking of…of Tim.” She gulped, wrapped her arms around her waist and held on tight. “I don’t want him here.”

“He’s a soldier and he deserves your respect. No different from your husband.”

Her body went slack. “It is different. It’s hugely different. Tim never killed anyone.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth she recognized the absurdity. She had no way of knowing what Tim had done in theater. She began to pace, shaking her hands as if she’d burned them. “You know what I mean. If he killed anyone it wasn’t an allied soldier.”

“Probably not. But you don’t know that. If he did, wouldn’t you want him to have the chance to ask for forgiveness?”

She stopped pacing. “He really got to you, didn’t he?” Her fingers dug into her hips. “Where is he, anyway?” So help her, if she found out he was anywhere within even a mile of her property…

Harris carefully set the hose aside. “Listen, my girl. Macfarland may be a soldier, but he’s a man first. A man trying to make amends. Remember that five-year-old boy, run down by a drunk driver a few months back? You said then that you didn’t know how the driver could ever live with himself after being responsible for something like that.”

Parker suddenly had trouble breathing. “Are you actually telling me that if I don’t forgive him he’ll kill himself?”

“All’s I’m sayin’ is, think about the consequences of your actions.”

“Too bad this…corporal…didn’t think about his.” He frowned and she scrubbed her palms on her overalls. “This conversation is over. I don’t want to see that man, I don’t want to talk to him, I don’t want him talking to me.”

“What if he goes back to the desert and gets himself killed? You think you might be sorry you didn’t give him a listen?”

“This is unbelievable. He makes a mistake that costs a man’s life and I’m the one getting the lecture.”

“I’m tired, Parker Anne.”

“Me, too. So let’s drop it. Why don’t you go on up to the house and—”

“I mean, I’m tired. I can’t keep up anymore. For Pete’s sake, I’m old.”

She looked at him then, really looked at him, at his sunbaked skin and disappointed shoulders. She fought the sudden sting of helpless tears.

“You’re not old. But you are right. I work you too hard. I’m sorry, I get so caught up in—” She swallowed. “I’ll figure something out. Get you some help. Why don’t you take it easy for a few days? I’ll handle tomorrow’s delivery.”

“You think I don’t know you can’t afford to hire anyone else right now? And you can’t run this place by yourself. There’s the spring contract orders to fill and more coming in every day. Unless you’ve found the secret to gettin’ by on a few hours’ sleep every day, I don’t see the harm in lettin’ the man help out.”

“I thought I’d made myself clear. That’s not going to happen.”

“It’s for your own good.”

“I think you’re more worried about him than me. Since when did you become so charitable?”

“Since when did you become so selfish?”

Parker stumbled back a step and banged up against the table. Harris looked at her, his eyes sad.

“You need help. He needs to help. Gardening’s therapy. You’re not the only one suffering, my girl.”

“But Nat—”

“Needs to learn not to hightail it every time she sees a man in uniform. She also needs to learn the power of forgiveness. And who’s she gonna learn that from, if not you?”

“I can’t forgive him. You don’t know what you’re asking. Even he knew better than to ask for that.”

“Doesn’t mean he doesn’t want it.” He waited a beat. “All I’m askin’ is for you to try.”

Parker shook her head. “That’s too much. I’m trying to rebuild here. Not just the greenhouses, but our lives. I don’t have time for anything—or anyone—that threatens that.”

Harris didn’t say a word. Not that she’d expected him to. How could he argue with her wanting to put her family first?

CHAPTER TWO

REID SQUINTED THROUGH the windshield. The motel outside Castle Creek looked about as inviting as a trailer park after a tornado. But according to Harris Briggs, it was his only option. Unless he wanted to sleep in the Jeep.

Still, the dingy, mildew-coated structure almost made him homesick for the pitiful piece of real estate he’d been assigned over in southern Afghanistan—which had included room for his bunk and his footlocker, and not much else.

Hell, who was he kidding? He’d been homesick for his unit since stepping off that cargo plane at Godman Army Airfield. Especially after learning he’d been kicked out of Fort Knox housing. New regulations—all unmarried soldiers had to find accommodations off-post. His shoulders tightened, and he rolled them back to shrug off the tension.

He pulled into the motel’s crumbling asphalt lot and parked in front of a battered metal post turned golden by the afternoon sun. The pole supported a newly made sign that read Sleep at Joe’s.

Clever. And just the kind of place he didn’t need. Odds were that behind the registration desk lurked an attention-starved, big-haired woman who would set aside her latest diet bible and siphon Reid for information like she was a ’78 Lincoln and he was the last gas pump for five hundred miles.

The backseat of the Jeep was looking better every second.

Then he thought about his unit over in the sandbox, and how during missions they had to sleep in trenches dug for protection from mortar fire. What did he have to complain about? He got out of the Jeep, stepped over a cluster of wilting daffodils and entered the office.

The clerk manning the desk was just that—a man. Despite his stubbly jaw and frayed jeans and T, he didn’t seem the casual-conversation type. And the book he set aside when Reid walked in had nothing to do with weight loss—it was bulky, yellow and full of telephone numbers.

The clerk gave Reid and his uniform the once-over and leaned forward, elbows on the counter. “Need directions?”

The man’s eyes held respect. Reid lowered his own gaze and pulled his wallet from a back pocket. “Only to an available room.” He slid a credit card across the counter. The clerk didn’t even glance at it.

“Sorry, man. Not open for business yet.”

Damn. “Any recommendations?”

“There’s a Motel 6 twenty-five miles east.”

“Thanks.” The phone trilled and the man nodded, then turned away. Reid was at the door when he called after him. “Not one to ask for favors, are you?”

Slowly Reid turned. “Meaning?”

“That was Harris Briggs on the phone. Said he’d told you to mention his name.” The clerk shrugged. “I have a room that’s clean but postapocalyptic ugly. I just bought the place. The reno’s barely started.”

“I can handle a lot of ugly.”

Another survey of his uniform. “Bet you can.” The clerk pushed across a registration form. “Staying long?”

“No idea.”

“Just keep me posted.”

Reid signed the form and offered his hand. “Reid Macfarland.”

“Joe Gallahan.” He held out a key card. “Room six. Questions?”

“Yeah. Where can I get something to eat?”

An hour later, on the toaster-size TV—hell, a laptop could have gotten a better picture—James Coburn demonstrated his prowess with a knife in The Magnificent Seven while Reid eyed the remains of a pepperoni pizza that had looked a lot better than it tasted. He’d wanted to do better than fast food, but he hadn’t had the energy to take Gallahan’s advice and get something to eat in the next town.

Of course if he had, he’d have missed soaking in the atmosphere of Castle Creek’s only motel. He looked around with a grimace. The place must have been sitting empty for years. Considering what kinds of creatures had probably been hanging out rent-free, he probably shouldn’t be making jokes.

Probably shouldn’t be breathing without a mask, either.

Gallahan had one hell of a job ahead of him.

If the motel’s exterior, with its lime-green paint, scraggly landscaping and crevice-ridden concrete qualified as a horror flick, then the interior had to be every Michael-Myers-on-Halloween-night movie ever made spliced into one gory, never-ending saga.

The cheap paneling on the walls bore twice as many scars as the plastic covering Parker Dean’s greenhouses. Cigarette burns decorated the dresser, the table and the nightstand. He suspected that the carpet, which had been repaired many times over with duct tape, hadn’t started out that muddy-brown color. And someone had painted the ceiling turquoise, presumably to cover up water stains. Reid muttered a quick prayer that it didn’t rain.

But despite the less-than-lovely interior, the room was clean, just as Gallahan had promised. Not a speck of dust in sight. Someone had worshipped the bathroom with a scrub brush, and the fresh scent of lemon lingered just beneath the smell of tomato sauce.

He let the slice of pizza fall back into the box and found himself wondering what kind of meal Parker Dean and her daughter were sitting down to. Something healthy and hearty, no doubt. Like roast beef and mashed potatoes. Or spaghetti with meatballs. He frowned at the grease-laden pizza and closed the lid.

Then again, maybe she didn’t have time to cook, since she was a single parent. Thanks to him.

He grabbed the TV remote and stabbed at the power button. Wondered for the hundredth time if he’d done the right thing, coming to Castle Creek.

No way Harris Briggs would be able to talk Mrs. Dean into letting him help out. And even if he did, was it fair of Reid to do so? What the hell had he been thinking, expecting a grieving family to accommodate the man responsible for their grieving in the first place?

Money was the kinder option. Before he took off in the morning, he’d leave a check with Gallahan.

He finally recognized a far-too-cheerful chirping as his cell phone. The screen displayed an unfamiliar number and for a second or two his lungs went AWOL. Had Harris Briggs managed the impossible?

“That you, Corporal?”

“Mr. Briggs.”

A pause. “I’d tell you to call me Harris but I doubt we’ll be usin’ each other’s names much.”

Right. “She said no.”

“That’s puttin’ it mildly.” Reid snorted softly. Harris Briggs cleared his throat. “Was a pleasure to meet you, son. We appreciate what you boys are doin’ over there.”

Reid thanked him and ended the call. So that was that.

Son. He sat back and mentally sifted through years of memories, scrambled to single out the one where his father had last called him “son.” Couldn’t find it. And suddenly, desperately, he needed it.

A quick, disgusted shake of his head. Enough with the self-pity.

He should be relieved. Should be grateful he didn’t have to spend his leave trying to fix something destined to remain forever broken. He’d tried. And failed. He’d write that check, and when the loan came through he’d write a bigger one. One that would require years of monthly payments.

