A Dream To Share. Irene Hannon

hours later his hopes were deflated. Oak Hill was worse than he’d thought.

      As Mark drove down the town’s main street, which was baking in the late-August heat, he scanned the buildings on each side in dismay. It was like a Norman Rockwell slice of Americana—without the charm. A few cars were parked at the curb here and there, but the occupants hadn’t chosen to linger in the hundred-degree midday sun. They must have escaped into one of the tired-looking shops that lined the dusty street.

      He saw a soda fountain, a feed store, and a bar and grill on one side. His gaze swept ahead. More of the same. No diversions there.

      He switched his attention to the other side of the street. The Tivoli Theater looked promising, except the movie—only one movie, he realized—had played in Chicago weeks ago. There was also an antique store, a real-estate firm, a law office, a dentist, a bakery, a butcher shop. No Starbucks in sight.

      In less than sixty seconds he came to the end of the two-block-long business district. How did people live in a place like this?

      Shaking his head, Mark checked the street sign at the intersection. Spruce. This was it. His father had told him that the Gazette offices were only a couple of blocks off Main Street.

      He turned left and drove past an elementary school, a church, the city hall and a few other businesses tucked in between residential property. No sign of the Gazette.

      Backtracking, he recrossed Main Street. A small police station, a doctor’s office, more houses, a tiny library…and finally the Gazette.

      Since the newspaper didn’t seem to have a parking lot, Mark eased his rental car next to the curb, under the shade of a towering oak tree. He took a couple of minutes to assess the building across the street he would call home during working hours for the next twelve weeks.

      Unimposing would be far too generous a description, he decided. The small one-story white structure had a flat roof and was badly in need of a paint job. Two large windows flanked the front door, and the lettering on the Oak Hill Gazette sign above the entry was faded.

      Mark frowned. Why on earth had this place caught his father’s attention? If the condition of the building was any indication, the Oak Hill Gazette had seen better days. From a fiscal perspective, it looked like more of a liability than an asset. The books would soon tell the story, and the good news was that it shouldn’t take him long to do a financial analysis on an operation this size. If the results were negative, maybe this trip would be shorter than he’d expected. Why linger for twelve weeks if the Gazette wasn’t a good acquisition?

      His spirits lifting, he opened his door—then sucked in a deep breath as the oppressive saunalike heat slammed against his chest. Chicago could get hot, but this was ridiculous! The sooner he was out of here, the better.

      Exiting the car, he was glad he’d opted for a jacket and open-necked shirt instead of a suit. But he was still sweltering. A film of sweat had already broken out on his brow. Grabbing his briefcase, he locked the door and made a beeline for the Gazette.

      The air inside the office was cooler…but not cool enough. An ancient air conditioner was probably struggling to keep up with the blast furnace Missourians called summer. Mark flexed his shoulders, trying without success to convince the back of his shirt to release its uncomfortable grip on his skin.

      “May I help you?”

      A middle-aged woman came through a door at the back of the small reception area and looked at him over the top of her half glasses. A bit stocky, with streaks of gray in her short black hair, she regarded him warily.

      “Yes. I’m Mark Campbell. Ms. Warner is expecting me.”

      “Have a seat. I’ll let her know you’re here.” She gestured toward some chairs surrounding a low table, then moved toward a desk in the corner and picked up the phone.

      Not exactly the warmest welcome he’d ever received, Mark reflected as he strolled toward the seating area. But then, most people didn’t like change—the very thing he represented.

      He remained standing, staring out the window at the lifeless street, as she spoke in low tones on the phone behind him. A couple of minutes later he heard the door to the inner sanctum open again.

      Mark wasn’t sure what he’d expected Abby Warner to look like. But when he turned, the petite woman in the doorway didn’t even come close to any of his preconceived notions. Slender and fine-boned, she couldn’t have been more than five-three or five-four. Her shoulder-length light brown hair, worn straight with a simple part on one side, was touched with appealing glints of copper, and her deep green eyes were fringed by long lashes.

      Not that she was his type, of course. He preferred voluptuous blondes.

      Still, he couldn’t help but notice that her face had character, for want of a better word, and the kind of classic bone structure that would age well.

      As Abby watched Mark give her the once-over, her back stiffened. She was almost tempted to point out that he was supposed to be evaluating her business, not her body. But she held her tongue. A lot of good-looking men went through this kind of inspection with every woman they met. And there was no disputing the fact that the Campbell heir was good-looking.

      At close to six feet, Mark Campbell was an imposing figure, with broad shoulders and a toned physique—the result of hours in an expensive health club, she guessed. His dark brown hair was cut short, and she’d put his age at midthirties.

      As she finished her own survey, she caught the amused glint in the depths of his dark brown eyes. A warm flush crept up her neck. After faulting him for sizing her up, she’d done the same thing. Well, he’d started it. Lifting her chin, she forced herself to move toward him.

      “I’m Abby Warner.” She held out her hand.

      At closer range, Mark was struck by the intriguing flecks of gold in the woman’s eyes. And the editor of the Gazette seemed even more petite—and fragile—than she had at a distance. As his hand swallowed hers, he was almost afraid to squeeze for fear of breaking something. “Mark Campbell.”

      “I hope you had a good trip, Mr. Campbell.”

      “A hot one, anyway. And it’s Mark.”

      “Welcome to August in Missouri.” Abby retrieved her hand. “That’s why we dress pretty casual here.”

      He’d noticed. In contrast to his perfectly creased gray trousers, impeccable navy blue jacket and tailored blue-and-white-striped shirt worn open at the neck, she sported khaki slacks and a crisp short-sleeved blouse that made her look more like a college student than the editor of a newspaper. At least from a distance.

      But now that she was a whisper away, he wouldn’t make that mistake. The fine lines at the corners of her eyes and faint parallel grooves in her brow belonged to a woman who’d known more than her share of fatigue and stress. Concerns about the future of the Gazette could be the cause, he reflected. In fact, hadn’t his father said something about the paper being a family business? He supposed it was time he reviewed the file that had been passed on to him.

      Still, her personal problems weren’t his concern, he reminded himself. He was here to analyze the business, not the editor.

      “I’ll keep the casual dress code in mind in the future,” he responded. “I can’t say that I’ll be sorry to ditch the jacket.”

      A faint brief smile quirked her lips, vanishing as quickly as frosty breath on a cold day. “Would you like a tour now or would you prefer to settle in and come back a bit later? Or even tomorrow morning?”

      “I’m up for a tour if this is a good time.”

      She nodded, then gestured toward the receptionist. “I’ll just stick with first names for now. You’ve already met Molly. She handles all our administrative work and does double duty as our receptionist. This place would shut down without her.”

      A pleased flush spread over the woman’s cheeks, and she rose as Mark walked over to shake her hand.