Alex was so deep in thought that he almost didn’t realize he was out of gas. He had no idea how long the aging van’s fuel light indicator had been on. Hoping vapors could carry him as far as Grassy Valley, he headed for Red’s.

The vehicle limped into the gas station and died with a sputter in front of the pump. Alex glanced around, hoping no one had seen this inauspicious arrival.

He was about to jump out of the vehicle to fuel up when a grizzled-looking man with a chin full of stubble and four prominent teeth in his upper gum line stuck his head in the window. “Fill ’er up?”

“Fill it up with gas, you mean?”

“You betcha. Fill ’er up?” The man grinned and the four teeth looked gargantuan in his mouth.

There were no self-serve signs on these pumps. It had been a long time since he’d been to a gas station with an actual attendant. “Yes, thank you. That would be very nice.”

“You betcha.” The man busied himself opening the gas cap. He started the pump and then hurried to the hood to check the oil.

Alex was unaccustomed to such attention. He felt a little useless. Alex got out of the van and headed toward the station itself.

“Check the tires?” called a voice from behind him.

“Please!” City folk considered themselves civilized, Alex thought, but the finer things of life—like not having to gas up your own car—happened here, at what urbanites consider the end of the earth.

The large, rambling building that was Red’s appeared to have once been several smaller structures that were now joined together by halls and walkways. It was barn red with white trim. Shutters had been added, and a wooden porch ran the entire jagged front of the building. The porch rail was made to look like a hitching post, and wooden rockers, benches and tables littered the area. A soda and juice machine hummed near the front door, as did a freezer chest with ICE inscribed on the lid. Alex was sorely tempted to sit down in one of the rockers, put his feet up and watch the world go by.

Instead, he walked inside and was met by an eye-catching array that was part gas station, part fast-food restaurant, part clothing store, part gift shop and part hardware supply. To his right was a bank of coffee and soda dispensers; a rotisserie with bratwursts and hot dogs warming; a bakery case full of doughnuts, bear claws and maple bars; and a display of chips and candy that would rival any grocery store in Chicago. In the center of this were four small tables with benches, all occupied by workingmen on their breaks and a small woman behind a counter frying burgers.

The clothing portion of the arrangement included sweaters and shirts sized six months to XXXL, billed caps, rain slickers, and dreadful-looking matched scarf and mitten sets leftover from the winter stock. Fuzzy yellow work gloves, sunglasses and T-shirts with various sayings emblazoned on them filled other shelves.

There were tacky gifts—plastic horses with clocks surgically inserted into their bellies, Lava Lamps, stuffed animals—as well as WD-40, deicer for gas tanks, windshield washer fluid, motor oil, belts and wrenches. One could rent movies, play in the video arcade, shower in the trucker’s shower room, do laundry in the tiny Laundromat, do one’s Christmas shopping and buy enough glazed doughnuts for a large brunch, all under one roof. A sign hung suspended from the ceiling with arrows pointing in opposite directions. Under one arrow were the words INSURANCE, THE AGENT IS IN. The arrow pointing in the other direction said TV REPAIR.

Red’s was a veritable feast for the eyes and took the place of at least seven or eight separate businesses in the city.

Then he heard something smash to the floor and an eruption in the direction of the small kitchen. He moved to check it out. Two of the men he’d noticed at the tables were now on their feet, glaring at each other, fists raised. On the floor was a shattered glass plate. Parts of a hamburger and a bevy of french fries were strewn across the floor.

The woman behind the counter scooted out of the tiny kitchen carrying a spatula, waving it in the air. “Break it up, you two. Break it up! Bucky Chadwick, you know better!”

“He knocked my food on the floor.” The speaker was a fellow in his late twenties. His nose was bulbous, his coloring ruddy, and acne scars ran deep across his face. His already narrow eyes slanted even further as he curled back his lips, ready for a fight. In his mouth were a set of very large teeth that appeared to have had nowhere to grow except out.

Bucky Chadwick. Will Packard’s nemesis. The one who was unkind to animals and people alike.

The little woman swatted at him with the spatula, and hamburger grease splattered across his already oil-spattered clothing. “Bucky, you behave yourself. I won’t have anyone picking fights in here, you understand? I’ll pack you a burger and fries and bring it out to your pickup truck. You can come back when you decide to behave like a gentleman.”

“Ah, Ma.”

“Go!” the little woman roared. And Bucky did as he was told.

“Sorry about that,” the woman said to the other diner. “Your food is on the house today.” And she turned around calmly and returned to her kitchen.

