Milky Way. Muriel Jensen

the rich, verdant pasture spreading out to his left, dotted with grazing Holsteins, and the tall, lush green crowding in on his right went unnoticed. He didn’t see the gray clouds against the stormy spring sky, heralding rain, or the fat black-and-white Canada geese flying toward Timber Lake, a quarter of a mile away. His mind was ticking over figures.

      As Winnebago Dairy’s sales manager in southeastern Wisconsin, Jake spent most of his time in a Chicago office. But several times a year he went on the road to collect outstanding receivables. He could be charming and firm, understanding but unshakable in his resolve to have the district with the best numbers. Still, the percentage of uncollectible debt was growing among the smaller farms in his district, and the struggles of their owners to hold on to what little they had left touched him as few things in life did.

      But business was business. However much he hated this part of his job, he had to do it. When the big red barn and the white Victorian farmhouse beyond it came into view, he pulled over to review his notes.

      “Hansen widow trying hard, but still unable to pay,” Buckley, the sales rep, had reported after his last call at Lakeside Farm. “Renting out large parcels of pasture in March and promises to pay outstanding balance at that time.”

      Jake checked his printout. March had come and gone and there’d been no payment. In fact, there’d been no payment since the previous September. Policy was clear. The widow Hansen was cut off pending payment in full.

      Jake closed his folder with a groan. Great. A widow. He had to stop feed delivery to some little old arthritic thing who’d probably lose the farm before the year was out and be forced to move in with one of her kids.

      He shook his head as he pulled back onto the road and headed for the lane to the house. He’d never understand why generation after generation of farmers broke their backs and very often their hearts over a piece of land that was subject to every joke God, nature and the government could play. It was masochistic and senseless. He couldn’t imagine dedicating one’s life to something as completely unpredictable as a harvest.

      Now, numbers made sense. Columns that balanced were easy to understand. A future that depended solely on what an individual could do was the only course worth plotting, as far as he was concerned. Needing and depending on others or on the beneficence of nature always led to a predictable end—disappointment.

      Jake didn’t believe in disappointment. He believed in success.

      He pulled to a stop behind a muddy blue GMC truck at the side of the house. A yellow Lab lying at the top of the porch steps raised an intelligent face to watch him. Jake leaped out of the vehicle, careful to miss a puddle, and took a moment to look around.

      The house had a peaked roof with gingerbread finials and a wraparound porch. It was tidy but in need of a fresh coat of paint. A heart-shaped wreath of dried flowers hung on the front door, and scarlet May-blooming tulips and bright forget-menots trimmed the foundation and the porch steps. He imagined the little widow kneeling on a rug and pampering her flowers.

      Maybe he’d get lucky, he thought, and she wouldn’t be home. He could send her a registered letter telling her she was customer non grata. No. He had the best numbers in the company because he dealt with people face-to-face. He made things turn out his way, but he did it openly.

      He took two steps up toward the porch and was greeted by a hair-raising growl from deep in the Lab’s throat and a clear view of impressive canine incisors. The dog hadn’t moved, and Jake got the distinct impression it was because she didn’t feel she had to.

      Accustomed to a fair amount of hostility, Jake had perfected an understanding manner and a conciliatory tone of voice that usually worked on dogs as well as people. He extended a cautious hand and asked, “Good dog?”

      The Lab changed demeanor instantly. Rolling onto her back, she tucked her feet in in eager surrender, her strong tail wagging madly. She whined in helpless adoration as Jake reached up to scratch her sturdy mound of a chest. An upside-down tongue flicked at the sleeve of Jake’s suit jacket.

      Jake laughed. “You are a good dog,” he praised. “You’re not much of a security system, but I’ll bet you’re a great friend.”

      The dog rolled onto four big feet and followed him as he went to the front door and knocked. She sat on his right foot as he waited...and waited.

      * * *

      BRITTANY HANSEN STOOD on tiptoe on top of an eight-foot wooden ladder and groped for the shingle that was just beyond her reach. She growled impatiently when the tip of her longest finger refused to close the gap.

      “Come on!” she said aloud. “One more shingle! I am not going to climb down and move the ladder again for one more shingle!”

      She withdrew her aching arm and studied the shingle with hostility. Rubbing her aching biceps, she tried to remember why repairing the hole in the porch roof had seemed so important this afternoon. Because she wanted to put the porch swing out, she reminded herself, and a large drip had developed where she usually placed it near the kitchen window.

      And because Jimmy had always brought the old swing out for her at the first sign of spring, and she wanted to prove to herself that although he wasn’t here to do it, it would still get done.

      Sneaky, strong emotion rose up to sting her eyes and clog her throat. Having it out would be no fun, and she’d probably choke up every time she looked at it, but it would be in its place because she had put it there. It would be one small victory after a long dark winter of silent, corrosive grief.

      Britt drew a deep breath, leaned her weight against the roof and stretched her right hand out as far as she could reach—and felt the toe of her right foot push the ladder out from under her.

      She screamed, the palms of her hands scraping over the rough tiles as she slid down, then caught the rain gutter with her fingers.

      Great, she thought with a gallows humor she was surprised to find had survived the winter. Hanging by my fingernails. Literally. The bank should see this.

      She groped with her feet for the porch railing, but the extended roof had her too far out to reach.

      She considered letting go, but the drop to the ground was considerable. She could not afford a broken limb at this point in time, and the way her luck had been running, a multiple fracture was bound to result.

      “Dammit, Jimmy!” she shouted at the air. “Do something!”

      * * *

      JAKE AND THE LAB, still waiting at the front door were galvanized into action by a crash followed immediately by a piercing screech. With one loud Woof! the dog ran around the porch to the back of the house. Jake followed, his mind already in sympathy with the poor little arthritic old lady.

      He jerked to a halt at the sight of a pair of long legs dangling at eye level. They were not arthritic legs. They were slender, shapely legs in snug denim. His brain took a moment to swap mental images and assimilate what was happening.

      His eyes lifted to a baggy gray sweater and arms holding rigidly, desperately to the gutter. Pale blue eyes in a white face were wide with alarm and a curious resignation.

      Jake wrapped an arm around a pillar to steady himself and reached out over the railing.

      * * *

      BRITT STARED at the man in the three-piece gray suit and wondered if her desperation had conjured him up. Before she could decide, he had a fistful of the front of her sweater.

      “Kick a leg out toward me,” he ordered.

      She blinked. He didn’t disappear. “Who are you?” she asked.

      She heard his gasp of exasperation. “Does that matter at the moment? Kick a leg out.”

      Reflexively, she complied, and felt a muscular arm wrap itself around it.

      “Now drop a hand to my shoulder.”

      She wanted to, but even the threat of falling couldn’t blunt