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“No. I think it snuck out when I propped open the door to clear out the…never mind. I left you a note.”
“Where? On the refrigerator?”
“The mirror. I figured you wouldn’t miss it there.”
And did I want to analyze that? I stepped over to the mirror and read the message on the piece of paper stuck to it.
“I can’t find your cat.”
“Dex, Snap isn’t my cat.” I felt the need to clarify that. “She’s Bernice’s cat and Bernice is very attached to her. Did you try to call her?” Because that works so well for me.
“Cats don’t come when you call them.”
I closed my eyes and tried not to think about the busy Main Street just outside. So maybe it wasn’t like rush hour in the Twin Cities but there were a lot of pickup trucks with really big tires and Snap was an inside cat, used to being fed and pampered….
Something brushed against my leg. I shrieked and jumped three feet in the air. When I crash-landed back to earth, Snap was in the bathtub, checking out the gaping hole where my faucet had been.
“Never mind. I found her.” Relief poured through me. “She must have been hiding from you.”
Snap flicked her tail and meowed, reminding me that only one of my problems was solved. The other one was big enough for a raccoon to crawl through.
“I can’t use the tub, Dex.”
“I know. I’ll have it done tomorrow. Scout’s honor.”
You better or you won’t get your Plumbing badge. “Dex, are you sure you know, um, how to do this kind of stuff?”
“I’m trying to raise support for the mission field.”
Oh, sure. Play the missionary card!
“Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow. Please put the faucet first on your list….” I was talking to dead air. He’d hung up on me!
“You’d think he’d be a teensy bit more grateful, wouldn’t you, Snap?” I shed the skirt Mrs. Kirkwood had implied was too short and reached for the pair of jeans I’d slung over the hamper that morning.
One day down. Fifty-six more to go.
“My name is Heather and I’m a hairstylist.”
“That bad, huh?” Bree met me on the front steps of the Penny farmhouse and waved a cheeseburger under my nose to revive me. We plopped down on the porch swing and I didn’t take a breath until I’d worked my way through half of it.
“Someone could have warned me about Mrs. Kirkwood,” I finally mumbled.
“You wouldn’t have believed us.”
That was true. “She hinted I was after Alex’s money, questioned the amount of experience I’ve had and insisted she’d seen my shirt—the one I bought in Paris—on sale at Kmart last week.”
Bree chuckled. “Try having her for home economics two years in a row.”
“She’s a teacher? How’d you end up so normal?”
“If you call breaking out in cold sweat whenever I see a sewing machine normal.” She raised an eyebrow at me and we both burst out laughing.
It was amazing how close Bree and I had become. The day I’d met Bernice for the very first time, she’d introduced me to Bree. On our way to the Penny farm for dinner that evening, Bernice had condensed her ten-year history with Bree while I tried to form a picture of the girl who must have received the bulk of my birth mother’s attention. She loved horses. She was dating a boy named Riley Cabott. She was an only child.
Did you ever wish you knew me that well, I’d wanted to interrupt. But I didn’t. The resentment bubbling up at Bernice’s obvious love for Breanna Penny had surprised me into silence. The only thing that prevented it from flowing out and staining our conversation was when I remembered my Grandma Lowell’s words.
“This woman you’re meeting has a life, Heather. And so do you. God has given you both a new starting point…a place where your lives are going to intersect again. It’s up to you where you go from there. I would make it an opportunity for grace.”
That was one of Grandma’s favorite sayings. Make it an opportunity for grace. It wasn’t the first time I’d applied it, although I can’t say it was always easy. When Bree and I came face-to-face, I took a deep breath and searched her eyes—expecting to see them full of anger that I’d dare to show up and turn Bernice Strum’s world upside down. But all I could see in them was warmth. And welcome. That’s how accepting Bree was. She loved Bernice. She’d love me, too. It was as easy as that.
It’s strange how someone can enter your life and instantly become such a part of it you can’t imagine there was ever a time they weren’t there. Over the past year, Bree and I had kept in touch and she’d been just as excited as I was that we were both coming back to Prichett for the summer.
Bree rose to her feet and stretched like Snap after a long nap. “Are you ready for your recovery group?”
“I thought that was the cheeseburger.” There was more?
“That was only phase one.”