Not knowing what to make of what he’d just seen, Alex turned toward the checkout and nearly ran into another man, one with flame-red hair, freckles so thick that they overlapped and a big grin. A well-chewed toothpick dangled from his mouth.

“You are a quart low on oil in your van.” the big redhead said politely. “We can put in some 5W30 for you.”

“Thanks. That would be great.”

“Good, ’cause we already did it.” The man studied Alex. “New in town, aren’t you?”

“I’m the new pastor at Hilltop Community Church.” Alex thrust out his hand. “Alex Armstrong.”

The other took the proffered hand and shook it vigorously, like a pump handle. “I’m Red O’Grady. Welcome to our part of the world. And don’t worry about that little dustup back there. Bucky is a troublemaker, but his mother is spitfire enough to keep him under control in here. Too bad she can’t follow him around like a tick on a dog and make sure he behaves everywhere.”

“Red, come here and look at this carburetor,” a mechanic called from the doorway.

“Excuse me. Again, welcome.” Red disappeared into the garage part of his mini-kingdom, leaving Alex to pay his bill.

On the way out, between the inside and outside doors, was a small vestibule with huge bulletin boards covered with sheets of paper advertising everything from Labrador retriever puppies to babysitting, housecleaning and livestock sales. He stopped to look at them and noticed he could buy an antique tractor or a prize bull. Then his eyes fell on a flyer that announced WHEATVILLE FARMERS’ MARKET—EVERY SATURDAY 8–NOON. Listed were an assortment of vegetables, pastries and jams. There were even homemade quilts available.

He was still studying the flyer when a tall, sturdily built woman with white-blond hair entered the outer door and stopped beside him. “Are you looking for fresh vegetables?” she asked, seeing where his gaze was fixed.

“I just noticed the flyer for the farmers’ market. Is there anything like that around Grassy Valley?”

The blonde, whose shoulders were nearly as wide as Alex’s, reached up, took a stray tack off the board and posted a sign of her own. HOME GROWN VEGGIES—CALL LOLLY ROSCOE. “There isn’t, but I wish there were. It would be a lot easier for me to bring my garden produce to one location and sell it. People have mentioned it over the years but no one has ever taken the bull by the horns and organized it. In the past I suppose it was unnecessary since most everyone planted a garden, but times have changed. What’s more, this gas station has become pretty famous for its burgers and good service. People stop here a lot. I’ll bet a few tables of vegetables would sell well if they were in Red’s outlot.”

“Surely it couldn’t be too hard, could it?”

“I wouldn’t think so. In fact, I’d help whoever started it. I just don’t want to have all the responsibility.” She smiled at him and he noticed her white, even teeth and bright blue eyes. “You’re the new pastor at Hilltop, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“I go to Hilltop sometimes. I’m Lolly Roscoe, by the way, if you haven’t already guessed.”

“And I’m Alex Armstrong.”

She shook his hand and her fingers were warm and strong. What’s more, her eyes were sharp and appraising.

“Maybe you would be interested in helping me start a farmers’ market,” she said lightly. “What do you think?” There was a flirtiness in her smile that set off warning flares in Alex’s mind. Obviously he wasn’t ready yet, not open to a relationship. When would memories of Natalie quit stalking him?

He swallowed thickly. “Not at the moment, but if I find someone who can, I’ll let you know.” Suddenly he felt the urge to escape her appraising stare.

He excused himself as quickly and politely as he could and headed for the food counter, which held soda dispensers and a variety of fast foods.

Carrying the foot-long hot dog and bag of potato chips he’d purchased at Red’s, Alex entered the house to find Tripod standing on the area rug in the entry, tail wagging so hard it shook the whole dog. At the first whiff of the hot dog, his tail began to pound on the floor.

“Don’t worry, I got you one too,” Alex said, reaching into the depths of a sack and pulling out a regular hot dog with no mustard and ketchup. “But you get it only if you promise not to beg while I’m eating.”

Tripod gave a sharp whine and tipped his head to one side but followed Alex into the kitchen and lay down on the floor beside his master’s feet as he ate. When the foot-long was gone, however, Tripod jumped up and gazed longingly at the other hot dog.

The dog was more disciplined than he would have been, Alex thought as he tossed bits of frankfurter and bun to Tripod, who caught them midair. When he was done, Alex threw away the paper wrappings, wiped the counter and walked into the living room. He stood in front of the large picture windows and stared out at the serene scene before him as the sun lowered in the sky. The days were long here on the prairie so far north on the continent. In the summer it was still light out at nine or even ten o’clock.

Alex rambled through the house trying to shake the feelings of isolation and restiveness he was experiencing. Finally he picked up the phone and dialed his sister Carol’s number.

