CHAPTER ONE

      PARKER PATTED THE SUN-warmed dirt she’d scooped around the young plant, singing along with John Travolta as he bragged about making out under a dock. When Olivia Newton John started trilling her side of the story, the MP3 player cut off.

      Darn, darn, darn, darn, darn. And how typical. The man gets to finish while the woman barely gets started.

      Parker fished the device out of the bib pocket of her overalls and sat back on her boot heels. The screen had gone dark. She’d forgotten to charge the dumb thing. Again.

      She tugged the earbuds free with a sigh and stuffed the whole mess into her pocket, ignoring the dirt she should have brushed from her gloves. Just as well. If Harris had walked up on her while she was singing, he’d have demanded hazardous duty pay.

      Or not. She pressed her lips together. Harris Briggs knew better than anyone that she couldn’t afford even regular wages.

      A feisty spring breeze carrying the scent of damp earth and lilacs chased the thought away. She rose to her knees and pulled off her hat, enjoying the rush of air that cooled her sweat-soaked head. Hands on hips, she surveyed the progress she’d made since lunch. A stubby string of bright green plugs stretched away from her. A little compost, a little water, a lot of sun, and next June, Castle Creek Growers would have its first crop of strawberries.

      Parker grunted and snatched up her water bottle. If only a child were that easy to raise.

      “Ma’am?”

      She jumped. The bottle slipped from her grasp and hit the ground with a sloshing thud. Lukewarm water pooled beneath her right knee. An unfamiliar male voice clipped out an apology and she lifted a hand to shade her eyes. Standing at the edge of the strawberry bed was a tall, well-built man wearing a black beret, tinted sunglasses and a class-A U.S. Army uniform.

      Tim.

      She blinked, then sat down hard. A swell of grief crowded her lungs and she struggled to catch her breath.

      Not Tim. Of course not Tim.

      It could never be Tim.

      The soldier muttered something and dropped into a crouch in front of her. His sunglasses dangled between his fingers. She lifted her gaze to his face and winced at the grim remorse she saw there.

      Don’t be so pathetic, Parker Anne.

      “Forgive me,” he said.

      She stared into eyes the color of maple syrup, eyes that looked so much older than the rest of him, and slowly shook her head. Then realized he might take that as a refusal. “No need,” she finally murmured. She pushed to her feet, waving away his offer of help. “I’m fine.” She stepped back from his spotless uniform and slapped at the mud clinging to her knees. Head bent, she blinked like a madwoman.

      “You sure you’re okay? You went white there for a second.”

      “I just—” She swallowed hard and straightened. “I thought you were someone else.”

      “Yes, ma’am.” He removed his beret, revealing dark, close-cropped hair. “Your husband.”

      “You…served with him?”

      For a split second his features went rigid. “No, ma’am. I’m with the 1st Infantry Division out of Fort Knox. But I was deployed to Helmand province, same time as Sergeant First Class Dean.” He hesitated, then extended a hand. “Corporal Reid Macfarland.”

      She peeled off her right glove and took his hand. His grip was strong and confident, and despite the remoteness in his eyes he made her feel…wistful.

      And we’re back to pathetic. “Parker Dean,” she said, and let go. “Kentucky’s a long way from Pennsylvania. What brings you to Castle Creek?”

      “I hoped we could talk.” He picked up her hat. “Somewhere out of the sun?”

      Apparently he’d noticed the whole red hair and freckles thing. And although she should know better, his concern defused her internal I’m-alone-with-a-strange-man alarm. While she debated whether to lead him to the house or to the potting shed that doubled as her office, he slipped on his shades, paused, then pulled them off again. She couldn’t help noticing the slight shake in his hand.

      The corporal outweighed her by a solid fifty pounds and out…well, outheighted her by five or six inches. He was a soldier. He’d survived combat. In Afghanistan.

      And he was nervous?

      Not good. Sudden tremors rippled up and down Parker’s legs. Her little family couldn’t handle any more bad news.

      “Tell me why you’re here.” Then go. Before he could answer, her stomach dropped. “The death gratuity.” She’d invested that for Natalie. For college. No way she’d let them—

      “No, ma’am. I’m not here in any official capacity.”

      “But you’re…” She gestured, and he glanced down at his crisp class-A’s.

      “I wanted to show my respect.”

      “I see.” Though she didn’t. Not at all. She backed away again, fighting the urge to tug that uniform close, to wrap her arms around it and rest her cheek against the familiar green wool. She hadn’t seen dress greens since the funeral.

      “Might as well spit it out,” she said, with a lift of her chin. “Nothing you can say could be worse than what I heard thirteen months ago. Friendly fire, they told me—” She swallowed, and jerked her shoulders up and down. “I doubt you can top that, Corporal Macfarland.”

      “I’m sorry.”

      She grimaced and wiped a wrist across her forehead. “No. I’m sorry. You have nothing to apologize for.”

      “Actually, I do.” His jaw flexed. “Your husband was killed by a missile fired—”

      “From a U.S. drone. A Hellfire, they said.” Did she really have to hear this again? “What’s that got to do with you?”

      “Everything.” He straightened shoulders already level enough to make any carpenter proud. “I’m the one who sent the drone.”

      * * *

      WIDE-EYED SILENCE. Then the distant bark of a dog and a rushing noise as a mass of starlings flew overhead, the sound like rows and rows of clothes-pinned sheets flapping in the wind.

      The woman he’d made a widow stared back at him, face rigid, lips parted. Red chased the pallor from her cheeks and her hands clenched at her sides. She seemed to shrink right in front of him, every muscle tightening, clenching, compacting her into a monument to rage.

      “You s-sent it? On purpose?” Her voice started out no stronger than a thread and ended up a hallelujah chorus of bitter fury. “Are you saying my husband was collateral damage?”

      “No. No.” Jesus. He’d screwed it up already. “I’m saying it was…my mistake.”

      “Are you—you—why would you even think you could come here and—my God—” She stumbled