EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, CHARITY STOOD ON THE front stoop, sipping her first cup of coffee, while Cocoa sniffed in the flowerbeds.
She hadn’t slept well. She’d lain awake for several hours, heard every small creak and groan of the older home. And once she had fallen asleep, unpleasant dreams had caused more tossing and turning. Coming home always did that to her. She didn’t want to dwell on why.
The closing of a car door drew her attention to her neighbor’s house. She watched Tom Butler climb behind the wheel of a sedan, but he didn’t look her way as he started the engine. Perhaps just as well, considering she was still in her pajamas on this brisk morning.
“Come on, Cocoa. Inside.”
In the kitchen, she drank the last of the coffee in her mug. She didn’t need to remind herself that she had to make significant progress on her book before she did her neighborly duty. The deadline was always in the forefront of her thoughts.
Why did he have to go and break bones in that stupid fall? Why did I have to get roped into taking care of him?
Guilt immediately stabbed her. Buck hadn’t broken those bones by himself. It had taken help from her and Cocoa to accomplish it.
If only—
She cut the thought off in an instant. Those were two very dangerous words. Thinking if only was as dangerous as wondering what if. The first meant she was dwelling in the past and revisiting all of her mistakes. The second—although important in her job as a writer—meant she was worrying about the future. Both were a waste of emotions and energy. Both were something she had done far too much of over the years.
Help me, Lord, not to do that.
She sighed. Her belief in answered prayer was still a fragile thing. She’d turned her back on faith in God while in college and had done her best to ignore any suggestion—from her parents or her sister or anyone else—that she needed Jesus in her life. Up until about a year ago. That was when, in a moment of despair, she’d taken a few steps back in God’s direction. In the months since, He’d restored her faith, not in one amazing moment, but in a thousand little ways.
Another lengthy restoration project. Isn’t it, Lord?
She set the empty mug beside the coffeemaker and headed for the stairs, certain she would feel better once she was showered and dressed. And she was right. The spray of water washed away the remnants of her bad dreams and, more important, those shadowy memories that plagued her the most in Kings Meadow.
Sadly, the shower didn’t do a thing for her creativity. She sat down at her desk, fingers on the keyboard, waiting for a flow of ideas. They didn’t come.
“The muse has left the building.” She groaned, letting her chin fall to her chest.
She had a secret fear: that she would never write anything as good as the Lancer series that had launched her writing career. Or could she even call it a career? Perhaps all she had in her was that single plotline told over the course of three books. Her only three books.
When she’d written her novels, she hadn’t thought about trying to sell them to a publisher, as crazy as that sounded. She’d been wrapped up in the joy of storytelling, and that had been enough. At first. But then, with Terri nudging her—her sister was always nudging her about something—Charity had queried some agents. Before she’d known it, she had literary representation, followed soon by a publishing contract.
Everything seemed so perfect then.
It wasn’t as if she’d written the next Hunger Games. Her series wasn’t that popular. But it was popular enough. She’d been able to quit her day job and to buy a new car and her adorable old house on the river. She’d bought herself a stylish new wardrobe too. One that said, “Confident. Self-assured. Going places.” Things she’d never thought would be true of her. She’d begun to dream new dreams for the future. Perhaps even a future that included love and marriage.
That’s what she’d thought . . . for a little while.
Man plans and God laughs. So said a Yiddish proverb. It felt true to Charity.
Late the previous year, her publishing house had changed hands and direction. They would no longer be publishing young adult books, they’d told her. Despite the success of the Lancer series, they wanted Charity’s next contracted novel to be for adults. A romance for adults. Romance? What did she know about romance? She’d spent a lot of years purposefully avoiding it.
She hadn’t yet wrapped her head around the idea of writing a romantic novel when she’d learned the publisher had laid off her beloved editor, the one person she’d trusted more than anyone else in the business. How could she write an entirely different kind of book without her editor? It was unfair, unreasonable.
And then the other shoe had dropped—right on her head, it felt like. With no warning, her agent had closed his agency. Although he’d given Charity a few recommendations, she hadn’t found another agent who seemed a good match, leaving her without representation or guidance up to now.
Cut adrift. She sighed.
The house phone rang, and Charity was glad for the interruption. “Hello?”
“Hey, Pipsqueak.”
She smiled at the sound of her sister’s voice. “Hey, Toot-sweet.”
“How’s it going? Are you writing already?”