We tossed our plates in the dishwasher and Bree paused a moment, inspecting me with a critical eye. How could she find fault with my favorite pair of DKNY jeans and yellow high-top tennies?
She frowned. Apparently she had.
“You’ll have to wear my boots.” She dug into the hall closet and tossed her red cowboy boots at me. I’d worn them before as a fashion statement but suddenly I was beginning to get suspicious about what Bree Penny considered relaxing.
“Come on. I’ve got a surprise for you.”
And it was waiting in the barn.
I’d ridden before. Once. With Bree. Her horse, Buckshot, was an equine skyscraper, but riding him hadn’t seemed so scary when I was with someone who knew which end of a horse was which.
“Her name is Rose. Don’t ask me why, but the Cabotts like to name their horses after flowers.” Bree opened the stall and Rose stepped out quite daintily for something the size of a Neon. “Riley brought her over this afternoon. He said we can keep her here all summer for you to ride.”
Rose stretched out her neck and blew on my hand, parting the hair all the way up my arm.
“She likes you.” Bree grinned. “Here, take her out in the yard while I saddle up Buck.”
“We’re going riding now?” I think I needed more time to get used to the idea. Like two or three years.
“Sure. You’re going to love it. This is the best time of year to ride. Before the flies get too bad.” Bree gave Rose a gentle swat on the behind and she accompanied me agreeably to the door. She seemed harmless enough.
Until I was looking at how far away the ground was a few minutes later.
This can’t be any more complicated than riding a bike, I reasoned. Pull on the left rein, she goes left. Pull on the right rein, she goes right.
“Loosen your reins a bit. Sit back in the saddle. Drop your heels,” Bree instructed as soon as she saw me.
At the same time? So maybe it was a bit more difficult than riding a bike! I gave Rose’s neck a comforting pat in return for her patience.
“We’ll take the dirt road to the Cabotts’ place,” Bree said. “Riley wants to meet up with us there, if that’s okay.”
“Is Riley part of my recovery program or yours?” I teased.
“He’s a nice way to end the day.” Bree shrugged but she couldn’t quite hide her smile.
If I had to pick a word to describe Riley Cabott, it would have been steady. When it comes to guys, there are two kinds of steady—steady and boring or steady and intriguing. Riley was definitely in category two. He and Bree had come to the wedding together but I’d noticed he’d given her a lot of space. Bree was so independent I had a feeling she’d shake off any guy who made it hard for her to breathe. Riley must have known that, too, and that’s what put him in the steady and intriguing column. A guy who paid attention.
I tried not to envy the easy way they laughed together. I’d never had a serious boyfriend, but it’s not because I didn’t want one. I just want the right one. Occasionally I’d go to a movie or have lunch with one of the guys in my YAC group. YAC was an acronym for the Young Adult Class, which met for Bible study before the worship service on Sunday mornings.
I’d attended the same church all my life, so even though all the YAC guys were working full-time or were in college now, I still had a hard time moving past certain memories. Like all the years I’d been forced to listen to the obnoxious noises they loved to make. And the way they acted out Bible stories like David and Goliath by collapsing on the floor and letting red Kool-Aid dribble down their chins. Not exactly the kind of visuals conducive to a romantic date.
Maybe with the Lord’s help I could have gotten past all that, but there was something else. And that something was The List. When I was a freshman in high school, the girls in my Wednesday night Bible study went on a weekend retreat—one of those camping experiences that put a dozen teenage girls in a dorm with one bathroom. The weekends are designed to promote friendship and bonding but instead they become a battle over who gets to plug her blow-dryer into the one outlet first.
The guest speaker talked about issues like modesty and respecting yourself and we politely yawned our way through her Friday night message. Most of us at the retreat were raised in Christian homes and we’d heard so many variations of her speech over the years we could have written our own.
On Saturday morning, though, she handed out paper and pens, sat on the arm of the couch, which I’d never seen a guest speaker do, and told us to write down all the qualities we’d like to see in our future husband.
A guest speaker that was telling us to think about guys? This was something new. She didn’t say a word while we giggled over descriptions like great looking and drives a Porsche. When we finished our assignment, she told us to read through the list again and turn it into a prayer request.
A prayer request?
