Chapter One

Welcome to Sweetwater, North Dakota,

a town with a guaranteed happily ever after in every story.

 

“You, Daisey Rose Winslow, are good enough, smart enough, pretty enough. Giving up on your goals is like slashing all your tires after getting one flat.” I pointed at the reflection of myself in the window of Joy’s All Things Christmas Shoppe, practicing a new life affirmation I’d read online just this morning. I shook my head. “Nah, I like yesterday’s better. Excuse me, I have to go be awesome.” At least that one made me smile.

Joy Watson waved at me through the window, holding a spectacular blown glass angel that sparkled in the overhead lighting, its wings appearing alive as it twirled from her fingertips. I waved back and nodded with approval, placing a hand over my heart for emphasis. No matter what happened in the next few months, I’d be back in December. The town might be quaint, and I rail against it when it tugs me too close, but it’s the place to be at Christmastime.

I resumed jogging down Main Street, keeping alert for any stray exercisers barreling my way. It just takes being mowed down once to make you leave your iPod at home and listen to the world with unimpeded hearing.

A robin erupted into song from its perch on the wrought iron flagpole in front of the hardware store, apparently agreeing with me on the awesomeness of nature sounds. And definitely no selfie sticks for this female. Last thing I needed was a photo of my sweaty, red-faced person slogging it out on a morning run.

Ah, the delectable scent of cinnamon, brown sugar, and apples baking drew me toward the Prairie Rose Café. I stopped for a sec on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant and gazed around my home town of Sweetwater, North Dakota. The town had never looked prettier, nestled as it was on the banks of the meandering Red River in its summer coat of fresh, vibrant flowers and deep green foliage. The sun added an extra rosy glow this morning, creating prisms of rainbows on dew-damped grass. Squint just right and your fingers fairly itched to pick up a few and stash them away. My grandma always accused me of having a romantic soul and I wasn’t one to prove her wrong.

Shirley Johnson was busy sweeping the steps outside the post office with a straw broom, raising little puffs of white dust. The line of sight took me right to the poster of a covered wagon someone had pasted onto the red brick.

Excitement bubbled up inside me for this coming week. Our town was having its first re-enactment of a homesteaders’ journey, using replica Prairie Schooners. I’m a die-hard romantic about the old west. Well, except for the long skirts, no indoor plumbing, and the dearth of food deliveries from friends and family I’ve counted on all my life.

Setting aside the slight twinge of worry about my ability to do our town proud, I pushed open the front door of the café and went inside.

“Morning,” I said, plunking myself down in the booth opposite my cousin.

“Hey, Daisey.” She scarcely gave me a glance, staring at her iPhone like it contained all the secrets of the universe. Well, maybe it did. We have excellent wi-fi service in Sweetwater, a factor that might come into play when I sell the parcel of land so kindly willed to me and which I couldn’t offload for a whole year after my grandma passed on. With forty-nine of those fifty-two weeks having also passed on, that was going to change. Big time.

“You know,” I said, “I’m beginning to feel like George Bailey in It’s A Wonderful Life. My life is always holding something back, holding me back, but this time, I’ve made up my mind. I’m heading to New York no matter what happens, when the next three weeks are up.”

Rose, as much of an old movie freak as I am, quirked an eyebrow in my direction while continuing to thumb through her messages. “Bedford Falls loved George and saved his heinie when push came to shove,” she reminded me. “Same as Sweetwater would do for any of us in a heartbeat. Now, New York?” Her nose wrinkled. “Can’t see that happening.”

I drummed my fingers on the snowy white tablecloth embroidered with pink roses. “New York has far more opportunities.”

“Sweetwater has more time for people.”

“New York offers more freedom.”

“Sweetwater has more people who care about you.”

No denying that. I swear this town has its own beating heart and it echoes deep inside all of us, keeping us here or calling us home. Maybe we lived on a Ley Line that gifted the land with magnetic energy? Or not. Whatever, something special always happened in Sweetwater. Just had to look at the Wall of Fame in Al’s office to know that.

That reminded me. “Guess what? Al wants me to report on the greased pig event again this year, with the ‘expected attention to detail.’” He complained that my scant twelve words devoted to celebrating the pig’s win last year—though quite poetic—had left something to be desired. I thought I’d nailed it when the pig escaped through the fence and proceeded to make his way into a neighboring corn field. And this little piggy said wee-wee-wee, all the way home.

Al Lowe’s my boss at The Sweetwater Times, where I’m a virtual slave. All right, it’s self-imposed, because I love my town and the salt of the earth people who I’m grateful to have as neighbors, but everything tends to stay the same in Sweetwater, while I dream of making it in New York City.