“A little. But I’ve been distracted since getting here.”
“By what?”
She hesitated a moment, then launched into the story about Buck, from the time she’d seen him in the parking lot through the accident and right up until she’d seen Tom Butler leaving Buck’s house this morning.
“Poor Buck,” Terri said when Charity finally fell silent. “Not the kind of luck he needs. He’s a good guy. Mom and Dad think the world of him. I’m glad you’re helping out. Only fair. Your dog. Your fault.”
As if she needed that reminder.
Terri took pity on her and changed the subject. They chatted for a short while about their parents, about Rick’s job, and finally about Terri’s family’s vacation plans for later in the summer. Then Terri sighed. “I’m gonna have to run, sis. Frankie needs help studying for her finals. I just hope she never finds out she’s smarter than her mom or I’m doomed.”
Charity laughed. “Maybe her aunt will tell her.”
“Don’t you dare. But you can tell Buck I hope his recovery is swift and complete.”
“Sure. I’ll do it.”
“And, Pipsqueak? Maybe you need to forget about that book for a little while and try to enjoy Kings Meadow again. You need to remember all the reasons it was so great to grow up there.”
And just like that, Charity’s mood darkened. Enjoy Kings Meadow. She didn’t think that would ever be possible, but she could never tell her family why. It was her secret. She meant to take it to her grave.
“I love you, sis,” Terri said. “Take care.”
“You too.” Charity waited until the line went silent before dropping the handset into its cradle. It was quite a few moments until she was able to shake herself free of memories and move on about her day.
BUCK WOULDN’T ADMIT IT TO ANOTHER SOUL, BUT he could see why the doctor thought he should have someone around every now and again. If he only had a broken ankle, the scooter would have made life a breeze. Or, for that matter, he would have been fine with crutches. Amazing how a little thing like a broken wrist could make everything else so complicated. Tom had offered to fix breakfast before he left, but Buck hadn’t been hungry then. Now he was half starved but unable to get a casserole out of the refrigerator or even the tin off the top of a can of peaches. Frustration boiled up inside of him, and that was when he heard the knock at the front door.
“Come in!” he shouted, sounding as grumpy as he felt.
The door opened enough to let a head peek through. “Buck?”
“It’s okay, Charity. It’s safe to enter.”
She looked toward the kitchen as she pushed the door open wide and stepped in. “Are you all right?”
“Not really. I’m hungry. This”—he held up his right arm—“is a royal pain in the neck.”
She had the audacity to grin, although the expression didn’t hang around her face for long.
He couldn’t make up his mind if he wanted to kick her out or try to laugh with her. Both, he decided. Equally.
“I should have checked on you earlier,” she said, walking into the kitchen. “I assumed you’d had breakfast already. What would you like to eat?”
“Cardboard nutrition.” She pointed at him. “You need a healthy diet to speed your recovery.”
She sure was cute, wagging that finger in his direction. His bad mood began to dissipate.
“How about an omelet? With diced ham, cheese, and some sautéed mushrooms. I’ve got all the fixings in your fridge. I made sure of that yesterday.”
“Sure,” he answered. “An omelet will be fine.”
“Great. I’ll have it ready in no time.” She motioned for him to move.
It was his turn to chuckle. “Bossy, aren’t you?”
“Sorry. I’m used to being in charge. You know, because I live alone.”
“I hear you.” Holding on to the handlebar of the scooter with his left hand, he rolled across the small kitchen to the table. Trying not to look completely uncoordinated, he shifted off the scooter and plopped onto a chair.
With swift efficiency, Charity removed food items from the refrigerator. Under his direction, she found the chopping board, mixing bowl, utensils, and the skillet. Buck felt proud of himself for having everything she needed. The truth was he wasn’t a great cook. He liked to barbecue, but he didn’t spend much time in the kitchen.
“What made you decide to buy this place?” Charity asked as she began beating the eggs in the bowl.
“The twenty acres that went with it.”
She glanced over at him, a question in her eyes.
“I don’t need much when it comes to a house.” He shrugged. “This one’s big enough. A bedroom for me and one to spare should I ever have a guest. It’s in decent shape for a house built in the forties. The last owner put on a new roof about eight years ago. There’s a good stable for my horses and a couple of other outbuildings. There’s even a small insulated workshop that I plan to use in the off-season.”
“Use for what?” She returned her attention to the breakfast preparations.
