Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

Epigraph

Dedication

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

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Dear Reader

Copyright

He had a solution, a melding of dreams. “Let’s share the farm.”

Her lashes came down, but not before Trace saw doubt cloud her fine brown eyes. “It’s our best chance, Thomasina. Two heads, two pairs of shoulders to bear the responsibility.”

If she said no, she could be cutting off the opportunity of a lifetime. Someone to help her shoulder a dream that had become too unwieldy. Someone capable. Someone whose abilities bolstered her confidence. But if she said yes…Dear Lord, why wouldn’t she say yes?

“Yes!” She flung her arms around Trace’s neck. “Yes! Yes!”

He caught a handful of her hair and held it to his cheek. “You’re beautiful, Thomasina.”

She desperately wanted to believe him. But the child of her past spoke with crocodile jaws, taunting warnings that twisted like a knife between her ribs. She pulled away from him.

And he let her go.

SUSAN KIRBY

has written numerous novels for children, teens and adults. She is a recipient of the Child Study Children’s Book Committee Award, and has received honors from The Friends of American Writers. Her Main Street Series for children, a collection of books that follow one family through four generations of living along the famed highway Route 66, has enjoyed popularity with children and adults alike. With a number of historical novels to her credit, Susan enjoys intermingling writing and research travels with visits to classrooms across the country.

Your Dream and Mine
Susan Kirby

www.millsandboon.co.uk

God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.

—Psalms 46:1

To Joyce A. Flaherty,

A jewel of an agent, and a dear friend,

For your hard work and many kindnesses.

Chapter One

The Midwestern farmhouse bedroom was decorated in cheery floral wallpaper with a gallery of pictures that spanned sixty years of two lives being lived as one. A dresser, night table and a black-lacquered wardrobe dulled by time and wear gleamed in soft lamplight On a quilt-draped blanket chest at the foot of the bed, the television flashed pictures without sound.

Thomasina Rose had spent bedside vigils in countless such rooms in her young career in home nursing. Hearing her patient stir, she lay her paperback novel aside and got up from her bedside chair.

“Do you need something, Milt?” she asked.

“Kind of stuffy in here, isn’t it?” Milt said.

Thomasina crossed to the window overlooking the garden and propped it open with a complimentary Chambers Lumberyard ruler. The rain had stopped. A cool predawn draft stirred lace curtains and blew the room clean of stuffy air.

“Too breezy?” she asked.

“Not for me.” At eighty-one, Milt Chambers was frail, but not beaten. He wheezed and coughed and reached for the oxygen lifeline, then inched his legs over the side of the bed. His joints creaked as he shuffled to his feet and made for the window, hissing beneath his breath.

Thomasina pushed the portable oxygen tank closer as he collapsed into the chair she had vacated.

“High octane.” Milt inhaled deeply, grinned at her and smacked his lips. “Hits the spot. Get me some clothes, would you Tommy Rose?”

Thomasina took elastic-banded sweatpants and a T-shirt from the dresser drawer. “Would you like help dressing?” she asked.

“Thanks, but Mary doesn’t like me flashing this fine physique to the hired help.”

Thomasina’s full mouth curved into a smile. “Mary’s a lucky woman. If you weren’t already married, I’d come courting myself.”

A grin split Milt’s seamed face. “If you’re done telling an old man lies, run out to the garden and cut some flowers.”

“For me?” asked Thomasina.

“What do you think?”

Undaunted by his sandpaper growl, Thomasina laughed. “It was worth a try.”

A slow flush spread up Milt’s leathery neck, over his ears to the crown of his bald head. “Put ’em in that knobby vase she likes and tell her they’re from the milkman.”

Thomasina nodded and plucked her purse off the dresser. “I’ll see you later, Milt.”

“No, you won’t,” growled Milt. “I’m giving you time off for good behavior.”

“You keep saying that, and you’ll hurt my feelings,” said Thomasina.

“It was rough seas for a while, Tommy Rose, but I’m getting stronger every day,” claimed Milt. “I want my wife back where she belongs and you out, no offense.”

“None taken.” Thomasina waved and smiled and went on her way.

She could hear Mary running water in the bathroom. The dairy barn was empty now, but a lifetime of beating the sun out of bed to milk had programmed Mary and Milt’s internal clocks. Thomasina tapped on the door on her way by. “I’m about ready to go, Mary.”

“All right, dear,” Mary called back. “I’ll be out in a minute, and sign your ticket.”

Thomasina left her purse in the kitchen and the ticket book in which she kept track of her hours on the table beside it so Mary could sign her out. Drained by double shifts, out-of-commission air-conditioning, and too-hot-to-rest-comfortably days, she yawned as she let herself out the door.

The stars had dimmed, but the sun had yet to rise. Rainwashed grass was soggy underfoot. Thomasina’s sandals sucked and slapped her weary feet as she trekked over the lawn in her sleeveless blouse and matching white crinklepleated skirt.

The brush of her hem released the cloying fragrance of white clover as she opened the garden gate.

A tangle of baby’s breath and rambling roses spilled over her path to the low stone wall that skirted the graveled drive where the pole lamp burned the brightest. She lowered her face to a lush wet purple umbrella of clustered petals. Heliotrope. Could heaven smell any sweeter? Elohim. Creator God.

His cool breeze and trilling wrens stirred her weary spirit. Hidden crickets joined in, chirping from the foot-high stone wall enclosing the garden. Thomasina hummed beneath her breath as she picked flowers for Milt’s sweetheart bouquet. She was about to retrace her path to the house when a pickup truck rattled up the rutted lane.

Shading her eyes against the glare of headlights, she watched as the truck braked on the other side of the stone wall. The lights winked out. The door opened. Long legs reached for the ground. Her gaze climbed from a pair of work boots to the knees, past the yawning mud-splattered truck door to the bare-chested upper torso showing through the open window.

“’Morning,” he called, meeting her wary glance.

“Good morning.”

He leaned into the truck and reached for something behind the seat. When he returned to her line of vision, he had a shirt in hand. His keys jingled as he slipped his arms through the sleeves and snapped it closed. “Are you the only one up?”

He was lean, long-waisted and broad-shouldered. His hard-muscled frame shrouded in darkness sent her thoughts reeling across the years to a squalid kitchen of her earliest years. “The boys are in the barn, milking.”

He looked toward the barn and arched a brow. “In the dark?”

His dangerous edge melted with his smile. Responding, she relaxed her guard. “Who is it you’re looking for?”

“Will. You must be Tommy.”

“To Milt, I am,” she said.

“Trace Austin.” His eyes held hers. “Pleased to meet you.”

The hand that engulfed hers was nearly as scuffed as the fellow’s work boots. Palms callused, knuckles nicked. Thumbnail black and blue by the light of the overhead pole lamp where moths beat powdery wings against the glass. He turned up his cuffs and drew a hand over a well-shaped jaw as he looked toward the road.

“Will was supposed to meet me here, but I don’t see his car,” he said.

“You’re friends, I take it.”

“A work-intensive proposition, too.” He grinned. “Baled hay, walked beans and milked more cows with him than I care to count.”

“With the lights on, I bet,” said Thomasina.

“Cows don’t care, but it works better that way.” His mouth tipped in response to her thawing. “So are the folks up? Or am I going to wake them if I start on the smaller branches?”

“Branches?” she asked.

“I’m here to take down the oak tree.”

“The one that shades the front side of the house?”

He nodded. “Why? Is there a problem?”

“I’m surprised, is all. Milt and Mary hadn’t mentioned it.” Thomasina turned toward the house, then glanced back when he didn’t follow. “Are you coming?”

“It’s a little early. I think I’ll just wait here. Will should be along shortly.”

Thomasina nodded and watched him stride around to the back of the truck and let the tailgate down. He carried himself well, his gait smooth, his shoulders thrown back. He could use a haircut, though. And a shave. And he might want to think about keeping his shirts somewhere other than behind the truck seat. It had more wrinkles than poor old Milt.

Trace’s mouth twitched as he oiled his chain saw, and checked the rest of the gear. Milt had been so sick, he hadn’t guessed he had any fun left in him. He’d been wrong. Tommy this and Tommy that. Deliberately leading him to think he had a male nurse.

And there she was, about as female as they came. Round and firm in all the right places, swaying a little as she strolled toward the house. Nothing provocative, just graceful and natural, the breeze rippling her skirt and her long dark hair. A sweet scent trailed after her. In the barn, milking. He regretted calling her on it. She was right to be careful, for her own sake and Milt and Mary’s, too. It was isolated out this way, and though it was private property, the timber acreage and the creek running through the farm attracted hikers and campers and fishermen and canoers, most of whom were friends and neighbors. But not always.

Trace walked around to the cab of the truck, turned the key and checked the time. He had worked second shift with some overtime tacked on and wanted to get the tree down, go home, get a little shut-eye and make the most of his time before he had to head back in for his next shift.

He leaned against the truck door, shoulders bunched, and caught himself patting down his shirt pockets as he watched the road. He’d quit a month ago, but out of habit now and then reached for cigarettes that weren’t there.

Trace started giving Will the countdown. Sometime after lunch, a prospective renter was stopping by, and he wanted to get the porch painted. The renovation of old houses, squeezed in between shifts at the car plant kept him hopping. But it’d pay off one of these days.

Trace reached inside the truck, turned the key in the ignition and dialed in a country station. He yawned and fought the sandman, and toyed with the idea of starting without Will. But the tree was too close to the house to take any chances. He needed a ground man to guide the branches down. Should have told Will to call him when he was ready. Shoulda-coulda-woulda.

The aroma of perking coffee wafted from the house. It smelled good. Almost as good as Milt’s nurse and her armful of flowers.

