Книга - The Husband Project

The Husband Project
Kristine Rolofson


He won't trade in the tent for a white picket fence…Small town life has never held any charm for documentary filmmaker Sam Hove. But after a mishap in the Amazon during filming, Willing, Montana, seems like the perfect place for a quiet recovery. Until he finds out that the town is hosting a reality dating show. And with a neighbor like Lucia Swallow, the idea of love and commitment are more dangerous than anything he’s encountered in the wild.A widow with three kids, Lucia represents everything Sam has always avoided: responsibility, family, stability. So why is he finding any excuse he can to be with her and the children? A life with Lucia couldn’t possibly be the kind of adventure he’s looking for, so he's got to get out…before he gets hooked.Willing to Wed









The truth was this morning had been a little too cozy.


Between the children, whom he liked, and the mother-in-law, who had a right to be suspicious, Sam was definitely out of his element.

The beautiful Lucia Swallow, with all that silky black hair and laughing eyes and a body that a goddess would envy, had tempted him. Loneliness had made him stupid. Boredom had made him reckless.

Lucia needed a man like Jerry Thompson, a guy with roots. Sam had walked past Jerry’s house on his way to buy the flowers. It was an impressive home, easily the grandest in town. Sam shuddered at the thought of living in a home like that. He’d spent much of his childhood dreaming of escaping the house with the wide staircase and the gleaming floors.

He’d been crazy to invite himself to go with Lucia to the concert, but he didn’t know how to get out of it without lying to her.


Dear Reader,

Last autumn, after spending three months without television, the first show I watched in a Montana motel room was something I’d never seen before: River Monsters, on the Animal Planet channel. I have never pretended to be the least bit outdoorsy, but there was something about the combination of myth, mystery, dangerous locations and fishing for “the big one” that entranced me. I was, if you’ll forgive the expression, hooked. The show’s host, handsome and articulate adventurer Jeremy Wade, had his own appeal, so I gave The Husband Project’s hero some of Mr. Wade’s adventurous attributes.

I so hope you love the townspeople of Willing, Montana, as much as I do. I’ve spent so many months with them and want them all to live happily ever after. I’d love to hear from you and promise to answer any and all emails. Thank you so much for spending time in Willing with me.

Love,

Kristine Rolofson

kristinerolofson@hotmail.com

www.kristinerolofson.wordpress.com

www.welcometowillingmontana.wordpress.com


The Husband Project

Kristine Rolofson






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




KRISTINE ROLOFSON


Author of more than forty novels for Harlequin, Kristine Rolofson (along with her husband of forty-two years) divides her time between Rhode Island, Idaho and Texas, where her handsome and brilliant grandson entertains her with drum solos. When not writing, she quilts, bakes peach pies, plays the fiddle and sings in a country blues band. She collects vintage cowboy boots and will not tell you how many are in her closet.


To Glen, who watched endless hours of River Monsters with me and did everything he could to be quiet while I wrote this book.


Contents

CHAPTER ONE (#ue5b9f1d8-434b-566c-8d19-1d24cc814c6c)

CHAPTER TWO (#u1acdbe30-7b44-5985-9f39-0b20692cf6cf)

CHAPTER THREE (#ud4219341-0ea5-5bcf-b88b-0be9dc8c387a)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE

SAM HOVE TOLD three people where he was going.

His agent was thrilled at the news. Surely in a place without temptations Sam would finish writing his book at last. The manuscript was long overdue and, according to Robert, was certain to be well received. At least by fellow anglers and zoologists.

His doctor took note of the location. Willing, Montana? Where the heck was that? He then reminded Sam to call if he had any questions and wished him luck. He also asked Sam to autograph a photo for his kids.

His best friend and cameraman— Well, who knew what he thought, since he’d been much harder to contact directly. Russ was in the Amazon again. Sam had left a message in Belize with Russ’s latest unstable girlfriend. Russ preferred women “on the edge,” he’d once explained. Sam kept his opinions to himself. Women—“on the edge” or otherwise—were either a luxury or an irritation that Sam couldn’t afford.

Not that it mattered to a man with a damaged heart and three cracked ribs.

A surprisingly easy flight dropped him and his two battered leather bags in Billings, where he’d arranged, via the internet, for transportation to Willing. Finding a way to make getting to Willing work hadn’t been easy, but Sam had tracked down someone online who knew someone who knew someone. Samuel Barlow Hove was accustomed to getting wherever he wanted to go. In fact, he’d made a living out of it.

A tall young man standing next to a black Cadillac SUV the size of a tank waved at him. He’d parked along the curb and seemed oblivious to the swirling snow.

“Mr. Hove?”

“Theo Porterman?”

“Yes, sir,” the young man replied, and walked swiftly over to shake Sam’s hand. He looked about twenty-five, with a large square face, an easy smile and hands like a wrestler’s. Theo happened to be an auto mechanic who lived in Willing and he supplemented his income by chauffeuring when a trip happened to coincide with picking up auto parts.

“You visiting someone in town, Mr. Hove?” Theo, wearing a flannel shirt, thick vest and jeans, hefted Sam’s two bags into the backseat, then settled himself behind the wheel. He kept his leather gloves on. “Cold day,” he said, adjusting the heater knobs.

“Sam. And no, I’m working,” he replied, climbing awkwardly into the passenger seat. He’d known Montana would be cold, but the wind and the snow surprised him. He was grateful for his new wool shirt and down jacket, not to mention the waterproof boots, all compliments of Cabela’s online catalog.

He shivered and made a mental note to order more wool socks. The landlord had promised internet service, along with other amenities.

“So you’re working in Willing? You must be from California.” Theo headed west on the interstate and turned on the windshield wipers to bat away the splats of snow hitting the glass.

“Why is that?”

“We’ve had some Hollywood people visiting here lately.” Theo turned the defroster knob.

“No, I’m from—” He hesitated, thinking over his reply. He leased a room in Florida when he wasn’t working in the Amazon and had avoided his home state of New York for almost twenty years. “I’ve recently been working in South America.”

“Really? I’ve never been there. What do you do?”

“I work on documentaries. And I’m a writer,” he admitted. “Sometimes.”

“Like now?”

“Yeah. Like now.” Sam looked out the window and saw nothing green. Just gray and white and flat, which was pretty much what he’d expected. How long had it been since he’d seen snow? And why had he thought he wanted to live in it for the next three months? He ignored the renewed aching in his side and attempted to make conversation. “I hear Willing is a pretty small town.”

“You’ve never been there?”

“Not yet.”

“Huh?”

Clearly, that baffled the driver, so Sam tried to explain.

“A guy I met told me about it. I needed a quiet place to write for a few months. Someplace the opposite of a jungle.”

“It’s quiet in Willing all right. Most of the time. You can’t tell now,” Theo said, fiddling with the defroster. “But there’s no town prettier in the spring or summer or fall. Too bad you won’t be here longer so you could see for yourself.”

“I guess I’ll just have to take your word for it,” Sam said. “I’ll be out of here before April.”

“You’re staying at Meg’s?”

“Meg’s?”

“She has some cabins for rent at the Willing Café,” Theo explained. “They’re small, but okay for one person long-term, I imagine.”

“Uh, no. I don’t think so.” He pulled a worn notebook from his jacket pocket and thumbed through it until he found the address. “I’m renting a house from Willing Properties. Two eighty Janet Street. An executive rental.”

“An executive rental,” Theo echoed. “Didn’t know we had any of those in Willing. What exactly is that, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Sam shrugged, then wished he hadn’t. It had caused his ribs to ache. He made himself cough to get more air in his lungs and ease the discomfort. “It’s better than a hotel room, more like an apartment. Short-term. At least, that’s my understanding.” He checked his notes. “Jerry Thompson is the agent.”

Theo thought that over for a long minute. “You’re renting Mrs. Kelly’s house,” he said at last. “She died last summer.”

“Oh?” Sam tucked the notebook in his front jacket pocket and winced.

“Peacefully,” Theo added, giving Sam a sideways glance. “In the hospital.”

Sam supposed Theo didn’t want him to be upset about staying in a home where the former occupant had died. He wasn’t about to explain he was wincing from the pain of his cracked ribs, not because someone had passed away in his future home.

“Was she a friend of yours?” Sam inquired.

“Well...she and my grandmother went to school together. Her husband had a ’56 Ford Thunderbird hardtop convertible,” Theo mused. “Fiesta-red. A real beauty. It’s still in her garage. I’d love to get my hands on that one.”

“I’ll bet,” Sam said, knowing little about cars but wanting to be congenial.

“Jerry hasn’t figured out what he wants to do with it.” Theo glanced over at Sam. “Did he say you could drive it?”

“No.” Nothing had been said about a car. Sam assumed he could walk wherever he needed to go. Or hire Theo. “Do you know Jerry well?”

“Oh, yeah. He’s the mayor. You’ll meet him soon enough. Ambitious guy. He’s buying up the town.”

“Really.” This was Sam’s attempt to make conversation without really conversing. “Why?”

Now Theo shrugged. “He’s from California. And I guess he likes buying houses. Jerry figures that Willing is going to make a comeback and real estate prices will rise again.”

Sam knew nothing about real estate prices and didn’t want to, but he couldn’t sit there in silence. He shifted in the big comfortable seat and prepared to ignore the ache settling deep in his chest. “Is there any fishing around there?”

“In Willing?” At Sam’s nod, he shook his head. “There are some decent-sized fish in the Judith, but not too many people want to work that hard to catch a trout. Access is tough.”

