A Heart's Refuge. Carolyne Aarsen

can he when he doesn’t know the community it targets?”

      “That can be good. He’ll bring his own perspective and skills to the magazine. Like bringing new genetic material into the orchard and grafting it onto established and mature stock.”

      “Except he’s only here for a while, which makes me wonder if the ‘graft’ will take. He’s a wanderer, just like Trevor was.”

      “Don’t tell me you’re still mooning over him?” Sam held out his hand. “Can I have that pine tar please?”

      Becky handed him a small tin and a flat stick. “Hardly mooning. Trevor was a high school romance and a reminder to stay away from guys who can’t commit.” She curled her legs closer to herself and hugged them. “Anyway, Rick said he’s only going to be around a year. Maybe less. That’s hardly long enough to make a real difference. I’m sure he wants to go back to his traveling. Last I heard it was Malta. Before that Thailand.”

      Sam wrapped protective covering over the wound and gave Becky an indulgent smile. “Seems to me you know a fair bit of what is going on in Rick Ethier’s life.”

      Becky avoided his eyes. She could try to make some lame excuse about her knowledge of Rick’s comings and goings but she had never been a very good liar.

      “How in the world did you and Colson even connect?” Becky asked, handing her father his toolbox as he pushed himself to his feet.

      “Years ago, Colson lived in Calgary and had courted your grandmother. He decided the real money was back East, but she wouldn’t leave Okotoks.” Sam gave Becky a hand up. “Maybe he is taking a short trip down memory lane, buying this magazine.”

      “And taking a very reluctant passenger with him. Rick.”

      “Well, you make sure to invite him out here sometime.”

      Becky sighed as she slipped her arm through her father’s. “Give me some time to get used to the idea that he’s even here in Okotoks. In my office.”

      The heat emanating from the dark plowed ground gave way to a soft coolness as they entered the older orchard.

      “I’m going to have to get rid of some of these trees,” her father mused, looking up at the gnarled branches. “Though I hate to.”

      “‘Every tree that does not bear fruit must be cut down and cast into the fire,’” Becky quoted, giving her father’s arm a jiggle as if to remind him.

      “God gives us lots of chances. I think I might let these trees go another year or two.” He reached up and touched one branch, the dearth of apples on it a silent testimony to their uselessness. “I can still take a few cuttings from them.”

      “You say that every year, Dad,” Becky said with a smile.

      Becky’s maternal great-grandfather started this orchard when he first immigrated from Holland. It was a gamble to expect to create an oasis on the harshly bald prairie. But the soil proved fertile and the poplar trees planted as windbreaks shot up, creating a refuge necessary for the apple trees to flourish. Irrigation came from a creek that flowed through the property.

      The orchard had gone through three generations and various changes. Becky’s mother, Cora, inherited the orchard. When Cora Bruinsma married Sam Ellison, he slowly worked his way into the family business, helping to cultivate the orchard and keeping the magazine going at the same time.

      Becky grew up with her time split between the hustle and bustle of the magazine and the peace of the orchard. Her first love was writing, but her home was her sanctuary. Her plan had been to stay at home until she had her second book published and a contract for another. Only then would she feel she had the financial wherewithal to buy a place of her own and move out.

      Which hadn’t happened yet.

      And if she didn’t get working on this next book, wasn’t likely to happen for at least another year.

      “Going West. Becky speaking.” Becky tucked the phone under her ear, she pushed the sleeves of her sweater up and drew the copy of the article she had been working on toward her. Sneaking a quick glance at her watch—2:15 p.m. She had fifteen minutes yet.

      “Becky? This is Gladys Hemple. I do the cooking and preserves column.”

      “What can I do for you, Gladys?” Becky’s pencil flicked over the paper, striking out, putting in question marks.

      Gladys didn’t reply right away. Becky heard a faint sniff, then…

      “You know I get a lot of compliments on the column,” Gladys said, her voice suspiciously thick. “Lots of people say they read it all the time.”

      “So what’s the problem?” Becky frowned when she heard another, louder sniff over the phone.

      “I’ve been asked not to do it anymore.” Another sniff. “By some man named Rick who says he’s the new publisher.”

      Becky laid her pencil down, her full attention now on her caller. “What exactly did he say, Gladys?”

      “That he’s changing the focus of the magazine and that what I do didn’t mesh with the vision. Or something like that.” Gladys paused and Becky heard her blowing her nose. “Becky, I’ve been doing that column for the past twenty-five years and I was never late. Not even once. What did I do wrong?”

      Becky clutched the phone in her hand and leaned back in her chair. “Gladys, I’m sure there’s been some mistake. I’ll go talk to Mr. Ethier.”

      “Could you do that please? I’ve just finished taking pictures of the chocolate cake for this week’s recipe. I hate to see it all wasted.”

      “You just get those pictures developed. I’ll deal with Rick.”

      And bring that cake over here.

      Becky stomach growled at the thought of Gladys Hemple’s chocolate cake. She hadn’t eaten or taken a break since she’d grabbed a couple of bites out of the stale muffin she’d found while scavenging through her desk for a pen that worked. That had been eight-thirty.

      In fifteen minutes she had a meeting with Rick and she still had a couple of articles to go over. Becky had re-edited half of the articles already slated for the next issue to nudge them in the direction Rick wanted to take this magazine. The extra workload had meant she’d missed her bible study and had to cancel another library board meeting.

      The phone rang again.

      Becky stifled her resentment and put a smile on her face. “Going West. Becky speaking.”

      “This is Alanna Thompson.”

      Becky closed her eyes, massaging the bridge of her nose with her fingers, and sent up a prayer for patience and peace. Alanna wasn’t known for her reticence. And noting the restrained fury in Alanna’s voice, Becky was pretty sure she knew the reason she was calling.

      “How can I help you, Alanna?”

      “What in the world is going on there? I just got a phone call from some guy named Rick Ethier. He just told me he’s returning the four articles that the magazine bought. Who is this guy?”

      Becky blew out her breath, suddenly aware of the tension in her shoulders. Which columns to cut and which articles to send back should have been her call. Not Rick’s. At least he could have waited until their meeting this afternoon to consult with her.

      “Rick is our new publisher.”

      “What does that have to do with anything?”

      “With a new publisher comes a new direction,” Becky offered, struggling not to let her own anger seep into her voice. “Rick obviously has a different idea of how he sees Going West than Nelson did.”

      And from the sounds of things Rick’s vision didn’t include baking or horses, cowboys and farmers.

      “You know how much time