Chapter Two

Coffee perked on the stove as Thomasina let herself in. Hand towels with crocheted tops were buttoned to the knobs of floor-to-ceiling bead-board cupboards. The cow salt-and-pepper shakers matched the cookie jar on the red gingham-covered table. Dated and charming, the kitchen, like the rest of the house was as hospitable as Mary Chambers herself.

Thomasina dropped her flowers beside the white enamel sink. She found the milk-glass vase Milt had specified and was cutting the flower stems to size under running water when Mary came in. Her hair was braided and coiled on her head like a silver garland. Her eyes brightened at the sight of the flowers.

“Special delivery for you,” said Thomasina.

“Heliotrope! I could smell it from the living room!” Mary broke into a wrinkled smile. “Thank you, dear.”

“Thank the milkman.”

Mary laughed. “Once a dairy man, always a dairy man. The coffee’s almost ready. Will you have a cup with me?”

“It smells wonderful, but I better not,” said Thomasina. “I’ll be sweltering once I get home and off to bed. No point in adding caffeine to the mix.”

“Your air-conditioning still isn’t working?” Mary said, “Honey, you’ll have to be more assertive with your landlord if you hope to get any results.”

“I’m taking the pacifist route, and moving,” said Thomasina with a wry grin.

Mary looked up from running water into a copper-bottom sauce pan. “You’ve found something?”

“Maybe. It’s in Liberty Flats.”

“Really? Anyone I know?”

Thomasina wrinkled her nose and admitted, “I didn’t jot his name down, I was so busy asking questions.”

Mary reached for the oatmeal box. “I wonder if he’s married.” She pinched salt into the pan, adding quickly, “Married men make better landlords. They’ve learned how to fix things. On the other hand, if he isn’t married, who knows? He might like to be.”

Thomasina smiled and tucked the last flower into the vase. “You and Milt—the poster kids for matrimonial bliss,” she said, and swept the trimmed stems into the trash.

“You’re a sweetheart,” said Mary, patting her hand. “May you find Mr. Right and live happily ever after.”

“Mr. Right? What’s that got to do with it?”

Mary laughed. “Lord preserve us from Saint Self-Sufficiency!”

“Of course if we’re talking wish trees, I’d adore a man who adored me. So long as he likes kids and has tons of patience, or he’ll be at odds with the other wishes on my tree,” said Thomasina with a cheeky grin. “And speaking of trees, what’s this I hear about the oak in your front yard?”

“The kids think this house needs a deck, and the tree is in the way.” Mary met Thomasina’s eye over the rim of her coffee cup.

“It’s a beauty, though,” said Thomasina.

“Yes,” agreed Mary. “But a deck will be nice, too. It’ll stretch halfway across the front of the house, and wrap around the corner. There’ll be a sliding glass door off the living room and a second door leading right out of the bedroom. It will link up with the brick path to the garden. Will promised to build a ramp to give Milt easy access.”

Suspecting that Mary’s willingness to let them take the tree down was born of a lifetime of putting her loved one’s needs ahead of her own, Thomasina asked, “Have you asked if there’s a way they could spare the tree?”

“And throw a monkey wrench in the works?”

“Stick up for yourself,” quipped Thomasina. “Isn’t that what you were just telling me about the air-conditioning?”

Mary peered at her over the rims of her glasses. “That’s different.”

“Tell you what, I’ll mention to Milt that you’re attached to that tree, and maybe—”

“Please don’t,” Mary cut in. “Milt’s just beginning to get over the kids hiring nursing care against his wishes. I don’t want him getting his back up over this. Promise me you won’t say anything.”

“All right, then, if you’re sure,” said Thomasina, chagrined at alarming her. “Your tree cutter is waiting, by the way.”

“Trace is outside? Why didn’t he come in?”

“I asked. He declined.”

“He did, did he? We’ll see about that!” Mary angled for the front door.

Thomasina folded the pad of time tickets into her pocketbook, slung the strap over her shoulder and started for the bedroom, the vase of flowers in hand.

“I thought I’d give you the flowers so you can give them to Mary in person,” she said as she breezed into Milt’s bedroom. “You’ll get more brownie points that way.”

Milt spread a lap quilt over his lower torso with a hasty fumbling hand. “You ever hear of knocking?”

“I’m sorry. I’ll go out and come in again.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” said Milt. “Go out and keep going.”

Milt was fully clothed beneath the lap robe, so it wasn’t modesty motivating him. That was pretense, anyway, when she’d spent the past few weeks nursing him.

Milt closed the nightstand drawer with a snap, and met her searching eye, bold as brass. “Well? What’re you waiting for?”

“Compliments,” she said, and set the flowers on his nightstand with a flourish.

“Nice,” he said. “Now beat it.”

The damage was long since done. If he wanted to sneak a smoke, was it any of her business? But the ever-present danger of the oxygen compelled Thomasina to warn him. On the other hand, she didn’t want to accuse him, then find out she was wrong.

Deliberating, Thomasina moved in front of the mirror and freshened her lipstick with one hand while she opened the nightstand drawer with the other. It held a few pencils, a marble, some toothpicks and some matches. No cigarettes. But the odor of tobacco wafted from the drawer. She nudged it closed and glanced at Milt’s lap robe. The sharp edges of a book showed beneath it. Meeting his steely-eyed glare, she sucked in her cheeks and tried to make him laugh, making dimples and duck lips.

He snorted. “Trying out for the talent show?”

“Sure. I thought we’d be a team. What’re you reading?” she asked.

“None of your beeswax,” he said.

Thomasina flipped back the corner of the robe and squinted. “‘Hymns of Praise.’ Are we singing a duet?”

“Who’s we, rose lips? You got a frog in your pocket?”

“Let’s see the book,” said Thomasina.

“I haven’t swiped one of your kissy-face books, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

Overlooking his jab at the paperback poking out of her shoulder bag, she said, “Did I ever mention a boy I once knew who liked to carve the center out of books? I admired his ingenuity, but it made the story lines a little hard to follow.”

“What’re you getting at?”

Thomasina held out her hand in silent entreaty.

Milt coughed and blustered in a half-strangled voice, “How’d a gal with such a suspicious bent get in the nursing business, anyway?”

“The same way an ornery critter like you got a sweet wife like Mary—I bamboozled my way into it,” countered Thomasina.

“Mary’s like God. She looks on the heart.”

“Yes, and she’s going to be disappointed to hear you’re chasing after that old mistress of yours again,” said Thomasina.

“All right, all right!” Milt slapped the book into her outstretched hand. “You’ve got a snakish way of putting things, Tommy Rose. I’ll bet you get put out on your fanny job after job.”

“Au contraire! My last case proposed. He was the one with the triple bypass. A real sweetheart of a guy. No complaints from the gent before him, either.” Thomasina slipped the pack of cigarettes from the hollow book into her pocket. “But you’re still my all-time favorite.”

“You’re pulling my leg, right?”

Thomasina smiled. “That’s what I like—your crusty charm.”

“You and Mary.”

“Yep, you and Mary,” chimed Thomasina. “Still on speaking terms after all these years. That’s what makes you my favorite case.”

“Careful, you’re losing your snakish edge,” said Milt, grinning.

“Save your sweet talk. I’m busting you, mister, on your cigarette charades.”

Milt gave a bark of laughter.

Pleased she’d defused the situation without making him mad, Thomasina swung around to go, then pulled up short. Trace Austin stood in the door, two cups of steaming coffee in one hand. She surmised a gleam of admiration in his eye, and she flushed. So did he.

Trace moved to let her pass through the door, and sloshed his coffee doing so. But it wasn’t the brew dripping over his well-shaped hand she noticed so much as his eyes. They were startling blue. Her gaze dropped to his left hand—ringless.

Whatever had made her look for a ring? Thomasina chalked it up to sleep deprivation, returned his nod and called a farewell to Milt on her way out.

Chapter Three

“Mornin’, Trace. You’re out bright and early,” Milt said, after Thomasina had left the room. “Got a cigarette?”

“Like I’d give it to you if I did!”

“It’s not bad enough I’m trembling over my grave. Now you and Tommy Rose are conspiring against me.”

“Tommy Rose now, is it?”

“It suits her, don’t you think? Or didn’t you notice?”

“I was busy burning my hand on your coffee.”

“Just as well,” said Milt, reaching for the cup. “Tommy isn’t the kind you can woo with your callow charm.”

“Says the guy who set me up. Tommy this, and Tommy that!” Trace grinned. “I should have known a male nurse wasn’t your style.”

“Why, thank you, Trace. You make me feel seventeen again. Which reminds me, I hear your old flame Deidre’s coming home on furlough.”

“Deidre O’Conley? I thought she was teaching school on the reservation.”

“It’s a mission school. Missionaries get furloughs now and then,” said Milt. “The church is having a Sunday night soup-supper fund-raiser for her while she’s here. Mary’s selling tickets. Can she put you down for one?”

“Make it two,” countered Trace.

“Taking a date?”

“Nope. Just being a nice guy.”

“You’re not going?” Milt’s crafty grin faded. “Trace, my boy, you ought to let go of your grudge. Why, there’s no shame in losing to your betters. Or was it someone besides God who came between you two?”

“You’re going to have to get out more, Milt. You’re turning into a professional meddler,” groused Trace.

Milt lost his breath cackling, and reached for his oxygen. Alarmed, Trace set his coffee aside, and came to his feet. “You need some help?”

Milt shook his head and motioned him down again. “Kind of early for a social call,” he said, when he’d caught his breath. “What’s on your mind?”

Trace explained about the tree, and waiting on Will.