So why did he feel like he was getting off easy?

No doubt Parker Dean would agree. His mouth relaxed as he pictured her. She’d looked like she’d been digging an underground tunnel to Canada. She’d worn a sweat-soaked T under an oversize pair of mud-streaked overalls. Dirt marked both cheeks and flecked the cinnamon hair gathered at the back of her head. But despite all that mud he’d registered creamy skin, a curvy figure and eyes that promised sincerity and humor.

And once she’d found out who he was, she hadn’t hesitated to tell him to go pound sand.

Tim Dean had been a lucky man. Too bad Reid had no business thinking of Parker Dean as anything other than someone he owed a hellacious obligation to.

Out of the corner of his eye he spotted movement. The stealthy, scampering, wall-hugging movement of a mouse. Squatters. Terrific. They’d have to go. He hadn’t signed on for roommates. Not even for one night.

He stood and reached for the phone, intent on petitioning Gallahan for a few traps. A glance at the corner where the mouse had disappeared and he hesitated, let his hand slide off the receiver.

For fifteen months he and thirty other guys had tolerated a family of sand rats in their tent. Certainly he could handle a mouse or two.

Live and let live, and all that.

He collapsed onto the bed, and threw an arm across his face so he wouldn’t see the room start to blur.

* * *

PARKER CREPT DOWN THE hallway past her daughter’s bedroom. Thank goodness for the night-lights Nat had insisted on when they’d moved in. Their eerie green glow helped her reach the attic without breaking a toe. She eased the seldom-used door open, flipped on the light switch and pulled the door shut behind her.

She shivered and hesitated on the bottom step. A short-sleeved T and flannel pajama bottoms were no match for the attic chill. Why hadn’t she thought to grab a sweater? She grunted. Forget the sweater. It was the middle of the night. Why hadn’t she stayed in bed, instead of baking muffins and playing safari in her own attic?

She wrapped her arms around her waist and peered up the worn, narrow flight of stairs. But it wasn’t the cold or the cobwebs draped along the walls that rooted her in place. She hadn’t ventured up there since she’d tucked Tim’s things away a year ago.

Don’t be such a baby.

She took in a breath, then another, and started to climb. The air smelled thickly of dust, faintly of machine oil and faded roses. But the way her stomach was rebelling, anyone would think a family of skunks had moved in.

Five steps up she snagged a sock on a nail head. She yanked her foot free and kept going. She’d have to come back with a hammer.

If only all of her problems could be solved so easily.

Half an hour later, sitting cross-legged on a comforter she’d scavenged from a cardboard box, she thumbed through the last of the seven photo albums stacked at her hip. She’d had the sudden urge to look through them all—the pictures of her college days in Blacksburg, Virginia, where she’d met Tim; their wedding photos; their first home on post at Fort Bragg in North Carolina; Nat’s birth and progression from toddler to second-grader.

Parker closed the album. So many blank pages.

Nat was now in third grade. They’d stopped taking pictures after Tim died.

Guilt settled in. The final picture in the album was one Tim had taken of Nat. She stood beside their car in sneakers and a pink-and-purple-striped bathing suit, her hair in pigtails, her face tearstained and tragic. In her left hand she held what was left of Tim’s favorite fishing pole. She’d slammed the car door on it, shearing off the tip. Tim had spent thirty seconds raging, five minutes mourning, and three days laughing. Since Nat already had her swimsuit on he’d taken her to the water park, to show there were no hard feelings.

Her husband had been a forgiving person. Unlike his family.

Parker’s parents had been in their late forties when she was born, and neither her mother nor her father had lived past seventy-five. Which meant that Tim’s mother and brother were the only other family Nat had. But they were family in name only. They hadn’t spoken to Parker since the falling-out at Tim’s funeral. No one would ever describe them as forbearing.

She should be grateful. If not for that she might have backed out of buying this property. She and Nat would never have moved to Castle Creek. Would never have realized Tim’s dream.

And anyway, who was Parker to judge? She hadn’t contacted Tim’s family, either. Of course, she had no illusions about herself. Forgiveness was beyond her.

Her eyes filled. She hugged herself and began to rock. I can’t do it, Tim. I can’t forgive him for taking you away.

The door at the bottom of the stairs squeaked a warning. Parker barely managed to dry her face with the hem of her T before her daughter’s head poked up out of the stairwell. Her hair was flat on one side and tousled on the other and she was knuckling the sleep from her left eye. A series of thumps and some heavy breathing signaled Chance was close behind her.

“Mom?” Nat yawned. “Something’s burning.”

Oh, God. “The muffins!”

The album slid to the floor with a muffled whump as Parker scrambled to her feet. That’s what she got for indulging in a one-woman pity party. She hustled down the stairs behind Chance, whose tail wagged with delight at this new game. Parker’s foot caught the nail again and this time she left her sock behind. When she hit the first floor the smell of scorched batter was unmistakable. By the time Nat reached the kitchen Parker had pulled the pans out of the oven and both she and Chance were staring at the shriveled, blackened remnants.

All those ingredients, wasted. She sighed and dropped the potholders onto the counter. “Not even Chance would go for these.” He barked once, and plopped down onto the braided rug. Parker made a face. “Didn’t think so.”

Nat peered over her shoulder. “Isn’t charcoal supposed to make you hurl?”

“If you can get past the smell long enough to actually take a bite, then yes, I think it’s a given you’ll puke. And speaking of smell…” Parker heaved open the kitchen window. When she turned back around Nat sat hunched over the kitchen table, chin propped in both hands.

“Hot chocolate?”

Nat nodded, then bit her lower lip. “He made you sad, didn’t he?”

“Chance?”

“That soldier.”

Parker paused, the two mugs she’d selected from the tree on the counter poised in midair. “What makes you think I’m sad?”

“Mom. Why else get up in the middle of the night to bake muffins?”

“Maybe I was hungry.”

Nat rolled her eyes. “You were hanging out in the attic. With a bunch of photo albums. If you were hungry you wouldn’t have let the muffins burn.”

Busted. Parker set a container of water in the microwave to heat and sat next to her daughter. “All right. Yes, he made me sad. I miss your father, and I know you miss him, too. Seeing someone wear the uniform Daddy used to wear…that was tough.” She paused. She’d tried to ask Nat about it earlier, but the little girl had first clamped her lips tight and then, when Parker had gently persisted, she’d scuttled up to her room. Now Parker tried again.

“Harris said you saw him, too. Did it make you sad?”

Nat hung her head. She swallowed, and the sound was loud in the midnight kitchen. Parker reached out and tucked Nat’s soft auburn hair behind her ear. “Want to talk about it?”

She mumbled something and sniffled. Parker waited, and was about to ask again when suddenly Nat raised her head, and Parker’s heart ached at the hurt in her daughter’s eyes. “At first I was so h-happy,” Nat whispered. “I thought it was Daddy. I mean, I knew it couldn’t be, but then I thought maybe it was a mistake after all, that the bomb had missed him and they couldn’t find him but then they did and he wanted to surprise us and—” Her chin trembled, and she swiped at her nose with the heel of her hand. “Then I saw it wasn’t him and I ran away because…Daddy always told me to be a little soldier and…and…and I didn’t want his friend to see me cry.” She squeaked out the last few words and broke into sobs.

“Oh, Nat. Oh, sweetie.” Parker gathered Natalie onto her lap and into a hug. She squeezed her daughter hard, fighting and losing the battle against her own tears.

Nat pressed her face into Parker’s T. “Did he leave because of me?”

Were they still talking about their visitor? “You mean—”

“Did he leave because I ran away?”

“No. No, honey. He left because of me.” The microwave beeped. Parker ignored it.

“Why?”

“He wanted to stay for a while. And I thought that would be too painful for us.”

Silence. Then, “Did he know Daddy?”

Parker shook her head, realized Nat couldn’t see her, and leaned away. She smoothed the hair out of Nat’s face and shook her head again.

“So why did he come?”

“He’d…heard that Daddy had died.”

“And he wanted to help?” Parker nodded. “That was nice.” Nat sniffled, and dipped her head. Chance abandoned the rug and pressed against her knee. “So you think he might come back?”

“Not unless I ask him to.”

Nat opened her mouth, shut it, frowned. Parker braced herself. “Why?”

“Maybe he’s lonely.”

“What?”

Nat slid back into her own chair, tearstained face suddenly animated. “Maybe he was lonely, and he heard about what happened to Daddy, and he figured we must be lonely, too. So he came to keep us company.”

Blindly Parker stood and groped for the microwave. “I already told you why he came. He isn’t lonely.”

“How do you know? Did you ask?”

“Nat, we can’t invite every lonely person in the world to stay with us. It’s not feasible.”

“But I’m not asking about every lonely person. I’m asking about him.”

“Nat.” Parker stirred the powder into the water and set a mug on the table. “Drink your hot chocolate and go to bed. You have school tomorrow.”

Her daughter frowned down into her mug. “No marshmallows?”

“Natalie.”

“Remember when we took in Chance, Mom?”

Oh, dear Lord.

Nat bent down and hugged the Lab, resting her cheek on top of his head. “You said it was wrong to turn your back on someone in need.”

“Chance is a dog.”

“Yeah, but he’s human like the rest of us.”

Parker wanted to laugh but didn’t have the energy. “What is it about this man? You never even talked to him.”

Nat straightened, and up went the chin she’d inherited from her mother. “What if it was Daddy? What if he didn’t have anyone? Would you want a family like us to turn him away?”

It was like facing a nine-year-old Harris Briggs. Parker’s fingers curled tight and she fought the urge to kick a table leg.