There was an uncomfortable silence. I looked at my list and immediately crossed off two things and added three more. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the girl sitting across from me crinkle hers up into a ball and start over. There were no more giggles as we tackled our lists again with the intense concentration we’d use to take our SATs.
The really strange thing was that none of us shared our revised list after that. I didn’t. I tucked it in my Bible in the Song of Songs, which was an appropriate place not only because it’s all about love and romance but also because I figured no one who accidentally grabbed my Bible to look something up would look up something there. I’d blushed my way through that particular book a few years ago and can understand why pastors don’t quote verses from it with the same enthusiasm they do from 1 Corinthians 13.
After that, I started silently comparing any guys I’d meet to The List. It got a little discouraging. It wasn’t like I was in a hurry to get married or anything, but couldn’t I meet someone who hit at least one or two out of my Top Five? Was my list unrealistic? Even though I’d changed the great looking (yes, that was me) to attractive, maybe my expectations were still too high. But I’d comforted friends who’d lowered their standards to warm and breathing just so they wouldn’t sit alone on the weekends. If God was presently molding a man to meet my specifications, all I had to do was wait patiently until He was finished. And obviously it was taking a while. But I was still convinced that waiting for Mr. Right was better than settling for Mr. Right Now.
“Still thinking about Mrs. Kirkwood?” Bree’s voice floated over her shoulder, muffled by the soft thud of Buck’s hooves against the road.
Rose had taken advantage of my momentary split with reality. When I snapped back to attention, she’d also taken a little side trip and was busy nibbling at the grass along the ditch.
“No, just decompressing after a horrible, no-good, very bad day.” I tugged on the reins and Rose ignored me. In fact, I’m pretty sure I heard her laugh.
Bree twisted around in the saddle and saw my dilemma. “Give her a little kick with your heels. She’s testing you.”
And she gets an A plus.
I obeyed and exhaled in relief when Rose trotted to catch up to Buckshot. I didn’t want Bree to think I wasn’t a natural at this, even though my tailbone was wearing away like erosion on a riverbank every time it connected with the saddle.
There was a low growl behind me and Bree whirled Buck around. “Uh-oh.”
I caught the look of concern on her face. “What’s wrong?”
“I hear a motorcycle. Buck loves them. He runs to the fence whenever a Harley goes by, but Rose—”
“What about Rose?” I squeaked. The noise was getting louder and it sounded like someone was riding a chain saw.
“She might not like…” Bree lunged for the loop of rein a mere second before Rose decided she could outrun the horse-eating motorcycle. She must have figured she was close enough to home to make a break for it. So she did.
I just happened to be along for the ride.
Chapter Five
Describe your day. Use words. (From the book Real Men Write in Journals)
Woe is me. (Dex)
Rose came in first, with Buckshot a close second, but Rose and I were the ones that rearranged the Cabotts’ landscaping on the way in.
Rose downshifted from a full gallop to a sudden stop and if I hadn’t been clutching the saddle horn, I would have somersaulted over her head. Instead I poured off the saddle like a bucketful of sand as the motorcycle roared past at warp speed.
Bree jumped off Buck and ran over. “Are you all right?”
My lungs weren’t working. They pushed out short, hot gusts of air but refused to let any back in. I could feel my eyes begin to bulge.
“What a jerk!” Bree spoke the very words that were going through my mind. “I can’t believe he didn’t slow down when he saw the horses.”
Riley ran up with Dex—Dex?—right behind him. My brain couldn’t quite process why he’d be at Riley’s.
“Is she okay?” Riley looked at Bree and I was touched by his concern.
“I’m fine,” I managed to wheeze.
“Poor baby,” Riley murmured, dropping to one knee to examine Rose’s feet.
Bree rolled her eyes and I realized I wasn’t the one he was concerned about. She’d told me how attached he was to his horses so I didn’t take it personally.
“Who was that?” she asked, frowning at the veil of dust still dancing in the air.
“Nobody from around here, that’s for sure.” Now Riley looked at me. “Are you okay, Heather?”
The adrenaline had subsided and I could inhale again. “Uh-huh.”
“Shaken not stirred,” Dex said under his breath.
I looked at him suspiciously, but he didn’t crack a smile.
“Rose never bolts,” Riley fretted. “I don’t think you need to worry—”
“I’m supposed to get back on again, right?” I interrupted.