“I’d call Will, but the phone and the alarm clock are all the same ring to him. He’s good at ignoring both,” said Milt. “Speaking of ring-a-dings—how are you and your renter getting along?”

“Which one?” asked Trace.

“Antoinette Penn.”

Trace stretched his legs and crossed his ankles. “If I had it to do over, I’d stick to my no-kids, no-pets and mow-your-own-grass rules. But her kids needed a roof over their head, and she caught me in a weak moment.”

“Watch your weak moments, or it’ll be your roof over her head, the same one you’re under.”

“That’s the least of my worries,” said Trace.

“Prickly, isn’t she?” drawled Milt with a knowing grin. “Rough, losing her husband that way. Of course, she’d take your hide off if she thought you were feeling sorry for her.”

“You can save your breath. I learned my lesson,” said Trace. After Antoinette’s husband died in an icy pile-up on I-55, he’d felt sorry enough to rent the little yellow house to her. Her kids spent more time in his yard than they did in their own, which generated the usual amount of smalltown gossip.

“That-a-boy,” said Milt. “Hold out for a girl like my Mary.”

Trace nursed his coffee and chatted with Milt awhile before giving up on Will.

Once home, he showered and fell into bed and slept hard until dreams edged him toward wakefulness.

“Do you take Deidre O’Conley to be your…”

Trace awoke before the preacher in his dream got the words out. Half a lifetime ago he would have taken Deidre to be his anything. She was a do-gooder and spiritually needy and all he needed was her. He had told her so at the drive-in theater.

“You’ve got less plot than the movie,” Deidre had told him. “And what there is of it, God didn’t put there.”

It had seemed to Trace at the time that there ought to be some middle ground. But Deidre disagreed. So he walked the straight and narrow, sure he’d win her heart in the end.

But he lost on that count, too, to the courage of her convictions. To his betters, as Milt put it. It was a gradual loss—first she left for Bible college, then four years later, for the mission field. The letters and phone calls had stopped by then. She met someone out in Arizona. He had since died. Trace bought a sympathy card, a religious one. But he never could bring himself to send it. Partly because the words seemed hypocritical, coming from a guy who hadn’t been in church since she left town. Partly for fear she’d read something other than sympathy in the gesture.

Trace kicked back the sheets, thinking of subsequent relationships and how they died on the vine with mild regret and none of the pain of Deidre. He had her to thank for that. She’d taught him to put his armor on and keep his heart well guarded.

Trace showered and shaved and ate cold leftovers, then started the needed painting. After a year and a half, cosmetic improvements were all that remained of turning the dilapidated eyesore he’d picked up for a song into a grand old lady of a house. He lived in one half. The other half he hoped to rent just as he had the other fixer-uppers he’d acquired over the past fourteen years.

Between good wages and rental properties, he was building a tidy nest egg while he waited for the place of his dreams to come on the market. A place with a fishing hole and woodland trails and a nice creek for canoeing. When he found it, he planned to build vacation cabins. He would call it Wildwood. It would be his ticket out of the car plant and off the treadmill of predictability.

Beyond that, the dream got hazy. But even as a kid with building blocks, Trace never quite knew how to enjoy himself playing with what he’d built. It didn’t worry him. There was a lot of hard work between here and there. It was the work he relished. Building something from scratch, driving every nail. A world away from attaching identical pieces of trim, identical wires, on identical cars at sixty-second intervals.

It was hot in Thomasina’s third-floor apartment. She slept poorly and awoke with circles under her eyes. A cool shower helped some. So did liquid foundation, though a sheen of perspiration made wet work of it.

Thomasina tilted her damp face to the fan and coiled her long dark hair in one hand as she waited for her makeup to dry. Using a butterfly clip to secure her gathered tresses at the back of her head, she applied eye makeup, then blush, then peach-colored lipstick before reaching for the lash curler. It was old and sticky with the heat and wouldn’t let go. Thomasina winced and batted a watering eye. A tissue did more harm than good, smudging shadow and mascara and removing smearing blush from her left cheek all in one swipe. Out of patience, she flung the whole works into her cosmetic bag and picked up the classified ads, doubts mounting.

She was a city girl. Why had she ever agreed to look at rent property in Liberty Flats? It was a one-school, onechurch town with a post office and a grocery store. Quaint and charming, granted. But it was fifteen miles from all the amenities to which she was accustomed.

Regretting yesterday’s impulse that had led to today’s appointment with the landlord of the property, a man whose name now escaped her, Thomasina scanned the ad again. No name, just a number. Thomasina donned a shortsleeved, trim-fitting uniform and dialed the number. She would just have to tell the guy she’d changed her mind about seeing the Rush Street property. But there was no answer. It seemed rude to be a no-show. Thomasina sighed and relented. Peeking at the place didn’t obligate her. She was passing through anyway on her way to Milt and Mary’s.

Trace’s two-story house sat at a right angle to the street on a shady double lot. The foyer beyond the main entrance took a bite out of the corner of the house. The veranda, which gave access to the entrance, wrapped the corner. The west side of the porch was Trace’s. The south side went with the tenant apartment.

Trace tucked his burgundy shirt into his dark gray work trousers. He crouched on the entrance threshold, leaned past the step and stretched down a hand to see if the porch floor had dried. His finger came away forest green. The paint was as wet as when he’d put it down.

He retraced his steps to the back utility room where he’d stored the paint can. Twenty-four hours to dry. Now how had he overlooked that earlier? He had, with his slick efficiency, painted himself in and his prospective renter out.

Leaving his door standing open, Trace climbed out a window, backed his truck up to the porch and let the tailgate down. He was looking for a board in the carriage house when he heard a car pull up out front. Hastily he grabbed a long two-by-four and crossed beneath the widespread blue ash. He spanned the wet porch with the two-by-four, one end supported by the tailgate, the other thrust through the front door into the parquet floor of the foyer.

Hearing footsteps on the brick walk, he turned, an apology ready.

“The porch floor is wet If you can…” The rest of the explanation faded away, so unnerved was he at finding himself looking into the deep-set darkly fringed eyes of Milt’s nurse.

“Tommy Rose!” he blurted. “What are you doing here?”

Chapter Four

The disheveled man Thomasina had met at Milt and Mary’s early that morning was no longer so disheveled. Just surprised. And discomfited at having blurted out Milt’s pet name for her.

Thomasina buried her own discomfort in a smile. “Hello again, Mr. Austin. I’m here to see the apartment.”

“It was you I talked to on the phone? I didn’t take down a name.”

Thomasina nodded.

“I’ll be.” Trace shifted his feet.

“Small world, huh?”

The house, with its fresh coat of white paint, white carpenter’s lace and green porch begged to be seen.

Thomasina smiled and moved out of the sun, asking. “How did you get along with your tree cutting?”

“It went about like the rest of my day.” Trace gestured toward the board spanning the porch. “The paint’s wet. The only way in is over that board. Or have you lost interest?”

“I was having second thoughts. But,” she admitted. “I’m here. I may as well look.”

When she phrased it that way, Trace wanted to tell her not to put herself out, that he’d have no trouble renting the place. With the city limits near by, Liberty Flats had become a bedroom community. It was a seller’s market, and renters were even easier to find than buyers. But he didn’t want her mistaking his words for pressure. He said instead, “I’ll get a wider board.”

“This’ll do.”

“You’re sure?”

“Why not? If Nadia can trip the light fantastic on a balance beam, I can inch across a two-by-four.” Thomasina tossed her purse into the back of his truck. She slipped out of her shoes and set them on the tailgate beside her purse.

“Nadia?”

“You know. The gymnast?”

“Oh, her. Sure!” Trace grinned and vaulted onto the tailgate to offer her a hand up. “You’re dating yourself, though. That was a few Olympics ago.”

“Twenty-seven and holding,” she said with a puckish grin. “The cat’s out of the bag, now. How about you?”

“Thirty-four,” he said, surprised she would ask.

“I’ll go first, make sure it’ll hold.” He strode across the two-by-four, then turned to see her tip her face and start after him with no sign of hesitancy.

“And she nails the landing!” Thomasina quipped as she stepped into the entryway beside him.

Trace answered her with a grin and ushered her inside.

The living room was long and a little narrow. But the high ceiling and a bay window gave it a spacious feel. Thomasina circled the room and stopped to visualize filmy sheer curtains at the windows. The walls were freshly painted a warm eggshell shade, a nice backdrop for her floral sofa with its splash of Victorian colors. “This is lovely.”

Pleased, Trace led her toward the kitchen where plush carpet gave way to recently installed linoleum. High, old-fashioned built-in cupboards lined one wall. There was a recessed nook for dining, with a table and benches built in. A stove and refrigerator were in place.

“Appliances included, as long as they hold out. They were here when I bought the house. Or do you have your own?”

“No.” Thomasina saw that the wooden countertop matched the table. “Maple, isn’t it?”

Trace nodded as her hands trailed over the countertop. They were sensible hands—nails clipped short, lightly tinted. Slender and smooth and graceful to the eye. “Cut on Will’s sawmill. The finish is supposed to protect the wood against water. We’ll see if it lives up to expectations.”

“I like it,” said Thomasina, impressed with the craftsmanship.

He gave a modest shrug. “Thought I’d try something different. The laundry room is through here, with a back entry off the porch.”

“My own laundry room?”

“Shared, actually,” he said, and unlocked a second door.

Thomasina realized that the laundry room with its washer, dryer and utility sink connected the two apartments at the rear of the house. Another door lead out to a screened-in porch. Her eye was drawn to the porch by bright-colored hanging plants that swayed in the breeze coming through the screened walls. A wicker love seat and an old-fashioned swing like the one on the front veranda just begged to be tried out. She pushed the door open.

