“How long have you known
exactly who I am?”

“As soon as I learned your name. Why wouldn’t I realize that you’re the CEO of Aldrich Supermarkets?”

Tyler sighed. With stores across the state of Oklahoma, had he really thought she wouldn’t know?

“I won’t tell anyone, if it’s that important to you,” Charlottte vowed softly.

He nodded. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.” Then a horrible thought occurred to him. “That’s why they were all so friendly to me today. The whole town must know!”

“Now, that’s just silly,” Charlotte told him. “Folks in Eden are naturally friendly. It has nothing to do with who your family is!”

“How do I know that?”

“Oh, Tyler, not everyone is after your money.”

He wanted to flee—except that he didn’t really have anyplace to go or anything to do. And he didn’t want to be alone.

For once, Tyler realized, he really wanted not to be alone.

MILLS & BOON

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ARLENE JAMES

says, “Camp meetings, mission work and the church where my parents and grandparents were prominent members permeate my Oklahoma childhood memories. It was a golden time, which sustains me yet. However, only as a young, widowed mother did I truly begin growing in my personal relationship with the Lord. Through adversity, He blessed me in countless ways, one of which is a second marriage so loving and romantic it still feels like courtship!”

The author of more than sixty novels, Arlene James now resides outside of Dallas, Texas, with her husband. Arlene says, “The rewards of motherhood have indeed been extraordinary for me. Yet I’ve looked forward to this new stage of my life.” Her need to write is greater than ever, a fact that frankly amazes her, as she’s been at it since the eighth grade!

His Small-Town Girl
Arlene James

Published by Steeple Hill Books™

Then the King will say to those on His right, Come, you who are blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world. For I was hungry, and you gave me something to eat; I was thirsty, and you gave me drink; I was a stranger, and you invited me in.

—Matthew 25:34-35

To Virginia, because friends are just chosen family,

because sisterhood in Christ runs deeper than

blood, because there’s always lots of living left to

be done and because it’s never too late to find love.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Questions for Discussion

Chapter One

The sweet, clean aroma of freshly harvested fields invaded the low-slung sports car as it flew along the narrow ribbon of road, its sun roof open to the autumn breeze. Tyler sucked in a deep breath, feeling the last of his tension drain away, as if a great weight had lifted from his chest. Finally.

When he’d walked out of the board meeting in Dallas, almost four hours ago now on this last day in a long and difficult week, his only thought had been to find some peace somewhere. For Tyler this meant shutting off his cell phone, climbing into his expensive cinnamon-red car and hitting the road for a good, long drive. Operating from sheer impulse, he’d headed north, avoiding the most well-traveled roads, and now he found himself in Oklahoma on Highway 81, a smooth, level two-lane stretch with little traffic for a Friday afternoon.

A blinking yellow light brought his attention to the dashboard. He depressed a button on the steering column and saw via a digital readout that at his current rate of speed he could drive exactly 8.9 miles with the fuel remaining in his gas tank. Time to pull over. A glance at the in-dash clock showed him that the hour had gone six already.

Glancing around in the dusky light of an autumn evening beginning to fade into night, he saw nothing but empty fields bisected with the occasional lazily drifting line of trees and railroad tracks running at twenty or thirty yards distant alongside the highway. Bowie, the last town he’d passed before crossing the Red River, lay many miles behind him to the south, many more than he could cover with the fuel remaining in the tank, anyway. There must be a local source of gasoline, however. People had to drive around here, didn’t they? Wherever here was.

Tapping the screen of his in-dash global positioning system, Tyler noted that the small community of Eden, Oklahoma, some 2.3 miles ahead, offered a gasoline station. Confident that he would find what he needed there, he sped off.

Moments later, a female voice announced, “Right turn ahead.” Seconds after that, the GPS intoned, “Right turn in two miles.” Less than a minute later that changed to, “After two hundred yards, turn right. Then turn left.”

Braking, he reached over and shut off the voice prompt. “Thank you, darlin’. I’ll take it from here.”

When he turned off the highway onto the broad, dusty street, given the appearance of the few buildings he passed, the whole place seemed deserted, and the quaint three-pump filling station that he pulled into some moments later proved no exception. The overhanging shadow of an immense tree all but obscured the faded sign that identified the station as Froggy’s Gas And Tire.

Engine throbbing throatily, Tyler eased the sleek auto close enough to the door to read the posted business hours, which were 6:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m., Monday through Saturday. Used to twenty-four-hour service, Tyler felt his jaw drop. Six to six? And closed on Sundays? Talk about turning back time.

Shaking his head, he tapped the GPS again and learned, to his chagrin, that the next nearest station could be found in Waurika, some 19 miles distant. A check on his fuel status showed a mere 6.1 miles left in his tank, thanks to his burst of speed back there, which meant…The implications hit him like a ton of bricks.

Stuck! He was stuck in the middle of nowhere. At least until six o’clock in the morning.