Not that I regret for one second staying home to be here for Grandma’s last few months, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat for anyone in my family, but there’s a drive inside me I cannot explain that pushes me to do my best. Make my mark on the world. Earn the praise of my family, and my mother. Especially my mother.

My cousin Rose put the phone down and gave me her full attention. She’s two years older than me, has a pretty pixie haircut and bright brown eyes. She gave me that look. The one that said, “Do you realize how lucky you are?”

Of course, a look was never enough. Good thing I loved her like she was my own sister. “Daisey Winslow,” she lectured, “a gal with your talent and drive, you’re going to have it all no matter where you do it or where you go. Just make darn sure it’s what you really want. The big city can swallow a person up whole. Remember the old adage, be careful what—”

“You wish for,” I finished and looked away, checking out Main Street. Tim McMann, our town handy guy, was setting up a ladder near a light standard, unrolling the banner for the annual Sweetwater Rodeo scheduled to start today and overlap with the wagon train affair.

For a small town, we sure do have a lot of things scheduled. Last I checked there were only one thousand, four hundred and eighty-one of us to do all the various jobs such occasions created and attend said events.

Don’t get me started on Christmas. The town goes all out, becoming the destination point for hundreds of miles around. We provide everything from toboggan races to gingerbread contests to the Christmas Pageant, and the biggie, the Sweetwater Festival of Lights. The town council and fellow Sweetwaterites pretty much dictate the rule of “decorate your home or business or be lumped in with Ebenezer Scrooge before he found his muse.”

I grinned. That even rhymed.

I do, however, have one of the easier tasks—reporting for The Sweetwater Times. I take pride in doing my job to the best of my abilities. There was, though, this one time I’d been egged on by my mischievous grandma to write a funny slant to a crop circle story about aliens having done the deed, and that’s enough said about that.

“It’s a nice piece of land.” Rose’s words pulled me back to the moment. “You’ll soon be able to offload it when the time comes. The year’s almost up. What’s a few more weeks?”

Grandma had willed me a beautiful, pristine property on the banks of the Red River, a few streets over from downtown Sweetwater. Sure, it was valuable, prime real estate and coveted by a few developers including a green group who wanted it handed over to them for a dollar or preferably less.

Grandma’s express wish was I do not sell it or leave town for one full year. A part of me was glad for the wait. Everyone had been so broken up after she’d passed.

My heart gave a little surge though, imagining having the funds from the sale to start my new life. Al pays peanuts. Almost an unpaid apprenticeship, but he does his best. I’m well aware small-town newspapers are a dying breed, existing on proverbial shoestrings. I’ve learned so much from Al, a real, old-fashioned newspaper man, and I would be forever grateful.

Really, I should be paying him, not a fact I’m likely to be sharing with him any time soon. He’d take me up on it.

“But I’ll be twenty-five!” I whined to Rose. “A quarter century. If I don’t get out soon, I’ll get stuck here.”

“A whole quarter of a century? Bit dramatic, Daisey,” Rose said with a half-smile. She topped up our coffees from the thermal pot she prepared for us each morning before opening the café. We’d been best friends since early childhood, apart from a few skirmishes over boys. I always let her win. I had no intention of staying in Sweetwater, so why not?

In point of fact, I avoided the opposite sex. I didn’t need complications, but I loved this ritual, a quiet break when the day held limitless promise. I admit, I’d miss it something awful when I finally got my golden ticket out of Sweetwater. Give up on my dreams? No way.

I hadn’t taken all those online college courses and graduated with honors in creative writing and completed a minor in sixteenth century history for nothing. Someday I’m going to be a historical romance author and a background in history will help.

For now, I wanted to experience real life firsthand, stride through this century and prove myself. To be somebody other than a sister, friend, cousin, daughter or maybe wife one day. To make it on my own, to be known as “the brilliant New York writer.”

Oh, well, maybe “brilliant” was a bit of a stretch any time soon, but I intended to compete straight up with the best writers out there. I mean, how can you know if you’re any good with a whole town supporting your efforts? I willed away a stab of guilt at the disloyal thought. I know I’m lucky, but is it so wrong to want more? Even if it tears you up inside? That must be the price one pays, right?

“These next two weeks will cut into all my getting-ahead writing time. I’ve been working on some new ideas.”

Sure, there was fun to be had here. The bull riding with all the hot riders was to die for, though, greased pig racing—not a big fan. Wouldn’t you know it? That unsavory event was scheduled before I could make my getaway in a covered wagon.