Ah, thought Sam, adjusting his seat belt so he could breathe a little easier. Good news.

“You doin’ okay? Got enough heat?”

“Fine, thanks. It’s been a long day. I had a bit of health trouble a few weeks ago and I’m still not over it.”

Theo shot him a worried look. “You don’t look too good.”

“I’ll be okay. It’s getting better.”

“There’s a real good clinic in Lewistown. We’ll be going through there if you need to get checked out.”

“I just need a bed and some rest,” Sam said. “But thanks for the offer.”

“No problem. My cousin Hip is an EMT. You can always call him if you need anything. We live right around the corner at Main and Joyce, two blocks down from the Kelly place.”

“I gather Willing’s not a big town?”

“Heck, no. We’ve got a bar, a restaurant, a couple of B and Bs, a hot dog shack and the usual grade school, church, community center, library—well, sort of—and a couple of stores.” He grinned. “I hope you’re not looking for excitement.”

“Just the opposite,” Sam assured him.

“We had some television folks here a few weeks ago, though. That had everybody stirred up for a while. We hoped something would come of it, but Jerry says these things take time.”

“What kind of things?” Sam stared out the window, hoping to see something other than gray, snow-covered ground and whirling snowflakes, but Interstate 90 disappointed him once again. He leaned his head back against the leather seat and closed his eyes.

“Just an idea Jerry had to generate a little publicity.”

Sam heard the click of a radio button, then the muted sounds of guitars and fiddles accompanying a sweet-voiced female singer.

“Do you mind the radio?”

“Not at all.” He didn’t open his eyes.

“I like that song. She was on American Idol last year,” Theo said. “Did you watch it?”

“No.”

“It’s a pretty good show, but my wife says it’s not as good as it used to be.”

And that was the last thing Sam heard until Theo stopped for coffee and a transmission in a place called Big Timber.

* * *

“DO NOT LET HIM in here,” Meg ordered. Her customary jeans, T-shirt and apron had been replaced with a deep blue wool dress and vintage gold necklace, and she had a familiar trapped expression on her face. Meg owned the local café and was happier in work clothes. She was also unaccustomed to being the center of attention.

“He only wants a couple of pictures,” Lucia promised. She waved to Mike, the owner of the town’s paper, and gave him a thumbs-up while the future bride continued to grumble.

“I don’t want my face splashed on the front page of the paper next week.” Meg frowned at Mike and the smile on his round face dimmed. Lucia felt sorry for him. Clearly he’d hoped to stay and party with the women. But that wasn’t going to happen. There were few women-only events in this town of mostly single men, and the women in town protected their privacy at all costs. He held on to the cupcake he’d just plucked from a three-tiered cake plate, though.

“You’re news. Your bridal shower is news. It’ll probably end up on Jerry’s blog, too.” Lucia couldn’t hide her amusement. Meg’s romance with her high school sweetheart had finally worked out. The two of them were perfect for each other, and everyone in town knew it. Everyone in town had watched it happen, so it was only fitting that any prewedding celebration be detailed on the front page of the local newspaper.

“I don’t want to be news.”

Lucia laughed. “Meg, anything and everything that goes on in this town is news, and you know it.”

“Everyone looks really happy.”

“It’s not every day we get to celebrate a wedding,” Lucia pointed out. “We’re going to make the most of it.”

“I’m glad. Thank you,” Meg said, sniffling uncharacteristically. “I really like my party.”

“You are not going to cry,” Lucia ordered. “Aurora will have a fit if she thinks I’ve gone all sentimental and made you cry. She’s worked really hard to get the bar ready for this.” Lucia thought the room looked elegant. Even the stuffed grizzly in the corner wore a cummerbund and a black bowtie. A red silk rose was wired into one large paw, making the town mascot look absolutely gentlemanly.

That had been Aurora’s idea, and Lucia had found just the right supplies at a thrift shop in Billings. She and Aurora, her cohostess, had originally planned to hold the shower at the community center, but they’d had to change the venue to Aurora’s bar, the Dahl, because of a conflict with the senior citizens’ Christmas potluck later that evening. Lucia suspected that Aurora had planned to have the party at her bar all along. The Dahl, one of the original town buildings from the late 1800s, was almost unrecognizable at the moment, its pine tables covered in white linen and decorated with flowers. Candles lined the bar itself, along with red roses in bud vases.

Lucia assumed every woman in town was in attendance. What had begun as a ladies’ night to celebrate Meg’s engagement while Owen was away had turned into a full-blown bridal shower, despite the continuing silence of the future bride and groom about their wedding plans. In winter, even in December with Christmas approaching, no one needed an excuse to party.

Aurora, enigmatic and always glamorous, sauntered over, refilled Meg’s glass and set the half-empty pitcher of margaritas on the table. “This is a blast. I knew something was happening that night after the town meeting when you and Owen kept pretending you weren’t looking at each other. Your handsome future husband is our local success story, lady.”

“He’s a hero,” Lucia added, though Meg looked horrified.

“Oh, please,” Meg groaned. “You’re both being ridiculous.”

“Us?” Lucia feigned innocence by widening her eyes and keeping a straight face. “I’m the town widow and Aurora is the surly bartender. We know of what we speak.”

“Darn right,” Aurora agreed, tossing her platinum hair over her shoulders. Lucia envied the color, which she had decided was real. The woman looked like a supermodel, even when wearing a faded T-shirt, jeans and Western boots. “No one can stop talking about your engagement. Owen performed a miracle getting you to agree to marry him. Proposing right there in the parking lot by the café, with everyone watching out the windows. You were the talk of the town.”

“Th-that was two weeks ago,” Meg sputtered, but Lucia saw the way her best friend’s eyes softened when she remembered the moment. A large antique ring with sapphires and diamonds sparkled in the candlelight as Meg held up her hand seemingly to stop their teasing.

“Parking lots can be very romantic,” Lucia said. She took a careful sip of her margarita. “We both understand that. No one’s blaming you for weakening and finally saying yes to the poor man. And think of that honeymoon you’re going to have.”

Meg, bless her, blushed. “Stop,” she whispered.

“I wish you’d hurry up and set a date,” Lucia said. “I want to start planning the wedding cake. Do you want real flowers or frosting flowers?”

“Frosting.”

“Colors?”

“I haven’t a clue,” Meg answered, looking pained. “You’re the baker. What do you think? I’m not sure Owen would go for anything too pink.”

“Some of that depends on the time of year,” Aurora said, plopping a wedding veil on Meg’s head. She fiddled with the headband and fluffed the white tulle. “Red and white for Valentine’s Day would work. It’s a bit of a cliché, but Lucia could make it modern.”

“I could. Or if you prefer spring, I could do April violets,” Lucia murmured. “With yellow daffodils. Or daisies.”

“Pretty,” Aurora said, arranging the tulle so that it expanded like a cloud around Meg’s shoulder-length brown hair.

“A veil? Really?” Meg’s eyes narrowed. “How much have you two had to drink?”

“Very little,” Lucia assured her. “But I’ve been baking cupcakes since four o’clock this morning and I’m wobbly.”

“The veil was your mother’s idea. I guess it’s some kind of family heirloom. I’ll go get your wedding photographer,” Aurora said. “This talk of baking may make me break out in hives.”

Lucia laughed. Meg’s expression was anything but amused, though. “I worry about you,” she said. “You’ve been baking cupcakes at four in the morning for weeks.”

“It’s just for the holidays,” Lucia said, wondering how much longer she could keep up the pace. Early-morning baking, dealing with the boys, frosting and decorating dozens of cupcakes for the noon deliveries. Then picking up the boys at school, laundry, cooking and all the things that went into mothering. She loved it all—well, except for the laundry—but at this time of year she was wearing down fast. However, all the baking was adding to her special savings account in the hope of a March break trip to Orlando. “This is my busiest season, especially for pies. After the holidays I won’t have much to do until Valentine’s Day. So what about February for the wedding?”

“Maybe, but the baby is due that month and Shelly doesn’t want to miss the wedding.”

“Well, I’m not going anywhere at all until I know when you’re getting married.”

“You’ll be my matron of honor, right?”

“Absolutely.” Lucia was happy for Meg. Over-the-moon happy. She remembered those months before she’d married Tony, when the world had seemed made just for them, when every look or touch or kiss was magic and life was filled with endless years of possibilities.

“I can help you with the baking, remember,” Meg said. “My kitchen is your kitchen.”

“Thanks, but—” Lucia was about to remind her friend that her kitchen actually belonged to Al, a cook who preferred to be master of all he surveyed, when Aurora hauled Mike over to join them at the bar.

“I told Mike he can take one picture of you, one picture of the ring and one picture of the dessert table, but that’s it,” Aurora said. “And if he complained I’d have Loralee deal with him.”

Mike nodded his agreement, his mouth full of dessert. He wiped his fingers on a crumpled paper napkin before lifting his camera.

“That’s downright mean.” Lucia liked Meg’s mother, but the woman was famous for her multiple marriages and colorful observations, not to mention her flirting skills. Men in her presence were alternately charmed and terrified. She was as different from Lucia’s mother-in-law, Marie, as a woman could be.

“That’s the way it is,” Aurora said with a shrug. “It’s a tough world.”

Lucia moved out of camera range and surveyed the chattering crowd of hungry women. Mama Marie was fussing over the pile of gifts on the pool table, which had been covered with a huge white-and-silver tablecloth. Marie was just under five feet tall, and almost as wide as she was high. A descendant of Italian immigrants who settled in Boston, she had her roots in pasta, meatballs and “gravy,” commonly known in Montana as spaghetti sauce. Her graying hair was cut short and the only makeup she wore was pink lip gloss. She was the most maternal person Lucia knew.