His intent had been to get away from the fighting, arguments and manipulation for a while, not to disappear for a whole night. He hadn’t brought so much as a toothbrush with him, let alone a change of clothing. Clearly, he had to do something.

Finding solutions had become his stock-in-trade. In fact, that very trait had prompted his father to choose him over his older sister and younger brother to head the family company, much to the angry disappointment of his siblings.

Tyler reached for his cell phone. As with most businessmen, the mobile phone constituted both a necessity and an irritant for Tyler Aldrich. In the ten months since he’d been named CEO of the Aldrich & Associates Grocery store chain, it had become more headache than help, giving his family unfettered access to his ear, into which they never missed an opportunity to pour complaints, arguments and increasingly shrill demands. No doubt by now they’d filled his mailbox with as many acrimonious messages as it would hold. Nevertheless, the phone was his ticket out of here. He’d simply call for assistance—or would have if he’d had service.

Tyler sat for several moments staring at the tiny screen in his hand, disbelief rounding his light blue eyes. He’d switch to a satellite phone the instant he got back to Texas!

Even as he wondered how the people around here got along without cell-phone service, the thought of satellites calmed him. The phone might not work, but the car’s satellite uplink obviously did or he’d have no GPS. Duh. He hit the button on the dashboard and put his head back, waiting for the connection to be made and an operator’s voice to offer help through a tiny speaker just above the driver’s door.

After Tyler identified himself and stated his problem, the customer service rep assured him that help would reach him in four to six hours. Dumbfounded, Tyler began to shake his head, wondering how he might pass the time.

He looked around him. A sheet-metal fence enclosed what appeared to be a scrap yard, flanked on one side by the filling station and on the other by a small, shingled house with a tall, concrete stoop. The house stood as dark and silent as the station. Otherwise, Tyler would have been tempted to knock on the door in hopes of rousting the station’s proprietor.

With no immediate options presenting themselves, he checked out the local accommodations via the GPS. He found just two listings, a café and the Heavenly Arms Motel.

He’d passed the motel on his way into town. Not at all up to his usual standards, it had appeared neat and clean, at least, but he could not quite resign himself to spending the night away from home when a tank of gas would have him on his doorstep before—he checked his watch—3:00 a.m. If he was lucky. Better check out that café and tank up on coffee.

A short drive around town revealed a liberal sprinkling of oil pumps across the landscape. One even occupied a bare patch of dirt next to the tiny city hall, a modern contrast to the three blocks of storefronts that seemed to comprise “downtown” Eden. Most looked as if they’d been built in the 1930s. And every one sat locked up tight as a drum, including the Garden of Eden café.

In fact, except for the old-fashioned streetlights and a few silently glowing windows of the modest homes lining the broad streets, Eden, Oklahoma, might have been a ghost town. That evoked an odd sense of loneliness in Tyler, as if everyone had a place to go except him. Well, he’d wanted peace and quiet; could be, he’d gotten more than he’d bargained for.

Easing the expensive sports car back out onto 81, he noted wryly a small sign that proclaimed, You’re In Eden, God’s Country And The Land Of Oil!

God apparently closed up shop at 6:00 p.m. sharp. Someone, thankfully, had forgotten to tell the local motel, though.

The low, lit sign that stood in a narrow patch of grass in front of the small motel glowed invitingly in the deepening gloom. The Heavenly Arms Motel, it read, Low Rates, Monthly, Weekly, Nightly. Family Owned And Operated.

Surely he could spend a few hours there. At the very least, he ought to find some information and possibly even assistance. All he needed were a few gallons of high-test, after all. Failing that, he could always get a room. He made a left just past the sign and pulled up beneath the overhang at the end of the main building, which looked more like a stylized ranch house than a motel lobby. A sign on the edge of the overhang proclaimed, Vacancy, which did not surprise him one bit.

Tyler killed the engine and got out of the car. The air held a crispness that he had not yet noticed in a Dallas October, which accounted for his lack of an overcoat. Bypassing a small side window to be used, according to the accompanying sign, after 10:00 p.m., Tyler followed a concrete ramp to the narrow porch that ran the length of the front of the building.

He opened the door marked Welcome and walked into a homey room complete with a polished wood floor, worn leather couches and, in the very center of the room, a six-sided game table surrounded by an equal number of chairs. A potbellied stove squatted in one corner. In another stood a chest-high, L-shaped counter with a pair of black painted doors behind it.

The far door bore a sign proclaiming it the office. The other door was marked Private. Through that door a young woman appeared mere seconds later, smiling as if greeting a lifelong friend.

“Hello. How are you?”

A pretty little thing with thick, light auburn hair that fell from a slight widow’s peak in a long braid down the center of her back, she stood no more than average height, the comfortable jeans and faded chambray shirt beneath her white bibbed apron somehow emphasizing her slight frame, just as the widow’s peak emphasized the shape of her face, a slender, slightly elongated heart.