“Careful,” Trace warned, and stretched an arm across the door, preventing her from stepping out on the porch. “The paint’s still wet.”

“Here, too?”

“I didn’t read the drying time until after the fact.” He turned back the way they had come. “The stairs are off the kitchen.”

Thomasina lingered a moment in the open door. She looked past the porch to freshly mown grass and ancient oak trees. “It’s a huge yard.”

“It looks even bigger when you’re mowing it, and the acorns are a real pain when they fall.” Trace flung words over his shoulder. “I’ll provide the mower, plus knock some off the rent if you want to mow the grass yourself.”

“Fair enough. Does your other tenant mow?” she asked.

“I live in the other half.”

For the second time that day, Thomasina’s gaze strayed to his ringless left hand. “With your family?”

“Just me,” he said, and turned away again.

Thomasina tracked with her glance a droplet of water dripping from a springy brown curl. It disappeared over the curve of his ear. It was a well-shaped ear, a little pink on the ridge where the skin had burned and peeled.

“Utilities are included in the rent.”

Thomasina followed as he moved toward the enclosed staircase leading to the second story. She tracked the water droplet as it fell from his earlobe and slid down his neck. He paused on the bottom step and turned.

“The hot-water heater needs some adjusting. Comes out of the spigot hot enough to make coffee.”

“Convenient,” she said.

“Unless you forget and scald your hide stepping in the shower.”

“Duly noted.” As was the small scar at the cleft of his chin and the straight nose anchoring his hazy blue eyes. His cheekbones were prominent and freckled beneath a deep tan. She noticed the insignia on his work shirt. “You work at the car plant in Bloomington?”

“Second shift.” He started up the stairs.

“No wonder you asked about kids and dogs. You sleep days.”

“Yes.”

“Me, too, since I started caring for Milt.”

“Are you out there every night?”

“I work for Picket Fence Private Nurses. It’s pretty much their call.”

Trace stopped on the landing. “The bathroom’s through the bedroom there. The other door is a walk-in closet.”

Thomasina sailed past him and flung her arms wide. “Bed here, dresser there, bookcases flanking the window. I wonder if I have enough furniture.”

A smile tugged at his mouth at her unbridled enthusiasm. He could have predicted that the dormer window would draw her.

“What a pretty view!” She turned as she spoke. “Are those train tracks I see cutting across open country?”

Trace nodded. The countryside as seen from the upstairs was old hat to him. She, on the other hand, was a fresh look. A cloud of dark bangs spilled over a wide forehead and ended at delicately arched brows. Her heart-shaped face ended with a dimpled chin. Her eyes were so dark, he had mistaken them for black. They weren’t. Bittersweet chocolate came closer. Her hair, loosely held at the back of her head with a butterfly clip, was equally dark and rich. One escaped wisp clung damply to her temple.

“Take your time.” Trace shoved a hand in his pocket and went downstairs to wait while Thomasina checked out the bathroom.

The walls were tiled in white. A modern shower had been installed inside a refurbished claw-foot tub. A window overlooked the town if you cared to peer out while you bathed. The closet was deep and spacious. Delighted with everything about the place, she decided to give small-town life a whirl.

Trace was waiting for her in the laundry room. She looked past the porch and over the green lawn. “You have central air, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“July. That’s a little late for planting flowers, I suppose.”

“Then you’re taking it?”

“I believe I will. Do you need references?”

“Milt and Mary speak well of you. That’s good enough for me.”

“Is it all right if I move in right away? The air-conditioning has been broken in my third-floor flat for a week and a half,” she added. “I’d pitch a tent under a tree for some cool air.”

“It’s ready to go. No reason you shouldn’t move in.”

“Where do I sign?”

“The lease? There isn’t one.”

“You’re kidding!”

“No. I don’t want a piece of paper keeping someone longer than they want to stay.”

Or vice versa, thought Thomasina. She’d wager by the set of that long upper lip, that he knew how to put an out-of-favor tenant on the road without much trouble, too.

“One key going to be enough?” he asked.

“Unless I lock myself out.”

Trace saw her safely over the plank and to her car at the curb, wondering idly if she had a significant other. She wrote the first month’s rent, then tallied the balance while he took a final appraisal from a landlord’s point of view. Just a nice honest down-to-earth working girl.

He’d have bet his bottom dollar she wouldn’t give him a moment’s trouble.

It was too early to go to Milt and Mary’s and too late to drive back to Bloomington. Thomasina killed a little time driving around Liberty Flats. It was an eclectic collection of homes with everything from refurbished Victorians to modest bungalows to ranch-style homes with a few upperscale dwellings sprinkled in.

Trees canopied the streets leading to a square in the center of town. There was a park with a baseball diamond, an old-fashioned bandstand, a few picnic tables and some playground equipment. A couple of old-timers sat on a bench in front of the post office watching her brake for a dog. They raised their hands, so she waved, too, then made a second pass through town just in case she’d missed something.

She hadn’t. There was no fast food, not even a mom-and-pop café. Wishing she’d picked up a sandwich before leaving Bloomington, Thomasina stopped at the only light in town, then followed Main Street to the country.

There was a roadside vegetable stand on the way to Milt and Mary’s. The proprietor was having a yard sale. She chatted amicably while Thomasina stocked up on fresh vegetables, picked through the paperback books, then deliberated over window coverings.

The middle-aged lady got up from the card table and came over to shake the wrinkles out of the curtains. “I can knock a couple of dollars off, if you’re interested.”

“I like them, but I’m not sure they’ll fit,” Thomasina admitted. “I’m moving, and I haven’t had a chance to measure the windows.”

“Hereabouts?”

“Liberty Flats. I’m renting from Trace Austin.” Thomasina spread the curtains out on the table. They were good-quality drapery and in excellent condition. But she had no idea if they’d fit the windows.

Watching Thomasina fold and return the drapes to the table, the woman said, “If you’re interested, I’ll see if I can catch Trace at home and have him measure the windows for you.”

“Oh, no! Don’t bother him,” said Thomasina.

“Pooh! He won’t mind for a worthy cause,” said the woman. She hurried inside and was back in less than five minutes with the measurements and a measuring tape.

“Just right! See there! And Trace couldn’t have been nicer about it once he heard the proceeds from the sale are going to Deidre’s mission. Which reminds me, would you like to buy a ticket to the soup supper? It’ll be at the church Sunday night.”

“Sure, I’ll take a couple,” agreed Thomasina. “Where is it again?”

“Liberty Flat’s church. On Church Street,” the lady added, and chuckled as she gave her the tickets. She tallied her purchases and counted back her change. “Enjoy your new home.”

Thomasina thanked her and drove on out to Milt and Mary’s. Fixing supper wasn’t part of her job. But both Mary and Milt had been to the doctor that day, and Mary was worn-out. She perked up a bit when Thomasina told her about her forthcoming move to Liberty Flats.

“What a happy coincidence!” exclaimed Mary. “You’ll like Trace.”

“Take it easy on him, rose lips,” said Milt.

“Oh, Milt! Don’t start that foolishness,” scolded Mary.

“All I said was—”

“You couldn’t want a more responsible landlord than Trace.” Mary talked right over him.

“All I said—”

“Respectable, too.”

“All I—”

“Not one word!”

Milt gave a rusty laugh. “Simmer down, Mary, and leave the matchmakin’ to me. Right, Tommy Rose?”

“So long as you leave me out of it,” said Thomasina. She smiled at Mary and whispered loudly, “Why don’t you see if you can get his meddling under control while I do the dishes?”

Mary stood by as Thomasina helped Milt to the battery-powered scooter the family had purchased when he became too weak to get from one end of the house to the other without stopping to rest. Once to the living room, Milt settled on the sofa beside Mary. He turned on the television, but soon had it on mute.

Bits of conversation drifted in from the living room as Thomasina cleared the dining room table. She saw Milt patting Mary’s knee, and Mary wiping her eyes. The words living will tugged at her heartstrings. She retreated to the kitchen, closed the door and winged silent petitions on their behalf to the One who had filled them with so many good years.

Chapter Five

At the end of her shift at Milt and Mary’s, Thomasina returned to her apartment and began packing boxes for the move. The heat soon zapped her. She filled her white sedan with boxes and sofa cushions, and drove south to Liberty Flats.

Taking a few necessities to the upstairs bedroom, Thomasina made a bed for herself on the cushions, and slept better than she had in days. She awakened at two in the afternoon, showered and dressed in shorts and a pink oversize shirt. Ready to tackle unloading the car, she tied her hair back with a neon pink scarf and let herself out the front door.

Two towheaded, chocolate-smudged youngsters darted across Thomasina’s path and around the side of the house to where Trace was trimming bushes. The little boy kicked through the clippings as they fell to the ground. The little girl, half a head taller, tripped over the extension cord trying to copy his capers. The hedge clippers went dead.

“What’re you two doing back?” asked Trace, unaware of Thomasina’s approach.

“Momma said we didn’t have to come in yet,” said the little boy. His voice was nearly as raspy as old Milt’s.

“Well, you’re in my way, so scram,” said Trace, reaching for the rake.

“Cut our bushes,” said the little girl. Getting no response from Trace, she turned to her brother. “They’re tall as a house. Aren’t they, Pauly?”

The boy bobbed his head and sucked his thumb.

“Hear that, Win?” said Trace. He paused in raking clippings to cup a hand to his ear. “Cartoons are on.”

“Who’s on?” asked the girl.

“Magnet-Man. He’s the guy who’s going to clean house on those toy heroes you two have been collecting.”

“Nuh-uh!” said Winny, jutting out her lip.

Trace shrugged and tossed a pile of clippings into the wheelbarrow. “That’s what I heard, anyway.”