Jared answered. “Hi, Unc. What’s up? Do you miss me?”

“I certainly do. Do you want to move out here with me and go to school in Grassy Valley?” Alex asked.

Alex was joking, but Jared answered somberly, as if it were the most reasonable question in the world. “I wish I could, but it probably wouldn’t help. I hate school.”

They were both silent. Alex tried to digest the venom in Jared’s voice.

He decided to change the subject. “I have news. I got a dog.”

“No kidding?”

“None whatsoever. His name is Tripod.”

“That’s a weird name for a dog.”

“Not if it only has three legs.”

“A three-legged dog? Are you crazy?” It was Carol. She had picked up another phone extension and was now on the line.

“No more so than usual, I don’t think.”

“I suppose it’s nice to have company out there in the country all alone, but if you were—”

Alex closed his eyes and groaned inwardly, knowing exactly where this was going.

“—married and had a nice wife to keep you company…”

“I hear you, but let’s not go into it tonight.”

“If you guys are going to talk about Uncle Alex getting married, I’m hanging up.”

“I’ll call again and we’ll leave your mother out of it,” Alex promised.

“Cool.” A click signaled that Jared had hung up. “How are things going? Any more outbursts?”

“The only thing I can really connect it to is school—or the mention of it. He’s never loved school, but this year he’s counting down the days until it starts and getting more miserable with each one that passes. He scares me sometimes, Alex.”

“Maybe once it starts things will be better.”

“I hope so,” Carol said without much confidence, “but I doubt it. I’ve never seen him as agitated as this.”

They engaged in desultory chatter for a few more minutes before they hung up.

The conversation hadn’t eased his mind whatsoever. Now Alex’s mind was whirling even faster. He felt the need to do something, to make something positive happen. He got out the slim phone book that held the numbers of everyone in the communities around Grassy Valley, found what he was looking for, and dialed. An answering machine picked up.

“Hello, Jonas? Gandy said you have a green thumb and that your garden is huge. She also said you grow everything naturally, no pesticides or the like. Is that true? Because if it is, I have an idea I’d like to run past you.”

Late that afternoon, Alex and Tripod were sleeping on the living room floor and being warmed by the sun when they awoke to the sound of the church bells clanging.

“Whaaa—?” Alex jumped to his feet and shook his head to clear out the cobwebs that had lodged there during his nap. The telephone began to ring. He stumbled toward the table and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Reverend Alex!” It was Gandy and her voice was even higher-pitched than usual. “There’s a grass fire by All Saints and the wind is blowing it right toward the church! The fire department is on its way. Mac just drove over there. Some of the men are trying to get the pews and altar out in case the building burns, but they need help.”

“I’m on my way.” He didn’t even pause to consider that he was still wearing the dress trousers, white shirt and slip-on loafers he’d donned before the Ladies Aid meeting this afternoon. He left Tripod whimpering inside the house and raced to his van.

He was growing accustomed to taking these gravel roads at high speeds, Alex thought grimly as his white-knuckled hands gripped the steering wheel. If he were going to stay in the Hilltop and All Saints communities, his next car would have to be something heavy like an all-terrain SUV—or a souped-up tractor.

He could see smoke rolling skyward. A chill shivered through him. It had been a dry summer, Dixon had explained.

There was not much ground moisture and the last rain had done little to allay the aridness. He saw the large pasture, parched and brittle from the heat, on fire. The flames were spreading outward and moving rapidly toward the little country church. Yellow and orange tongues of fire hungrily gobbled up everything in front of them.

There were several vehicles in the churchyard and out in the pasture, a bright red fire truck. Its crew labored to hold back the flames. Alex recognized the vehicle driven by the All Saints janitor in the mix, as well as the pickup truck he’d seen in the Nyborg yard.

Dixon loped toward the van. He was traveling faster than Alex had ever seen him. “We’re moving things out. A lot of it is on Mark’s flatbed trailer, which he’s pulled out of harm’s way. There are still a few pews left, and the pulpit.”

“We can’t let that burn!” Alex was horrified at the thought of the beautiful piece of art created by Alf’s grandfather being reduced to dust and ashes.

“It’s pretty solidly installed.” Dixon glanced at the rolling flames inching their way toward them. “I don’t know if we can get it out in time. Alf is inside working on it. He’s determined to get it out or die trying.” Dixon paused and gave Alex an intense look. “Literally.”

Another chill spread through Alex although he felt sweat pouring down his sides beneath his shirt. “I’m going inside.” He was surprised to hear the strength of his own voice.