Despite delicate features and a smattering of freckles across the nose, her finest assets were large, hazel eyes—a vivid amalgam of gold, silvery-blue and muted green—thickly fringed with platinum and framed by slender brows. She wore no cosmetics and no visible jewelry, but then she didn’t need to. Such beauty required no accessory beyond wholesomeness, and that she possessed in abundance.

Tyler might have brusquely stated his problem, could even have complained. Instead, he found himself returning her smile, a sense of delight eclipsing his irritation. Natural, well-used charm effortlessly oozed forth.

“Since you asked,” he replied lightly in answer to her question, “I’m stranded. Yourself?”

Her smiled widened, and his spirits unaccountably lifted.

“Never better, thank you.”

She untied the strings around her slender waist and lifted the apron off over her head before neatening the rolled cuffs of her long sleeves. Her thick braid swung over one shoulder, and her waist nipped in neatly where her shirt tucked into the band of her jeans. Tyler abruptly found himself thinking that he might as well spend the night.

For once he didn’t have a Friday-evening engagement. Maybe, he thought, he’d even forget tomorrow’s plans and stay the whole weekend. Why not? Might do his contentious family some good to wonder where he’d gotten to.

His mother didn’t need an audience in order to complain about his late father’s grasping second wife, anyway, and his sister and brother would just have to argue between themselves. He didn’t give a second thought to the luxury stadium box where he routinely hosted guests less interested in professional football than in being seen with the right people, none of whom would ever think to look for him here.

For the first time in memory, he could simply let down his guard and be. It almost seemed foreign, such relaxation. Yet he shoved aside the niggling thoughts of responsibility, albeit responsibilities he’d strived to earn and fought to keep. Sometimes, responsibility just seemed to weigh too much. He deserved a little break, and Eden, it suddenly seemed, really did exist.

At least for the moment.

Charlotte recognized money when she saw it, especially when it stood right in front of her. One got used to all sorts in this business, from the most hopeless and downtrodden of God’s children to the most flagrantly unlovable, and in her experience, those with the most money often fell into the latter category. They came in demanding more than they surely knew they could expect and often went away angry and dissatisfied, in spite of her best efforts to provide what they needed. That possibility was not what disturbed her about this particular gentleman, however.

For some reason, with barely a flick of his pale blue gaze, he made her nervous, self-conscious in ways she hadn’t felt in years. Tall and fit with stunning pale blue eyes and thick, dark hair that swept back from his square-jawed face in subdued waves, he differed significantly from their normal clientele.

For one thing, she’d rarely—okay, never—seen such a well-dressed, well-groomed gentleman. Oh, more than one well-heeled type had wandered in after finding themselves stranded, usually in the middle of the night, but something told her that even those folks operated in a social strata below this particular guest.

Other than that, though, she couldn’t really put her finger on what made him so different. She only knew that he undoubtedly was, which did not mean that she would treat him any differently than she treated anyone else. Just the opposite, in fact. Her Christian principles demanded nothing less.

She ratcheted her smile up another notch and asked, “How can I help you?”

He sighed, making a rueful sound. “Unless you’ve got a few spare gallons of gasoline around, I guess I’ll be needing a room for the night.”

No surprise there. She’d heard this story before. Obviously, he should’ve kept a closer eye on the gas gauge. Giving her head a shake, she jerked a thumb over one shoulder.

“Sorry. That old truck out back runs on diesel. The room I can manage, though, if you can do without a kitchenette.” She plunked down a registration form and pen, explaining, “Our regulars prefer them, so they’re almost always taken.”

“Regulars?” He sounded surprised, even skeptical.

“Most are oil-field workers who come to town periodically to service the local lines and pumps.”

“You’ve got plenty of those around,” he murmured, scribbling his information on the form.

“We sure do,” she replied, taking a key from the rack hidden beneath the counter. “You’re in—”

“Oil country,” he finished for her, glancing up with a smile. “Or is that God’s country?”

“Both,” she confirmed with a smile, “but I was going to say number eight. Back row, south end. That’s to your right. Your covered parking will be to the left of your door.”

“Covered parking,” he mused, clearly pleased by that.

“That’ll be forty dollars and sixty-six cents, including tax.”

Pulling his wallet from the inside pocket of his expertly tailored suit coat, he thumbed through the bills until he found a fifty-dollar bill. She unlocked her cash drawer and counted out his change while glancing over his registration form. When she got to the part concerning the make and model of his car, she understood why that covered parking had made such an impression.

Little garages, really, but without doors, the spaces were open only on one end. Her grandfather took inordinate pride in providing them for their guests, but none of them, Charlotte felt sure, had ever offered protection to anything remotely comparable to the car of—she peeked at his registration again—Tyler Aldrich. Well, no wonder. She casually shifted her gaze to the side window.

So that’s what a hundred-thousand bucks on wheels looked like. Smiling, she shoved a bunch of bills and coins at him, as if he needed nine dollars and thirty-four cents in change.

