The Cowboy's Homecoming. Brenda Minton

Jeremy with his mother the previous evening, she’d had a long talk with her brother Jason about ways to save Back Street Church. Thanks to his wife Alyson they had a very clear idea of how to accomplish their goal. They’d learned that the building had turned 100 the previous year.

      They were still digging but it was possible the building could be saved by having it listed on an historical registry. The phone call Beth had made would set the plan in motion.

      And she didn’t know how she felt about what she’d done. As much as she didn’t want the church torn down, she also didn’t want to hurt Jeremy.

      It seemed that no matter what, someone would get hurt. Either Jeremy or the people in town who cared about the future of the church. He had plans for a business. Beth saw the church as a connection to her mother. Others in town had similar stories and reasons for wanting the building to remain standing.

      She took a sip of her coffee and reached for the box sitting on the table in front of her.

      Her dad had finally given it to her the previous evening after she’d gotten home from visiting Jason and Alyson. Now that she had it, though, she didn’t know what to do with it. She’d left it sitting on her dresser last night, untouched. Thirty minutes ago she had carried it into the kitchen. She’d been staring at it while she ate her cereal and then made the phone call to the historical society.

      She let out a shallow, shaky breath and reached for the box. It was just a plain metal box. Her mother had intended for her to have this eighteen years ago. Eighteen long years, with so many mistakes, so much heart-ache in between.

      Would her life have been different if her mother had lived? Would Beth have made different choices, taken a different path? Those were questions that would never have answers.

      She lifted the lid of the box and a sob released from deep down in her chest. Tears followed as she lifted her mom’s Bible from the box. Her mother’s most prized possession. Of course her dad wouldn’t have wanted Beth to have that Bible. He would have seen it as the root of all their problems; the same way he blamed Back Street Church for her mother’s death.

      He had needed to blame something, or someone. He had picked the church Elena turned to when the doctors told her there was nothing they could do.

      Beth opened the Bible and stared through tear-filled eyes at her mother’s handwritten notes in the margins. Reading those notes, it was as if her mom was there, teaching her about life. There were notes about faith, sermons, and verses that were her favorites.

      She closed the Bible and placed it on the table. There were other things in the box. Her mother’s wedding ring. A book of devotions. Her journal.

      The journal was leather bound. The pages were soft, white paper that had yellowed with time. The writing had faded but was still legible. Beth flipped through the pages. The last half of the journal was blank. But the final entries, pages and pages of entries, were written to Beth.

      She skimmed several but paused on the one dated August 5.

      Dearest Beth, you’re barely ten and I know this isn’t going to be easy for you, but I want you to know that I love you and God has a plan for your life. Don’t give up. Don’t forget that your daddy, even if he’s hurting and angry, loves you. And don’t hurry growing up. It’ll happen all too soon. Love will happen. Life will happen. Don’t rush through the days, savor them. Love someone strong.

      Love someone strong. Beth closed her eyes. She didn’t know if she’d ever really been in love. Chance had been a mistake, an obvious mistake. He’d been her rebellion and a way to escape her father’s quiet anger. Now she realized her dad had been more hurt than angry. But at eighteen she hadn’t cared, she had just wanted to get away from Dawson and the emptiness of her life.

      Her life was no longer about Chance. It couldn’t be about what she’d been through. Instead it was about what happened from this day forward.

      Jeremy Hightree didn’t understand that. He still saw the church as a connection to his troubled childhood.

      Maybe her mother’s words could change his heart. She put everything back in the box but she didn’t replace the lid. She wouldn’t do that. It was a silly thing but she couldn’t put the lid back on the box. Instead she carried it down the hall to her bedroom and placed the box on her dresser.

      She walked out the French doors of her room, onto the patio that was her own private sanctuary. She stood in the midst of her flowers and the wood framed outdoor furniture that blended with the surroundings.

      When she came home a short year and a half ago this had been her healing place. She’d planted flowers and she’d hidden back here, away from questions and prying eyes. In this garden no one questioned the jagged cut on her face or the arm that had needed to be reset.

      This morning she was escaping from other emotions. Her mother’s memory, Jeremy’s plans for the church, her own fears.

      She really needed to slow down. Everything was coming at her in fast forward. It was time to pray and plan her next move, before she rushed forward and did something she would regret.

      At last she had fallen to sleep. Jeremy stood at the door of his mother’s room and waited for her to move, to wake up and yell again. She’d done a lot of that since the previous evening when the hospital had transported her to the long-term facility a short distance from Grove, and only five minutes from Dawson.

      She’d done so much screaming this morning that the nursing home staff had called him to see if he could calm her down. Surprisingly she had calmed down immediately when she saw him.

      He sighed and turned to go.

      “Jeremy, how are you?”

      Wyatt Johnson walked down the hall. Jeremy shrugged one shoulder and turned his attention back to his mother’s room, to the bed, and to the thin figure covered with a white blanket.

      “Do you need anything?” The two had gone to school together. They’d ridden horses together and roped calves together. Wyatt’s horses and Wyatt’s calves. They’d been friends, even though Jeremy hadn’t been a part of Wyatt’s social circle. They’d traveled to rodeos together and fought their way out of a few corners together.

      “No, we don’t need anything. It looks as if she’ll be here for a while.” For the rest of her life. Her liver was damaged from years of alcohol abuse. Her brain wasn’t much better.

      There must have been a time when she’d been a good person. He really tried to remind himself of that; of the reality that she had fed him and cared for him.

      Or he liked to hope she had.

      When he thought of gentle touches, it sure wasn’t his mother he thought of.

      “I’m sorry.” Wyatt leaned his shoulder against the doorframe. “Guess there isn’t much more a person can say.”

      “Nope, not much, but thanks.” Jeremy turned from the room and headed down the hall, Wyatt Johnson at his side. Jeremy stopped at the nurse’s station. The woman behind the desk looked up, her glasses perched on the end of her nose. “I’m leaving.”

      “We’ll call if there are any problems.”

      “Right.” He stood there for a minute, wondering if there was something else he should say or do. The nurse continued to stare at him. She finally lowered her gaze to the papers she’d been reading.

      He guessed that was his cue to move on. So he did. Wyatt moved with him. When they got to the door Jeremy punched in the code and pushed the door open.

      “Wyatt, I don’t want to talk about the church. Not now.”

      “I hadn’t planned on bringing it up.”

      An alarm sounded. Wyatt reached past him and pulled the door closed. He pushed other buttons on the keypad.

      Jeremy stared at the closed door, at his truck in the parking lot and then shifted his attention back to Wyatt. He couldn’t