Mike posed Meg behind the stack of presents, took a closeup of the engagement ring and the cupcake stand, then looked longingly at the food table before being hustled out the door by the ever-vigilant Aurora.

Lucia knew that Aurora, thirtyish, mysterious and very self-sufficient, had a lot of experience ushering men out that particular door. She didn’t suffer fools, drunks or boors lightly. Since she ran the only bar in town, the men played—for the most part—by her rules. Her customers minded their manners, their language and their alcohol consumption.

Meg, still wearing her veil, carried a paper plate piled high with meatballs and pasta salad over to Lucia. She nodded toward Loralee. “My mother just told me I needed to use more mascara. She seems to be having a good time.”

“As always.” Loralee, wearing silver boots, black jeans, a white sweater and glittery headband, was knocking back what looked like a blue martini and chatting with Patsy, the local hairdresser.

“She’s talking about coming back here when Shelly’s baby is born or maybe not even leaving at all.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Her broken wrist encased in plaster, Shelly moved carefully around the buffet table and chatted sweetly with Mrs. Parcell, an older woman who, along with her husband and grandson, ranched outside of town. The newest resident in town, the former runaway teen’s long blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she sported an overlarge pink sweatshirt that covered her growing baby bump. Lucia guessed the sweatshirt belonged to Loralee, the now-surrogate grandmother who had unceremoniously taken the girl under her wing.

“Has Shelly said what she’s planning to do?”

“Face reality,” Meg said. “At least, that’s what she told us.”

“What exactly is reality?”

“Raising a baby alone. Giving the child up for adoption. I don’t know.”

“We’ll all help her,” Lucia said. “Whatever she decides.”

“It won’t be easy.”

“No,” Lucia said, knowing full well how hard it was to raise children on one’s own. “It won’t be easy. Whatever happens, she’s better off with your mother to keep an eye on her.”

“Yes, which is amazing, since I’m the one who’s always had to keep an eye on my mother.” Meg smiled ruefully. “Do you think Loralee is finally growing up?”

“Well, she hasn’t been married in years,” Lucia pointed out. “That’s progress.”

“You’re right. I should be grateful.” Meg perched on a bar stool and surveyed the party.

Mama Marie hurried over. “You’d probably better start opening presents,” she told Meg. “You’ve got a lot of them, and it’s gonna take a while.”

“I can’t believe this,” Meg sighed. “A party and presents.”

“That’s what happens when you get engaged,” Mama Marie pointed out. “At last.”

“You didn’t have to add the at last,” Meg grumbled.

Lucia laughed.

“I’d like to make a toast!” Aurora lifted a glass of champagne. “Quiet, ladies! We also have several announcements.”

The crowd’s chatter died down, but excitement stayed in the air. Lucia met Mama Marie’s smile with one of her own. Loralee, standing beside her, winked.

“First of all,” Aurora began, “we’re here to congratulate Meg for having the good sense to wait for Owen MacGregor to return to town.”

“It only took sixteen years,” someone hollered. Lucia thought it was Patsy, but she couldn’t be sure.

“Whatever,” Aurora said, waving her elegant hand. “It finally happened, so let’s raise our glasses and wish the couple well. And then? Presents!”

Cheers filled the room as the women clinked glasses.

“Speech!” called Loralee.

“No speech,” her daughter said.

“Just a little one,” Lucia said, pushing Meg forward so she could see the crowd of friends gathered to wish her well.

“Okay.” Meg cleared her throat and smiled at her neighbors. “Thank you, everyone. And thanks especially to Lucia and Aurora for putting this together.” She raised her left hand and wiggled her fingers. “You’ve seen the ring?”

Another round of cheers.

“I wore this secretly for two weeks when I was a teenager,” she said. “Some of you have heard the story, I know. And I just want to say I’m really happy to have it back.” She laughed when several of the older women fist-pumped the air. “So thank you for coming. It means a lot to me.”

“Open the presents!” This came from Shelly, who looked ready to burst from excitement. At more than six months along she looked ready to burst, period.

Now it was Lucia’s turn to blink back tears. She remembered the sweet discovery of having created a life and feeling the baby move inside her for the first time.

Shelly had inadvertently created a baby with a man who turned out to be married, a man with the morals of a stray, unneutered dog, and her young life had immediately changed and shifted in ways she never could have imagined.

It was a tough thing to learn. Lucia herself had been smacked in the face with the reality that nothing was forever. You never knew what lurked around the corner.

She’d been tiptoeing around corners ever since.

* * *

“HEADING HOME?” The man in the seat next to him turned away from the window and adjusted his seat belt. They were about to take off from a dirt runway in Nicaragua.

“Not exactly.” Sam needed to pick up some things in Miami, then head to Los Angeles for production meetings. “Are you?”

“I’m getting closer,” he said, seeming happy with the idea of being on his way. He appeared about Sam’s age but had a military look, with his clipped dark hair. “You know what the opposite of the Amazon is?”

“Alaska?”

“Montana,” the man had said quite seriously, as though it were a well-established fact. He’d glanced out the window as the plane vaulted into the sky. Beneath them lay thousands of acres of green foliage, brown water and vague dirt roads twisting into the jungle.

“Montana,” Sam repeated. He’d never been there. “Any special place in Montana?”

“Willing,” the man replied immediately.

“Excuse me?”

“Willing. The center of Montana.” He’d flipped through the pages of a tattered airline magazine until he found a map of the United States. “There,” he said, tapping his index finger on the page. “That’s the best place in the world.”

Sam believed him. The stranger was earnest, his expression one of intense longing.

“And that’s home?”

“Yeah,” he said, flipping the magazine shut and stuffing it into the seat back pocket to join a wad of out-of-date reading material. “Always.”

“We’re here,” someone said. “Welcome to Willing.”

Sam dragged himself out of the memory and realized he must have dozed off. He blinked, then focused his eyes, and realized Theo was driving down what Sam assumed was the main street in town. It was growing dark and the snow was still falling, so there wasn’t much to see. Theo turned right at a flashing red light and crawled down the dimly lit street.

“I’ll give you the tour,” he said. “You’ve got the library on the right, but it’s closed now,” Theo said. “The town council’s hoping to get some volunteers to keep it going. That log building? It’s the community center.” The street curved at a ninety degree angle, with a battered building with neon beer signs sitting in the elbow.

“That’s the Dahl,” his guide explained. “The one and only bar. You’ll meet just about everyone in town in there sooner or later.” Theo slowed and almost stopped in the middle of the street. “Looks like the party’s breaking up. My wife was going to the bridal shower this afternoon.”

Sam closed his eyes again. He had three months to learn what the town looked like.

The Escalade slowly escalated and turned a corner onto a narrow residential street. “I’m here on this block, right on the corner,” Theo said. “You’re the last house on the left, next block up. You’re actually closer to the main road north, but we just made a big U through town so you could get your bearings.”

“Thanks.” Sam didn’t mean it, but Theo seemed like a decent, well-meaning guy. One block later Theo parked the car. Sam peered out the window at a two-story white bungalow, floral curtains barely visible through the snowflakes.

“Here you are,” Theo announced.

“Thanks.” Sam unbuckled his seat belt and took two one-hundred-dollar bills from an inside pocket of his jacket. “I appreciate the ride.”

“That’s more than—”

“We’re good,” Sam declared, while struggling to open the car door without passing out from the effort of twisting his body to the right.

“Do you have a key or was Jerry going to leave the house unlocked?” Theo asked.

“Leave it unlocked,” Sam said. “He told me he might be out of town.”

“Yeah, that could be. Is this all you have?” He lifted Sam’s duffel bags from the backseat.

“Yeah, thanks.” The cold air cleared his aching head at the same time as the wind whipped across his face and pelted him with snow.

“You travel light.”

“Always,” Sam said.

“Makes it easy to get out of town fast?” Theo joked, hanging on to the bags and tromping up the recently shoveled cement walk and three cement steps. He stopped at the front door.

“That’s the idea,” Sam said, keeping his voice light. “Except I won’t get far without a car.”

“Call me if you need to go into Lewistown—or anywhere else, for that matter. I’m the local taxi.” Theo opened the door and set the duffel bags inside. He didn’t enter, though, explaining that he didn’t want to track snow into the house.

“It’s not real warm here. I guess Jerry left the electric heat on just enough so the pipes wouldn’t freeze,” he said. “There’s a woodstove, though. You know how to get a fire going? Oh. Food. I guess I should have asked you if you needed to stop for groceries. The café will be open until eight if you want dinner. Head north, and turn right at the main road. It’s across the street.”

“Thanks. I’ll be okay. Jerry said he’d have someone get the house ready for me.”

“Probably Lucia,” Theo said, looking eager to get back in his car and head home. “Lucia Swallow.” He pointed to a bright yellow house next door. “Makes the best pies in town.”

That sounded promising. A little old pie-baking woman next door would be a plus.

Sam thanked Theo again and shut the door behind him, leaving the merciless wind to batter the windows.

He stood on ancient brown carpet and surveyed the living room. He didn’t know how old Mrs. Kelly was when she died, but from the furniture he’d guess about a hundred and ten. The room ran the width of the house. The wall directly opposite the door was lined with bookshelves stuffed with ceramic animals and glass vases. To his right stood a dark dining room table with six ornate chairs; to his left lay a red velvet couch that looked old enough for Queen Victoria to have fainted on it. A wood stove occupied one corner and an empty wood box sat next to it.

