Her Cowboy Soldier. Cindi Myers
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him look good.” Amy tossed the tomatoes into a barrel where they saved spoiling vegetables and fruit for a local farmer who fed the produce to his pigs.
“Hartland isn’t Denver,” Bobbie said. “News doesn’t have to be bad to be news.”
“Why are you taking his side?” She tried and failed to hide her hurt.
“I’m not trying to take sides, but if I did, I’d be on your side. If you want to fit in here, you shouldn’t go alienating people right off the bat.”
“Who said I want to fit in?” At Bobbie’s hurt look, Amy wished she could take the words back. “I’m sorry, Grandma. Of course I want to fit in while I’m here.”
Bobbie turned to wait on a young woman who was buying tomatoes, onions and green beans. When they were alone again, she addressed Amy. “I was hoping you’d come to see this place as your home, someplace you’d want to settle down and raise Chloe.”
“I’m not sure I’m the settling down type.” Did she even know what a real home felt like? “But don’t worry. I’ll stay here as long as you need me. When do you see the doctor again?”
Bobbie shifted on her stool, the lines around her face deeper. Was her hip bothering her? Amy knew if she asked, her grandmother would tell her not to fuss. Bobbie hated to be fussed over. “Neal’s taking me tomorrow for a progress report.”
“That’s good.” Not for the first time, Amy wondered what the real relationship was between Bobbie and her neighbor Neal Kuchek. Boyfriend didn’t seem an appropriate term for a man who was in his seventies, but he and Grandma were certainly close. Nice to think that romance could be a part of life even at their age.
“I’ve been thinking,” Bobbie said. “You need to do something besides work here and at the paper. You need to get involved in the town.”
“Involved?”
“A community like this runs on volunteers. You can’t get a feel for what living here is really like unless you throw your lot in with the rest of us and get your hands dirty.”
Amy didn’t want to get her hands dirty. What was the point, since she didn’t intend to stay in town any longer than necessary? “Grandma, I—”
“Humor an old woman. Or think of it as something else you can write about. I want you to find one volunteer project you can get involved in. It’ll be a good way for you to get to know people, to know more what life is like here. Maybe then you’ll understand that giving Josh that coaching job wasn’t an act of charity, but the right way to look after one of our own.”
So that’s what this was all about—another way to defend Josh. “I don’t have anything against Josh,” she protested.
“That’s good to know.” Bobbie’s smile had more steel that sweetness behind it. “Then you won’t mind looking for something good to write about him. As a favor to me.”
“Grandma, I can’t write a story for the paper just to be nice. It has to be news.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” she said. “You’re a very resourceful young woman.”
Right. Resourceful. She’d been resourceful writing the story about Josh in the first place. She’d been proud of that story—she still was. And she resented that everyone—well, at least Josh and her grandmother—was trying to make her feel guilty about it. One more reason she wasn’t cut out for small-town living. People in a city would surely have more respect for journalism, and less of a personal stake in every story.
* * *
JOSH WAS ON the agenda to speak to the school board the following Thursday, not a job he relished, especially in the wake of the unwelcome publicity from Amy’s newspaper article. So far the reaction he’d heard from the article had been divided—Josh’s friends thought he hadn’t gotten a fair shake, while others applauded Amy for shedding light on a clear case of favoritism. Josh preferred to lie low and wait for the whole thing to blow over. Unfortunately, having to appear before the school board made that impossible.
Groaning inwardly, he settled into a chair near the back of the room and steeled himself for a boring wait. Only then did he spot Amy in the second row, rich brown hair falling around her shoulders as she leaned forward to scribble something in the reporter’s notebook in her lap. Was she waiting to twist his words tonight into something even more damning?
After the usual business of roll call and approval of minutes, school board president Al Hirschmer scanned the agenda, then addressed the crowd. “I see the first item of business is a proposal by someone called Love Soldier? Is that a typo? Is Love Soldier here?”
Amid some laughter a tall woman, her black hair in pigtails, stood and made her way to the microphone at the front of the room. “Erica Bridegate, why didn’t you just say it was you?” one of the board members, Ashley Frawley, said.
Erica’s cheeks reddened, but she held her head high. “I prefer Love Soldier.” She adjusted the microphone, the two dozen bracelets on her arm sounding like a whole drawerful of dropped silverware. “I’m here to ask the board to support my proposal to turn the vacant lot next to the elementary school into a garden. The students can help grow vegetables and learn about agriculture and healthy food, and the school cafeteria can save money on fresh vegetables.”
“What is that lot used for now?” Roger Perkins asked.
“The maintenance staff parks the plow truck there when it’s not in use,” Al said. “And I believe there are a couple of Dumpsters there.”
“The school should be able to find somewhere else for those things,” Erica/Love said. “I propose to build raised beds there and help the children grow tomatoes, beans, lettuce and other vegetables they can eat. Or they could sell the excess to finance other school projects.”
“That sounds good,” Roger said. “But you can’t just dig up a vacant lot and have a garden. What are you going to build these raised beds out of?”
“Tony Gillespie has a big pile of bricks from the old stables he tore down that he said he’d donate if the school board will give him a letter so he can take the value of the bricks off his taxes,” she said. “And Nancy Metheny said she’d get her brother to till up the dirt if I thought this would get her son, Nicky, to eat vegetables.”
“So all you need from us is permission?” Ashley asked.
“Permission and an agreement to pay the water bill. And maybe build a fence to keep out wandering dogs and things.”
“I knew there was a catch,” Ashley said to no one in particular.
“The school doesn’t have money for a fence or a bigger water bill,” the third board member, Stephanie Olefski, said. “And I seriously doubt kids can eat enough vegetables to make up the difference.”
This launched a lengthy debate about the merits of fresh vegetables, the aesthetic value of fences and what kind of watering system a garden might need. Josh passed the time studying the way Amy’s hair reflected the light, and the curve of her cheek—the only part of her face he could really see from this angle.
As if feeling his gaze on her, she turned, and when their eyes met, he read a challenge there—as if she expected him to confront her once more and she was prepared for the verbal battle. But he had no intention of arguing with Amy—certainly not in public. Zach had been right—if she considered him her enemy, she was more likely to continue to go after him in the paper. Better to pretend he had no beef with her and hope she’d soon turn her attention to a more exciting story.
“If I find someone to donate the fencing, and volunteers to erect it, can the school pay for the water?” Erica was saying now.
“Do we have any idea how much the water will cost?” Ashley asked. “We can’t commit to an unknown cost. Are we talking one hundred dollars or one thousand dollars?”
“I