“You’re fibbing,” accused Winny. But the seed of planted doubt bunched her face into a pout. “Come on, Pauly. We’ll tell Momma.”

Trace leaned down to reconnect the trimmers, then straightened to find Thomasina standing a few feet away. Her gaze followed the children cross the yard where they disappeared through a narrow path in the hedge.

“Hi,” said Trace. “How’s the move going?”

“So far so good.” Her mouth tipped in response to his smile. “Who do I call about getting the paper delivered?”

He gave her the paperboy’s name, and offered to let her use his phone.

“Thanks. But I’ve got one in the car. By the way, I saw the tree at Mary and Milt’s is still standing. I’m glad. Mary’s partial to it.”

“Milt didn’t mention that to me.”

“She didn’t tell him. She doesn’t want to be the fly in the ointment.”

“That so?” he said.

Leaving well enough alone, Thomasina crossed to the curb for the sack of doughnuts she had left in the car. Someone had beat her to it. It was no mystery who. There were chocolate child-size fingerprints all over the seats, on her moving boxes and even on her cellular phone. She wiped the phone off only to find a dead line. On closer inspection she found the battery was missing.

Thomasina retraced her steps to where Trace was rolling up the extension chord. “On second thought, I’ll take you up on the phone offer. Mine’s not working.”

“If you’re going to leave your car out, you might want to lock your doors,” he said.

“I thought leaving doors unlocked was one of the perks in small towns.”

“Maybe in Mayberry. But the Penn kids are loose in Liberty Flats.”

She folded her arms. “Fine way to talk about your little helpers.”

“Helpers?” He laughed, his face shiny damp. “Good argument for staying single, don’t you mean?”

“Shame on you.”

Unrepentant, Trace dragged a brown forearm across his brow, then tossed the coiled extension cord on top of the hedge trimmings. “Anything else I can do to make moving day less of a hassle?”

“I noticed there isn’t a restaurant in town. What do people around here do for eating out?”

“You can get a sandwich made to order at Newt’s Market on the square. Pretty good one at that.”

“Great. The cupboards are bare.”

“Your doughnut sack, too,” he said. “Sorry I didn’t get it away from them before they made such a mess of your car.”

“You caught them in the act, huh?”

“Chocolate-fisted.” At Thomasina’s smile, he added, “They live in the little yellow house on the other side of the hedge if you want to take it up with their mother.”

“That won’t be necessary,” she said.

“I was planning on grabbing a sandwich before work myself,” said Trace on impulse. “You want to come along?”

“That’s nice of you. Sure,” said Thomasina, appreciating the welcoming gesture.

“Let me put this stuff away. You can make your phone call while I shower, and then we’ll go.” He collected his remaining yard tools. “The phone’s this way.”

Thomasina trailed after him as he trundled the wheelbarrow to a shady old two-story stone carriage house. It had been converted to a two-car garage and a shop. There were windows. But the trees diffused the sunlight. It was shadowy inside, and several degrees cooler.

“There’s room in here if you want to park out of the weather,” he said as he led her past his pickup truck. “I keep the doors locked, so you won’t have to worry about the kids playing road trip in your car.”

“So that’s what they were doing.” Thomasina chuckled. “Creative of them. Thanks for the offer. I’ll take you up on it, come winter.”

“I’ll have an extra key made, then.” Trace led her to his workshop at the back of the carriage house and switched on a light. “Phone’s on the wall over there.”

“Thanks,” said Thomasina. “I’ll call about getting a phone, too. What’s the address again, in case they ask?”

Trace wrote it on a matchbook, then left. Thomasina picked her way to the phone through a maze of toolboxes, free-standing cabinets, saws, drills and other power tools. She phoned her supervisor first and got her work schedule for the following week, then called about having the phone line turned on.

The blended scent of sawdust, drying wood and oiled tools stirred poignant memories of her foster parents. Much of their nurturing had been done in a shop similar to this. Thomasina picked up curled wood shavings and held them to her face, her thoughts reaching back in time. Flo loved flowers and Nathan, and Nathan loved Flo and woodworking, and together they loved Thomasina after abandonment by her own mother and a winding road of short-term foster homes had placed her with a family next door to them.

“Thomasina Rose. What a beautiful name,” Florence had called when Thomasina dropped over the fence that first day. “A name to grow into. Do you like roses? I’ve got aphids on mine. Have you ever seen aphids? They’re like fear in a human heart—hard to see, but oh, my! What a lot of damage they’re capable of doing. Don’t be shy! Come have a look, dear.”

That summer, over lemonade and cookies and Bible stories, Florence introduced Thomasina to much more than aphids and gardening. She had introduced her to God.

“The world is His garden, my dear,” she had said one day, a trowel in one hand, a young plant in the other. “Sometimes He transplants His flowers. No one knows why. But I’m thankful He’s sent such a sweet rose to ramble over our back fence!”

After getting to know them, Thomasina was scared she’d get shuffled again and lose Nathan and Flo. Her social worker saw the change in her. She convinced Flo that she and Nathan were the very kind of people so desperately needed in the foster care system.

Soon thereafter, the switch was made. Nathan and Flo were walking talking funnels from heaven to earth, spilling all the love God gave them into restoring Thomasina’s lost childhood just as most teens were relinquishing theirs. But Thomasina’s thirsty heart was in no hurry for independence. She stayed with Nathan and Flo through two years of junior college and nurse’s training. More than foster parents, they became her heart-parents, her model for good neighboring, and at the core of her wish to establish a camp where wounded, broken children could be led to God, and find help.

Hearing children’s hushed voices in the carriage house, Thomasina snapped out the light in the shop. “Hello.”

The twosome who had made such havoc of her car stopped short at the sight of her, and traded wary glances.

“I’ve got boxes to carry inside and not enough hands. I wonder where I could get some good help,” said Thomasina.

“Are you moving in with Trace?” asked the little girl.

“No, I’m moving into Mr. Austin’s apartment.”

“What’s a ’partment?”

“It’s more than one home under a single roof. When I get moved in, will you visit me?”

“Is your ’partment like a playhouse?”

“Something like that,” said Thomasina, smiling. “Perhaps your mother would come, as well. It’s lonesome when you move, and nice to make new friends.”

“Momma’s already got a friend,” the little boy said. “His name’s Red.”

“Fred,” corrected Winny.

“Nuh-uh. It’s Red ’cause his hair’s red.”

“His hair’s red, but his name’s Fred,” argued Winny.

“Wanna bet? We’ll go ask Momma.”

The little boy dropped something on his way out. It was the battery to Thomasina’s phone. She put it in her pocket, locked the carriage house behind her and unloaded boxes until Trace returned. His hair was still damp from the shower. His work shirt, tucked neatly into his trousers emphasized his lean waist and narrow hips.

“This belongs to you?” he asked as she climbed into the truck.

Thomasina took the blue barrette from his open hand. “Winny’s, I think. They were here a moment ago. Curious fingers and power tools can’t be a good combination,” she added, seeing his frown.

“You wouldn’t think so.” Trace backed the truck out of the carriage house, then climbed out to slide the track door closed.

“A word to their mom perhaps?” said Thomasina when he returned to the truck.

“Antoinette’s thin-skinned these days, and not too good at taking advice, not even when it’s well-intentioned.”

“I was hoping we could be friends.”

“I doubt you’ll have much in common,” he said.

“I meant the children. Though you’ve piqued my interest,” admitted Thomasina with a sidelong glance.

“Antoinette lost her husband last winter. Car accident,” he added.

“What a shame,” murmured Thomasina.

“She’s had it kind of rough.”

“Being both mom and dad to two children. That can’t be easy. Does she have a good job?”

“She waits tables at a truck stop in Bloomington. A word to the wise?” he added. “Don’t encourage the kids unless you don’t mind having them underfoot. One friendly gesture, and you can’t duck ’em, scare ’em or beat ’em off with a stick.”

“I’m not entirely sure I approve of you, Mr. Austin,” said Thomasina, her head to one side.

“It’s Trace.”

“Trace, then. But I’m hungry.”

He answered her smile, and gripped the gearshift knob with a well-shaped hand. “Anything behind me?”

“All clear,” said Thomasina, looking out the back window.

Trace stretched his arm along the ridge of the seat, his hand grazing her shoulder as he backed toward the street Thomasina’s pulse quickened as his blue gaze glanced off hers. The truck cab seemed to shrink then expand again as he shifted his hand away and focused on the curve in the driveway.

“Any rules against hanging pictures?” Thomasina jumpstarted the conversation again.

“Not so long as you fill the nail holes when you move out,” he replied.

“It’s a deal,” said Thomasina, thinking all the while what a monkey she was, unnerved by a chance touch. She lapsed into silence as he reached for the radio dial.

Three blocks and half a country song later, Trace nosed the late-model pickup truck into a space in front of Newt’s Market. Groceries, Notions And Dry Goods must have been painted on the bricks decades ago. The bricks were faded, too. An old bench, a couple of pop machines and a trash container rested in the shade of the wooden canopy that ran the length of the storefront Trace held the door for her.

Thomasina caught the scent of his aftershave as she ducked past him and over the threshold.

The store was pungent with a blend of tobacco, fresh ground coffee and overripe bananas. A couple of children had their noses pressed to the candy case. Thomasina stepped around them, then stopped in the narrow aisle and let Trace get past her. The stained and worn pine planks creaked as he led the way to the back of the store.

The lady behind the meat counter greeted him warmly. Young and pretty, she cocked her head, looking Thomasina up and down.

“Thomasina Rose.” Thomasina reached across the counter to meet the woman’s outstretched hand.