No doubt the rooms he usually rented cost ten times as much as what she had to offer. Then again, he happened to need what she had to offer.

Maybe he could afford a hundred-thousand-dollar car, but, as her grandfather Hap would say, he put his pants on just like everyone else; therefore, she would treat him like everyone else. She put out her hand.

“I’m Charlotte Jefford. Welcome to Eden, Mr. Aldrich.”

“Thanks.” Sliding his long, square palm against hers, he asked smoothly, “Is that Mrs. Jefford?”

Charlotte paused. Curiosity, she wondered, or flirtation? The next moment she realized that it couldn’t possibly be the latter, and even if it was, it simply didn’t matter. “Miss.”

He smiled and let go of her hand. “Miss Jefford, then, could you advise me where I might find a meal? One that someone else prepares, that is, since the kitchenette is out of the question.”

Charlotte laughed. “Easily. After dusk there’s just the Watermelon Patch, about a half mile north of town. Can’t miss it. Best fried catfish in the county.”

He made a face. “Any chance they serve anything that’s not fried?”

She considered a moment. “Beans and cole slaw.” This did not seem to excite him. “They do baked potatoes on Saturday nights.”

“That’s a big help,” he pointed out wryly, “since this is Friday.”

“The truck stop in Waurika doesn’t close until ten,” she offered guiltily, thinking of the meat loaf she’d just pulled from the oven. “You can get a salad there.” Provided he considered iceberg lettuce and a sprinkling of shredded carrots a salad.

“If I could get to Waurika, I wouldn’t need a room,” he pointed out with a sigh.

“Oh. Right.” She bit her lip, glanced again out the window at that sleek red fortune-on-wheels and knew that her hesitation did not become her. If he’d pulled up in a pickup truck or semi, she’d have made the invitation without a second thought, had done so, in fact, on several similar occasions. So what stopped her now?

Simple appearance, perhaps? Next to his excellently groomed self, she couldn’t help feeling a bit shabby in her well-worn jeans and old work shirt, not to mention the stained apron in which she’d greeted him, but that should not matter. Neither should what this smoothly handsome, well-dressed man would think about the simple apartment behind the unmarked door. The Bible taught that no difference should be made between the wealthy and the poor.

Putting on her smile, Charlotte mentally squared her shoulders and said, “You can eat here. It’s just meat loaf tonight, with grilled potatoes, broccoli and greens, but at least none of it’s fried.”

His relief palpable, he chuckled and spread his arms. “Lead me to it. I’m starving.”

Thankful that her brothers hadn’t shown up for the evening meal as they did several times a week, she waved him around the end of the counter and indicated the door through which she’d entered. The unexpected company would surprise her grandfather, but she knew that he would be nothing less than gracious. They’d shared their table with hotel guests before, after all, and no doubt would do so again, though they really didn’t get all that many strangers stopping in.

They had only twelve rooms, and most of their guests were locals who rented by the month or employees of one of the oil firms that paid handsomely to have rooms constantly available. Several of the truckers who routinely drove along this route stopped in on a weekly basis, usually on Tuesdays or Thursdays, but they didn’t get many travelers in this area who weren’t there to visit family. Strangers simply had no reason to come, which made her wonder again how Tyler Aldrich happened to be there.

Perhaps he was headed to Duncan and simply hadn’t realized how far it could be between gas stations, particularly at night. If Oklahoma City were his destination, surely he’d have used the interstate to the east, while a direct trip to Lawton would have taken him through Wichita Falls. All four cities, she knew for a fact, had Aldrich Grocery stores.

Or maybe he wasn’t connected to Aldrich Grocery at all.

What mattered was that he needed a little hospitality, and hospitality, as Granddad would say, was the Jefford family business. More than that, the Lord commanded it in one of Charlotte’s favorite passages from the twenty-fifth chapter of Matthew.

Feeding the hungry, giving drink to the thirsty and inviting in the stranger were tenets upon which her grandparents had built their lives as well as their business. She sincerely tried to follow the example set by those two godly people. She’d just never dreamed that would mean inviting a rich man to her humble table.

Chapter Two

Tyler slipped around the end of the counter, quickly falling in behind his unexpected hostess, unexpected in more ways than one. Charlotte Jefford surprised him, not only with her pure, wholesome beauty and wit but with her warmth. He had not intended to spend the night in this place, but since he must he might as well enjoy himself.

Expecting to enter a small coffee shop or café through that private door, he felt momentarily disoriented to find himself standing in what appeared to be a dining room. For one long, awkward moment, he could do nothing more than try to take in the place.

Despite the lack of windows, the light seemed softer, warmer somehow, so that the room came across as homey and intimate if somewhat shabby. An old-fashioned maple dining set with five chairs occupied the greater portion of the room. A sixth chair stood between an overflowing bookcase and the door through which they had just entered.

