Sweet Blessings. Jillian Hart

You didn’t happen to—”

      Heath recited it from memory. “You look those boys up. The way they acted, it was no way to treat two real nice women.”

      “Exactly.” The deputy reached for his radio. “You wouldn’t object to making a statement, would ya? I don’t take well to women being threatened in my town.”

      “They skipped out on part of their bill, too.” Heath saw the lift of surprise of the officer’s brow, and knew the waitress hadn’t told the whole story. Probably because it was a matter of five dollars. “I’ll sign whatever you need me to.”

      “Drop by the office after you’re done eating. It’s down past the hardware and keep going. You’ll see us.” With another salute, the deputy drove on.

      Heath felt a ghost from the past—it was his own spirit. The man he used to be: whole and full of optimism and enthusiasm. Full of heart.

      There wasn’t much left of that man. He didn’t recognize his reflection in the diner’s windows. He merely saw a man who looked more tired and aged instead of a vibrant, driven marine. He was like any man about to patronize a typical diner in a typical rural American town.

      A bubbly waitress—not Amy—led him to the table in the back. It suited him. He had a view of the train still rolling by like an endless caravan. He ordered the special—whatever, he didn’t care—and thanked the waitress for handing him a local paper.

      In his reflection in the window he caught sight of a man he used to know, just for one moment, and then it was gone like the train, the caboose slithering away and leaving a clear view of the park across the street. He stared for a long moment at the lush green grass waving in the wind.

      The waitress returned with a carafe of steaming coffee, poured his cup full and dashed off with her sneakers squeaking on the clean tile. The coffee was black, had a bitter bite, and he drank it straight. He enjoyed the punch of caffeine.

      He turned to the classified ads and browsed through them. The waitress returned with a huge plate stacked high with sunny-side-up eggs, sausage links, pancakes and hash browns. Just the sight of it brought back memories of his grandma’s kitchen, where the syrup was the real thing and the jam homemade.

      “Do you need anything else?” the waitress asked, producing a bottle of—just as he’d predicted—real maple syrup and a canning jar of what looked like blueberry preserves.

      Before he could shake his head no, she was gone, rushing off to bring coffee to the new arrivals.

      Alone in the corner, he ate until he was full. He felt like the outsider he was as more people arrived, friends greeted friends and family said hello to family. Cars began to crawl down the main street, mostly obeying the speed limit.

      By the time kids were walking by on their way to school, Heath was done.

      He pushed the empty plate and the newspaper away. There were no temporary jobs in the local paper. Maybe there’d be something in the next town along the highway. As for the blond waitress from last night, he wasn’t disappointed over not seeing her again. He’d pay, leave a tip and be on his way. But would he think of her?

      Yeah. He’d think of her. He couldn’t say why as he headed down the aisle, past families and friends gathering, past conversations and everyday average human connections. There was something about the woman and it made him wonder…

      No wondering, man. No wishing. He dropped a small stack of bills on the counter and pushed through the door.

      Once again losing sight of the man he used to be, he ambled down the sidewalk. He was already thinking of moving on, as weightless as the wind.

      Amy spotted long-time customer Bob Brisbane through the small window of the hand-off counter. The warmer lights cast a golden hue as she squinted through the opening, standing on tiptoe to see if he was alone. He was late this morning joining his buddies, who met every morning like clockwork to share gossip over breakfast, coffee and the morning paper.

      Over the background music from the local inspirational station and the din of the busy diner, she could pick up Jodi’s cheerful good morning as she poured Bob’s coffee. As the two exchanged small talk of family and last night’s storm, Amy cracked three eggs and whipped them in a bowl, with just enough milk and spices.

      By the time Jodi had arrived with the order ticket, Amy already had the omelet sizzling next to a generous portion of link sausage and grated potatoes.

      “Is that Mr. Winkler’s order you’ve got nearly ready?”

      “Yep, just need to add the bacon—” Amy used the spatula to lift the eight blackened strips of bacon, cooked just the way kindly Mr. Winkler liked it, and added it to his order of buttermilk pancakes and two poached eggs and handed up the plate. “I think I’ve almost caught up. Who knew it’d be such a busy morning?”

      “It’s the power outage. It sounds like nearly half the county was out of electricity last night, and a lot are still out this morning.” Jodi bustled away with the order.

      The noise in the dining room seemed to crescendo, or maybe it was because she was trying so hard to listen for the doorbell. She’d hardly been able to sleep last night, for she was troubled not only by the weather and the stress of normal life, but also because she couldn’t get the loner out of her mind.

      As she added plenty of cheese, smoked sausage, onion and jalapeños to Mr. Brisbane’s omelette—how anyone’s stomach could handle that at 6:23 a.m., she didn’t know—she thought of the loner again. Last night rewound like a movie, to the place where he’d stepped out of the storm, looking more intimidating than the lightning forking down to take out a transformer half a block away.

      By standing tall, he’d stopped whatever those awful men had planned. She knew in her heart he was leaving, maybe he’d already left, but she had prayed he might stop in for breakfast before moving on. She’d been watching for him between scrambling eggs and frying bacon and browning potatoes and whipping up her family’s secret pancake recipe.

      Had she seen him? No, of course not. She’d been busy, that was one problem, but there was only so much of the dining room she could see from behind the grill. Maybe he wasn’t coming. He certainly didn’t seem eager to see her last night. And she’d had the sinking feeling when he’d seemed to disappear in the storm that she’d never see him again. He’d more than likely followed the road out of town and she had responsibilities. People who counted on her. She ought to pay attention to her work—the omelet oozing melting cheese and the sausages nearly too brown.

      She whisked the meat and eggs onto a clean dish, handed it up with her left hand as she turned bacon with the other. Wherever her loner was, she prayed the good he’d done for them was returned to him tenfold.

      With the edge of the spatula, she scraped the grill—she liked a tidy kitchen—and studied the last meal ticket on the wheel. It looked like Mr. Whitley had shown up, the sixth member of the retired ranchers who met every morning at the same table. She cracked three eggs neatly—Mr. Redmond’s Sunrise Special was the last of the first wave of the usual Saturday-morning rush. Maybe she’d be able to take a few minutes away from the grill, grab some coffee and—

      Jodi shouldered through the doors, loaded down with empties, which she unloaded with sharp clatters at the sink. “Well, I tell you, that just about breaks my heart.”

      “I’m betting you don’t mean the pile of dishes to clean?”

      “Nope. I waited on a man this morning. Striking, young guy, somewhere around our age, maybe a bit older. You know how on some folks it’s hard to tell?” She washed and yanked a paper towel from the dispenser to dry her hands.

      Amy’s pulse thickened. It was as if her blood had turned into sand, and her heart was straining to pump it through her veins. The background sounds of the cooking food and customers in the dining room faded to silence. Why was she reacting this strongly to the mere mention of the man?

      Unaware,