His Montana Sweetheart. Ruth Logan Herne
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came down the stairs, slipped an arm around her father’s waist and hugged him. “Well said.”
“Since you told me what to say, that’s no surprise. I’ve lived with your mother for nearly forty years. If nothing else, I’ve learned how to follow directions.” Humor marked Dave’s face for real this time. It was clear he enjoyed having Livvie back home, but equally clear he didn’t want her hurt again.
Neither did Jack, and the thought of flirting with a woman who might still love her ex-husband—a conniving cheat who didn’t deserve an amazing woman like Olivia Franklin in the first place—helped keep things in perspective. “I brought some notes you might be able to use for the history thing.”
Liv took the sheaf of paper from Jack’s hand. For just a moment their fingers grazed, barely a touch, but enough to make Jack long to take her hand in his. Hold it snug and chat about things that would keep her smile firmly in place.
That’s what had been missing last night, he realized. Liv’s smile, broad and sweet. Inviting. Her contagious laugh, the kind that made heads turn and folks join in for no particular reason.
Her smile today said she was doing all right, but a woman like Liv should never be doing just all right. She should be happy, joyous and cheerful. The way she used to be, he remembered.
As he followed her up to the porch, he wondered if that girl still existed, or if the men in her life had ruined something as precious and sweet as a young woman’s joy.
Shame knifed him, but as Liv settled into the corner of the porch glider, another realization hit. God had given him this chance to make things right. But maybe he could do more than simply mend old wrongs. Maybe he could restore Liv’s joyful spirit, the smiling peace that used to reign within her.
He sank into the rocker and watched as she perused the papers. “Jack...” She paused and sat forward with a start, and for a brief moment he read the excitement of old in her eyes. She pointed to an item on the paper he’d printed off the internet. “This says that Lester helped bury the time capsule.”
“That’s important?”
Liv inched closer to show him the printed lines referring to Lester Shaw and nodded. “It could be. With the capsule missing, and no one knowing what was in it, what went on, or why anyone would steal an old memory box from a hundred years ago, maybe someone in Lester’s branch of the family knows something. Maybe he told his family what was in the box. Knowing what was in there might help deputy Cal Calloway and the sheriff’s office figure out why it was taken. There could be some tidbit of information that will clear up this whole mess.” She ticked off two fingers as she continued, “The missing capsule. The fire at the rodeo. Things like this might seem minor in big cities, but in Jasper Gulch...? A tucked-in-a-nook town with generations of the same families living here decade by decade?” Her look of remorse underscored her meaning. “Criminal stuff like that could pull a small town like ours apart.”
It made sense, but... “Lester never married. Chet did, it’s in his baseball records, but Lester died a bachelor. Does it say anything about Chet being involved with the capsule burial?”
She shook her head. The scent of spiced vanilla grabbed him by the throat and wouldn’t let go. The smell drew him closer, ostensibly to look at the history papers she held out, but what he really wanted was one more breath of that sweet country smell, gently spiced.
Liv’s scent.
“Well.”
She seemed totally uninspired by his new proximity, so he leaned back in his chair, reclaiming a proper distance in case Dave came around with that nail gun again.
“I’m going to keep these, if that’s okay?” She looked up and he nodded, pretending he didn’t want to draw closer because they both knew better. Well, she knew better, and he’d just promised her father to think hard and long before starting something he couldn’t finish. Not as if he was even considering starting something with a woman on the rebound, because that rarely boded well. “It’s fine.”
“And can I look at what you’ve got lined up for the game so far?”
Sheepish, he handed over the half-filled single sheet of paper. She stared at the single sheet as if appalled, then made a show of unfolding it—
Examining the empty back side while a mix of dismay and bemusement darkened her features—
Refolding it and looking at him, expectant. “That’s it? To field two teams? The Bombers and the Bobcats?”
“Well, the new pastor’s going to play shortstop for us, and he’s good, so we’ve got one more player. And a few I haven’t heard back from. So we’ve almost got one team manned.”
“Did you give them a follow-up call?”
He hadn’t, no. He swallowed hard and admitted, “I texted them.”
The look on her face said he was clueless, and he couldn’t argue the fact. He hated phones, barely liked people and only took this on because guilt over Wes’s condition pushed him to say yes.
“First, this game is a big deal for the town, right?”
“Yes.”
“Second, not everyone is comfortable texting, and some of these guys are in their sixties and seventies, Jack. They might not even have texting capabilities in their phones.”
She was right, of course.
“And third, for something special like this, do you think the New York Yankees send out a text to their former players about their annual Old-timers’ Day? No, they call and invite them to play. It’s an honor to be asked and an honor to be called.”
A hint of light began shining at the end of his self-imposed tunnel vision. “So, would you—”
“I would not.” She didn’t even let him get the words out of his mouth before refusing, and that said the woman before him was tougher than the girl she’d been a decade before. “But I will help organize the concessions, the flyers and the contact lists for endorsements and sponsors to raise money for the new museum. This way we’re both benefiting from our combined efforts.”
“You’re benefiting because it’s raising money for something you love,” Jack objected. He clapped a hand to the base of his neck and scowled. “I fail to see the benefit to me in all this.”
“It gets you out of the saddle, off the ranch and into the mainstream of life again, which is where we all should be. You can thank me later.” She went inside and came back with a landline phone and a small laptop computer. She handed the phone to him and he had no option but to take it. “Use this. The cell coverage is spotty out here, but you can get hold of most of the guys while I’m working on a sketch and a list for concessions.”
He had no choice.
She knew it, he could tell from the way she tipped her chin and offered the phone as if passing a baseball to a new pitcher on the mound.
He hated making phone calls and didn’t like seeking favors, but the way Liv phrased it, as if asking folks to take part in the centennial was a privilege, made it easier to dial that first number. And when the old right fielder who now lived in northern Idaho gave him an enthusiastic yes and thanked him for the invite, Jack sat back. “He’s coming. Excited, even. And he thanked me for calling.”
She glanced up from her note-making and her gaze didn’t say “I told you so.” It said his words made her happy, that taking charge and doing what he needed to do made her proud.
A little thing, making a few phone calls. By the time he was done, he had eight more firm yesses, two I’m-sorry-can’t-make-its and had left three messages to voice mail. So far so good. And it felt good, too, which made his dread of doing it fairly ridiculous.
“Did you call Pete Daniels?” Liv looked up from her email account as she invited area nonprofits and business owners to take part in the game-day festivities. “I heard he was