“He’s not your father. And he won’t be staying long. He has to go back overseas.”

“To be a soldier.”

“Yes, to be a soldier.”

“What if he dies like Daddy?” Her eyes filled again. “And he doesn’t think anybody cares?”

It was a conspiracy, that’s what it was. Nat didn’t even know the whole story but just like Harris, she was determined to make Parker out to be the bad guy. Her fingers started to ache, and she frowned down at the dishrag in her hand. She’d squeezed all the water out onto the floor.

“Mom?”

Parker squatted and scrubbed at the linoleum a lot harder than she had to. Then she jerked to her feet and carefully laid the dishrag over the rim of the sink. “I’ll give it some thought. All right? No promises. Now if you don’t want your drink you need to get to bed.”

Nat heaved a put-upon sigh and carried her mug to the sink. She eyed the ruined muffins. “You making another batch?”

Parker nodded. Might as well. No way she’d get any sleep. Not now.

“Could you add some chocolate chips this time?”

That was how Harris preferred them. “You planning to share?”

“We should do something nice for Harris. He works hard.”

Parker’s breath snagged. “Yes, he does. Have you—” she swallowed “—noticed he looks more tired than usual lately?”

Nat nodded slowly. “I didn’t want to ask him about it ’cause I figured he’d just yell.”

Parker gripped the back of the nearest chair. Had she been that blind? She straightened and motioned Nat toward the stairs. “Time for bed, kiddo. And on the way you can tell me all about it.”

* * *

HARRIS OPENED THE DOOR the following morning and Parker thrust the plate of muffins at him. “You’re sick, aren’t you?”

He backed away from the doorway, rubbing his stomach where she’d shoved the plate. “A moment ago I felt fine. But that was before the bruised rib.”

“Stop it. Talk to me. What’s going on?”

“You tell me.”

She pushed past him into the living room. “I thought you were scamming me. When you said you were tired. I thought you were trying to play on my sympathies so I’d let Macfarland stay. Then Nat said something and—” She shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her overalls. “It’s true, isn’t it? You’re sick.”

“You make it sound like I have TB or cancer or schizophrenia. Something that’ll put me in slippers and a hospital gown, eating baby food and watching game shows for the rest of my life.”

“You don’t have cancer.” Thank God. Her knees went weak and she sank down onto the seen-better-days sofa. It went so well with the battered pine coffee table and the over-the-hill leather recliner. “How long will that be?”

“What’s that?”

“The rest of your life.”

She watched him struggle with a smart-aleck response. Finally he shrugged. “Ten years. Ten days. Same could be said for us all.” He set the plate on a side table. Denim shushed against leather as he settled into the recliner.

“What is it?”

“Viral cardiomyopathy. Affects the heart muscle.”

Parker curled her toes inside her work boots, fighting tears he didn’t need to see. First they’d lost Tim and now— “What can they do for it?”

“They got me on some medications. Beta-blockers, they call ’em. And the usual no-sodium bull—uh, crap. Maybe someday a pacemaker.”

“Is that where you were last Tuesday? At the doctor’s?” He gave her a sheepish nod. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You have enough on your plate, my girl.”

“My God, Harris, how do you think I would have felt if something had happened to you? You’ve been loading the truck and hauling compost and dragging around hoses. And all this time, any one of those things could have killed you.”

“Now don’t go mixin’ pickles with your peppers. Workin’ won’t kill me. It’s not workin’ that would take me out. I just have to know my limits.”

“And when were you going to let me know about these ‘limits’?”

“I’m lettin’ you know now.”

“Harris Briggs,” she whispered, and swiped a palm across her cheek. “How long have you known?”

He slapped his hands to his knees and pushed himself upright. “Coffee?”

“Is this why you’re so determined about Macfarland?”

“Partly.”

A lengthy pause. “How long is his leave?”

“Thirty days. Give or take.”

One month. How would she manage, even for one day, to be civil to the man who’d brought the worst kind of tragedy into her life?

She moved to the front window of Harris’s small brick house and shifted the drapes aside. But she couldn’t see anything other than Tim’s face.

She had a right to her anger. Just as she had a right to her grief. No one was going to tell her how she should feel.

But Nat had come downstairs that morning looking more rested than she had in months. Before sitting down to her cereal she’d handed Parker a list of strategies to keep the corporal from feeling lonely. At the top of the list she’d written “spend time with him.” Which Parker took to mean that Nat herself was feeling lonely. And no wonder, since Parker spent most of her time in the greenhouses or tending to greenhouse affairs.

But there was no money for extra help. And now Harris had admitted to a heart condition. They should both be spending more time with him.

Slowly she turned from the window. “After thirty days, then what? He’ll be gone and we’ll still be short-staffed.”

“Let me tell you somethin’, Parker Anne.” Harris stood behind his recliner, his hands gripping the padded back. “I love you like a daughter. Best thing that happened to me in a good long time was the day you moved up here. I realize it was all arranged before your husband died, but you could’ve changed your mind. And I thank God every day that you didn’t. You’re my family now, you and Nat. Don’t make me spend the time I have left doin’ nothing else but worryin’ about you.”

Her chest went tight. She smiled, but had a hard time keeping it in place. “You’d worry no matter what.”

“I know, I know, and there ain’t no use puttin’ up an umbrella till it rains.” He pushed away from the chair. “How about this. How about we take it one day at a time. With an extra pair of hands around you might actually make payroll.”

“Low blow, Briggs.” But an accurate one. She rubbed her forehead. She wanted to kick and scream and cry and pack up Nat and spend the next month camping out in the mountains.

Harris had been right to scold her for being selfish. Natalie had suffered enough. Did Parker really want to teach her daughter to be unforgiving?

Still. Thinking about forgiving someone wasn’t the same thing as actually forgiving them. That bit of wisdom might get Parker through the next thirty days.

She scrubbed her hands over her face, then followed Harris into the kitchen. Enough about her. “Does your heart condition have anything to do with why you’re not seeing Eugenia anymore?”

He stiffened but didn’t turn away from the coffeepot. “We were finished before then. And it ain’t none of your business why.”

“Fine.” She inhaled. “I don’t want you to come in today.”

He whirled around so fast it made her dizzy. Thank God the mug he held was empty. She held up a hand before he could start bellowing. “It’s only one day. Besides, I have a list of things you can pick up at Cooper’s for me.”

“Errand boy. That’s what you’re reducin’ me to?”

“You know better than that, Harris Briggs. And considering how long you’ve kept me in the dark about this, you’re lucky I don’t cut off your muffin supply.”

He did his best to look menacing. She refused to flinch, and eventually his shoulders sagged. He swung back to the counter and poured his coffee.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” she ventured. “Between you and Eugenia. She really seems to like you.”

“She doesn’t like people so much as she likes doin’ for them.”

“What does that mean?”

“Never mind.” He handed her a mug and scowled. “Guess it’s too much for a man to hope you put chocolate chips in those muffins.”

Parker sighed. Subject closed. For now. She patted him on the cheek and reached for the napkins.

CHAPTER THREE

BACKING UP SLOWLY TO THE EDGE of the sidewalk, Eugenia Blue tipped her head and stared with satisfaction at the window display she’d spent most of the afternoon rearranging. Two mannequins wearing flowery summer dresses and wide-brimmed hats sat in an English garden complete with trellises, fake ivy and climbing roses. The plastic ladies leaned toward each other over a small round table, as if sharing a delicious secret. A porcelain tea set completed the picture.

Not bad. Not bad at all. Less than a year ago she’d been holed up in a ridiculously lavish condo in New York, licking her wounds after a brutal divorce. Now she’d established not only a home but a business in small-town heaven, where no one expected her to host parties for lecherous business associates or threatened to withhold sex if she gained five pounds.

She loved having her own shop. The hours were long but the freedom of being her own boss more than made up for it. Eventually she’d have to hire some help, but not until business picked up. Six sales a day wouldn’t pay the bills.

Especially if she continued to raid her own stock. She looked down at her sweater set and gave a mental shrug. Who could resist cashmere? And in lavender, no less? Besides, creating such an eye-catching window display deserved a reward.

“You’re looking pleased with yourself.”

She turned. Joe Gallahan sauntered toward her, zipping up his light jacket against the late-morning chill. Her lips curved automatically as they always did whenever she saw Joe. With his slow, sexy smile and construction worker muscles, Joe could make any woman brighten. Though every now and then she did catch a hint of something dark in his eyes. Something more than sadness. Something that made her wonder how he’d ended up in Castle Creek.

Something that was none of her business.

“Hello, Joe. What brings you into town?”

“The usual.” His smile turned wry and he nodded across the street at the hardware store. “Seems I spend more time at Cooper’s than at the motel these days.” He gestured at her window. “Looks great.”

“Thank you.”

“Still on your own here?”

In more ways than one. “For now.”

“Guess that means you don’t have a lot of spare time. I know how it is, trying to run your own business. But I’ll ask anyway. How about dinner some night?”

Eugenia’s eyebrows went up and her jaw went down. According to the dressing room gossip she couldn’t help but overhear, Joe didn’t date much. Didn’t do much at all, besides work on that motel and play whatever sport was in season.

With all the women in town dying to snag his attention, why ask her?

He had to be twenty years younger than she was. If she had to guess, she’d say thirty-five. Flattering, to say the least. But though she liked Joe, and admired him for tackling a project like resuscitating the motel from hell, she had her sights set on someone else. Someone who refused to stand still in the crosshairs, but that was beside the point.

“Are you asking me out?”