Three more doors opened off the far wall, all closed at the moment, but Tyler’s attention focused on the old man who sat at one end of the oval dining table. As he bent his head over a Bible on the flowered, quilted place mat, his thinning white hair showed a freckled scalp, leaving the impression that he had once been a redhead. He looked up when Charlotte spoke, his faded green eyes owlish beneath a thick pair of glasses, which he immediately removed.

“This is my grandfather.”

At the sight of Tyler, surprise flitted across the old man’s lean, craggy face, replaced at once by a welcoming smile. Rising in a slow, laborious motion, he put out his hand. Tall and lean but stooped and somewhat frail, he wore a plaid shirt beneath denim bib overalls.

“Hap Jefford,” he said in a gravelly voice. “How d’you do.”

Tyler leaned forward to shake hands, careful not to grip those gnarled fingers too tightly.

“Tyler Aldrich. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Looking helplessly to Charlotte, who moved past the table toward the kitchen beyond, Tyler tamped down his unease and forced a smile. “I’m, uh, afraid I misunderstood the situation. I thought you had some sort of little restaurant back here.”

“Goodness, no,” Hap Jefford said with mild amusement, lowering himself back down onto his seat. He waved toward the chair on his left, indicating that Tyler should also sit. “Eating places are real workhouses. Time was my Lydia thought putting in a restaurant the thing to do, back when we were young enough to hold up and it seemed our boy might join the business here.” Hap shook his head, adding, “Not to be. They’re both gone to the Lord now. Him first, God rest him.”

Tyler hardly knew what to say to that, so he pulled out the chair and sat, nodding sagely. After a moment, he went back to the problem at hand.

“I really don’t want to intrude. When your granddaughter said I could eat here, I naturally thought—”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Hap interrupted. “We got plenty. She always cooks so her brothers can eat if they’re of a mind. Evenings when one or the other don’t drop by, we have to eat the leftovers for lunch the next day.”

Tyler relaxed a bit. “Sounds as if you don’t much care for leftovers.”

Hap grinned, displaying a finely crafted set of dentures. “Now, I never said that. Charlotte’s a right fine cook. I just don’t mind a little unexpected change from time to time.”

Tyler laughed. “I can understand that.”

“How ’bout yourself?” Hap asked conversationally.

Not at all sure how to answer that, Tyler shifted uncomfortably. “Are you asking how I feel about leftovers or change?”

“Start with the leftovers.”

Tyler had to think about that. “I don’t think I’ve ever actually had leftovers as such.”

Hap seemed shocked, but then he shook his head, grinning. “Where’re you from, boy?”

“Dallas.”

“Now, I’d have thought they had leftovers in Dallas,” Hap quipped.

Charlotte entered just then with plates, flatware and paper napkins. Hap closed the Bible and set it aside.

“Won’t be long now,” she announced, placing a delicate flowered plate on the flowered mat in front of Hap. She placed another in front of Tyler.

“You really don’t have to feed me,” Tyler said uncomfortably as she set the third plate on the mat to Hap’s right.

“Don’t be silly.” She reached across the table to deal out case knives. “It’s ready. You’re hungry. Might as well eat.”

Tyler sensed that declining or offering to pay would insult both of the Jeffords, so he watched silently as she passed out forks and napkins, leaving a stack of the latter on the table.

“Iced tea or water?” she asked. “Tea’s sweet, by the way.”

“Water,” Hap answered. Glancing at Tyler, he added, “Don’t need no caffeine this time of evening.”

“Water,” Tyler agreed, hoping it was bottled.

“I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t forget the ketchup,” Hap called as she hurried away.

“As if,” came the airy reply.

“Her grandma thought ketchup was an insult to her cooking,” Hap confided to Tyler.

“It is when you put it on everything on your plate,” Charlotte chided gently, returning from the kitchen with glassware and a pitcher of iced water.

“Oh, I just put it on my taters and meat loaf,” Hap said with a good-natured wink at Tyler.

“And your eggs and your steak…” Charlotte retorted, placing the items on the table and moving away again “…red beans, fish, pork chops…” She stopped in the open doorway and turned to address Tyler. “He’ll put it on white bread and eat that if there’s nothing else on hand.”

“That reminds me,” Hap said with a wink at Tyler. “Don’t forget the bread.”

Charlotte gave him a speaking look and disappeared, returning moments later with a half-empty bottle of ketchup and a loaf of sliced bread in a plastic sleeve. She placed both on the table and went away without a word, but the twinkle in her eye bespoke indulgence and amusement.

“Thank you kindly, sugar,” Hap called at her receding back. Smiling broadly, he proceeded to open the plastic and take out a slice of bread, squeeze ketchup onto the slice and fold it over before biting off half of it.

Tyler would have winced if his attention hadn’t been snagged by something else. The bread wrapper bore the Rich Foods label, the private label of the Aldrich Grocery chain. Aldrich & Associates Grocery had several stores in Oklahoma, of course, and distributed some foodstuffs to independents, but seeing that label there distressed him. It took only a moment to realize why.