Sam ignored the snow on his boots and made his way around the dining room chairs to a long, narrow kitchen. All the appliances he needed were there, and the room was spotless. A small Formica table sat in front of a picture window that faced what he assumed was the backyard, though the area was hard to make out in the storm. A woodshed backed up to a fence and a row of evergreens, but if there was a path, he didn’t see it. He completed his tour of the main floor, noting the back door, a hallway that led to a set of stairs, a bathroom and a large bedroom that opened onto the living room. He had no reason to explore the upstairs, not tonight.

All in all the place was perfect, though the downstairs bedroom looked as if its owner had been way too fond of purple. Purple bedspread, purple throw pillows and purple shag rug.

He’d manage. The house was luxurious for a guy who usually lived in a tent. In addition to a real bed he had an indoor bathroom. A picture of a vase of violets dangled from a hook on the wall over the toilet. Purple hand towels hung on a rod beneath the framed print.

The house still had a lived-in quality. It was as though poor Mrs. Kelly had just walked out of her house one day and never returned. The mayor must have bought the place “as is,” except for a brand-new bar of soap in a dish next to the sink.

Sam returned to the kitchen and opened cupboards until he found the drinking glasses. He removed his jacket, tossed it on the back of a chair and pulled a bottle of prescription pain pills from his shirt pocket. He’d had to keep them close. Not that he liked taking them. But traveling had been the hell his doctor had predicted.

In fact, now he couldn’t bend over.

He’d have to go to bed with his boots on.

Once again, nothing new.

He shivered, chilled to his bones, and after a brief struggle managed to get his jacket back on. He’d do one more thing before he collapsed into the purple bed, and that would be to examine the woodstove and get a fire going. He’d seen a thermostat on the wall between the kitchen and living room, so he could turn up the heat easily enough, but he didn’t like to depend on electricity. Especially not in a storm.

Besides, he liked carrying wood and building fires. He allowed himself a small ironic smile. He’d wanted cold weather, had dreamt of icicles the last time he was on the Rio Purus.

Acknowledgment of his sheer stupidity replaced whatever reason he’d chosen Montana for a winter retreat. He’d let a brief conversation with a stranger lead him to renting a cold house in a cold town in the middle of cold nowhere.

He usually had more sense, he realized.

No, that was wrong.

He was a man who took chances, who didn’t look before he leaped and jumped into murky rivers without knowing what waited for him.

Compared with the jungle, this town would be a piece of cake.


CHAPTER TWO

“MOM! HELP!”

“Mrs. Swallow?”

“Mommy!”

Lucia heard the screams coming from her backyard as soon as she opened the car door. It took her six seconds to run, slipping on fresh snow piling up on old snow, from the driveway through the space between her house and the Kelly house. Sure enough, there was a body in the backyard. Lucia’s heart seemed to stop for a moment, until she realized her three children and their babysitter, Kim, were not hurt. They looked at her and called for her, but their voices held more excitement than horror.

Her first thought: someone had fallen. The witch next door? No, the body was large, man-sized. Had Kim’s grandfather had a heart attack? The old man sometimes stopped in to check on his granddaughters, twin volleyball stars.

Tony, age four and the image of his father, ran as fast as he could toward Lucia. “Mom, we caught a thief! We caught a thief!”

“A robber,” her oldest son, Davey, insisted, calling from the back of the small yard. “I hit a robber!”

“He doesn’t dress like a robber,” was the first thing Lucia said as she hurried over, because the man lifting his face from the snow wore a new jacket and expensive hiking boots. “What happened? Did you call Hip?”

“I was just about to,” Kim said. “We were checking for a pulse. He has one. It’s a little rapid, but within range.” She held up her phone. “I just looked it up.”

Lucia leaned closer. “Can you tell us where you’re hurt?”

“I don’t think he’s a robber at all. He’s a nameless victim of inclement weather,” her babysitter declared, her cell phone clutched in her ungloved hands. “That’s my theory and I’m sticking to it.”

The so-called robber groaned and rolled over onto his side. Thank goodness he wasn’t dead. Finding a dead thief in the backyard would not keep one in the holiday spirit. Finding some poor man frozen to death less than twenty feet from her warm kitchen would be positively tragic.

Boo growled, warning the man not to leap up and attack the children.

“Boo,” Lucia said, hoping the dog would listen to her. “It’s okay.” When he looked to her and wagged his tail, she knew the animal was enjoying the drama as much as her babysitter was. He turned back to the man in the snow and whined.

“Help,” the stranger groaned. “Get...them...away from me.”

“He was stealing our wood,” Davey said. “I was getting wood, like you told me to, and there was a guy stealin’ it!”

“Stealing our wood!” Matty cried, jumping up and down in the snow. His hat was missing and his ears were red. “The man was stealing our wood!”

“He’s not dead. See? I told you he had a pulse,” Kim said as she took pictures with her cell phone.

“Kim, stop that,” Lucia ordered, but she knew it was useless. Within seconds at least half the senior class of Willing High would know there was a strange man in her backyard and by tomorrow morning his photograph would be on the front page of the Willing Gazette’s Facebook page. “Don’t Twitter it, either.”

“Too late,” she said, stuffing her phone into her pocket. “Already sent. It’s a done deal, Mrs. Swallow. Sorry. But I’m glad he’s not dead. Really.” She pulled her phone out of her pocket and studied it for a few seconds. “My grandpa wants to know if you called the sheriff.”

“Tell him I’ll get back to him.”

“Okay.” Kim’s thumbs flew over the keyboard. “I’ll tell him to ‘stand down.’”

“Down!” echoed little Tony, holding Lucia’s hand as he bounced up and down like his older brother. “Down, down, down!”

“Shh,” Lucia said. “All of you, be quiet and let me find out who he is.”

She knelt over the stranger in the snow, looked into pain-filled blue eyes and saw a very angry, very unfamiliar, very handsome man. He didn’t seem dangerous. Just intensely aggravated and somewhat humiliated, the way men get when they’re not in control. “Can you tell me who you are? Are you hurt? We’re going to call for help.”

“Don’t. Need. Help. Ribs,” he rasped. “Cracked.”

She turned to her son. “You broke his ribs?”

Davey stared at her, his eyes large. “Not on purpose. He was stealing our wood,” he whispered. “No one steals wood. Except bad people.”

“Not. Stealing.” The man moaned. “Renting. House.”

“From Jerry? Claire’s house?”

“Kelly,” he said. “The woman who died.” He tried to take another breath, but winced. “Purple.”

Kim muttered, thumbs once again punching her phone. “How do you spell delirious?”

Lucia ignored the question and focused again on the man. There was no blood, no obvious broken bones, but that didn’t mean he was okay. “I think you need to go to the hospital.”

He struggled to sit up. “I just...got out of one. So, no. The answer...is no.”

“You might want to think about it,” she said. “You look a little out of it.”

“Long...day,” he said.

“Okay,” she told him, deciding to save the discussion for later, after they were all out of the snow. “Just hold on for a sec and I’ll get you back inside before we all freeze to death out here.” She straightened and faced her boys. “Davey, take your brothers home. Now.”

“But—”

“Now.”

He knew she meant it, so he reached for Tony’s hand and led him across the snow-covered yard. Her youngest child continued to bounce despite the snow that should have slowed him down.

Matty hesitated. “Can I stay?”

“No, sweetheart. Your ears are cold. Go on, and call Boo with you.”

The dog had planted his rear end in the snow and had taken it upon himself to guard the new neighbor, someone he obviously saw as a potential threat to his temporary family. He’d been staying with Lucia while Owen, the future bridegroom, was out of town. It was like having another child, Lucia thought, watching the dog’s ears flick when he heard his name.

“Boo,” Lucia said. “Go with the kids.”

The dog looked disappointed. He may have even sighed. But he stood and shook off the snow before trotting obediently after Matt.

“We’re gonna have cookies,” the boy promised. “A whole lot of ’em, and they have red sprinkles on top. Green, too.”

Boo knew what cookies were. He wagged his tail a couple of times and broke into a run, racing Matty to the back door.

“Can you stand?”

“Eventually.”

She turned to her teenaged babysitter. “You get on one side, I’ll get on the other.”

She looked back down at the man. He was about forty, broad-shouldered—and more than a little handsome, she noted anew. “So you’re renting Mrs. Kelly’s house?”

“Yeah.” He managed to nod as he lifted himself up on one elbow. “Get me up. The wood stove,” he panted. “Needs wood.”

“Sure.” She motioned to Kim to help her. Together they managed to hoist the man to his feet. Split logs lay in the snow at their feet, and Lucia bent to collect them, until she realized he couldn’t walk without help. She’d come back for the logs later.

“I’m really sorry about this,” she said, dusting snow off the front of his jacket. “Put your arm around me. You don’t want to fall again.”

“I didn’t...want to fall the first time.”

At least he was breathing a little more normally. He was taller than she’d thought, at least a foot taller than her. His close-cropped dark hair was flecked with gray and wet with snow, which also clung to the front of his jeans. He shivered and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“I can help—”

“I’m fine,” he interrupted, but he sounded more tired than angry now. “I can walk. What I can’t do is...fend off little boys...and a dog. In a foot of snow.”

He tromped carefully toward Mrs. Kelly’s back door, Lucia and Kim following him until Lucia told Kim to go back to the kids. “I’ll be home in a few minutes.”

“No hurry. I’m gonna go put the pics on Facebook.”