An instant’s hesitation, followed by a warm smile. “Yeah. I am. You choose the restaurant.”

It was a quick recovery. And a smooth one. But still a recovery.

“Okay, so not a date. I don’t know what I was thinking, considering I’m old enough to be your mother. What did you really have in mind?”

“Hey.” Joe moved in, rested his palms lightly on her upper arms. “I may not have come up with the idea, but I think it’s a damned good one. And no way you’re old enough to be my mother.”

His chivalry would have made her feel worse if she hadn’t seen the sincerity in his eyes.

“I appreciate that.” She backed up a step. “But I’d have to say no, anyway. I’m…interested in someone.”

He lifted broad shoulders in a good-natured shrug. “If it doesn’t work out, maybe you’ll reconsider.”

“Maybe I will.”

A boisterous laugh on the other side of the street. They turned to see Harris Briggs shaking hands with an elderly man who’d obviously just come out of the hardware store, the plastic bag he gripped practically brushing the sidewalk, making him lopsided. She watched the genial exchange, watched as Harris made the other man laugh. Belatedly she turned back to Joe. And felt mortification heat her cheeks.

“It’s no use,” she said, in response to his gotcha smile. “He refuses to forgive me.”

“What’d you do?” He winced and held up a hand. “Strike that. None of my business.”

“It’s all right. I bought him something, and he didn’t appreciate it.”

“He didn’t like it?”

“He claimed I insulted him. I think I offended his manhood.”

“The gift didn’t happen to be blue, did it?”

She frowned. “How did you know?”

“Tiny, and in the shape of a diamond?”

She gasped, and slapped him on the arm. “Not that. Don’t you need a prescription for—” He was laughing and she flapped a hand. “Never you mind. Point is, I blew it.”

“You apologize?”

“For all the good it did. I plan on trying again after closing today.”

“No time like the present.” He looked back across the street. Eugenia grabbed for his arm but wasn’t fast enough.

“Hey, Harris!” he called. “Got a minute?”

Eugenia swallowed a tortured moan. Joe lowered his voice. “Tell me I called the right man over. Or is it Mr. Katz you have a crush on?”

“Mr. Katz is ninety years old.”

“Yeah, but I hear he takes vitamins.”

That he could joke so casually about age after her embarrassing assumption made Eugenia feel better. Until Harris stepped up onto the sidewalk, looking like a lumberjack in his heavy boots, jeans and thermal shirt. Eugenia caught her breath and rubbed her suddenly damp palms against the insides of her sweater pockets.

There was something about his size, his solidity, the strength of purpose and kindness in his eyes. He made her feel ultrafeminine. Safe.

And frustrated as all get-out.

He squinted at Joe, then at Eugenia, then back again. “What’s up?”

“Just thought you should see what Eugenia’s done here. About time someone brought some style to State Street.” Joe beamed a roguish smile at Eugenia. “Guess I should get on over to Cooper’s before they sell out of drywall screws. Let me know if you change your mind about dinner. I do have more than tax schedules on my mind.” He turned and jogged across the street, leaving an awkward silence behind him.

Harris cleared his throat. “You did a good job on your window there,” he said at the same time she said, “I owe you an apology.”

He grunted. “Most people say thank you when they get a compliment.”

“Most people say thank you when they get a gift. You, however, responded with, ‘Guess this is our last date.’”

“Most people don’t give the sort of gifts you do.”

“I’m sorry. The last thing I wanted was to insult you. I’m a make-it-happen kind of person. I see a need, and I want to fill it.”

“That’s all well and good, but you can’t just go around buyin’ trucks for folks.”

“But it wasn’t just folks. It was you. I never thought you’d be so ungrateful.”

“Ungrateful?” He scratched his bald head. “Because I was honest about not wanting something I never asked for? Listen, Genie, no man wants to feel like he’s bein’ bought.” Someone drove by in a mud-streaked pickup and honked, and Harris lifted his arm. Eugenia stared.

“Excuse me?”

“If I need a truck I’ll buy it myself. Now I’m done explainin’. Like I said before, you and me, we just wouldn’t work out.”

“You know what your problem is? You’re stubborn and you’re scared.”

He scowled. “There’s no call for insults.”

“I wasn’t trying to insult you, I was trying to enlighten you.”

“Either way I don’t appreciate it. Guess I best be movin’ along.”

“You do that,” Eugenia snapped, and gave herself a mental eye roll. Why could she never come up with anything clever to say?

And did it really matter? His anger over the issue meant they’d been dating on borrowed time, anyway. If he ever found out what else she’d done, he’d…well, at the very least he’d never speak to her again.

Damn the man’s pride.

He swung away, then turned back and jerked his head toward the hardware store. “You datin’ Joe now?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Just wonderin’ if you’re planning on buyin’ him a new motel.”

Eugenia sputtered. Harris marched away down the sidewalk, then when he was almost at the corner he turned back. “By the way,” he called. “Heard you turned that pretty truck back in and donated the money to the rescue squad. That was a mighty fine thing to do, Genie.” He gave her a nod, then continued walking.

Eugenia stared after him, feeling as though someone had grabbed her by the ankles and swung her upside down.

* * *

IN, TWO-THREE-FOUR-FIVE-six-seven. Out, two-three-four-five-six-seven.

Her lungs ached. Parker opened her eyes and stared at the door to room six. Then she looked back, toward the sparse traffic that motored past the motel. People ran errands, visited friends, headed home to their families. A squirrel chittered, and she watched it bounce across the parking lot and disappear under a rather sad-looking azalea.

She should call Joe and offer him some pointers. Happier-looking landscaping would be good for business.

She should also stop procrastinating.

She rolled her shoulders back but the tingling in her chest persisted. The deep breathing hadn’t done much for her stress level. Apparently it was effective only for mother-daughter-type challenges.

Raise knuckles. Knock twice. Hold breath. The door handle turned—oh, God she really did have to talk to him—and she released her breath in a head-spinning whoosh.

Corporal MacFarland wore nothing but a towel, a pair of flip-flops and a grim expression. “Mrs. Dean. Sorry, I thought it was—” A harsh exhale. “Stand by.”

When he shut the door, Parker thought, Run. But she stood where she was, rooted to the sidewalk by the image of the left side of his torso, and the faded red ribbons of puckered skin along his rib cage.

He looked like someone had hacked at him with a sword. Her eyes felt wet but she willed the tears away. Darned if she’d let a little sympathy dilute the resentment she had every right to feel.

When the door opened again he wore jeans and a Go Army T. He waved her in and shut the door behind her.

She looked around the room, but all she could see was the damage to his muscled body.

“How can I help you?”

She turned to find that he hadn’t moved, gaze wary, fingers still on the handle. He didn’t want her to feel threatened, she realized. But she’d never considered he’d do anything to harm her. Not physically, anyway.

Striving for calm, cool and collected, she settled into one of the two lawn chairs that flanked the scarred round table.

“Well,” she said. “Joe’s really done wonders with the place.”

The left side of Macfarland’s mouth tipped up and Parker found herself staring. She turned away, and noticed the duffel bag atop the neatly made bed.

“You’re packed.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He cocked his head. “Are you here to… Will you allow me to apologize, Mrs. Dean?”

She sat back, and the aluminum chair squeaked out a loud complaint. Her hands clutched at the grooved armrests. “We’re not talking about an insult here, or a—a fender bender. You can’t apologize for making someone a widow.”

“I have to try, ma’am.”

“Stop with the ‘ma’am,’” she snapped. “You make me feel like I should start paying attention to…to denture commercials.” Her breath hitched on a sob. He moved away from the door and disappeared into the bathroom. She heard the sound of running water. Seconds later he placed a cup on the table in front of her and stepped back. She nodded her thanks, but kept her hands in her lap. No way she could drink that water without spilling it. She’d humiliated herself enough for one day, thank you very much.

She motioned with her chin at the other chair. “Would you sit, please?” He hesitated, then did as she asked. He sat with both feet on the floor, hands hanging over the ends of the armrests. She raised her eyes to a face she’d hoped never to see again.

“Harris said you don’t have to be back on post for thirty days. Wouldn’t you rather spend that time with your family?” Her gaze dropped to his left hand. His fingers flexed.

“I’m not married,” he said softly. Softly, but not gently. “No family.”

“Friends, then.”

“My friends are overseas.”

A pause. “Where are you from?”

“San Diego.” He angled his head. “I’m here because this is where I’m supposed to be.”

“The last thing I want is to accept your offer. But you have me at a disadvantage.” He waited. She dug her fingers into her thighs. “Harris is sick and…needs to cut back on his hours. I can’t afford to hire someone else. Not yet. This morning I called a supermarket over in the next county. They’d wanted to place a large order with us but I had to turn them down. With help we can manage the order. The extra money will pay the most urgent bills, and allow us to make some repairs. If you could stay that long, I’d—” She faltered. She couldn’t say it. Couldn’t manage the word grateful.

He hadn’t moved, but a new tension gripped his muscles. Her mind flashed another image of his scarred torso. Was he in pain?

“You don’t want me here.”

She fought a laugh. You think?

“You need money,” he continued. He stood and moved to the bed. “I’ve written you a check. I planned to leave it with Gallahan.” He slid an envelope free of a side pocket and held it out.

Her fingers itched to take it. Whatever the amount, it would be a blessing. But she’d promised Harris.

And her forgiveness wasn’t for sale.

She pushed to her feet. “Exactly how much does a dead husband go for these days? Shall I tell you the figure the Army came up with? Or do you already know?”

His fingers tightened around the envelope. “I can’t match the death gratuity. But if you give me time, I can come close.”

