CHAPTER ONE

      Present day

      MICA HEARD IT from his sister-in-law, Maddie, who heard it from Mrs. Beabots, who got it straight from Louise Railton.

      Grace Railton was back in town.

      He didn’t know which emotion to pick first. Anger came to mind right off the bat, but it was quickly replaced with disappointment, hurt and curiosity.

      “What’s she doing here?” Grace had made it pretty clear when she left town last year that Paris was the only universe she’d inhabit on a long-term basis. Indian Lake was too small for Grace, the beauty-pageant queen.

      Mica stared at the tractor engine he was fixing, then tossed the wrench onto the tool bench with enough force to make the screwdriver beside it jump. Grace.

      For over a year, he’d gone over every detail of his relationship with Grace, if he could even call it that. No matter how many times he rehashed the events of that whirlwind October, he came up with only one assessment: they were as mismatched as a tuxedo and a pair of cowboy boots.

      If he was honest with himself, he’d known that since they were teenagers.

      Grace and her mother had been obsessed with beauty pageants. Crowns and dresses—that was all she’d talked about back then. Unless she was criticizing everything he wore.

      He hadn’t liked the way he reacted to Grace. She’d had some kind of lightning rod stuck to her spine that just made him want to strike. She’d needled him in a way he didn’t understand, always picking at what was wrong with him. Asking why he didn’t want more for himself than his life on the farm. Meanwhile, she’d talked about New York and Paris like they were Mecca, or the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. She’d made perfectly clear her opinions about Indian Lake and the people who chose to make it their home.

      Which made it even harder to understand the intense month they’d spent together a year ago October. It had been like a switch had been flipped. She was focused on her career and when she talked about her designs, her eyes lit up like fireworks. There were times he thought he could listen to her and never tire of her enthusiasm. She was the kind of person who would always be vibrant. But Mica doubted if he’d ever know whether she had truly wanted him or had simply pitied him.

      He traced the gouged edges of the old pair of pliers his father had used to repair their tractors, generators and trucks. Angelo had built this farm with his hands. Hands that never stopped working, and Angelo had taught all his sons to do the same.

      Yet now, Mica only had one hand. He was never going to be the kind of empire builder his father had been. He had to find a new path. Since college graduation, he’d abandoned his engineering goals in order to help on the farm. Now the farm didn’t need him or want him. He had to find a way to translate his dreams from the drafting table and his computer into a working piece of machinery for people with disabilities.

      Mica slumped against the workbench and looked across at the machinery shed, where he spent a great deal of his time lately. Tinkering. That was all he’d done in the past year or so. All he’d done since Grace left town.

      Grace... He ran his hand through his hair. She’d emailed him once after she landed in Paris, telling him that her design team was further behind than she’d thought. They needed her. She’d be working 24/7 to pull off their spring line. He’d told her he understood. But he hadn’t. Week after week, he’d sent emails and left messages, but she never responded.

      He ground his teeth. Her silence was like a brick wall falling on him. She wanted nothing to do with him. Maybe she hadn’t changed as much as he’d thought she might have during the month they spent together.

      Her departure—and rejection—still bothered him, but Mica had had more important things to focus on in the past year. With a lot of rehab—and trial and error—he’d learned his way around his new life with only one working arm. He’d had to figure out how to dress with one hand, and even change the way he did chores around the kitchen. Every sandwich bag had to have a slider so he could put the bag on the counter and slide the top closed. No more jars. Pop tops for everything. Pots and pans were simple. He used one at a time. He chopped vegetables in a food processor or used a mandolin to slice them over a bowl. The majority of the time, his mother made plenty of food for him to warm in his microwave.

      He couldn’t drive the tractor or change the baler. He was of no help to Rafe, so his brother had been forced to take on another hourly worker. When their father had died, Mica and Rafe had agreed to hire extra help. Now they needed even more.

      The only work Mica had now was running errands for his mother.

      The reality stung every day of his life, shutting out joy and any hope for happiness.

      He ran his hand down his numb and limp left arm.

      He wondered if he’d ever get used to the fact that