Riley and Bree exchanged approving looks, but I saw Dex frown.
“That’s if you fall off,” he pointed out.
Details, details. If I subtracted the heart-stopping terror of being held prisoner on the back of a runaway horse and focused instead on the exhilaration I’d felt when I finally got her to stop (okay, technically it was Mrs. Cabott’s gazing ball that stopped her), all in all it had been kind of fun.
And it had helped me forget about the twins. And Mrs. Kirkwood. And The List.
Bree looked at Dex and then at Riley.
“Oh, sorry. Bree, this is Dex. Dad hired him to help with the barn chores once a week,” Riley said. “Dex, this is Bree Penny. She lives down the road. And this is—”
“We met this morning.” And I have the faucet-less bathtub to prove it. “You’re working for the Cabotts, too?”
“I’m picking up a few jobs here and there.” Dex shrugged. “Whatever comes along and pays a few bucks.”
“Too?” Bree looked at me and I could tell she was wondering why this tidbit of info hadn’t come up during our conversation over supper.
“Alex hired him to do some remodeling at the apartment this summer.” I buried a sigh. “Some carpentry, painting. Faucets.”
Dex didn’t respond except to lift one shoulder and use it to nudge his glasses back to the bridge of his nose where they belonged.
“You never mentioned him…I mean that,” Bree said. There was a funny sparkle in her eyes that warned me I was going to get the third degree later. How was I supposed to describe Ian Dexter? Narcoleptic handyman by day, sword-wielding treasure hunter by night?
“You can go riding with us if you want to, Dex,” Riley offered. “We’ll probably start a bonfire when we get back and roast some hot dogs.”
I saw the color drain from Dex’s face. “No, thanks. I have to get back.”
“I could put you on Iris,” Riley said, oblivious to the fear in Dex’s eyes. “My four-year-old cousin rides her all the time.”
Riley may have been sensitive to Bree, but obviously he needed a bit of fine-tuning when it came to dealing with other guys. Or maybe it was a test to find out where Dex’s nerves were on the wimp-o-meter.
Come on, Dex, I silently urged. Here’s your next line: Iris? What is she, a Shetland pony? Don’t you have something with a few more cylinders?
He ad-libbed instead. “That’s okay. I’ll catch up with you some other time.”
Riley might have pushed the issue but Bree must have felt sorry for Dex, too, because she came to his rescue with a simple but effective maneuver. She stepped in front of Riley, pulled her rain-straight blond hair off her neck and then let it sift through her fingers, completely short-circuiting Riley’s thought process.
“It’s warm tonight, isn’t it?”
Riley nodded mutely. Oh, the power of the right haircut!
“We better get going. Daylight is aburnin’, as Grandpa Will always said,” Bree sang. She slipped her boot in the stirrup on Buckshot’s saddle and he stood like a perfect gentleman as she swung her leg over his wide back.
I wasn’t an experienced rider like Bree, so my attempt to get back in the saddle wasn’t nearly as graceful as hers. To complicate things, Rose took a step to the side whenever I put my foot in the stirrup. I glanced over my shoulder to see if Dex would put his fears aside and help me out.
Nope, chivalry was truly dead. He was already halfway to his car—an ancient Impala the color of French dressing. I shuddered. Maybe he was color-blind.
Riley was the one who noticed I was having trouble and, like a knight in shining spurs, he held Rose still while I scrambled awkwardly into the saddle. I was a little nervous but instead of taking the road again, Riley led the way to the trails that meandered through a huge stand of maples on the back of the Cabott property. When I realized the trails were too narrow and bumpy to accommodate anything with an engine, I relaxed a little.
None of us said a word as the horses nodded their way through the woods. The setting sun filtered through the branches and formed intricate stencils on the ground under our feet. I closed my eyes and trusted Rose enough to go on autopilot for a few seconds while I soaked up my surroundings, lulled by the gentle creak of leather and the warm smell of horses and summer.
I talked to God a lot throughout the day and I tried really hard to listen, too, although it wasn’t as easy. I wondered if He ever got impatient with my rambling commentaries.
Thanks, God, for getting me through my first day at the salon. And thank You for bringing me to Prichett. You knew I’d need a quiet place this summer to hear Your voice, didn’t you? Well, I’m listening. Go ahead!