She shoved her hands into her pockets to keep them from reaching out. “That money would make my life easier. It’d be easier for you, too, wouldn’t it? If I took it? Which is the very best reason to refuse it.”

Slowly he lowered his arm. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I don’t want anything from you. Not your apology, not your sympathy, not your money. But I owe Harris Briggs everything. And I made him a promise. So, Corporal, it looks like you’re about to get a crash course on being a grower. Tomorrow’s not good so I’ll see you first thing Saturday morning.”

Without a word he opened the door for her. She stepped out onto the sidewalk, then swung back around. “One last thing. I need you to stay away from my daughter.”

His head snapped back, like she’d taken a swing at him. Parker put up a hand. “Not because… Listen, I know you wouldn’t hurt her physically. But you’re a soldier like—” She stuck out her chin. “I don’t want her forming any attachments.”

His jaw looked hard enough to drive nails into concrete. “You don’t need to worry. One look at me and she ran like the boogeyman was after her.” He shut the door.

Parker’s shoulders slumped. Thank heaven he hadn’t asked, because she had no clue to the answer.

How did she know he wouldn’t hurt Nat?

* * *

PARKER SCRUNCHED UP her face and struggled to hear what Liz was saying. Outside the potting shed, Chance was barking loud enough to be heard across Lake Erie. Give it up, dog.

“Hold that thought, all right?” Parker pressed the phone to her shoulder and stomped outside. The Lab was fussing at a pine tree, undoubtedly seeing a squirrel in its branches. “Chance!” she scolded. “Quiet, please!”

He looked at her over his shoulder and plopped down onto his belly. “Good boy.” She put the phone back to her ear. “Okay, I’m here.”

“I’m sorry, Parker. I know I said I could learn about plants and stuff but I’m getting plenty of hours here. The tips are tight. And I need the cashola. I’m saving up for a car.”

“I understand, Liz.” No tips earned at a greenhouse, tight or otherwise. Parker dropped her head into her hand. “Thanks anyway.”

“Hold on a sec.” Over the country music playing in the background, Parker heard Liz talking to Snoozy, the owner of Castle Creek’s most popular bar. The only bar, really, if you didn’t include the lunch counter at Hunan’s. “No, I’m not quitting. And yes, I see him. Jeez, dude, don’t blow a gasket.” She came back on the line. “I have to go. Wish I could help.”

“I appreciate that. I’ll see you around.” Parker disconnected the call and tapped the phone against her chin. It was either that or heave it against the wall. She didn’t have much left to sell. But the set of Desert Rose china she’d advertised for months had finally reaped a buyer. With the money from that, she could afford part-time help. Hence the call to Liz Early. Which had followed calls to six other people who had at one time or another expressed interest in working for her. She’d hoped to bring one of them on board because it would mean not having to put up with Corporal Reid Macfarland for long.

But it seemed she was stuck with him after all.

She set the phone aside, propped her elbows on the slab of wood that served as a desk and lowered her face into her hands. The biggest risk was to Nat.

“God,” she muttered. “What if she ever found out?”

“What if who found out what?” Parker snapped her head up. Nat stood in the doorway of the potting shed, one hand on the doorjamb, the other clutching her backpack. Parker waved her in while scrambling to think of something, anything, to distract her.

“Hi, sweetie. I didn’t hear the bus. What sounds good for dinner tonight?”

Totally lame. Nat would see right through—

Her daughter stepped into the shed and Chance scrambled in after her. Parker gasped.

“Natalie! What happened?”

Fresh tears dampened the streaks on Nat’s face as Parker rushed forward and tipped up her chin. “We were playing basketball during gym,” Nat whispered miserably. “I ran into a pole.”

“Oh, baby.” Parker winced at the magenta-colored splotches surrounding Nat’s right eye. Carefully she smoothed the hair out of her daughter’s face. “Why didn’t anyone call me?”

“The bell was about to ring. Nurse Brewington put some ice on it, then I had to catch the bus.”

Parker frowned. The school should have called. She’d have to look into that. She clucked her tongue and took charge of Nat’s backpack. “Come on up to the house. We’ll get you an icepack.” Once they were on the gravel path she put an arm around Nat’s shoulders and drew her in close. Chance seemed to sense something was wrong and pressed against Nat’s legs.

“What exactly did the nurse say? Do we need to worry about a concussion?”

Nat wrenched away. “They checked me out for all that. I told you. I didn’t hit my head, just my face.” She walked faster, tennis shoes digging into the gravel. Each breath she took got thicker and thicker. “I’m never going back to gym class again,” she choked out. “They can’t make me.”

Now was not the time to tell her she was wrong. Parker felt a hot swell of sympathy and pressed her lips together to keep from saying the wrong thing. Kids could be so cruel. And Nat’s lack of athletic ability, painfully spotlighted every day in PE, gave them plenty of reason to tease.

Parker had tried to work with her. Harris had tried to work with her. But Nat couldn’t contain her frustration long enough to practice whatever game she needed help with. Unfortunately, Parker remembered those days all too well.

She transferred the heavy backpack to her other hand and jogged to catch up. “Can we talk about it? How about I make us some pancakes and—”

“I don’t want any dinner.” Nat’s pace quickened to a near-run, the Lab jogging along beside her. “Just leave me alone!”

She dashed the rest of the way to the house, thundered up the porch steps and banged through the front door. Parker trailed along in her wake. More than a year later and Nat still hadn’t come to terms with her father’s death. The resulting lack of sleep was ruining her ability to focus. Which explained today’s accident. On top of her usual sports-related challenges at school, Nat would never live this down.

And now Reid Macfarland was determined to insinuate himself into their lives.

Another soldier. Another deployment to a war zone.

Another possible heartbreak for Nat.

Parker drew in a quivering breath. How much more could one little girl take?

CHAPTER FOUR

THERE WASN’T A HELL of a lot to do in a motel room at five o’clock in the morning. Especially for a man without the benefit of female company. And he had a whole damned day to twiddle his thumbs before reporting for work tomorrow. After one hundred push-ups, a shower and a chapter of Baldacci’s latest, Reid knew he either had to go out or go crazy. If he were on post he’d be headed to the mess hall for breakfast before reporting for platoon formation and weapons training.

But the slice of pizza from the night before sat heavy in his stomach, so food was the last thing he needed. And he was tired of lying in bed and staring up at that damned turquoise ceiling, replaying the scene where Parker Dean’s little girl scurried away from him. He exchanged his bath towel for a pair of shorts and a T, and headed out for a run.

He couldn’t see the lake but he could smell it. Fresh water, decaying fish, seaweed. And though he couldn’t hear the surf, he could hear the distant drone of a motorboat. Some early riser on the hunt for lake perch.

Between the smell of fish and the image of fried perch leaking grease onto a plate, his stomach threatened to put an early end to his run. He planned on taking it slow, which was just as well because that’s what the citizens of Castle Creek had in mind, too.

Four times he was stopped. Once by a pair of white-haired ladies in a powder-blue Buick wondering if he’d seen a salt-and-pepper schnauzer and by the way wasn’t Castle Creek a lovely place to visit and which lucky resident had he come to see?—twice by fellow exercisers: one a young man, the other not so young—who’d interpreted his Army T as an invitation to discuss the war and wanted to know would he be around later to debate the advantages of the M110 sniper rifle. The last time he was stopped was by a guy in a pickup who wanted to know if he’d spotted a deer carcass that needed scooping up.

By the time he got back to the motel Reid figured he’d already met half the population of Castle Creek. He wondered if the other half was just as unconventional.

Gallahan was out front admiring the sole bloom on a trio of bushes. “Enjoy your run?”

Reid swiped at his face with the hem of his T. “Not much of a run. More like several rounds of dodgeball.”

Gallahan nodded wisely. “The people of Castle Creek like to know who their visitors are.”

“A woman just crossed lanes to block me. Wanted to know if I preferred my burgers with or without cheese.”

“Audrey Tweedy. If you’re vegetarian don’t admit it. She’ll make it her life’s work to win you back into the fold of the flesh eaters.”

“I’ll remember that.” He dug his key card out of his pocket. “Maybe I should stick to a treadmill. There a gym around here?”

Gallahan hesitated, then seemed to come to some decision. “Follow me.”

He led the way down the sidewalk to the end unit. Room ten, four doors from Reid. Gallahan produced a key card, pushed open the door and motioned Reid inside.

Just like Reid’s room, the paneled walls were a scratched-up, puncture-ridden mess. The water-stained ceiling wasn’t much better. But there the resemblance ended.

The carpet had been replaced with an oatmeal-colored remnant that almost reached to the baseboards. In one corner stood an industrial-size fan, in the opposite corner a flat-screen television. Rectangular mirrors mounted side by side covered the wall in between. A water cooler and a shelf stacked with folded towels completed the picture of a home gym.

But the equipment was the most impressive feature of the room. A state-of-the-art treadmill, elliptical machine and pulley-based weight system, plus a stand of free weights, all gleamed an unexpected, polished welcome.

Reid whistled his approval. “This is some setup.”

“It’s convenient.” Gallahan held out the key card. “Use it whenever you like. I’m here early most mornings, but I don’t mind company.”

“Appreciate it. You been in Castle Creek long?”

“About four months.”

“How’d you decide on the place?” Shit. Now he was starting to sound like the little old ladies in the Buick.

“Long story.” Gallahan frowned, and Reid knew he wouldn’t be hearing it. Fair enough. “Beer?”

“Got a cooler in here, too?”