Wonderful. “My mother-in-law will phone me as soon as you do, so tell her I’ll call her back after I defrost the neighbor.”

“Cool.”

She followed the nonrobber into his house, where he made it clear she wasn’t welcome. He sank onto one of the two kitchen chairs and stared at his wet boots. Lucia paused inside the door and kicked her suede boots off. She walked gingerly around the little mounds of snow the stranger had tracked in and turned up the thermostat on the wall next to the refrigerator. “It’s cold in here. You were trying to get a fire going?”

“I wasn’t stealing wood.” He gestured out the window to the shed.

“Of course you were. You just didn’t know,” she said, hoping to comfort him.

“That’s not my shed?”

“Nope.”

He sighed, a deep heartfelt sound that was almost comical.

“I can see where you’d think it was,” she offered cheerfully. “The yards kinda blend. I’m going to build a fire so you have a little more heat in here. Go take a shower. Can you manage that? You need to warm up.”

“I don’t know you. I’m Sam Hove.”

“I’m Lucia Swallow. Your next-door neighbor. Your—”

“The pie lady?”

“Yes.”

“You smell like rum, your kids run wild and your dog attacked me.”

He looked so disappointed. Obviously she was not what he’d expected. If she hadn’t been so amused, her feelings would have been hurt.

“I smell like rum because I was at a bridal shower and there was punch. A really delicious punch.” She didn’t explain that she’d spilled some on herself while washing the punch bowl, or that she’d been too tired to have more than a token sip during the toast to Meg’s marital bliss. “My kids are boys. I try not to let them run wild, but they do...run. And the dog? Is not mine, but he’s not wild, either. I’m dog sitting for the groom.”

“Groom?”

“Who’s marrying the woman whose bridal shower it was, but he’s out of town. Now, go take a shower and I’ll make a fire.” She didn’t say she’d return with some lasagna and garlic bread leftover from last night’s dinner. He looked as though he could use something to eat.

“I can’t,” he said after a long moment.

“Why not?” She was as patient as she’d be with little Tony, who often stared at his feet and said “I can’t” in a pitiful voice.

“I can’t get my boots off.” He smiled, the barest of smiles on his tanned face. Her heart did a tiny—very tiny—flip.

“Ah, those cracked ribs.” She drew a chair up opposite him. “Come on, give me your foot.”

He hesitated, eyeing her as if she might be playing a joke on him.

“I’m a mother,” she said. “I do this kind of thing all the time.”

“Not to me,” he muttered, but raised his leg and rested the heel on her leg. In a matter of seconds she’d untied the snow-drenched knot, released the frozen laces and pulled his new boot off. She did the same for the other boot. “You were going to wear these until your ribs healed?”

“I didn’t think that part through.”

“Obviously.” She held the boots by two fingers. “I’ll put these by the stove so they’ll dry out.”

“You don’t—”

“It’s okay,” she assured him. “I thought you’d be a lot older.”

“I feel about ninety.”

“Jerry said you were some kind of professor. Retired. I pictured a frail, fragile elderly gentleman who liked soup and drank Earl Grey tea.”

“I thought pie ladies were old. Great-grandmothers wearing aprons.”

“Then I guess we’re both disappointed,” she assured him.

* * *

DAVEY SWALLOW NEVER meant to kill anyone, but for a few minutes outside in the snow he was awfully afraid he’d done it anyway. He and Matt had taken Boo outside to play in the snow after convincing Kim that their mother wouldn’t mind. Mom didn’t care if they made snowballs and built a snow fort as long as they didn’t leave the yard. Davey knew he was in charge of Matt and Matt knew it, too, though sometimes he griped. Most of the time Matt just followed him around and that was okay.

Sort of.

Except that Matty talked too much. Tony used to be quiet, but lately he’d started talking, too. Except he was only four and didn’t know any different. Davey thought that the world would be better if people didn’t talk so much. There were seven girls and four boys in his third-grade class and the seven girls never shut up. They talked about books and horses and television and video games and their older sisters. They talked about their dogs and their kittens and their favorite colors and when their mothers would let them get a cell phone.

They talked about homework. They talked about each other. They talked about the boys.

One time Davey wore ear plugs, but Mrs. Kramer caught him and made him take them out. She made him stay after school and asked him a lot of questions about whether he was happy or having a hard time or being bullied or having trouble at home.

He’d tried to tell her he liked being quiet. He told her he liked The Quiet, as if it was a place he could escape to: The Quiet, like The Beach. The Desert. The Mountains.

She wrote a note to his mom suggesting he have his ears checked.

When he told his mom about The Quiet, she’d listened very carefully. He liked that about his mom. She listened harder than anyone he knew. He bet his dad liked to talk to her. Sometimes, if he concentrated real hard, he could hear his dad’s voice. When he was in bed at night, he’d pretend he could hear the murmurs of his mom and dad talking. He’d remember his mother laughing a little bit, his father teasing her, the noise of the television or the water splashing in the sink as the dishes were washed.

He liked those sounds.

But now he was stuck with listening to Tony and Matt fight over who had the best Matchbox car while Tony’s favorite television show blared in the background. Kim’s thumbs were flying over her cell phone, which impressed Davey no end. At this rate he’d be twenty before he ever got his own phone.

And who was the man in the snow?

“I didn’t mean to knock him down,” he told Kim. “Boo kinda bumped me and I kinda bumped the man.”

“I know,” Kim assured him. “You’re not exactly the violent type.”

“What type am I?”

She glanced up from her phone and gave him the once-over. “You’re a cute, geeky boy, but geeky in a good way, you know?”

Davey guessed that was okay. “He said he broke his ribs.”

“Nah,” she said. “I think he was just being dramatic. He looked like the type.”

“You think this’ll count against me?”

Kim tilted her head and considered the question. She knew all about the third grade project, knew that Davey wanted to win the prize. “You have the rules somewhere?”

“Yeah.”

“Let me see.”

Davey pulled out his notebook and removed a carefully folded sheet of blue paper from the inside pocket of the binder. He unfolded it and handed it to Kim. “I don’t think it’ll count against me, but I’m not sure.”

Kim read it carefully, moving her lips a little as she did. She shook her head. “There’s nothing here about penalties.” She handed it back to him. “Just a warning that you can’t, well, arrange things so you can get a point.”

“Yeah. I didn’t get that part.”

Kim thought for a second. “It would be like making a big mess in the kitchen, without anyone knowing you did it. Then you clean it up, like you’re surprised there’s a mess. That doesn’t qualify as a Random Act of Kindness.”

“It has to be random,” he said, trying out the word on his tongue. “Random Acts of Kindness.”

“Yep.” She grinned. “Like when you see I don’t have a cookie and you know I like the ones with the red sprinkles and you sneak one in front of me when I’m not looking.”

Davey grinned back. “You talk a lot, but that’s okay.”

He gave her two, both with red sugar sprinkles, the biggest ones he could find in the plastic box.

* * *

SHE WAS BEAUTIFUL, but that was the least of his problems. He’d been around beautiful, black-haired women before, though this one was exquisite. Petite and delicate, with that waterfall of silky hair and greenish eyes that twinkled with good humor. The problem was his feeling that she was pure steel. Her sons had not argued with her when she’d told them to go home. The hellions had done what they were told, however reluctant they were to leave her with a firewood thief. He looked forward to meeting her husband. He pictured a soft-spoken giant who took orders well and behaved himself.

He’d never felt so helpless in his adult life.

She wasn’t getting the message to leave him alone. In fact, she’d ordered him to have a hot shower—after checking to make sure there was hot water, a slip-proof mat in the bathtub and fresh towels—and she’d carried his two duffel bags into the bathroom. She’d even unzipped them to save him the trouble of bending over to do it.

When she’d left the bathroom, he’d managed to kick out a clean pair of sweat pants and a long sleeved T-shirt.

“Are you okay?” she called from the hall. He locked the bathroom door because he wouldn’t put it past this woman to walk in and make sure he’d washed behind his ears.

“Yes, but you don’t—”

“Good.”

He’d heard nothing after that, so he carefully stripped off his clothes and, with some dexterous toe action, removed his thick wool socks. He adjusted the water, eased his cold body under the shower spray and realized the pain pill had eased some of the ache in his chest. Hallelujah.

He was going to survive this day after all. He retrieved the new bar of soap he’d noticed earlier and, after scrubbing himself with a faded purple washcloth, stood underneath the hot stream of water for at least ten minutes before carefully stepping onto the bath mat that Lucia Swallow had put in place. Both bath towels had violets embroidered on the edges. He rubbed his hair with one towel and wrapped another around his waist.

And he spotted the electric heater imbedded in the wall. Thank you, Mrs. Kelly, he thought, pushing the buttons until a blast of hot air hit him in the knees. He stood there for long, blissful minutes as the heat fanned his legs and warmed his feet.

“Mr. Hove?”

Damn. He drew a deep breath, then regretted the action when a now-familiar pain caught him in the right side of his chest. “Yes?”

“Just checking,” she said through the door, her voice as cheerful as a nurse’s. “You’re okay?”

“Fine.”

“No dizzy spells or anything like that?”

“No,” he declared, gingerly pulling the shirt over his head. “I thought you’d left.”

In fact, he’d hoped like hell she had. He stood half-naked in a purple bathroom. There was no sound from the other side of the door, so he hoped she’d finally taken the hint and gone home to her kids and her cowed, silent, pathetic husband. Sam finished putting his pants on, but decided not to struggle with socks. He unlocked the bathroom door and stepped out into the hall.