It was startling how much noise a fire made. There were yells of the men from All Saints and Hilltop, for once working side by side, moving the rest of the pews and the piano out the front door. But more remarkable to Alex was the crackle and snap of dry grass and the rush of water from fire hoses dousing the flames. The scene was chaotic.

Inside the church, men were grabbing sections of altar. Someone yelled, “If they don’t get it stopped soon, this place is going to go up like a tinderbox. We need to get out of here.”

Alex found Mark trying to gather candlesticks and collection plates into his arms. Mark turned to Alf, who was frantically working to unscrew the bolts that held the hand-carved pulpit in place. “You’ll have to leave it, Alf. It’s not worth risking your life over.”

“No!” was the strangled response. Alf looked up and Alex was shocked to see the tortured expression, the sheer terror, on his features. There were tears streaming down his face. “Someone’s got to help me!”

In this moment, Alex realized, Alf wasn’t fighting for this pulpit or even this church. Alf was reliving another place and time, fighting to change history, to somehow redeem himself for not saving his wife and son.

Without thinking, Alex dodged behind the old-fashioned altar and picked up a piece of microphone stand that was stored there and attacked the planks around the platform, prying them loose. Alf, realizing what Alex was doing, began to use his screwdriver to help Alex pry at the planks. If they couldn’t get the pulpit off the floor, they’d take the floor with them.

Together they worked like madmen, chopping, prying and weeping. Somewhere in the distance Alex heard the sound of another fire truck approaching, its siren wailing.

When Mark realized what they were trying to do, he added his muscle to the job, working the massive piece forward and back until the wood creaked and snapped.

It was almost loose when a fireman appeared in the building, his thick yellow and black gear making him appear large and alien. “Out! Now!”

It was as though Alf hadn’t heard him. He continued to work frantically, sweat soaking his shirt and hair, oblivious to the warning.

Alex and Mark exchanged glances and, as if of one mind, they approached Alf. Each slipped a forearm beneath one of the man’s armpits and lifted him off the floor and half-dragged, half-carried him through the now-empty sanctuary as Alf kicked, fought, and screamed.

They emerged from the church and deposited him on the ground by Mark’s truck. “They want us all to move. We saved most of the furniture. You have to let it go, Alf,” Mark said. “It’s not worth it, not for a piece of wood.”

“It’s not just wood!”

Alf’s scream pierced a hole in Alex’s spirit.

Silently, they lifted him into the truck and drove him to safety.

The men of the church stood helplessly by, staring at the scene before them. Minutes passed like hours.

It was Dixon who noticed the change first. “The wind is dying down,” he said. “Feel it?”

“And I think it’s turning,” Alf added. “They’ll be able to stop it now. Thank God.”

“Let’s pray,” Alex said and bowed his head in prayer. “Lord, You control not only the wind but our hearts. Thank You today for a double dose of Your generosity. Thank You for sparing most of the church, Lord, and odd as this might sound, thank You for allowing us the opportunity to work together as one. Thank You for the men of All Saints and for those of Hilltop who were united in a single purpose today. You are able to bring blessing out of tragedy, Lord, as You have proved once again. You are a good and gracious God. Amen.”

A chorus of amens erupted behind him. When Alex looked up he noticed that Alf had slipped away. He heard him start his pickup and watched him drive away. The fire must have brought every painful memory back.

One by one, the men drifted over to stare at the site, at the small miracle that had transpired.

Guided by the changing wind, the line of fire had stopped at the southwest corner of the church before burning off in another direction. The church lawn and the pasture beyond was charred black, and some of the church’s siding was slightly charred; but for the most part, the little country church sat unscathed, ringed by burnt grass.

“Quite something, isn’t it?” Tim Clayborn, husband of Amy, murmured as he stood next to Alex. The men of both churches had gathered together and were talking softly among themselves. “The fire somehow went all the way around the church. The siding is blistered and some sparks burned holes in the roof, but it’s still here. It’s as if God directed the wind to blow right around All Saints.” Tim, a strong, athletic-looking man, glanced at Alex. “Do you think He can do that?”

“He can do anything He wants, Tim,” Alex murmured. “I think He’s done something much bigger than directing the wind.”

“Huh?” Tim looked at him blankly.

Alex nodded to the cluster of people nearby. The men of the two disparate and conflicted congregations were smiling with relief and clapping each other on the shoulders in celebration, both overjoyed that the little church was safe. “The wind is nothing compared to blowing these two groups into the same place and after the same goal.”

Tim took off his cap and scratched his blond head. “It was nice to see us working together for a common cause.”