He laughed. “That could be arranged, but I was thinking more along the lines of Snoozy’s. Beer’s cold, cheese plate’s free, pool table’s mostly level.”

“Beats staring at that butt-ugly turquoise ceiling. But it’s eight in the morning.”

“So we’ll give it a few hours. Hang out in here if you want.” Gallahan tipped his head. “You been in Iraq?”

Damn. Payback was a bitch. “Afghanistan.”

“Tough job. Thanks for doing what you do, man.” He held up his fist and Reid gritted his teeth as they bumped knuckles.

Now he really did need that beer.

They waited until eleven to head to Snoozy’s, which was everything a small-town bar should be. Easy to find and open for business. Besides the standard neon signs, wooden bar stools and lighting dim enough to guarantee permanent eyestrain, Snoozy’s had something…extra.

Gallahan caught him looking. “Yeah, I know. I forget it’s weird until someone like you comes in and looks at it like that.” He tipped his chin at the man behind the bar. “It belonged to his wife.”

“A sort of tribute?” Reid stared doubtfully at the front corner of the room, where a hot-pink salon chair faced a full-length, gilt-framed mirror draped with leopard-print garlands.

“More like a warning. She took everything he had, except for this place.”

Ouch. Reid followed Gallahan to the bar. Behind the scarred wooden counter a tired-looking man with a droopy mustache and purple half-moons under his eyes arranged cubes of cheese on a plastic platter.

Had to be Snoozy.

They ordered two brews. A man the size of an upright freezer with white-blond hair down to his shoulders and scabbed-over knuckles slapped the bar. The wood trembled.

“How about that chili I ordered?” he demanded. He pivoted to his left and caught Reid staring. “Something I can do for you, Sport?”

“Depends.” Reid swigged his beer. “Know anything about geraniums?”

The bar went quiet. Behind him Gallahan made a strangled noise. The blond behemoth narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth. Reid tensed, waiting for either an invitation to step outside or a punch to the kidney. The behemoth leaned in. Maybe a head-butt.

“Storksbills or cranesbills?”

Reid stared. Gallahan laughed and thumped him on the back. “Corporal Reid Macfarland, meet Noble Johnson, Castle Creek’s award-winning librarian. You should stop in sometime, listen to him read The Velveteen Rabbit to the kiddies. It’ll make you weep into your whiskey.”

“Kiss my ass, Gallahan.” Noble frowned at Reid. “You serious about geraniums?”

Reid’s lungs started working again. “For the next several weeks, I will be. Parker Dean’s putting me to work.”

Noble eyed Reid’s haircut. “Knew her husband, did you?” Luckily he didn’t wait for an answer. “You want my help, there’s three things you gotta do. Make a donation to the library, buy me a beer—” Snoozy slid a bowl of chili in front of Noble, who picked up his spoon and jabbed it at Reid “—and pay attention.”

* * *

“MA’AM? MA’AM. YOU all right, ma’am?”

With a start Parker realized she’d drifted away at the deli counter. She straightened out of her slouch and smiled blankly at the woman with the hair net and the curious stare. Dorothy? Delia. Parker pointed at random. “A pound of that, please, Delia.”

Delia frowned. “But you don’t like pastrami.”

Parker blinked. “Of course.” She felt a sudden swell of affection for the small community she lived in and gave Delia a grateful smile. “I’ll take the usual, please.” Three minutes later she was accepting two pounds of smoked turkey and a pound of provolone cheese. The warm-and-fuzzies lasted until she guided her cart toward the produce section and one of the wheels bumped a cardboard stand. An entire row of flower seed packets rustled and slapped to the floor. With a quiet sigh, Parker bent to scoop them up.

Maybe she’d better save the shopping for another day.

She set the last packet in place and turned to find one of Castle Creek’s newest residents hovering at her elbow. Eugenia Blue smiled warmly, and tucked her short blond hair behind her ears.

“Parker, how nice. I don’t see you in town very often.”

Parker pasted on an answering smile and scrambled for the energy to be polite. “How’re things at the shop?”

“A little slow, but you know how it is. I’ve only been open a few months.” She gestured at Parker’s cart. “Harris was running errands just yesterday morning. You should have asked him to do your shopping.”

Parker fumbled her smile. Harris would be doing a lot less for her in the future. “I was in town anyway. An appointment with the principal.”

Eugenia looked doubtfully at Parker’s jeans and polo shirt. “Everything all right?”

“As right as it can be.”

The older woman’s gaze dropped to her own basket. Carefully she studied each item, as if checking for holes or dents or bruises. “How is Harris?” she asked in a too-careless voice, and Parker’s heart went south. Harris and Eugenia had dated a few times but then Harris had announced they’d stopped.

Apparently it hadn’t been a mutual decision.

“He’s okay,” Parker said. But of course Eugenia wouldn’t be satisfied with that. Since Harris’s news wasn’t Parker’s to share, she gambled on a distraction.

She backed up and made a show of admiring the sweater set and gray pencil skirt that hugged the older woman’s trim figure. “You always look so elegant.” She nodded at Eugenia’s outfit. “One of yours?”

Cheeks flushed with pride, Eugenia nodded. “You should come by. I’m holding my first sale next week. Trying to get people to come inside instead of peering through the windows.” She plucked at her skirt. “I have something similar in sage. It’d go perfectly with your coloring.”

“I’ll try to make that sale. I don’t remember the last time I didn’t wear denim.”

Eugenia looked like she was floundering for something tactful to say when Hazel Catlett click-clacked up in her low-heeled sandals.

“Parker Dean.” Hazel was a white-haired, bright-eyed woman in her seventies who wore lipstick the color of Cheetos. She pointed with a skinny eggplant. “You look fit as a fiddle. Just like that guest of yours.”

“I’m sorry?”

“June and I—we saw your soldier out running this morning and stopped to introduce ourselves.” Hazel winked. “We couldn’t help admiring his…stride.”

Eugenia chuckled while Parker curled her fingers around the handle of her shopping cart and squeezed. Hard.

So much for small-town bliss. Yes, Castle Creek’s residents considered looking out for each other a privilege and a duty. But they also considered gossip a competitive sport.

“He’s not my soldier, Hazel. And how is June, by the way?”

“She dragged me away from Glenn Ford and Hope Lange just to look for a special kind of noodle she needs for some Thai recipe.” She leaned closer, and Parker could see that some of her bright orange lipstick had wandered off into the wrinkles around her lips. “And this is the woman who thinks almond butter is exotic.” Hazel straightened. “So, are you two an item?”

Parker was tempted to put her arm around Eugenia and smile an affirmative. But that wouldn’t be fair to Eugenia. Darn it.

“Not an item,” she said, and just the thought did unpleasant things to her stomach. “Barely friends,” she added.

If “barely” meant “when hell freezes over.”

“Don’t give up, honey.” Hazel patted her arm, then frowned at Parker’s hair, which she’d gathered at the back of her head and fastened with a big plastic clip. “Speaking of honey—”

“Isn’t that June?” Eugenia cocked her head. “Hazel, I think your sister’s calling.”

“Thank you, hon. My hearing’s not what it used to be.” She tucked the eggplant in her basket and took off for the pasta aisle.

Eugenia shook her head. “What a pair. Harris calls them Hazel and Nut.”

“Today Hazel’s the nut. Why is everyone trying to set me up?”

Eugenia shrugged. “It’s spring.”

Parker’s cell rang and she checked the ID. Harris. The knots in her stomach tightened. Something was wrong, she just knew it. She’d wanted to make the delivery herself, but that stubborn so-and-so had thrown a fit when she’d suggested it.

Please let him be okay. “What’s up, Harris?”

“I got halfway to Cherry Point before the truck broke down.”

Parker closed her eyes.

“Parker? Is everything all right?”

She opened her eyes to find Eugenia watching her anxiously. Meanwhile Harris’s gruff voice was advising her that unless they wanted to pay to have the truck towed all the way to the store, they’d better find another way to get the plants delivered. And soon. Because the supermarket only accepted deliveries until eight.

And if Castle Creek Growers didn’t meet that deadline, they’d be in breach of contract. Which meant they wouldn’t be paid. Which meant Parker wouldn’t be able to afford the groceries she’d already plunked into her cart.

“I’ll bring Pete,” she said into the phone. “Where exactly are you?”

Once she disconnected Eugenia shook her head. “Parker, you can’t take Pete. Today’s Friday. The garage closes early.”

Parker choked out a laugh. “Of course it does. Guess I’ll just have to go by his house.” Which would take her fifteen minutes longer. Each way.

“Why don’t you check Snoozy’s first? His pickup’s usually there when I drive by in the evenings.”

“Thanks, I will.”

Parker jammed her phone back into her purse. How the heck would she manage if Pete couldn’t fix her truck?

* * *

WHEN PARKER PUSHED INTO the bar’s dim interior, Snoozy had Glenn Miller playing. Normally that would have delighted her, but the current situation demanded the most plaintive of country songs. Stress goaded her heart rate into a faster pace as she narrowed her eyes and scanned the room. A lot of familiar faces, but no—oh, Lord. What was he doing here?

Corporal Reid Macfarland shared a table with Joe Gallahan and Noble Johnson. Noble was saying something in his I-snack-on-thumbtacks voice and Joe laughed out loud, while Macfarland showed his approval by tipping his beer. Parker felt that now-familiar surge of resentment, the one that set off sparks behind her breastbone. How dare he party—and with her neighbors—after taking away her husband’s ability to drink, to smile, to laugh?

After taking away his life.

Her breath hitched and she turned away before the trio could spot her. Not fair, Parker Anne. She’d been struggling to move on for thirteen months. Of course he would be, too. Which was why he’d come looking for her in Castle Creek.