“She’s my new renter,” Trace told the woman. “This is Emmaline Newton. She makes the best sandwiches in Liberty Flats.”

“I try anyway.” Emmaline flashed a freckled grin, then turned and called over her shoulder, “Uncle Earl? Come out here and meet Trace’s new renter.”

An old fellow with a shock of white hair and a whiskered chin sauntered out, welcomed Thomasina to Liberty Flats and disappeared into the back room again. The gray-haired dog on the floor woke up and limped around the counter after him.

“Got a checker tournament going on back there, do they, Emmie?” asked Trace.

“Yes, and I wish they’d wrap it up so I could get some help. What’ll it be today, Trace? Turkey or ham?”

“Surprise me.”

“Turkey,” said Thomasina.

“With all the fixings?”

“Why not?” agreed Thomasina.

Emmaline made their sandwiches on paper plates. She gave them pickles, napkins, a bag of chips and straws, as well. Trace sent Thomasina outside with change for the pop machine while he settled up at the cash register. Side by side they crossed the street to the park, and chose a table in the shade.

Thomasina noticed that he waited for her as she bowed her head and gave silent thanks for the food. The sandwich was made on fresh-baked sourdough bread. With all the cheese and lettuce and tomato and other goodies, it was impossible to make a neat eat of it. Thomasina spread a napkin on her lap, tucked another in her hand and gave up trying to control the drips.

“Get your phone calls taken care of?”

Thomasina nodded. “I’ll be at Milt’s tonight, but I talked my supervisor into a three-day weekend to complete my move.”

Trace extended the open bag of chips.

Thomasina took a handful Hearing a cardinal, she tipped her head and searched the trees.

“There,” said Trace, pointing.

“The honey locust or the ash?” asked Thomasina, still searching. “The ash! Of course! I see him now.”

“You know your trees.”

“Thanks to my folks. Flo knows them by leaves, and by wood, too. Better than Nathan even, and he’s a woodworker. You have a nice shop, by the way.”

“Thanks. Be nice if I had more time to spend in it.”

“What is it you do at the car plant?”

“Trim line.”

“Do you like it?”

“The money’s good, the work, fast-paced monotony.”

“If you had your druthers?” asked Thomasina.

“I’d rather be building houses,” admitted Trace. “My uncle’s a contractor. He got me started. Then the bottom dropped out of the industry. He couldn’t get enough jobs to keep us both busy.”

“So you went to the factory?” Thomasina asked, munching on a chip. At his nod, she added, “Building’s picked up in the last couple of years, hasn’t it?”

“Yes. But you never know how long it’ll last. The guys with deep pockets can weather the slumps. A fellow just starting out can lose his shirt. What kind of building does your father do?”

“He’s retired,” said Thomasina without clarifying that Nathan was her foster father. “Foster” always sounded awkward to her. “Mom and Dad” never quite fit, either. Perhaps because she had gotten to know them as Nathan and Flo before they became her guardians. “Woodworking is just a hobby with him,” she said.

“It’s a good one if you like working with your hands.”

Thomasina’s gaze fell to his hands just as he crumpled the paper his sandwich had been wrapped in. They were strong hands, nicely shaped, and brown from the sun.

“What about you?” he asked. “Any hobbies?”

“Reading. Flowers. Yard sales. Children.”

He smiled. “Come from a big family, did you?”

“No.”

He glanced up when she quit talking. His eyes met hers, but to Thomasina’s relief, he didn’t ask questions. She brushed the crumbs on the table into a pile. “What about you?”

“Just Mom and Dad and Tootsie. My folks live in Bloomington now.”

“Tootsie is your sister?”

He nodded.

Thomasina licked mayonnaise off her thumb and started gathering up papers while he talked about his sister and her job with a computer corporation in California.

“I guess you’re wanting to get back to your moving,” Trace said, when she had tidied up the table. “Are you going to get to the big stuff today?”

“The furniture?” said Thomasina. “I don’t think I’ll have time today.”

“Do you have someone to help you? Brothers? Friends? Your folks?”

“My parents are in Arizona. But two boys in my building bought a purple truck last week,” said Thomasina. “I can probably talk them into helping me out for a tank of gas, a sack of hamburgers and change for the video games at the mall.”

“Teenage versions of our little neighbors, are they?” he said with a baiting grin.

“No. Friends.” Thomasina paused in pleating her napkin and looked at him from beneath half-cocked lashes. “Thanks for the sandwich, by the way,” she added.

A scar had left a narrow indention at the corner of Trace’s eye. It blended into the fine lines that framed those darkly fringed bachelor button blues when he returned her smile. He glanced at his watch a second time, and got to his feet. “If you’re finished, I’ll drop you by the house.”

“That’s all right. I’ll walk home,” said Thomasina.

“Are you sure?”

She nodded. “I want to stop by the post office and change my address. May as well pick up a sack of groceries, too. Does Emmaline carry chocolate doughnuts?”

“Still planning on making friends with the rug rats?” he asked.

Tough guy. Squinting in the sunlight, so innocentlike. Thomasina smiled and countered, “Couldn’t be you like them just a little bit yourself, could it?”

“They’re no worse than traffic jams. Root canals. Clogged drains. Purple trucks,” he said.

“What’s wrong with purple trucks?” inserted Thomasina.

“There’s only one color for trucks. See there?” Trace tipped his head back as the cardinal overhead chirruped in agreement.

“Oh hush, bird. Nobody asked you,” said Thomasina.

Trace chuckled, waved and sauntered across the street to his truck, gleaming red in the sunshine.

Chapter Six

The sun was going down as Thomasina arrived at Milt and Mary’s. She found Mary hard at work in the flower garden.

“Nice evening,” called Thomasina from the stone wall. “Is that a hummingbird there in the petunia bed?”

“Mmm.” Mary turned away, but not before Thomasina caught the glitter of tears in her eyes.

“Mary? What’s the matter?”

“I’m feeling a little blue, I guess.”

Thomasina dropped her canvas carryall on the low stone wall and moved closer. But Mary stopped her with an upraised hand. “I’ll be all right, honey. I’m in good company here. Why don’t you go on in and see about Milt?”

“You sure?”

Mary nodded, her face to the setting sun. Thomasina watched the rosy crown slip behind a blur of trees on the horizon. Shafts of light streamed across the heavens like countless arms uplifted in praise. Hallowed be Thy name. The prayer showered over her heart, quieting Thomasina’s anxiety as she retreated across the yard to the house.

Milt was in a chair by the bedroom window, talking on the telephone. He covered the receiver with his hand. “Get me a glass of water, would you, Tommy? I’ve been on the wire all evening, and I’m dry as cotton.”

When Thomasina returned with the water, he had ended his call. She took his blood pressure, his temperature and listened to his lungs before suggesting a bath.

“I guess I’m old enough to know when to scrub behind my ears. Sit down before you wear a hole in the rug.”

Thomasina sat. She returned her stethoscope and blood pressure cuff to her canvas carryall and pulled out her patient log. Her paperback book fell out, too.

“Wish somebody’d pay me to read on the job,” groused Milt, as she picked it up, crossed her legs and turned her log book to the proper page.

“Mmm.” Foot swinging, Thomasina took down the time, his heart rate, blood pressure and other routine information.

“Quit speaking, did you?” Milt spoke over the scratch of her pen.

“No, why?”

“Thought maybe I hurt your feelings.”

“No more than usual.” Glancing up from her record keeping, Thomasina saw him plucking at the sheet. “What’s the matter?”

“I’ve had some things on my mind,” he mumbled. “Sorry I growled.”

“I was kidding, Milt. You didn’t hurt my feelings.” Thomasina grinned and added, “Grumbling comes with the territory.”

“Shouldn’t though. I was wrong about Will and the girls, too,” he admitted. “I gave them a pretty hard time about going behind my back and sending you here.”

He was referring to his behavior following his release from the hospital after a respiratory infection turned into pneumonia. Emphysema complicated matters, which was why his doctor suggested nursing home care. Milt dug his heels in, saying Mary was all the nursing he needed. His children knew better. They went behind his back and called Picket Fence, arranging for round-the-clock nursing.

Frustrated over having no say in his own life, Milt railed over his perceived betrayal at the hands of his son and daughters, and ranted at Mary for defending them. He vented his frustrations and wounded pride on Thomasina, as well. Mary acted as a buffer, apologetic to Thomasina and appeasing to Milt. But even she lost patience when Milt tried to send Thomasina packing.

“Enough is enough!” cried Mary, shaking her finger in his face. “You let the girl do her job, or I’m digging a hole in the flower garden and throwing you in myself.”

Milt took a long look at his worn-out wife and shut his mouth. He had been a different man since.

“You’ve been a big help to Mary and me,” Milt continued. “A friend, too.”

“Careful. I’ll ask for a raise,” quipped Thomasina.

“Hush, Tommy, and let me finish,” he ordered. “The thing about Will and the girls making decisions over my head is that only yesterday I was telling them where they could and couldn’t go, and what time to be home, and I wasn’t taking any back talk, either.”

With his words came a wrenching glimpse of the brevity of life. Thomasina felt the press of work she had not even spoken aloud about, much less begun, and watched as Milt pushed the curtain back.

“It’s about dark,” he said, squinting toward the flower garden. “What’s keeping her?”

Thomasina’s thoughts pivoted. “Are you two at odds?”

“Who?” rasped Milt. “Mary and me? No. What makes you ask?”

Mary’s tears. His trembling hand. His apologies, as if he could use a friend in his corner.

Thomasina said, “The tree in the front yard’s still standing. I thought maybe she told you she’d rather you didn’t cut it down.”