Buck liked the sway of her hair against the back of her pink T-shirt. He’d always been a sucker for blondes with long, straight hair. Had she worn her hair that way in high school? He didn’t think so.
She glanced at him again.
Oh. Yeah. Her question. “I make custom saddles. It’s not my main source of income, but I enjoy it. I guess you could call it a hobby.”
“Custom saddles aren’t cheap.”
“No.” He shrugged again. “Guess you’re right. It’s more than a hobby. Helped get me the down payment on this place.”
Charity stopped asking questions at that point. Soon the sounds, followed by the delicious odors, of food cooking in a hot skillet filled the kitchen. Again, Buck was content to watch her as she worked. It was easy to see she enjoyed what she was doing. He wouldn’t have been surprised to hear her humming, the way her mother did when the Andersons had him over for dinner.
It wasn’t long before she set a plate of the promised omelet on the table before him. “Orange juice? Or coffee?” she asked.
“OJ. Thanks.”
He half expected her to start washing dishes right away, but instead, she poured herself a cup of coffee and sat opposite him at the table. It pleased him—perhaps more than it should—that today she didn’t seem to want to get away from him as quickly as possible.
He took his first bite of the omelet. Closed his eyes and moaned in pleasure. “Wow. Lots better than cereal.”
She smiled, then sipped her coffee as he polished off the eggs in short order.
“Guess I proved how hungry I was.” He set down the fork and leaned back in his chair before draining the glass of orange juice. “Bet you learned to cook like that from your mom.”
She nodded in silence.
“Your folks’ve had me over for supper a few times since I moved in. Taking pity on the bachelor next door, I think. Anyway, your mom’s a magician in the kitchen.”
Charity laughed. It was a pretty sound. One he wouldn’t mind hearing more of.
“Have you told Mom that?” she asked. “Nothing would make her happier than to hear those words. Preparing delicious food is one of her love languages, and Dad’s expanding waistline is a consequence of all that devotion from the kitchen.”
“I think she probably guessed what I thought by the way I cleaned my plate. If she keeps having me over, I’ll be like your dad.” He patted his stomach for emphasis, then eyed her thoughtfully. “So tell me something, Charity,” he drawled.
Her eyebrows arched in question. “What’s that?”
“From what I can tell, you almost never make it home to see your parents, and you only live in Boise. An hour away is all, more or less. And now, when they’re gone, you come for the summer. What gives?”
He knew he’d made a mistake before the question left his lips. An instantaneous chill emanated from the other end of the table. Cold enough to form icicles on his day-old whiskers. Or just about. Without answering, Charity rose from her chair and cleared the dirty plate and juice glass from in front of him. Her gaze avoided his.
“Hey, I’m sorry, Charity. It’s none of my business. It’s just, I like your parents and I know they—”
“You’re right. It’s none of your business.” She ran hot water into the sink and began washing the dishes.
Annoyed with her response, Buck remained at the table for a few minutes. She might be the prickliest female he’d ever come in contact with. Okay, so maybe he shouldn’t have asked about her parents, but she didn’t have to act like the question was a criminal offense either.
Don’t think you’ve scared me off yet, Miss Anderson. I’ll figure out what makes you tick. You’ll see.
When she didn’t turn or even look over her shoulder, he knew he was being ignored. Must be time to make himself scarce and let her calm down. He managed to rise and get his knee on the scooter without tipping over chair or table.
CHARITY LISTENED AS THE WHEELS ROLLED ACROSS the hardwood floor. Once she knew Buck was out of the kitchen, she released a slow breath.
Who does he think he is?
She stopped, bowed her head, and closed her eyes. Nobody had to remind her that her parents were hurt by the distance she kept between them. And since she’d steadfastly refused to tell them why she stayed away from Kings Meadow, they weren’t ever going to understand.
I should have rented an apartment in Boise for the summer. I shouldn’t have come up here. I thought I could handle it. Maybe I can’t.
Drawing one more steadying breath, she finished the last of the cleanup, dried her hands on a dish towel, and then headed for the living room. Eyes averted, she said, “I need to get back to work.”
She felt Buck studying her. “Hey, Charity. I really am sorry. Didn’t mean to offend you or interfere. Forgive me?”
“Yes. It’s all right.” She reached for the doorknob. “I’ll check in on you later, but call if you need anything before that.”
“Sure.”
She opened the door and escaped into the fresh morning air.