Not fair, no. But no one had ever accused grief of being rational. And right now she cared about rational as much as she cared about facials and high heels.

“Parker.”

She cringed. She hadn’t turned away quickly enough.

She swung around. Joe was crossing the room toward her. Behind him Noble remained seated, while the corporal stood beside the table, his expression wary.

“Everything all right?” Joe asked.

“I’m looking for Pete Lowry. Have you seen him?”

“He left about an hour ago. Said something about visiting his folks in Harrisburg. Why?”

Parker clamped her teeth together. “Nothing, I—I just need a mechanic.”

“Can we give you a lift somewhere?” Joe asked, as Macfarland came up behind him.

“Mrs. Dean.” He looked so different out of uniform. In his jeans and long-sleeved thermal shirt he looked like one of the guys. Like someone who might have hung out with Tim.

Annoyed at the direction of her thoughts, she focused her attention on Joe, who looked amused.

“What’s with the formality? I thought you two were friends.”

Parker stiffened. Yeah. And Elvis was alive and selling cheesecakes in the Bronx.

Macfarland’s gaze flickered, then he raised an eyebrow. “Anything I can help with?”

“She has car problems,” Joe said.

“Truck problems, actually.”

“Briggs is out on a delivery?” She nodded, surprised, and Macfarland turned to Joe. “Anyone around here have a panel truck we could borrow?”

So now he was trying to be a hero? Parker shook her head. “Don’t bother. I’ll figure something out.”

“You may not have to.” Macfarland gave Joe an elbow. “Anyone?”

“Pete.”

“The same Pete who’s out of town? There’s got to be someone else.”

With a yawn, Snoozy leaned on the bar. “Beanie Watson drives a chip truck. But he’s still out making deliveries.”

Macfarland looked at Parker. “You on a timeline?”

She spoke through lips that felt like hardening concrete. “Store closes at eight.”

“Then we’d better get a move on. We’ll start with my Jeep.” He turned to face the room and raised his voice. “Anyone here with an SUV or a closed-bed truck willing to help us transport some greenery? Parker Dean here’s got a truck out of commission and a delivery due to—” he looked at her and she mumbled a response “—Cherry Point by eight o’clock. We can meet back here afterward and the next two rounds are on me. Any takers?”

A swell of chatter. Joe held up a hand. “Let’s rephrase that. Any takers who are reasonably sober?”

A few customers stood and the despair holding Parker hostage gave way to hope. At the same time she wished the person responsible for that hope had been anybody, anybody other than Corporal Reid Macfarland.

Noble Johnson pushed to his feet and hitched up his pants. “I know where we can get hold of a minivan,” he said. Everyone turned to stare and he flushed bright red. “What? Not like it’s mine.”

* * *

REID COULD SEE IT WAS killing her, having to accept his help. Which didn’t bode well for what he had in mind over the next several weeks. He got the impression, though, that it wasn’t just him. Parker didn’t want to be indebted to anyone, just as Briggs had said. And she sure has hell wished she’d never set foot inside the bar. But if they could save her delivery she’d see that getting help didn’t always have to suck.

Two hours and one sprawling, mismatched caravan later, Parker, Briggs, Gallahan, Noble, a gray-haired man in a black polo shirt who smelled like French fries, a skinny kid who looked barely twenty-one and favored light beer, and Reid all stood in the parking lot of the supermarket that, despite its ultimatum, had allowed Castle Creek Growers to make a late delivery. Parker stood in the middle of the cart-strewn parking lot, arms crossed against the night chill, and thanked her hastily assembled league of laborers.

“I don’t know what to say. You all have been so generous with your time. And your gas.”

“That was Noble,” someone called out. “He had the chili.”

Laughter, and a few choice words from Noble himself. Parker thanked everyone again, and only the tension in her jaw betrayed what her indebtedness cost her.

“Don’t forget the beer,” the same voice pleaded.

Reid assured them he’d honor his promise, then hunted down Briggs. “What about the truck?”

“I already arranged a tow. But I’m not sure why we’re botherin’.”

“I can take a look at it tomorrow.”

“You know engines?”

Reid shrugged. “I know moving parts. I’m a machinist.”

Briggs grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. “I knew you’d come in handy.” Parker walked up and Briggs stopped grinning. “I know, I know. You want me to go home and tuck myself in. Maybe I’ll heat myself some milk before I change my diaper and go night-night.” He stomped off. Reid expected Parker to take off after him but she hesitated. In the dim glow cast by the light post he could see the conflicting expressions on her face. She wanted to thank him, and at the same time she wanted to tell him to go to hell.

What else did he expect? Yeah, the Army had decided not to court-martial him, or charge him with homicide, since he’d believed he was firing at enemy soldiers. He still felt like a criminal.

So he couldn’t blame her for thinking he was one.

Which meant he really didn’t want to hear her stumble through a thank-you.

“I’m heading back to Snoozy’s,” he said, and dug in his pocket for his keys.

She moved a few steps back, toward her Camry. “I, uh, I need to get home.”

She’d asked a neighbor to stay with her daughter while they finished the delivery. He didn’t know Parker well, but he did know she’d want to keep that favor short.

“Thank you.” She licked her lips. “For—”

“No big deal.” She looked surprised that he’d cut her off, and annoyed, but mostly relieved. He hadn’t done it for her. Damned if he’d stand there and listen to her tone waver between courteous and contemptuous.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” she said. She looked as excited as a soldier tapped for patrol after a whopping two hours’ sleep. He couldn’t help watching the determined rhythm of her stride as she walked away.

Reid gritted his teeth. What the hell have you gotten yourself into, soldier?

CHAPTER FIVE

THE SAUSAGE-AND-EGG biscuit Reid had eaten for breakfast never quite managed to make friends with his stomach. He parked the Jeep—this time in the weed-infested gravel lot on the far side of the third Quonset hut—and took a swig of ginger ale. He’d have to start eating better, and make sure he took advantage of Gallahan’s gym, or else he’d be in a world of hurt when he got back to his unit.

The soda helped. Another hefty swallow and he set off in search of his temporary employer. The one who’d had all night to change her mind. He’d stashed the envelope containing the check in his glove compartment, just in case.

It had rained sometime during the night and his boots squeaked over the damp grass. Over by the tree line a gaggle of frogs chorused their good mornings. In the predawn dimness Reid checked out the first greenhouse, breathed in the smell of flowers, of dirt, the sweet, sharp scent of wet gravel. No Parker Dean.

He found her in the next hut, which looked just like the first. Gently whirring fans hung suspended from the structure’s metal ribs. Racks inside the door held rakes and hoes and shovels. Rows of scarred plastic and metal tables and benches brimmed with container after container of ruffled, rainbow-colored blooms.

He shifted his gaze from the greenery and zeroed in on Parker. She worked at the other end of the shelter, back toward him, head bent in concentration, nimble fingers plucking brown leaves out of the bright pool that rippled along each side of the concrete path.

“Mornin’.”

Reid jumped. Damn, when was the last time he’d let someone sneak up on him like that? He turned, and automatically reached for the mug of coffee Briggs offered. “Good morning. You always up this early?”

“Didn’t want to miss the show.”

Reid’s gaze returned to Parker, who hadn’t acknowledged either of them. Briggs gestured with his own mug.

“She’s got them earbud thingies in. Likes to start off her day with some kind of self-help recordin’.”

Reid took a sip of coffee and it was all he could do not to spit it back out. Briggs chuckled. “You’ll get used to it.” He nodded at Parker, who’d worked her way closer. “This should be interesting.”

“Why’s that?” Reid set his mug on a table. He’d find someplace to dump it later. Like a barrel marked Hazardous Waste.

“She’s not happy you’re here but she’ll want to show you the ropes yourself. Girl’s not good at handin’ over the reins.”

At that moment, Parker turned and spotted Reid. Her backbone snapped straight. He waited, settling his gaze on a face even more hostile than the one he’d seen yesterday at the motel. Still it was a nice face, with smooth, pale skin, light brown freckles and bright hazel eyes. And a pair of nicely shaped lips, currently pressed in an unfriendly line.

He’d bet money at least one of those ropes she’d be showing him came equipped with a noose.

* * *

PARKER HAD A PLAN. A plan to avoid Corporal Macfarland. It involved…well, avoiding Corporal Macfarland.

Which would help keep her from being arrested for assault with a pitchfork.

But as easy as her plan sounded, she’d stayed awake most of the night coming up with it. At least she’d had plenty of practice over the years, operating on little to no sleep—before Tim deployed, during his deployment and after his death.

No way she’d let dealing with the corporal throw her off track.

Except, it already had. Just not in the expected way. Those scars… He could have played them up, used them to gain an advantage. Instead he’d scrambled for a shirt. And what he’d done for her in the bar—without his organizing that caravan, her business would have lost much-needed revenue.

Part of her appreciated his resourcefulness. A very small, tiny, minuscule part. The rest of her nurtured an all-consuming resentment.

Though her conscience kept reminding her that the resentment wasn’t entirely justified. Even her earbuds couldn’t drown out the voice of her conscience. She shoved the useless things into her pocket and forced her legs into motion.

“Morning,” she said stiffly. “Saturdays are busy around here so I don’t have a lot of time to spare. Harris, can you please show the corporal what to do?”

Briggs coughed. “Sorry, but no can do.”

“You all right?”

“Didn’t get much sleep last night.” He paid sudden fierce attention to a rip in his long-sleeved shirt. “I came over to let you know I need a few more hours.”