He didn’t want the Jeffords to connect him with the Aldrich family who owned the grocery chain. He didn’t see why they should, really. They might not even know that the Rich Foods brand belonged to the Aldrich Grocery chain, but it seemed very important suddenly that they not make the connection.

All his life, he’d had to worry whether he was liked for himself or his family position. Just once he wanted to know that someone could be nice to him without first calculating what it might be worth. He couldn’t even remember the last time anyone had invited him, on the spur of the moment, to share a simple meal for which he was not even expected to pay.

Stunned by the abrupt longing, Tyler spread his hands on his thighs and smiled with false serenity as Hap licked ketchup off his fingers, his expression one of sublime enjoyment. When was the last time, Tyler wondered, that he had enjoyed something that much, especially something so basic?

Charlotte came in again, wearing heavy mitts this time and carrying a casserole dish. When she lifted the lid on that casserole, a meaty aroma filled the room, making Tyler’s mouth water and his stomach rumble demandingly. Given a choice in the matter, he never ate meat loaf. Ground beef, in his estimation, rarely constituted healthy eating. But what choice did he have?

She brought the rest of the meal in two trips: crisp round slices of browned potato with the red skins still on, steaming broccoli and a dish of dark greens dotted with onion and bits of bacon. Simple fare, indeed, but Tyler could not remember ever being quite so hungry. Intent on the food, he startled when Hap spoke.

“Heavenly Father…”

Tyler looked up to see Charlotte and Hap with hands linked and heads bowed in prayer. Stunned, he could only sit and stare in uneasy silence.

“We thank You for Your generosity and for our guest. Bless the hands that prepared this meal and the food to the nourishment of our bodies, that we might be strengthened to perform Your will. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”

“Amen,” Charlotte echoed, lifting her head.

Tyler gulped when her gaze collided with his. Belatedly, he realized that she had reached out to offer him a small spatula. When it finally dawned on him that she expected him to serve himself, he shook his head.

“Oh, uh, ladies first.”

Smiling, she began to cut the meatloaf into wedges. Not one to stand on ceremony, Hap dug into the potatoes and plunked the platter down in front of Tyler, reaching for the ketchup. After a moment hunger trumped discomfort, and Tyler began to gingerly fill his plate.

Everything looked, smelled and, to his surprise, tasted delicious. The greens took a little getting used to, but the broccoli and seasoned potatoes were wonderful, and that was saying something, given that he employed an expensive chef and routinely dined in the finest restaurants to be found. The meat loaf, however, came as the biggest surprise.

Melt-in-the-mouth tender with a beguiling blend of flavors, it whet his appetite to a greedy fever pitch. He ate with unaccustomed gusto, and only with gritted teeth did he find enough discipline to forgo a third helping. Hap apparently possessed no such compunction, but as he reached for that third wedge, Charlotte spoke up.

“Pity no one’s found a way to take the cholesterol out of beef. You can cook as lean as possible, but there’s still that.”

Hap subsided with a sigh. Looking to Tyler he commented wryly, “I keep telling her that no one lives forever in this world, but it seems she’s in no hurry to see me off to the next.” Charlotte made no comment to that, just smiled sweetly. “My first mistake,” Hap went on, “was letting her take me to the doctor.”

“Mmm. Guess you could’ve hitchhiked,” she commented calmly.

Tyler found himself chuckling as Hap latched onto that gentle riposte with clownish fervor, drawing himself up straight in his chair. “You don’t think some sweet young thing would come along and take me up, then?”

Charlotte looked at Tyler and blandly said, “If she happened to be driving an ambulance.”

Laughter spilled out of the two men, unrestrained and joyous. Tyler laughed, in fact, until tears clouded his eyes. Whatever clever rejoinder Hap might have made derailed when the door to the lobby opened and two more elderly men strolled in.

“Y’all are having fun without us,” one of them accused good-naturedly.

Hap introduced them as Grover Waller and Justus Inman. A third man identified as Teddy Booker called from the outer room, “I’m stoking this here stove. These dominoes are cold as ice!”

Hap got to his feet, eagerness lending speed if not agility to his movements. “You play dominoes, Tyler?”

“No, sir, I’m afraid not.”

“You all go on,” Charlotte said, “and don’t stay up too late. I’ll heat up some cider after a while.”

“We’ll be having some popcorn, too,” Hap decided.

“I was hoping for carrot cake,” Grover Waller said at just a notch above a whine.

“Now, Pastor,” Charlotte told him, “you know you have to watch your sugar.”

A belly as round as a beach ball, thin, steel-gray hair sticking out above his ears in tufts and brown eyes twinkling behind wire-rimmed glasses gave the preacher a jovial appearance that belied the mournful tone of his voice as he complained, “You’ve been talking to my wife.”

“And she says you’ve got to lose twenty pounds or go back on meds,” Charlotte confirmed.

He thinned his somewhat fleshy lips and hitched up the waist of his nondescript gray slacks before turning away with a sigh.