“You’re not paying attention, Tommy.” Milt let the curtain fall back into the place and said without preamble, “We’ve got an appraiser coming tomorrow. We’re going to have an auction, and sell the equipment and the land, too, if we can get what it’s worth.”

The breath went out of Thomasina. She would have sworn he’d give up his lungs, his arms, his legs, his very lifeblood before he gave up his land.

“I’m making the arrangements first,” Milt continued. “Then I’ll tell Will. The girls both live out of state. I’d rather tell them in person, but that’s up to them.”

“None of them want the farm?” said Thomasina.

“They never have in the past. If they’ve changed their minds, they can give fair market value and there’ll be no auction.” Gaze narrowing, he added, “If you’re thinking I owe it to them free and clear, just let me say…”

“I wasn’t,” Thomasina inserted hastily.

“In my book, giving them something they haven’t worked for is less a gift than a test of character, and I did my part in their character years ago. Anyway, I’ve got to have a little something set by to take care of Mary.” Milt jutted out his knobby chin, rubbed his bald head and waggled a finger in the general direction of his water glass.

Thomasina took it to the kitchen and filled it again. He spilled more than he drank, and dropped the glass, trying to return it to the table.

“Jeb Liddle’s been farming the ground for almost a decade now. He’ll bid,” he said as Thomasina stooped to pick up the glass and the scattered ice cubes.

“How many acres are there?”

“Why? Have you got a nest egg?” he injected on a lighter vein.

“Mostly in stocks and bonds,” she said.

“Ya, right. So what are you doing here?”

She shrugged off his disbelief and said with a grin, “Can’t a girl have a hobby?”

“Cute, Tommy Rose.” he chortled. “Grab a piece of paper now, before you get too sassy for list making. There’s something I want you to do for me tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

“Your day off,” he said, nodding. “I know that. But while Mary’s fine with the plan, the details are making her weepy. I figure she’ll be better off nest shopping than getting all antsy over the appraiser prowling the place. I can’t very well ask Will to take her, now can I?”

“I’d be happy to take her,” said Thomasina. Seeing that Mary wasn’t the only one having a tough time with the details, she leaned forward and patted his knee. “Are you sure you’re all right with this, Milt?”

“I won’t say it’s easy. But it’s God who’s lifted us up and given us opportunities and God who says when it’s time to let go.”

“He’s said this?”

“Not in words. But the indications are there.” Milt took his time, pumping up on oxygen. “Yesterday, we both had doctor appointments. Mary had some cancer a few years ago, so she gets checked out now and then.”

Seeing him harden his jaw, Thomasina tightened her grip on the forgotten book in her lap and braced herself for the worst. He drew the curtain back again and said without looking at her, “She came out of the office, and I found myself noticing she was thin. Thinner than she’s been in a while.”

Thomasina’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, Milt.”

“No, it’s all right. The tests were routine. The lab called this morning, and the results were fine. But it was a wakeup call, Tommy Rose.” His bony throat wobbled. Tears gathered as he added, “I may be a stout-hearted old cuss, but I’ve got enough gray matter left to know it isn’t land or barns or a house full of trinkets making each day worth getting up for.”

Thomasina made a big business of studying the inside cover of her paperback. Her eyes were too full to read while he fought for control.

“The girls have families of their own now,” he said finally. “Will’s married to that lumberyard of his, and Mary agrees if we don’t make some decisions soon, the kids’ll end up doing it for us. It goes down the hatch a lot easier, makin’ them myself. Even hard ones. Like I said…” He trailed off a moment, then began anew, his voice growing stronger for the oxygen boost. “Seem to be spending a lot of time at doctors and pharmacies these days, so I reckon we’ll find a place in Bloomington where everything’s close by. An apartment, maybe where the upkeep is somebody else’s headache. Or a retirement village where they do the cooking and everything. Make it easier on Mary.”

“Sounds nice,” murmured Thomasina.

“A regular second honeymoon.” He checked the tear coursing down his seamed cheek, and beckoned with a gnarled finger. “I want you to look up some addresses and write them down for tomorrow, Tommy Rose.”

Milt went on to give her a list of retirement facilities, plus a real estate agent he had contacted. Mary came in a while later and went over the whole thing again with Thomasina. Obviously they had given the decision a lot of thought. Thomasina listened without comment, except to say she’d help in whatever way she could. Mary thanked her for giving up her Saturday, sweet-talked Milt into taking a bath, then left herself to get ready for bed.

Silence settled over the house. The loss of Saturday would set Thomasina’s moving behind a bit. But she wasn’t pressed for time. Thomasina sat by Milt’s bed, thoughts flitting from pillar to post in an attempt to hold at bay the biggest thought of all. She thought about Trace inadvertently touching her shoulder, and Winny asking her if she was moving in with Trace. Out of the mouths of babes. Was her decision to move impulsive? Had she been in such a red-hot hurry, she hadn’t even prayed?

She prayed now. For Milt and Mary, too, making hard choices not only for the sake of their family and of each for the other, but because they trusted God with their future.

As did she. But she would not pray about the thought, the dream. She couldn’t. Not when Milt lay a foot away, relinquishing with pain and raw courage what had been his for a lifetime. It seemed callous, irreverent even, the line between dream-seeking and covetousness—a slim, slippery treacherous one. God’s will. God’s will. Even that seemed dangerously close to vindicating her right to prayerfully dream while he slept on his losses.

Thomasina rose and stretched and wandered the room on soundless feet. The lamp left burning in the living room shed shadowy light on photographs that affirmed lives built on Until death do us part.

Milt in a suit, broad brown hand slicking back a full head of black hair as he traded smiles with his white-veiled bride. Milt astride the tractor seat, a muscular arm snaked around a fair-haired toddler. Milt holding a framed diploma as he and Mary flanked their cap-and-gown-clad twin daughters. Milt clowning for the camera, giving Mary rabbit ears as they posed at their fiftieth wedding anniversary party.

The deep waters of a verse about times and seasons under God’s heavens soothed heart sores and guilty pangs. Thomasina thought on these things.

Later, Mary slipped into the room. “You go on and get some rest, Thomasina,” she whispered. “I don’t want you wilting on me while we’re house hunting tomorrow.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be fine.” Mary took off her slippers and sat down on the bed. She looked at Thomasina with a spark of dismissal in her eyes. Thomasina took her paperback book and went out into the living room. When she tiptoed in later to check on Milt, Mary was tucked under his arm, next to his heart, fast asleep. They both seemed small and frail, yet enduring. Dear souls. Thomasina touched her fingers to her lips and blew them a misty kiss.

Trace got off work at two on Friday night and went right to bed. Recently he had signed papers on a small, run-down two-bedroom bungalow a block past Liberty Flats Community Church. It needed a lot of work, and he wanted to make the most of his Saturday.

He was awake before the alarm. It took him a moment to realize the sound of running water was coming from Thomasina’s side of the house. He’d heard her come in a couple of hours earlier, and knew she couldn’t have had much rest. Must be bent on getting an early start on the rest of her moving.

Trace showered and shaved and pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt before going downstairs to plug in the coffeepot. The sun was shining through the carpenter’s lace, making patterns on the freshly painted floor as he went out on the porch to retrieve the paper.

He scanned the headlines and was on his way inside again when Thomasina stepped out of her apartment into the shared foyer. She juggled a lidded cup, her pocketbook and an armload of empty boxes.

“Nice morning,” he said.

Thomasina jumped and fumbled her boxes.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” Trace stepped out of the line of fire as the lidded cup bounced after the boxes. “Burn you?”

“I don’t think so.” Her whole face disappeared beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat as she ducked her chin, checking her dress.

Trace was checking it, too, though with a different view in mind. A womanly dress, as opposed to those loose-fitting shapeless things that seemed to be all the rage. Eggshell white. Sleeveless with a modest neckline and a fitted bodice. The hem brushed shapely calves, with a slit to the knee for an unencumbered stride.

“It takes a full cup before I get my equilibrium,” she offered by way of explanation.

“You better lay off the coffee. You’re awful jumpy,” he countered.

“Me?” She tipped her face. It glowed a pearly pink in the straw hat frame. “Couldn’t have a thing to do with you slipping up behind me in your sock feet?”

“Just getting the paper.”

“Honk next time, and I promise not to throw boxes at you.”

“Deal.”

She returned his grin with a upsweep of lashes and a chocolate-eyed twinkle, then stooped to pick up the cup just as he was leaning down to do it for her. Her face disappeared under the hat again as his hand closed on the cup the same moment as hers. He let go with a studied nonchalance, and gathered her boxes for her.

“Thank you. I’ll take them now,” she said.

“Let me. You’ll get your dress dirty.” Trace angled her a sidelong glance. “Who’s helping you move, anyway, the queen of England?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“The tea party hat. The dress. Couldn’t help noticing you’re…”

“Overdressed?” She smiled. “Moving is on hold for the day. Mary and I are going to town.”

“Milt’s Mary?”

Thomasina nodded, but didn’t elaborate. Before he could pursue it, she asked, “What about you? You’re not thinking about chopping down the cherry tree, are you, George?”

It took him half a second to realize she was chiding him about the oak tree out at Milt’s. “No, ma’am.” He played along. “You’ve scared me off that project. I’m pulling a porch off an old house instead.”

“Here in town?”

He nodded. “On Church Street just down from Liberty Flats Church. Stop by and I’ll show you around. Not that there’s much to see. It’s kind of an eyesore right now.”

“But with potential?” asked Thomasina, as they neared her car.

“Something like that.” He waited while she unlocked the door.

“Just throw the boxes in the back seat,” she said, and thanked him.