Uh-huh. She crossed her arms. “You got out of bed, got dressed and drove all the way over here to tell me you’re going back to bed? You could have called.”

“Guess I was hopin’ by the time I got here I’d be feelin’ better.”

He did sound tired. Suspicion gave way to worry and she dropped her arms. “Anything I can do?”

“Not a thing, but thanks for askin’. I’ll just go home and catch a few more winks. Be back after lunch.”

“Call me first. If you’re not feeling better I want you to stay home.”

“What’re you packing for lunch today?”

“Chicken salad and carrot cake.”

He winked at Macfarland. “Then I’ll be back before lunch.” He turned and strolled away, cut himself off midwhistle and ducked out the door.

Parker watched him go, wishing she didn’t feel like she was the only solo guest at a dinner party because her two-timing date had just bailed on her.

Macfarland cleared his throat. “Mind if I ask a question?” Without looking around she made a don’t-let-me-stop-you gesture. “Can I get in on some of that chicken salad and carrot cake action?”

She resented the heck out of the involuntary pleasure his words sparked. She put on a frown before she turned, and it deepened on its own accord. The man knew how to wear jeans and a sweatshirt.

And why should she care? She slapped her gloves together, impatient with the ridiculous turn of her thoughts. “You work here, you get lunch. Want some coffee before we get started?”

“Not if it’s from the pot Briggs made.”

She supposed she should give him credit for trying. But she didn’t have the time or the energy for banter.

“Follow me,” she snapped, and wondered if he’d salute behind her back. She led him inside the first Quonset hut and made a point of closing the door firmly behind them.

“Always make sure the door is shut tight. If Chance gets in and sees anything move, even if it’s just a leaf, he’ll chase it. Which means something will get broken. Someone’s delivery will be shorted, and I’ll lose money I can’t spare.”

“Understood.”

With a brisk nod, she launched into her spiel. “We have three greenhouses. Hut One for geraniums, Hut Two for petunias and pansies, Hut Three for seed propagation.” He opened his mouth and she held up a hand. “No football jokes.”

“Wouldn’t think of it.” She shot him a look but his expression remained neutral. He followed her inside. “Seed propagation?”

“We save money by collecting seeds from existing plants to grow new ones. Actually, we only use seed propagation for the pansies. For the petunias and geraniums we do what’s called vegetative propagation, which is basically taking cuttings to grow new plants.”

“Kind of like cloning.”

“Exactly like that.”

She walked him up the aisle, breathing in the scent of the geranium leaves. He noticed it, too.

“I smell apples.”

“It’s the foliage. You’ll also notice nutmeg and lemon.” Usually the scents calmed her. This morning she was fighting a headache.

He stopped to finger one of the thin black tubes inserted into the soil in each flower pot. “These deliver water?”

“It’s called drip irrigation. We use recycled water and also rainwater. I’m only using it indoors, though. Sun exposure reduces the life cycle of the rubber.” She pointed at the plants hanging over their heads. “We use it for the hanging baskets, too. We have the assemblies on a timer so it’s all automatic. Hut Three has a different system. For the seedlings we use overhead misters.” An orange glow radiating through the plastic walls of the hut alerted her to the sunrise. Soon she’d have to get back to the house and arrange some breakfast for Nat.

And let out Chance, who was no doubt draped across the foot of Nat’s bed despite orders that he sleep in the laundry room.

“Ready to move on?”

She didn’t bother walking him through Hut Two. He stood at the entrance and stared at the expanse of flowers—on the benches, in midair and even on the floor. Those awaited delivery, Parker told him. His gaze lingered, she noticed, on the section of black pansies. They’d always fascinated her, too. But his question had nothing to do with flowers.

“You’ve already watered this morning?” He was eyeing the floor.

“We keep the concrete damp on purpose. Cuts back on spider mites and powdery mildew.” And in that instant, an idea was born. She bit back a smile and led the way to Hut Three.

“So the buildings aren’t heated?”

“What? Oh. No. When we’re ready to expand we’ll consider it. It’ll take some money to install the convection tubes but obviously it’ll let us grow year-round.”

“What do you do during the winter?”

“Produce seedling plant and rooted plugs for other greenhouses.” She gave a half shrug. “That’s the plan, anyway. We didn’t get many buyers this past winter. We’ll do better this year.”

There wasn’t much to see in the last hut. She walked him around the property and showed him the potting shed/office/coffee mess, the garage and the compost bin. They walked past a grove of lilacs and the heady scent, combined with the cheerful songs of the robins hunting worms in the dew-damp grass around them, cheered her.

Silence. She turned to find him watching her. “You love this place,” he said.

“I do. So you can see why…” She trailed off.

“Why you’d put up with having me around?” He nodded once. “So, what can I do to help?”

“Follow me.”

After leading him to the storage end of Hut Three she selected a bucket, a soft-bristled scrub brush and a container of bleach. She pushed them at him and said, “Garden hose is just outside.”

He accepted the items as though they were a pile of dirty diapers. “What are these for?”

“Remember that mildew I mentioned?” She waved a hand at the nearest wall. “Don’t scrub too hard or you’ll tear the plastic.”

* * *

REID STRAIGHTENED, AND winced as the stiffness in his back reminded him he’d been hunched over for hours. He peeled back a borrowed latex glove and glanced at his watch. Okay, maybe not hours. Still, ninety minutes was a long time to be bent over a bucket of bleach.

His wince graduated to a grimace. Normally he wasn’t much of a complainer. This morning he had two good reasons. One, he never did get a decent cup of coffee. And two, he’d spent way too much time last night worrying when he should have been sleeping.

Worrying about whether he’d be able to make a difference. And if Parker would break her promise to Briggs. Seemed she planned to keep it after all. But for how long?

The breeze was back, and it carried the scent of spring through the greenhouse. He drew in an approving breath. All in all he’d rather smell flowers than a platoon of sweaty men any day. Not to mention bleach. He peeled off the gloves, pushed his hands into the small of his back and stretched. Time to see if he could get away with making his own pot of coffee.

A clearing of a throat. A young, female-type throat.

Aw, hell. Reid squeezed his eyes shut and slowly lowered his hands to his sides. He hadn’t expected to have to deal with her so soon. Even as he opened his eyes and turned, he told himself he should just ignore her. Show her he was someone she didn’t want to be around.

Green eyes watched him warily. At least he assumed they were both green. One was nearly swollen shut. Damn. All that black and blue had to smart.

After a few awkward seconds he managed to find his voice. “Something I can do for you?”

She shook her head. Silence. He sighed, and gestured with his chin. “What’s with the eye?”

She shrugged. Still not a word. Reid knew he’d lost his charm a long time ago but this was ridiculous. Had she come just to stare? He was tempted to turn around but something in her one-eyed gaze stopped him.

“Name’s Reid. I’m helping out.”

“Why?”

Aha. Not his favorite word in the world, but at least it was a word. “I’m on leave for a month. Needed something to do.”

Her mouth twisted and she eyed the plastic he’d scrubbed.

“You haven’t gotten very far. You spend that much time on every section and as soon as you’re done you’ll have to start all over again.”

Okay, why had he wanted her to speak to him? He gave a lazy shrug, and he could tell by the breathy, indignant noise she made that she didn’t appreciate his response.

“Do you even know what a chrysanthemum looks like?”

He tried not to laugh. She sounded like a teenager. “All right, kid, I admit it. I know squat about plants.” Except what Noble Johnson had tried to teach him. And he didn’t remember much of that, since the more beer the big man drank, the more Latin he spouted. “But that’s what Google’s for.”

“Whatever. You got a girlfriend?”

Now why was that question a kick to his gut? “No.” Then before he could stop himself he added, “Not anymore.” Damn, soldier. Shut up.

“What happened to her?”

“We just…didn’t get along anymore.” Not that he blamed her. There was a time he could barely get along with himself.

“’Cause you’re grumpy?”

Takes grumpy to know grumpy, kid. “Maybe.”

She fiddled with the bracelets on her wrist. “My mom said you came to help ’cause my dad died.”

He didn’t say anything. There was nothing he could say.

“And you didn’t even know him.” She tucked her hands into the back pockets of her bright pink jeans. “I could tell you about him, if you want. Whenever he came home from being deployed he always had to have my mom’s banana muffins. And her meat loaf. He’d ask her to make tons of it and we’d have it with mashed potatoes and peas. I never ate the peas. If she tried to make me I’d feed ’em to Chance. Anyways she’d make him meat loaf sandwiches with ketchup and cheese for when he went fishing. Sometimes she’d put hard-boiled eggs inside to surprise him. Daddy didn’t like to fish with worms, he used these squiggly, feathery, funny-looking things called flies and—”

Reid closed his eyes. He was in hell. Forget the searing flames and writhing bodies and agonized screaming. This was true damnation, having to listen to a lonely little girl chatter on and on about the father she’d worshipped.

“—and when I’d forget to shut it he’d get reeeeally annoyed and—”

“I’m a little busy here, kid,” he said, and barely recognized his own voice. “Maybe you could tell me some other time.” He braced himself for the tears. But her eyes filled with annoyance instead.

“That was rude,” she said. “And my name is Natalie.” She turned and marched away with her nose in the air.

Reid blinked. Guilt pressed down on him like a hundred-pound weight. Now he really needed a coffee. In fact he’d make it a double.

He headed for the potting shed. No sense in pretending he’d only been following her mother’s orders. Truth was, it hurt too much to talk to her. Besides, that kid had more attitude than the desert had scorpions. No way Parker needed to worry about her bonding with Reid.

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