Her Cowboy Soldier. Cindi Myers

that kind of attachment to one spot.”

      “I didn’t think I did, until I went away. After this—” he held up the hook “—I decided Hartland was where I belonged.”

      She tilted her head. “Can I ask a question?”

      “Anything.” He could always refuse to answer, though he doubted this woman could ask anything he wouldn’t be happy to tell her. He believed in being up front with people. Losing his hand—and almost losing his life—had erased any patience he might have once had for dissembling.

      “Why a hook? Don’t they make pretty realistic-looking prosthetic hands?”

      “They make hands that look good, but a hook is more practical.” He opened and closed the pincer ends. He’d become adept at manipulating most items with this simple tool. “And a hook is a little more in your face.” His method of confronting his loss had been to embrace it head-on. He’d told himself denial was for cowards. “This is who I am now and I wanted it out there for everyone to see. If they don’t like it, that’s their problem.”

      “Do people have a problem with it?”

      “A few.” He thought of Rick, who’d told one of the city council members—who’d passed the news on to Josh—that it made the school look bad to have a “gimp” for a coach.

      Time to change the subject, though. Shift the focus away from him. “Do you like writing for the paper?” he asked.

      She looked pleased. “I like to write, and this gives me a chance to get a few credits to my name, and some experience. Though the subject matter isn’t always that exciting.”

      “I don’t know about that. I’ve seen some of your articles. You did a good job of making a city council discussion of sewer repairs interesting.”

      She laughed, a light, musical sound that transformed her expression into one of startling beauty. Her eyes held a new light and the muscles of her face relaxed and softened. A soft blush suffused her cheeks and her lips curved invitingly.

      He realized he’d been staring when she looked away. “I really have to go,” she said. “Thanks for your help.”

      “Anytime.” He wanted to say more—that talking with her had been the best conversation he’d had since coming home. That he liked the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed.

      But the words stuck in his throat. So he let her get into her car and drive away without saying any of these things. When she was gone, he looked up at the stars again. Those stars had saved him from losing it some nights on duty—the nights after he’d lost friends or seen children die, and the nights after days of endless tension and boredom. He’d imagined himself back here, in this little corner of Colorado he’d once wanted so badly to leave.

      War was a sure cure for wanderlust, he’d decided. If he never left Hartland again, that would be fine with him. For better or worse, he was home now.

      * * *

      AMY GRIPPED THE steering wheel and tried to get as tight a hold on her emotions. What had just happened? One moment she’d been standing, chatting with Josh as if they were old friends and then wham, she’d been aware of the two of them, alone in the darkness. The moment felt too intimate, as if at any second he might pull her close and kiss her.

      She shook her head, banishing the image. Since Brent’s death she hadn’t even thought of kissing anyone. For the past three years she’d paid attention only to what was in front of her, what had to be done—making a living and taking care of her daughter. But lately—since coming to Hartland—she’d begun to notice more...the smell of fresh strawberries from the greenhouse, the feel of a soft breeze on her bare arms, the curve of hard muscle in the forearms of a handsome man. And she’d begun to remember things, such as how good it might feel to have a man’s arms around her.

      But why now? And why Josh? Because he reminded her of Brent?

      He bore no physical resemblance to Brent; it was probably just the whole military thing—knowing he’d been where her husband had been and done things her husband had done. That he’d been injured and Brent had been injured, but Brent was the one who never came home.

      A fresh wave of pain swept over her—would it never go away? Resisting the grief, her mind returned to Josh. He’d been so relaxed and easygoing—so whole, despite his missing hand. Why should he, who didn’t have a wife and a child to come home to, be alive and well when Brent had been taken from her?

      She fed this spark of resentment, nurturing it into a tiny flame—anything to avoid dissolving into tears. By the time she pulled up to the town’s only coffee shop, Cookies and Cups, she felt more in control of her shaky emotions.

      As she approached the entrance, the door opened and the shop’s owner, Charla Reynolds, dressed in a colorful Mexican skirt and peasant blouse that showed off her ample curves, stepped out onto the front porch. “Amy!” She greeted her friend with a smile and a warm embrace. “I was just about to close up, but I’ve got time for one more cup if you can stay and visit.”

      “I hate to keep you, but I could really use it,” Amy said. The two women had met Amy’s second day in town and instantly clicked. Amy’s daily visits to the coffee shop had become long chat sessions in which the friendship had blossomed.

      “Thursdays are my late night anyway,” Charla said, as she made her way to the gleaming espresso machine behind the front counter. “I have a novel writers group that meets every Thursday and they always run over. But they’re a great bunch, so I don’t really mind. You should stop by next week, since you like to write and all.”

      Amy sat at the table closest to the front counter. “Maybe I’ll do that sometime. But next week is the school board meeting. I have to go for the paper.”

      Charla leaned back against the counter and regarded her friend. “All this excitement must be killing you,” she said. “First the town council, then the school board. Do you write obituaries, too?”

      “I would if Ed paid me for them.” Ed Burridge, editor, publisher and chief reporter for the Hartland Herald, had hired her to cover school board, town council and county commissioners meetings, as well as write the occasional feature. The pay was pitiful and the hours lousy; Amy loved it. She was being paid to write. It wasn’t Pulitzer-worthy copy, but it was a start.

      “What brings you out so late?” Charla asked. “More town politics?”

      “Not that. Our sports reporter has mono, so Ed asked me to cover the baseball game.”

      “So you got to talk to Smokin’ Scofield?” Charla’s grin was more of a smirk.

      Amy laughed. “Please tell me people don’t really call him that.”

      “The girls did in high school, or so I’m told. You have to admit, he’s easy on the eye. And single.”

      “I don’t care if he’s got three wives, except that would make a good story for the paper.”

      “Not even one ex-wife, though considering the dearth of eligible bachelors in this town, he’d have plenty of willing candidates if he showed any interest.”

      “And he doesn’t?”

      “Are you asking as a reporter, or as a single woman yourself?”

      Amy frowned. “I told you, I’m not interested in dating anyone—and especially not a veteran. Every time I look at him, I think of Brent.” She bit her bottom lip, feeling tears threaten once more.

      “Sorry.” Charla turned her attention to the espresso machine again, and began making Amy’s favorite mocha latte. She shot a generous dollop of chocolate syrup into a cup with a shot of espresso and added steamed milk. “You’ve never said much about Brent,” she said. “I’m not trying to pry or anything, but if you ever need to talk, you know I’m a good listener.”

      Amy let out a ragged breath.