“Oh, the burden of a caring wife,” Hap intoned, following the two men from the room.

“Seems to me you used to call it meddling,” someone said.

“We all do until they’re gone,” another gravelly voice put in before the door closed behind them.

Charlotte shook her head, smiling. “They’re all widowers except for the pastor,” she explained. Tyler didn’t know what to say to that, so he simply nodded. “They live to play dominoes, those four, and really, what else have they got to do? Well, three of them, anyway. Pastor Waller’s nearly twenty years younger than the others, and he’s got the church.”

“I see.”

After an awkward moment of silence, she rose and began to clear the table, saying, “Just let me put these in the kitchen and I’ll point you to your room.”

The idea of going off alone to a cold, less than sumptuous room did not appeal to Tyler. Rising, he heard himself say, “Can’t I help you clean up?”

He didn’t know which of them seemed more surprised. After a moment, Charlotte looked down at the soiled dishes in her arms.

“It’s the least I can do after such a fine meal,” Tyler pressed, realizing that he hadn’t even complimented the cook.

“I suppose your wife expects you to help out at home,” she began, shaking her head, “but it’s not necessary here.”

“No,” he denied automatically. “That is, no wife.”

“Ah.” Charlotte ducked her head shyly. “Well, if it’ll make you feel better to help out…”

“Oh, it will,” he said, lifting a dish in each hand and following her toward the kitchen. “I never expected a home-cooked meal, especially not such a healthy one.” She looked back over her shoulder at that, just before disappearing into the other room. “And tasty,” he added quickly, raising his voice. “Very tasty. Delicious, even.”

Hearing her wry “Thanks,” he stepped into a narrow room with doors at either end.

Countertops of industrial-grade metal contrasted sharply with light green walls and cabinets constructed of pale, golden wood. The white cooking range in the corner by what must have been the outside door looked as if it came straight from the 1950s, while the olive-green refrigerator at the opposite end of the room appeared slightly newer. Tyler noted with some relief that a modern thermostat for a central air-conditioning system had been mounted above the light switch on one wall. He hoped the rooms were similarly equipped.

What he did not see was a dishwasher. It came as no surprise, then, when Charlotte set down the dishes and started running hot water into the sink below the only window he had yet seen in the small apartment. Covered with frilly, translucent curtains in yellow trimmed with green, that window looked out over a small patio lit by a single outdoor light. Leaves swirled across the patterned brick, snagging on the thin legs of wrought-iron furniture in need of a new coat of green paint.

“You can put those down there,” Charlotte said, indicating the counter with a tilt of her head.

Hurrying to do as instructed, Tyler looked up to find her tying that white apron around her impossibly narrow waist again. Quickly switching his gaze, he watched suds foam up beneath the running water as she squeezed in detergent.

“Better take your coat off,” she advised.

He did that, then looked around for someplace to hang it before walking back into the other room to drape it over a chair. It only seemed sensible to pick up the remaining dishes before heading back to the kitchen.

Returning, he found that Charlotte had already made order out of chaos, stacking the dirty dishes as they were evidently to be washed. Glassware came first, followed by plates, flatware, serving dishes, utensils and finally pans. The leftover food had disappeared into the refrigerator, from which she turned as he entered the narrow room.

“I’ll take those,” she said, coming forward.

He surrendered the two plates and platter, then watched her scrape food scraps into a bucket beneath the sink, which she then sealed with a tightly fitting lid before stacking the dishes with the others. Turning, she placed her back to the counter, her gaze falling to the neatly cuffed sleeves of his stark-white shirt. Her mouth gave a little quirk at one corner as she reached for a pair of yellow vinyl gloves and pulled them on.

Wordlessly, she turned to the sink now billowing with suds, and reached for a plate on the stack to her right. While she washed and rinsed, Tyler wandered haplessly across the room, taking in a calendar from a local propane company on the side of the refrigerator and a clock shaped like a rooster over the stove. When he turned he saw a cookie jar in the form of an owl on the opposite counter next to a small microwave and a glass-domed container covering three layers of a dark, rich, grainy cake iced with frothy white. Several pieces had already been cut from it.

“Is that carrot cake?” he asked.

She sent him an amused glance. “Of course. Want a piece?”

A hand strayed to his flat middle, but thinking of the extra time on the treadmill required to work that off, he said, “Better not.”

She hitched a shoulder, handing him a wet plate with one hand and a striped towel with the other. Tyler had hold of them before he knew what was happening, but then he just stood there, confused and out of place.

Plunging her hands back into the soapy water, she asked smoothly, “Are you going to dry that or just let it drip all over those expensive shoes?”

He looked down, saw the dark droplets shining on black Italian leather and quickly put the towel to good use.

“That dish goes in the cabinet behind you,” she told him, a hint of amusement in her tone. “Door on the far right.”

Stepping across the room, he opened the cabinet, found an empty vertical space separated by dowels and slid the dish into it, noting that two sets of dishes were stored there, cheap dark brown stoneware, chipped in places, and the poor-quality flowered china from which he had eaten.