From the day Mrs. Holmes, my first grade Sunday school teacher, rewarded my perfect attendance with a Bible (a cardinal-red hardcover with gold-tipped pages) to my high school graduation, when I’d received a plaque engraved with the verse from Jeremiah that promises God has a hope and a future for us, I accepted that God had a plan for me. And if He could create the entire universe in six days, eight weeks would give Him plenty of time to yank out the file marked Heather Lowell and let me in on it.
“Heather.” I heard Riley’s polite cough. “You probably should ride with your eyes open.”
“Shh,” Bree scolded. “She’s praying.”
I wasn’t surprised she knew what I was doing. Bree is a believer, too. She brought God into our conversations as naturally as she did horses. Which meant she thought about Him a lot. I’d figured out that people tend to talk about the things they think about, which was another reason I was wary of the guys in YAC. Their conversations were dominated by compare and contrast. Comparing their scores on the newest version of a video game (pick one) and contrasting their cell phone plans. The only time God seemed to get worked in was during prayer time in small groups on Sunday mornings.
When we got back from our ride, Riley dragged out some rickety lawn chairs and started a bonfire large enough to bring a 747 in safely. Bree and I ended up round and drowsy from eating all the hot dogs and marshmallows he supplied us with. Finally, we saddled up the horses again and headed back to the Penny farm. By now it was past ten and the sun had slipped away, officially off duty.
“This is more peaceful than what you’re used to in the city, right?” Bree asked as we started out. Now that the two horses were better acquainted, they walked shoulder to shoulder on the road.
“Peaceful?” She had to be kidding. The crickets and the frogs were belting out a chorus in the ditch at a volume level that rivaled my alarm clock. “Okay, maybe it’s not sirens and honking horns but—”
“Not again.” Bree groaned.
I heard it, too. And it was coming this way. The motorcycle. I felt Rose’s shoulders bunch and I knew my nerves weren’t up for another lap around the track. I slid off her back, hoping that if both our feet were on the ground she wouldn’t be tempted to go AWOL again.
A headlight barreled toward us, but just as I braced myself to become a human windsock, the bike slowed way down and stopped a few yards away.
“Hey.” The muffled Darth Vadar voice beneath the helmet was definitely male. I saw a tall shadow unfold. Now I wish I had stayed on Rose. I’d still be five foot six but at least I would have felt bigger. And I was about to get up close and personal with the guy responsible for re-creating the Kentucky Derby a few hours ago.
“Hi.” Why aren’t there any streetlights around here?
God must have heard my pitiful question because suddenly the moon rolled out from behind a cloud and lit up the area like a spotlight. It gave me courage to know He was keeping a watchful eye on us.
“You almost scared the horses to death,” I said bravely, buying some time now so I could give the police a full description later. I started at the storm trooper helmet and memorized my way down the black leather jacket to the slashed blue jeans and heavy boots.
“Yeah. Sorry about that.” Just before he reached me, he yanked off the helmet, releasing a ponytail that swung against his shoulder. But he didn’t look threatening anymore. Maybe it’s because he looked…well, drop-dead gorgeous. I heard Bree suck in a breath.
He smiled at us and shrugged helplessly. “I think I’m lost.”
“Who are you looking for?”
He hesitated for a second. “A cow named Junebug?”
When Marissa Maribeau stumbled into the salon the next day, I almost performed a pirouette. Bernice had told me she’d been trying to coax Marissa into her chair for years but apparently she was a hairstylist’s ultimate challenge—a self-trimmer. She had thick, waist-length hair, but the ends reminded me of frayed wire and the humidity was definitely not her friend. She must have come right from her pottery studio because she was wearing baggy khaki pants and a white T-shirt smeared with dried clay.
It didn’t matter that she hadn’t made an appointment. Bernice had warned me about the customers she referred to as Wild Cards. The ones who impulsively decided to get their hair colored, cut or styled and they wanted it done now.
I snapped a fresh cape open and held it up. Marissa skidded to a stop in front of me. I shook the cape and she took a wary step backward.
“My four-thirty canceled, so you can be my last customer of the day.” I gave the chair a cheerful, game show hostess spin.