The Penn children raced across the yard as he ambled back to the porch. Trace was about to duck out of sight when he realized Thomasina was the attraction. Thinking they were too late, Winny and Pauly stopped short, disappointment lining their faces.

If it’d been him, he would have pulled away without a second look. But Thomasina rolled down the window and beckoned to them. Trace took his paper inside, poured a cup of coffee, drank half of it and wandered to the front of the house just as Thomasina was pulling away. The children stood on the curb, waving to her. She tooted her horn and returned the gesture.

A regular glutton for punishment. Trace wagged his head, and went back for a refill.

Chapter Seven

Thomasina admired the composure with which Mary conducted herself throughout a morning of nest hunting which took them to more houses and apartment buildings than she cared to count. They took a break for brunch at a teahouse, then visited retirement complexes until midafternoon. Seeing Mary’s strength waning, Thomasina suggested pie and coffee before starting home.

While they were waiting for their order, Will Chambers strolled past their table. A square-jawed fellow with neatly clipped red-gold hair and his mother’s blue eyes and Nordic good looks, he gave Thomasina a passing glance and would have walked on by except that Mary reached out and caught his hand.

“Hello there, William. Aren’t you speaking today?”

“Mom!” A smile leapt to Will Chamber’s eyes. “I was just on my way out to the farm. What’re you doing here?”

“We’ve been out and about all day. We’re yielding to temptation before we start home,” said Mary. “You remember Thomasina, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course.”

Thomasina traded smiles and pleasantries. Mary beamed at him with a mother’s pride. “Have you eaten, Will? Then have a piece of pie with us, won’t you?”

Will accepted, and took a seat beside his mother. To Thomasina’s relief, the conversation was general with no mention of the decisions Mary and Milt were in the throes of making. When they had finished their dessert, Will offered to drive his mother home.

“That would be nice,” said Mary, with no outward indication of concern over the bombshell awaiting Will at the farm.

Thomasina parted company with them on the street, and returned home to change her clothes and pack some more boxes. It was close to four o’clock when she trudged down the stifling staircase for the last time that day, carrying the roof to her dollhouse.

Sixteen-year-old Ricky Spignalo was bouncing a handball against the brick wall out front as Thomasina came out the lobby door. Six-two in his purple sneakers, baggy shorts and T-shirt with its cut-out sleeves, he leapt to catch a ricocheting rebound angling toward her car.

“Phone’s ringing, Miz Rose.”

“Answer it, would you?” asked Thomasina, keys dangling from her little finger.

Ricky unlocked her car door and reached in. “Yes, ma’am. No, she ain’t busy. She’s right here.” His glance darted to Thomasina. “Ricky. I’m her neighbor. Yes, ma’am. Nice talkin’ to you, too.” He held out the phone. “Miz Baxter. Says if you’re not too busy…”

Thomasina gave Ricky the dollhouse roof. “Back seat, would you please?”

“Shore, Miz Rose. It’s going to be a pushin’ match, gettin’ it in.”

“Careful, it’s my prize possession!” warned Thomasina as she took the phone. “Flo! What a nice surprise.”

“I’ve been trying for three days to get you, sweetheart,” said Flo. “I was worried.”

“I’m sorry, Flo. I’m in the process of moving. I should have called.”

“Moving?”

“Yes, to a beautiful old house in Liberty Flats.”

“Oh, Thomasina! How exciting. Nathan will be thrilled. Ever the financier, you know. He thinks paying rent when you’ve got the resources to buy is money down a rat hole.”

Thomasina was about to correct Flo’s assumption she was buying the house when she looked up in the rearview mirror to see a car pull up behind her. The hard-bitten expressions of the driver and passenger made her uneasy. Seeing them motion to Ricky, she said, “Hold on a sec, would you Flo?” Thomasina reached out the yawning car door and caught Ricky’s arm.

“Ricky? I could use some help moving. Think it’d be all right with your mom if I borrowed you for a few hours?”

“She ain’t here,” said Ricky, turning away from his tough-looking peers. “She’s workin’ over at the dry cleaner’s.”

“Climb in and we’ll buzz by.” Thomasina took the passenger’s seat while Ricky slid behind the wheel. “Buckle up, okay?” she said, and grabbed the phone again. “Flo? You still there?”

“Trouble?” asked Flo, as astute as ever.

“You know what they say about three-day fish.” Thomasina put it in code.

“Stinks like bad company?” Flo picked up on it immediately, for it was she who had recoined the phrase while guiding Thomasina away from a fast crowd in her teen years. “Young Ricky keeping rough company, is he?”

“Not yet At least I don’t think so,” said Thomasina, breathing a little easier as the two young men sped away in their car.

“You can’t save the whole world,” said Flo gently. “You know that, don’t you, baby?”

“That never kept you from trying,” countered Thomasina with a smile in her voice.

“God sent you to us,” said Flo. “He knew I had more mothering in me.”

“You certainly did, and am I ever grateful! I love you, Flo.”

“I know, honey, and we love you. Listen, about this house you’re buying—you’re not taking out a loan, surely? You know all you have to do is say the word and Nathan will liquidate some of your stocks. The timing couldn’t be better. Nathan was saying just this morning…”

“I’m not buying, Flo,” she inserted quickly. “I’m just renting.”

“Oh! Well. Nevertheless.” Flo dropped single-word sentences the way she always did when shifting mental gears. “You need to study up on your…”

“Not the stocks and bonds thing again?” Thomasina forestalled her, crowding out the familiar guilt rush that always came at the mention of the investments Nathan had made on her behalf over the years. “You know I haven’t a clue about that stuff.”

“Nonsense! You have a good mind,” said Flo.

“Flo…”

“No, let me finish,” Flo said gently. “Nathan misses the number crunching now that he’s retired. You know how unassuming he is. He isn’t going to bore you with knowledge you don’t want. But your interest would buoy him up tremendously, Thomasina. Truly.”

“All right, then,” said Thomasina, wheels turning. “Ask him about a farm.”

“A farm?”

“Yes. Ask him if a farm is a good investment.”

“Are you serious? Whatever for?”

Thomasina glanced at Ricky, one hand on the wheel, the other getting familiar with the radio. His mother was trying hard to keep him in school and off the streets. Mrs. Spignalo worked two jobs and worried a lot over the daily dangers and enticements facing Ricky. There was a glut of single parents like her raising kids in precarious circumstances on their own limited strength outside the Lord.

“Just ask him, Flo. Tell him I’d like to turn it into a campground.”

“Campground?”

“Yes, a Christian children’s camp,” said Thomasina. The dream had words now. Spoken out loud, it could not be recalled. It was so heart-stopping a moment, the blood roared in her ears. “Listen, could I call you back this evening? I need your prayers, and advice. And Flo? Thank you for worrying about me. Thank Nathan, too. For… everything.”

Thank you. Far too small. The only meaningful way Thomasina knew to repay the debt owed was to be a vessel of their kindness, passing along to others the new life begun in her when they took her in and loved her into Christ.

Her throat was dry, her palms sweaty and her heart pounding so hard, she thought it would beat a hole in her chest. Was this what it was like to give birth to a dream?

I’m scared, Lord. Help me, help me do it right.

Trace had spent most of the day with sledgehammer and crowbar, knocking the two porches off the old house. The front one was in slightly better shape than the back had been, and stubborn about turning loose of its moorings. He did what he could with hand tools, then went back to the shop for the chain saw.

When he returned, cars were gathering in front of the church and down both sides of the street. There was no off-street parking. Paying little heed to slamming car doors, he climbed up on the roof, ripped the chord on the chain saw and made some critical cuts. The porch leaned drunkenly as he came down off the ladder. He pushed a severed column and jumped back. The porch came down like a house of cards.

Over the screech of rusty nails and the groan of splintering, crashing wood, someone called, “Timber!” Trace looked toward the street as the dust cleared. A petite, blondhaired woman closed the door on her late-model minivan.

“Will I be in the way if I park here?” she asked.

“You’re fine.” Trace was turning away when he noticed the plates on the minivan. Arizona. He pivoted, jaw dropping. “Deidre?”

“Trace?” Her blue eyes widened. “Trace Austin! I don’t believe my eyes!”

Her smile came out, and the years fell away in an adrenaline rush, a clenching gut and a shower of sparks. She was as golden as ever, flying across the grass with her halo of curls bouncing and her arms open wide. She smelled like cotton candy and burned like sun rays, showering sparks as her arms closed around him in a sisterly embrace. Trace listened hard to catch her silvery laugh over the buzz in his brain.

“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” cried Deidre. “Let me look at you! My goodness, Trace. You’re as handsome as ever. There now, I’ve made you blush. Or is it the heat? You’re dripping wet.” She laughed and stepped back to knock the dust off her loose-fitting denim dress.

“You’re looking great, Deidre,” Trace said, trying to shake off the numbness. “How have you been?”

“Terrific. And yourself?”

“No complaints.”

“As destructive as ever, I see,” she said, with a teasing gesture toward the collapsed porch.

“Got to tear down before you can build up.” Trace’s lips limbered up enough to return her smile.

“We could use a man like you at school. We’re suffering growing pains you wouldn’t believe. God’s blessed us with so many children, we don’t have room for them all. Say, I don’t suppose I could talk you into a packing up your pony and coming out our way?”

“I heard you were home, drumming up support.”

“And spending some time with my folks,” she said, nodding. “Are you coming to the soup supper tomorrow night?”

“Milt sold me a couple of tickets.”

“That isn’t what I asked,” she said, adopting that lilting tone he remembered so well.

“The thing is…”

“No, no, don’t disappoint me with excuses, I’ve heard them all,” Deidre talked right over his stammering attempt to come up with one. “If you don’t come, I’ll just have to give you the spiel one on one.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.