He smelled tomato sauce. Oregano. Coffee.

He inched down the hall and around the corner to the kitchen where Lucia Swallow stood in front of a microwave oven. Inside the oven a dinner plate rotated and sizzled, its wax paper tent flapping.

“I built a fire,” she said without turning around. She opened the microwave door and poked at the wax paper topping the food, then closed the door and turned the microwave back on. “It might take a while for the house to warm up, but the woodstove’s big and it should be fine for the night if you turn it down before you go to bed.”

“You carried wood?”

She turned and smiled at him. “How else would I fix the fire?”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“My kids knocked you down.” Her smile had disappeared.

“Your kids didn’t break my ribs.”

“So who did?”

“It was an accident.” She stared at him, waiting for more of an explanation. He felt about ten years old. “At work. I was hit by an Arapaima.”

“A what?”

“A fish.”

She frowned. “A fish broke your ribs?”

“A very large fish. And it cracked my ribs, not broke them. Three of them. Hurts like he—heck.”

“I’m sure it does.” A little furrow sprang between those delicate wing-shaped eyebrows.

“I’m actually doing fine. Healing according to schedule.”

“Even after falling in the snow?”

“Yeah. Even after that.” He didn’t feel any worse now than he had a couple of hours ago. In fact, after the hot shower and donning warm clothes, he felt better than he had in days. “The pain pill has kicked in.”

The microwave stopped groaning and pinged. Yes, he definitely smelled oregano and garlic.

“I assume you’re hungry?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Sit.”

He sat. She placed silverware and a napkin in front of him, then uncovered a plate piled high with lasagna and meatballs.

“You’re kidding me.”

“What? You don’t like Italian food?”

“It’s not that. It’s...the best thing I’ve seen in weeks.” Since a plate of pasticho in Brazil, but he’d been in too much pain to really enjoy that meal.

“I made coffee.”

“How did you do all this so fast?”

“I’m a mother. I’m efficient. I had Kim—the babysitter—bring over a plate of leftovers.” She shot him a quick smile. “And you take very, very long showers.”

He picked up his fork and tasted heaven, Italian style. Meanwhile Lucia Swallow shrugged on her jacket, which she’d hung by the back door, wound a striped scarf around her neck, tugged on her thick suede boots and pointed to a piece of paper stuck by a flower-shaped magnet to the refrigerator. “Jerry left you a list of contacts, including someone who’ll deliver firewood.”

He nodded, his mouth full of pasta.

“You’re welcome to our wood until you get your own. I’ll have the boys stack some by the back door for the morning.”

He swallowed and attempted to thank her, but before he could get the words out, she was gone.

Thank goodness.

* * *

“WAIT A MINUTE, say that once more?”

“He told me I smelled like alcohol and my kids were hellions.” Lucia laughed again just thinking about it. Curled up on her couch with three children, a dog and four bowls of popcorn, she was ready to talk over the afternoon with Meg. Her best friend had had little free time for phone calls lately, so this was a luxury.

“And you said?”

“Well, I told him I’d been to a bridal shower.”

“Seriously, Lucia, you are too nice.” It didn’t sound like a compliment, and since Lucia had heard that description of herself before, she didn’t take it as one.

“I know. I should have lost my temper and hit him with a piece of red fir. I was rude to him, though.”

“Lucia, sweetie, you couldn’t be rude if you tried.”

“Wait until you meet him. He’s hurt, so I get the ‘injured male’ frustration, but he won’t exactly fit in around here. I mean, he’s got major attitude happening.” She moved a popcorn bowl away from Boo’s sneaky nose.

“What does he look like? How old is he? Did he really look sick?”

“He’s handsome, late thirties, early forties, maybe. And he really did look as if he was in pain. I felt bad about that. You should have seen him, a body in the snow, with the kids jumping around and Kim taking pictures with her phone.” Now Lucia’s boys were entranced with a movie about a reindeer, one of their very favorites. The kids seemed like little angels, but she knew better.

“Handsome,” Meg repeated. “I knew I should have come home with you.”

“My life needs some excitement. I wonder how he got here?”

“Have Mike interview him for the new arrivals section.”

“There is no new arrivals section,” Lucia pointed out.

“He could make one up, just so we’d know who this guy is. Remember a couple of years ago? The man with the snowmobile?”

“The one who was hiding from the mob?”

“He had no credit history. And he wasn’t very friendly.”

Lucia lowered her voice. “I don’t want some mobster hiding out next door, but this guy doesn’t even seem like he knows what he’s doing here.”

“Jerry will know. He gets back tomorrow. I’m going to email him now. Have you done a Google search on the guy?”

“I will later. I’m going to frost another batch of cookies as soon as I hang up.”

“Can I come over?”

“Of course—if you want to watch Rudolph again.”

“Maybe not.” She paused. “I loved my party.”

“I know.”

“I loved all my gifts, even the frog sponge holder. Especially the frog sponge holder. I don’t know how you find things like that.”

Lucia climbed off the couch and retrieved the empty popcorn bowls. “It takes talent to be tacky.”

“It’s a real gift,” Meg agreed. “You’re a thrift shop queen.”

“No, I’m a boozed-up bad mother with a vicious dog.”

Meg’s howl of laughter rang through the phone loud and clear. “If he only knew.”

“I do feel bad about the kids knocking him down.”

“They’re too little to knock anyone down. I don’t believe it.”

“Well, the snow was slippery. Davey said the man lost his balance, and Boo didn’t help.”

“Stay away from him,” Meg said. “At least until Owen gets back and can check him out.”

“I left a message with Jerry,” Lucia admitted. “I asked if he’d done a background check on the guy.”

“I’m going to do a Google search on him. If I find anything I’ll call you back.”

“You’re not coming over?” Lucia tried not to sound disappointed, but winter nights were long and she’d looked forward to the company.

“There’s another foot of snow on the ground,” Meg said. “I think I’ll stay home, look at bridal magazines and admire my gifts.”

“Pick out a cake,” Lucia said. “I need design ideas.”

The next time the phone rang, Lucia was washing cupcake pans. She dried her hands and checked the caller ID. “Hi, Mama.”

“Who is this man in the snow?” Marie didn’t waste time with pleasantries.

“What man?” When in trouble, feign innocence. Her kids had taught her that.

“On Facebook. I’m friends with Kim.”

“You’ve friended everyone in town.”

“It’s nice. All my friends in Rhode Island do it. It’s how we keep in touch.”

“The man in the snow is renting Mrs. Kelly’s house,” Lucia explained.

“She was a nice woman,” Mama went on. “But no family. I always thought that was strange—not that I would say anything. But she was good to the boys, letting them come over and eat candy—not that I approve of too much candy. But it was good of her to be kind to them.”

“She was a lovely person,” Lucia agreed.

“Unlike the witch on the other side of you.”

“Mama!”

“Even her cat didn’t want to live with her. First her husband leaves and then the cat.”

“I think she’s a very unhappy person.” Lucia didn’t know why she was defending the woman. There wasn’t a meaner person in town than Paula Beckett. No one knew if she was seventy or ninety; she’d moved to Willing years before Lucia and Tony had bought their house. They’d attempted to befriend her, but she’d told them to stay on their side of the fence and not to have any wild parties, wild dogs or wild children. Lucia, holding her first adorable infant, had been shocked into silence at such rudeness. Her husband, a dangerous glint in his eye, had replied, “Yes, ma’am, and I’ll expect you’ll do the same.”

“I won’t waste any prayers on her,” Mama sniffed.

It was the ultimate rejection.

“The party was wonderful,” Lucia said, attempting to distract her mother-in-law from worrying about the neighbors. “Meg was thrilled.”

“She’s a good girl. And that Owen? A good man. He reminds me of Tony, big and strong.”

“He does a little.” Although her husband had been five-ten, a burly wrestler type and solid muscle. Owen, a rancher now, was taller. More basketball player than wrestler. And Sam Hove? Six-two, at least, and definitely in shape. She suspected he had spent a lot of time outdoors. His skin was tanned, his large hands calloused and scarred.

A boxer, she thought. He had hands like a fighter. What had he said about being hit by a fish?

“Stay away from that man, and keep the boys away until we find out more about him.”

Lucia promised and ended the call. Good thing she hadn’t told Mama about making the poor man take a shower.


CHAPTER THREE

CONTRARY TO THE MESSAGES he was receiving on Twitter, the posts on Facebook and the texts on his cell phone, Jerry Thompson was not harboring an escaped criminal inside his rental property.

Jerry fumed as he drove down Main Street late Saturday night. The lengths his constituents would go to avoid minding their own business never ceased to amaze him. He wasn’t in the habit of renting homes to questionable tenants, and he was as committed to keeping peace in his town as the county sheriff. So why was he getting those messages? What had happened to privacy? To benefit of the doubt? To the right to do business?

And what happened to the guy who was supposed to plow out his driveway?

Two words, George Martin had typed. Witness Protection.

Myth, he’d texted back. He’d heard that old story twenty times since he’d moved here. A mobster with a big mouth sent by the Feds to Willing to hide out until some supposed trial. But the guy had been too aggressive about his privacy and tried to run over a neighbor with his snowmobile. He’d disappeared after a brief court date in Lewistown and was never seen again. That was back when Gary Petersen still worked at the co-op and had sworn the stranger had no credit record and must have been living here under an assumed name.

Psychopath? Background? another text said.

All okay, had been his response. When had Meg Ripley turned into such a worrier?

Who is Hove? Aurora had sent that.

Writer! had been his reply. She wouldn’t believe him anyway.