Movement on the street caught my attention and I squinted through the freshly squeegeed glass. The sun had risen high enough to glint off the sidewalk, causing pinpoints of lights to dance in my vision. I shielded my eyes with the back of my hand.

A tall man in a sheriff’s department uniform stalked, all long legs and confidence, along the sidewalk on the far side of the street. He knew how to wear a Stetson—tilted at exactly the perfect angle. He strode past the hardware store’s display of terra cotta paving stones in fancy shapes and patterns, the flower shop with its bow window filled with bouquets of fresh-cut petunias and marigolds, and over to the high ladder Tim was just now climbing.

I snapped my jaw shut. “Who is that?” I asked, unable to draw my gaze from the view outside the window, my mind already working on an item for this week’s page two headline. I’d need a photo as well, with the title, “New Man About Town.”

And my carefully composed article—Hearts are guaranteed to be aflutter in Sweetwater every time the new walking advertisement for how to properly wear a western hat parades down the street.

Yummy details to follow.

Rose gave a sigh of pleasure. “Ah, that’s our new deputy sheriff, Jack Samson. Just arrived yesterday. Don’t you love a handsome lawman in a fancy hat?”

“Yeah.” I forced myself to turn away from the mouth-watering, outstanding view and focus on Cousin Rose. “Spill.”

She’s always in the loop. Everyone came to the Prairie Rose Café, thanks to the welcoming smile and warm greeting of the proprietor. Her food—the best in North Dakota. Her chicken and dumplings are amazing, and don’t get me started on her world-famous cinnamon apple raisin pie.

My only defense against being as wide as I am tall is running. Though I do have an admirable petite shape, sort of Jessica Rabbitesque in the right light.

“He’s single and worked for the NYPD. Can you believe it?” Rose shook her head with feigned surprise. “And he chose to come back to Sweetwater. Fancy that, eh?” She gave me a smug smile like she’d just placed her Ace of Hearts on a winning poker hand.

“Huh. Very odd choice.” I wouldn’t let her trump it. “Samson. Old family name. He related to any of them?”

Rose nodded. “Yup. All of them. Came over on the Mayflower, like us. His parents moved to New York when he was five or six, so he wasn’t with us long and it was before either of us were born.”

Deputy Sheriff Samson not only wears a hat well, he’s one of our own. I can only hope he’s prepared to share all that big city expertise.

The deputy had stopped and was helping Tim, who was struggling with the oversized banner. Even from across the street it was obvious that Jack Samson was in prime condition. Made me want to head to the gym for a complete workout. I’m a bit too much of a fan of Rose’s apple pie and my personal favorite, rum-soaked-raisin oatmeal cookies. I’d already packed a few dozen for the wagon train trip. No point in taking chances.

“He’s a bit old for you,” Rose pointed out, arching a well-groomed brow at me. “Mid-thirties, I think. The scuttlebutt is he’s come home to Sweetwater to settle down with no intention of leaving. Unlike you.”

More movement out of the picture window caught my attention. A familiar black and white cat shot out of the narrow gap between the Barnes & Sons Hardware and Alice’s Flower Shoppe. Five-year-old Luke Barnes bounded out next, short legs pumping, his blond hair standing straight on end in the newest rage.

Knowing both ends of Main Street were already blocked off to traffic due to the Ferris wheel perched at one end and the music stage on the other kept my heart rate from accelerating. Besides, Luke was always trying to corral Bandit, the aptly named one-year-old feline who was forever on the lam.

The new guy let go of his end of the banner he’d been helping Tim with and it slumped to the street in a colorful heap. He jumped to the little boy’s aid, dashing after the runaway feline and nabbing the tiny creature in a few broad steps. Then he leaned down and handed over the squirming furry body to the young boy, making sure Luke had a good grip on his constant buddy before letting go. Hmm. Good reflexes too. Didn’t even lose his awesome hat in the proceedings.

The deputy patted the boy on the head, then headed back and finished helping Tim secure the banner. Paragraph two: A diner at the Prairie Rose Café witnessed an incident in the street this fine July morning and reports the newly arrived Deputy Sheriff Samson rescued Luke Barnes’s cat, Bandit. Little does he know that it’s a daily occurrence and he’d best invest in a ladder forthwith.

If I was a romance author, oh my, what I couldn’t do with the new hero. I laid my hand over my heart, imagining the juicy adjectives I could so easily spill out onto the page. Triple sigh. Words like dashing, scintillating, powerful, alpha…