Molly's Garden. Roz Denny Fox

In her nine years with the Peace Corps she’d come to accept that every request got bogged down in tedious bureaucracy. So she’d gone to the initial school meeting armed with proof that programs of the type she proposed were successful in other areas, including in urban settings where kids grew flowerpot gardens.

      Surprisingly she had found a dedicated staff already deeply worried about an excess of poverty-stricken families. She’d only had to mention that kids loved to eat what they grew and the principals and their staff were all in. In addition to arranging to transport third-graders out to her farm once a week, teachers at all grade levels asked if she might provide fresh vegetables for their Backpack Fridays, where they sent every child home with a backpack filled with foodstuffs. For some it was all they’d have to eat over the weekend.

      Of course she’d agreed. But the meeting had opened her eyes to how many families in her area were in need. She hadn’t expected to hear that US families ever went without food. In truth, she’d like to give away everything she raised, but that wasn’t possible. She needed to sell enough to make ends meet and to pay her workers. She was still dipping into her savings and her dad’s insurance.

      The bus stopped at the end of the lane, waiting for the automatic gate to open. After it drove out Molly watched the gate close again. She stood there thinking back to the other day when the man from some oil company had parked on the main road and hiked onto her land.

      A closed gate couldn’t keep somebody out if they really wanted to get in.

      She shivered.

      Henry was probably right in saying the whole perimeter should be fenced. But fencing was costly. And what about the land sloping to the river? She irrigated from there. Yes she had seen people cross the river who shouldn’t. Her dad’s philosophy and that of her grandfather’s had been to live and let live. She did the same.

      Now that the children were gone, she unhooked Nitro’s leash. He never roamed far from her side, but he liked being free to sniff out a rabbit or two.

      “Come on, boy. I need to go to the barn to look at the latest application.” The man who’d ridden in on the motorcycle.

      As she made her way to the office Molly wasn’t sure she should hire Adam Hollister, even if he ticked all the boxes. Something about him had thrown her off balance. It went beyond how easily he’d won over her dog—her supposed guard dog.

      Revisiting the impression the man had left brought him squarely back into focus.

      At thirty-two she could count on one hand the men who’d stirred her. A fellow Ag student in college. He’d changed his major to computers, eloped with his high school sweetheart and gone on to make his mark at IBM.

      The other had been a doctor volunteering in Kenya while he did advanced studies on jungle fevers. She’d thought they’d had a future until a female physician had showed up to work as part of Molly’s extended team. Mark Lane, MD, had broken her heart when he and Penelope Volker, having snagged twin fellowships at Johns Hopkins, had left without even a backward glance.

      Worse, the couple’s dual departure had left only a nurse and a nurse practitioner to care for the desperately ill who showed up at their village Peace Corps compound.

      Shaking off the memory, she entered the barn and strained to see in the dim light. Nitro loped over to drink water from a big bowl they kept filled for him.

      Henry stepped out from the office. “Molly, I think we’ve found you a truck driver. I checked his references and the folks he listed all said you’d be lucky to get him.”

      “Really?”

      He handed her the double-sided application she’d put together after placing the ad.

      “Where has he worked before? Why isn’t he working there now? Or, if he is, why is he looking to change jobs?”

      “He’s currently working at a bar near Catarina. For a friend. The guy said Hollister has done everything from ordering to serving to cleaning up to being his bouncer in just short of two years. He pretty much ran the place, because the owner was renovating a house. Oh, and he also said when the bar was closed Hollister picked up housing materials and helped with construction.”

      “Hmm.” Molly glanced over the form. On the line about education he’d written “some college.”

      “His second reference, Kevin Cole, has a Dallas address and phone number. Did Hollister work in Dallas?”

      “That’s Cole’s private cell number. He said Hollister handled a lot of different projects. I asked if he could drive a diesel truck. Cole laughed and said Hollister never met a job he couldn’t handle. I gathered he lived in Dallas but worked in different places—even doing contract jobs overseas. Cole was vague. I figured it must’ve been for the government. Government guys are hard to pin down.”

      Molly chewed on that. Even working in remote Africa she’d met some black ops guys. Tough men. Shadowy figures. From her brief assessment of Adam Hollister, he fit the image.

      Did she want someone like him on her payroll? Perhaps she should do more of a background check.

      On the other hand, she needed someone now. It was worth giving him a trial, she supposed.

      “You can always fire him if he doesn’t work out,” Henry said, making Molly wonder if her thoughts were that transparent.

      “I can, but you know I’m better at hiring than firing.”

      Her cell phone rang, cutting off Henry’s remark. Dragging it out of her pocket, Molly saw the call was from Tess Warner, an artisan bread maker she’d met at a farmers’ market near Cotulla.

      “Hey,” Molly said as she answered, gesturing to Henry that the call was going to take a while. “I haven’t seen you out and about at any markets for a while. Is everything okay?”

      “Great!” Tess replied. “Has it really been that long?”

      “A few weeks at least. Where’ve you been?”

      “Corpus, if that counts as going anywhere.” She laughed. “I guess we haven’t seen each other since I tracked down an old friend of my grandmother’s. The woman still lives in Sicily.

      “Gabriella sent me a bunch of recipes in Italian. I needed my mom and my aunts to translate them, so I’ve been in Corpus trying out the recipes and transcribing them into English.”

      “I miss you! I toasted my last slice of your cranberry-pecan bread this morning for breakfast.”

      “Funny, I have loaves waiting to bake. I called to invite you over and to ask if you could bring some fresh dill. I’m home and baking up a storm. If you come over, we’ll have warm bread slathered with butter and some wine my mother made.”

      “How can I refuse an offer like that? I have a lot to tell you, too, Tess. My truck driver got beaten up. He’s the second one—the other guy quit on me.”

      “That’s horrible. I hope you’re okay.”

      “I’ve been hauling loads to markets all week in my SUV and nobody seems to bother me.”

      “Just the thought is bad enough. Hey, bring Nitro. Coco misses him.”

      “Wait until you hear how my big scary dog totally caved over a guy I may hire as my next driver.”

      “A new man? Wonderful, I can’t wait to hear.”

      Molly said goodbye and turned to leave the barn.

      Henry called out, “Tomorrow we’ll have a large load. A lot of buyers stock up midweek. Do you want me to call Hollister to see if he can be here and ready to hit the road by seven?”

      Frowning, Molly again scanned the application she forgot she still held.

      “Do you have time to run a check at the DMV on his license?”

      “Sure. You’re doing too much on your own. If we hire