Mean to Mrs. Swallow, Kim Petersen, one of Gary’s twin granddaughters, texted. With pictures of the guy in the snow surrounded by firewood.

Jerry replied with a Don’t worry text and knew he’d have more messages on his home phone. Marie Swallow had most likely called him ten times.

So his renter, if not dead of hypothermia or a victim of Neighborhood Watch, had gone from being a perfectly sane travel writer—if writers of any kind could be considered perfectly sane—to a psychopath thief with a possible head injury. He hoped the guy wouldn’t sue him.

Jerry was no stranger to drama and excitement, having activated the desire to gain publicity for Willing by attracting reality television to the town. More drama and excitement were coming. The last thing he needed were distractions, especially now that the bachelors were ready for dating and, he’d just learned yesterday in Los Angeles that Sweetheart Productions was primed for making a TV show.

He had to park in the street. It was dark, close to midnight and really, really cold. Bone-chilling and windy. The snow had stopped falling, but what looked like two feet of it lay piled up in front of his house, a huge Victorian that faced the small public park and boasted the only stained-glass windows in town. Built by a prospector who’d left South Dakota a rich man, the house had been intended for a fiancée who’d died of influenza before arriving in Willing for the wedding. Jerry bought it from its fourth owners, a gay couple from Oregon who loved the house but not the winters. Jerry loved everything about the beautifully restored home except that he lived there by himself.

He grabbed his suitcase and his laptop case, trudged across the lawn, up three wide steps and stopped in front of his door. A few minutes later he was inside, his boots kicked off onto a thick mat, his coat hung on one of the hooks placed near the door. He switched on a light, boosted the thermostat and welcomed himself home with two sips of single malt Scotch and a peanut butter sandwich.

Tomorrow he’d have to come up with some way to introduce his renter to the general population, which meant a breakfast at Meg’s. Sam Hove was a bit of a mystery. He’d said he was a writer who required a quiet place to work. He’d listed his occupation as a producer and director of travel films. How the heck could that be remotely suspicious? Jerry was looking forward to meeting the guy and hearing some interesting stories. Come to think of it, Sam Hove might be an attractive bachelor for the show. He could add a little international class that was missing in Willing.

No, bad idea. He’d likely overshadow the local men, and the show was all about Montana men looking for love. Sam Hove wasn’t looking for anything but big fish to catch and weird animals to film.

Mike could do an interview with him. That was easy enough to arrange. The rumors would stop, the holidays would keep everyone occupied, and then Jerry could go back to the really important matter of saving the town.

* * *

SAM DIDN’T HAVE the slightest idea where he was. He thought about opening his eyes, but even that small movement seemed like too much work. He thought he’d simply lie there in the queen-size bed and enjoy the warm blankets weighing him down. He was warm and out of the weather, two very good things.

Sam knew enough not to move. The ache banding his chest was a constant reminder to be careful. His head throbbed and his nose was cold.

Nose cold? Ah. Montana. The old lady’s house with the woodstove.

The wild kids. The barking dog.

The annoyingly beautiful neighbor.

Lasagna.

It was all coming back to him. The food was the only positive memory, though. Little Mrs. Swallow made a lasagna to remember. She’d also built a fire to heat his house, which he realized he should now do something about. He opened his eyes and, looking at the watch he’d worn to bed, saw that it was a few minutes after nine. In the morning.

Twenty minutes later he’d managed to add some logs, coax the fire into a roar and start a pot of coffee. There was, as Lucia Swallow had said, coffee in the freezer. He wrapped a lavender blanket around him and gazed out the kitchen window while he waited for the coffee to be ready. He’d never seen snow like this. He’d grown up in Florida, lived in England for a while, spent most of his time in South America. He knew monsoons, but blizzards? Not so much. He wanted to buy snowshoes and explore, but he’d have to heal first.

He was supposed to stay inside and work. Let his ribs knit. Plan the next project. Sam looked at the snow piled high in the backyard and realized someone had shoveled a path to the woodshed. But it wasn’t his woodshed and it wasn’t his wood.

Somehow the knock on the front door didn’t surprise him. Neither did the man standing on the porch. He was of medium height, tanned and wore a big smile, as if he and Sam were old friends.

“Jerry Thompson?” Sam guessed, opening the door to let him in.

“Yeah. Good morning.” He shook Sam’s hand and grinned. “Welcome to Willing. It’s great to finally meet you in person.”

He stopped on the plastic mat just inside the door after closing it.

Sam took a step back. “Come on in.”

“I won’t stay long.” He glanced down at his snow-packed boots. “Don’t want to track all over the carpet.”

“I just made coffee,” Sam said. “And I haven’t had any yet.”

“I don’t want to intrude.” But he was already bending over to remove his boots, so Sam assumed the guy was staying. “I just wanted to see if you needed anything, had any questions, any problems with the house.”

“I’m going to need firewood, according to the woman next door. I don’t think she wants me to keep using hers.” He opened two cabinets before finding coffee mugs. He’d expected floral tea cups, but he found serviceable white mugs instead.

“Lucia? She won’t mind till you get your own.” Jerry followed him into the kitchen. “I heard you met.”

“Yesterday.” He didn’t elaborate. He poured two cups of coffee and handed one to Jerry. “I hope you like your coffee black. I don’t have any food yet.”

“No problem. You saw the note I left? You can call Hip for wood. He’s also our resident artist and EMT.”

“Theo’s cousin?”

“Yep.”

“I’ll phone him this morning. You want to take your coat off?”

“Well, sure,” Jerry said, turning back to the living room. “I stopped by to see if you wanted to have breakfast. If not this morning, then any morning when you’re up to it. You could meet some of the folks here in town.”

“I’m not really here to—”

“People in Willing always like to welcome someone new,” he said. “Most of the time.”

Sam eyed the old couch and decided not to chance it, but Jerry set his coffee on the glass table, tossed his thick blue parka on the couch and made himself comfortable amid the fringed pillows. Sam eased himself into the recliner and hoped he’d be able to get out of it without screaming in pain.

“How do you like the place?”

An interesting question. “It’s, uh, fine. Did Mrs. Kelly have any family?”

“No, not a soul. I bought the house from the estate. She left everything to the Methodist Church and they sold it to me. Lock, stock and barrel.” He looked around the living room with some satisfaction. “Totally furnished, which is what you requested. I had Shelly—she lives in one of the cabins at the café, you’ll see them when you eat there—clean out the clothes and personal items, but we left the rest to keep it homey. The church took the canned goods for the food bank.” He glanced at his mug. “Except the coffee, I guess. It lasts forever in the freezer. You can hire Shelly to clean and do errands, if you want. She’s reasonable and can use the money.”

Sam liked the sound of that. “Can I hire her to get some food for me?”

“Probably not. She broke her arm a few weeks back and I don’t know if she’s driving. I’ll give you her number. There’s a little market, more of a convenience store— Thompson’s, no relation—on Main Street across from the library. They do real estate, too, if you decide you want to buy something. Anyway, the market doesn’t deliver, but you can walk there. How are you doing? I thought you had a broken arm.”

“Cracked ribs,” Sam said, figuring his injuries would get him out of interacting with people. He wanted to do nothing more than write the damn book and feel sorry for himself. “And a bit of trouble with my heart. I was— Well, never mind.” He didn’t want to go into the details. He felt stupid enough as it was.

“No car? Or you can’t drive?”

“Both, for now.”

“I heard you had a little trouble yesterday.” The redheaded mayor took another sip of the coffee and grinned at him. “Stealing wood from Lucia.”

“Ah,” Sam said. “She’s already complained?”

Jerry laughed and shook his head. “Twitter. You saw the babysitter? Thumbs like a machine, according to her grandfather.”

Sam’s head began to throb. “I mistook the shed for mine.”

“The photo of you in the snow was grim, but now that I know you’re okay—”

“Photo?”

“Told you,” Jerry said. “The kid’s technologically advanced. But I guess they all are these days. Sorry.” He reached into his pocket, which was buzzing, and retrieved a cell phone. “Hello?”

Sam drank the rest of his coffee as fast as he could without burning the inside of his mouth. He needed the caffeine. He also needed food. Lots of food. Enough food to last him until the first of April, when he could leave this place and go back to his day job.

“It’s fine,” Jerry was reassuring someone. “He’s okay, a perfectly nice guy. I’m here with him right now.”

So the incident yesterday had been blabbed all over town. Typical, of course. Sam had lived in villages along the Amazon and knew how fast news traveled.

“Tell you what,” Jerry said, radiating good cheer and agreeableness. “He and I are going to have breakfast.” He paused to listen. “Where else? You can meet him then.” Another pause. “Well, okay, next week then.” Pause. “Yeah, that’s Thursday at seven. You got the email.”

Sam heard Jerry say ”Fine” and “No problem” a few more times before Jerry clicked his phone shut and apologized. “Sorry. Member of the town council.”

“It’s okay,” Sam said. “I imagine you’re a busy man.”

“I just returned from L.A., as a matter of fact.” He set his coffee mug on the mahogany coffee table. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard about our town project.”

“Uh, no.” Sam’s headache intensified, as did the ache in his chest. He really, really didn’t want to hear about the town project, whatever it was. Had he seen half a loaf of bread in the freezer? Was there any lasagna left? “Where did you say the market was, Jerry?”

“Two blocks away, around the corner on Main. But it’s closed on Sundays in the winter.”

“Damn.”

“What do you need?”

“Food, of any kind. I’ll call Theo and see if—”

“Hold on a sec.” He opened the phone and hit a number. A few seconds later he said, “Hey, Luce. It’s me, Jerry.” Pause. “Great. I’ll have a meeting Thursday to update everyone— Yeah, I’m home.” Pause, with a glance at Sam. “Thanks for doing that. Hey, you’re going into Lewistown today, right?” Pause. “What time?”

Luce? It didn’t take a genius to understand that Jerry was talking to the black-haired neighbor.

“Can you pick up some groceries for my renter while you’re there?” Pause. “Just the basics, I guess. He can give you a list.”

Sam caught Jerry’s eye and shook his head. Oh, man, he didn’t want to give her a list. He didn’t want her to do him any more favors. He didn’t want to be in her debt any more than he was, despite the fact that her kids and her dog cost him a painful night.

Okay, he’d slipped first, at the beginning of the attack. And he’d hit his own head on the wood when he fell. And he’d yelled, although more out of frustration with his own weakness than in pain. He’d been rude, which wasn’t how he usually conducted himself.

He was sure she was a very nice person—he knew she was, because she’d built up the fire and brought him dinner even after he’d yelled at her children. He expected her husband to knock on the rear door and tell him to back off. He would definitely apologize. Grovel, even. Because he would be living here for three months and maybe she’d make lasagna again.

“What do you want? Eggs? Meat? Milk? Bread? What?” Jerry asked.

“I don’t want to put her to any trouble.”

Jerry ignored him and spoke into the phone. “He doesn’t want to put you out. Just get him the basics, enough for a couple of days. I’ll drive him into Lewistown later in the week if he’s up to it. Okay?” Pause. “Thanks.”

He flicked the phone shut once again, tucked it into his pocket and picked up his coffee mug. “There, you’re all set.”

Sam realized he’d had no input in this. Frustrating. “I didn’t want to bother her,” he reiterated.

“No bother,” Jerry said. “She goes into town every Sunday to take her mother-in-law to church. They were just leaving. If she couldn’t do it, I’d drive over there myself. Can’t have my new tenant starving to death.”

“I don’t want Mrs. Swallow running errands for me.”

“Mrs. Swallow is her mother-in-law. You’re talking about Lucia, the goddess of baking.”

“The what?” First the “pie lady,” now a goddess. An interesting neighbor, all right.

“She went to school for it with Meg, who owns the café. Between the two of them, no one in this town goes hungry.”

Good news, Sam thought. “How far away is this café?”

“One block east and two blocks south. You can almost smell the bacon from your front porch.” Jerry leaned forward. “You’re looking a little rough there, pal. Are you sure you’re okay? Getting some food in you would help, but are you really up for a walk? I can get you something and bring it back here.”

“Food would be good, if the café’s not too far away. I could use the exercise.” He looked down at his sweat pants and socks. He could probably lace up his boots if he did it real fast. “Let me get some clothes on.”

“Good. Pardon the cliché, but we’ll kill two birds with one stone.” Jerry sipped his coffee and leaned back on the sofa as though he planned to spend the day there.

“What do you mean?” Sam paused in front of the bedroom door.

“You need to meet some of your neighbors and show them you’re normal, just a regular guy who’s not going to cause any trouble.”

“Why would I cause trouble?”

“For starters, your coming here is suspect. I mean, who moves to Willing in the winter?”

Sam shrugged. He wasn’t going to explain about the man he’d met on the flight to Miami. He’d sound like an idiot.

“Second,” the mayor cheerfully continued, “you’ve been searched for on the internet. People like the writer, adventurer, documentary-maker thing, but they don’t completely trust it. It could be a cover.”

“A cover for what?”

“Who knows? Criminal activity, insanity, government plots.” Now it was Jerry’s turn to shrug. “Hey, I’m just the landlord here. You seemed okay to me or I wouldn’t have rented the house to you.”

Sam doubted that. They’d traded emails and had one brief phone conversation. The check for three months’ rent had been cashed. Sam turned back to the bedroom, where the purple violets on the wallpaper greeted him.

“But the biggest thing,” Jerry said, slurping coffee, “is who you’re living next to.”

The violets would have to wait another minute. Sam gingerly turned around again. “What does Lucia have to do with it?”

Jerry cradled his coffee and looked very, very serious. “She’s a widow. She’s a good person. She doesn’t date. And her pie crust will make you weep.”

“A widow?” The beautiful Lucia Sparrow, who baked like a goddess and could handle a woodstove and three boys, was single? What was wrong with the men in this town?

“Yep. So don’t mess with her unless your intentions are honorable.”

“My intentions?” He chuckled. “My intentions are...nonexistent. What are you, her father?” He couldn’t help laughing at his landlord again.

“Hey, this is no joke. If anything happens to Lucia because of me...” He picked up his jacket and gave Sam a warning look. “I’d never win another election.”

“I’ll be on my best behavior,” Sam promised. “For your sake.”

* * *

JERRY DEBATED BETWEEN a booth or a stool at the counter, since the old guys weren’t in their regular spots. Being Sunday, the café wasn’t filled with regulars the way it was on a weekday. Well, Sam would meet the old guys soon enough.

“Could we sit at the counter?” Sam asked, seeming to read Jerry’s mind. “Easier to get on and off.”

“The ribs are bad, huh?”

“They’re taking longer to heal than I want.”

Jerry introduced him to Shelly, who wore a battered cast on her arm and had her blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her belly appeared to have tripled in size since the accident, yet she seemed to still enjoy working for Meg. She certainly seemed thrilled to see him and his guest.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m really good,” she said, holding the coffee carafe in her good hand. “I get the cast off in two and a half more weeks.” She twinkled at Sam. “Coffee?”

“Please,” Sam said, sounding a little out of breath, though they’d walked slowly on the shoveled sidewalks.

“Shelly, I’d like you to meet Sam Hove. He’s new in town.”

“I know. Everyone’s talking about you. I saw some of your videos on YouTube last night. Awesome stuff.”

“Thanks.”

“Those rivers looked spooky,” she said, shuddering momentarily as she placed two coffee mugs in front of them. “I’m glad I don’t live in those places.”

Al hurried out of the kitchen to shake Sam’s hand and introduce himself. “Man, I saw that show on the giant catfish a couple of years ago. I’ll never cook catfish again.”

“Catfish?” There were people who watched shows about catfish? Well, then, viewers were going to love a show about Willing, Montana.

* * *

“CAN I DO IT?”

Lucia, busy organizing groceries on her kitchen counter, glanced at her oldest son. “Not alone. But you can come with me.” Or the four of them could walk over together. The boys could wait outside, carry wood and give Boo some time to run off some energy in the yard.

“I want to do it by myself.”

“Sorry, pal,” she said, but not about to explain the reason that mothers didn’t let their little boys go to strangers’ houses.

“Why not?”

“We don’t know anything about Mr. Hove,” she said, rearranging the supplies she’d purchased for her new neighbor. “Except what we read on the internet.”

“Yeah, we do. He’s famous.”

“Remember? You can’t believe everything you read on the internet.”

Davey sighed. He’d heard that a hundred times. “But Grandma said he was famous.”

“Well...maybe a little famous.” Marie had printed out a biography off Wikipedia and a spotless people search report she’d actually paid money for. As she’d said, it didn’t hurt to be careful. But Lucia thought the man lived an exciting life. He’d produced documentaries for various cable channels that specialized in adventure shows on jungles and strange fish. They’d discussed him all the way to Lewistown, the three boys asking questions no one could answer. She’d finally distracted the kids when they were in the fish section of the supermarket. There, questions about where frozen shrimp originated had replaced questions about the mysterious neighbor.

“Maybe he could come to school. You know, talk about the jungle and stuff.”

“Maybe.”

“Can I ask him?”

“Maybe. When he feels better.” Lucia doubted that would be anytime soon. The man couldn’t even take his own boots off. Now that had been an interesting little moment yesterday. She wouldn’t even tell Meg about it because of how silly it would sound: “I untied his boots—the most intimate moment I’ve had with a man since the night before my husband went to war.”

“Mom,” her son said. “Mom.”

“What?”

“You’re not listening.”

“I apologize. I was thinking about dinner,” she fibbed. She was thinking about Sam Hove’s blue eyes. “There,” she said, giving herself a mental shake. “I guess I have everything he’ll require for a few days. Maybe even a week.”

“I need more points,” Davey, still angling to do the job himself, said. Lucia admired his competitive spirit but wondered if this Random Acts of Kindness project was something he worried about too much. Davey was her quiet son, the philosopher of the trio.

“You could shovel Mrs. Beckett’s steps.”

“She’ll just yell at me.”

Yes, she probably would. “You’re right. She’s not worth the points.”

“I think she likes being mean,” he said, but Lucia could see him considering whether being yelled at was worth a point or two on the Kindness scoreboard.

“Some people do,” she agreed. Her eight-year-old was wrestling with big concepts now. She wanted to hug him, reassure him that people were good and kind and life was fair and the world was his oyster and all that, but the truth was a little harsh: mean people existed and weren’t worth the do-good-things points.

Davey pondered that for a long moment, while Lucia dug through her purse for the grocery receipt. She’d kept Sam’s food separate from hers. It wasn’t the first time she’d delivered food next door: Mrs. Kelly had become more dependent on help that last year she’d lived in town. Lucia had agreed to Jerry’s request to pick up supplies for the new neighbor—after all, the man was practically an invalid, and she was going to the store anyway—but once in the middle of the IGA with three lively boys and a horde of intense Sunday shoppers, she’d wished she’d refused.





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