He realized at once that she had served him from her good plates. Both embarrassed and gratified, he left the door open and went back for more plates. A short stack of clean, wet dishes stood on the metal countertop beside the sink.

“Looks like I’m behind,” he admitted unashamedly. “But then, I’ve never done this before.”

She smiled and added another dish to the pile. “I know.”

Laughing, he got to work, making small talk as he dried and shelved the dishes. “How does a woman such as yourself come to be working in a motel?”

Looking out the window, she replied matter-of-factly, “Her parents die and she winds up living with her grandparents, who just happen to own and operate that motel.”

“My condolences,” he offered softly.

“It happened a long time ago,” she replied evenly, glancing at him. “I was fourteen.”

“Eons ago, obviously,” he teased, hoping to lighten the mood. She ducked her head.

“Thirteen years.”

That would make her twenty-seven, he calculated, a good age. He remembered it well. Had it only been eight years ago? At the time it had seemed that thirty would never come and his father would live forever. Yet, Comstock Aldrich had died of pancreatic cancer only nine months ago, leaving Tyler to fill his gargantuan shoes at Aldrich & Associates. After only ten months in the job, Tyler felt old and burdened, while Charlotte Jefford seemed refreshingly young and…serene.

He blinked at that, realizing just how much that calm serenity appealed to him. It fairly radiated from her pores.

“What about you?” she asked.

He studiously did not look at her. “Oh, I’m thirty-five, an executive, nothing you’d find interesting, I’m sure. You mentioned brothers. Older or younger?”

A slight pause made him wonder if she knew that he’d purposefully been less than forthcoming. “Older. Holt’s thirty-six, and Ryan’s thirty-four. Holt was working in the city when our folks passed, and Ryan was in college, so naturally I came here.”

“The city?”

“Oklahoma City.”

“Ah. And these brothers of yours, what do they do?”

“Well, Holt is a driller, like our daddy was. The price of oil these days keeps him pretty busy. He’s got a little ranch east of town, too. I can’t help worrying some, because that’s how Daddy died.” She looked down at her busy hands, adding softly, “He fell from a derrick.” An instant later, she seemed to throw off the melancholy memory. “But everything’s more modern now, safer, or so Holt says.”

“I see.”

“Ryan,” she went on, warming to her subject, “he’s the assistant principal at the high school. He teaches history, too, and coaches just about every sport they offer. Football, baseball, basketball, volleyball, even track.” She gave Tyler a look, saying, “In a small town, you have to do it all.”

“Sounds like it.”

“Do you have brothers and sisters?” she asked.

“One of each. She’s older. He’s younger.” And they hate my guts, Tyler thought, surprised by a stab of regret.

“Children?”

He shook his head. “Never married.”

“Oh. Me, neither.” She shrugged. “You know how it is in a small town, slim pickings.”

He actually didn’t know, and he didn’t care to know. What he did care about surprised him. Put plainly, he wanted her to like him. He wanted her to like him for himself, not for social status or wealth or any of the other reasons for which everyone else liked him, because he could give them things, because his last name happened to be Aldrich.

For the first time in his life, it mattered what someone thought of him, someone who didn’t know the Aldrich family, someone without the least claim to influence or wealth, someone willing to invite him, a stranger, to dinner. Someone who would take him at face value.

It mattered, even if he couldn’t figure out why.

Charlotte saw her guest to the kitchen door, which opened on the same side of the building as the drive-through, and pointed across the way to his room. After thanking her profusely for the meal, he walked toward his car. Looking in that direction through the screen, she recognized her brother Holt’s late-model, double-cab pickup truck as it turned into the motel lot. The truck swung to the left and stopped nose-in at the end of the building next to the pastor’s sedan.

“You’re late,” she called as he stepped down from the cab, his gaze aimed at the man now dropping down behind the driver’s wheel of that expensive sports car. Still wearing his work clothes, greasy denim jeans and jacket over a simple gray undershirt, Holt had at least traded his grimy steel-toed boots for his round-toed, everyday cowboy pair.

Tall and lean, Holt took a great deal after their grandfather in appearance, though with different coloring. A lock of his thick, somewhat shaggy, sandy-brown hair fell over one vibrant green eye, and he impatiently shoved it back with a large, calloused, capable hand as bronzed by the sun as his face was. His long legs and big, booted feet ate up the ground as he strode toward her.

“Who’s that?” he asked, pulling wide the screen door and following her into the kitchen.

“Name’s Tyler Aldrich,” she answered. “I’m pretty sure he’s one of the Aldrich grocery store family.”

Holt lifted an eyebrow. “What gives you that idea?”

“Just a hunch.”

She liked to shop at an Aldrich store and had often driven as far as fifty miles to do so. More than once she’d seen the large photograph of an older man identified as Comstock Aldrich affixed to a wall over the motto, From Our Family To Yours. She couldn’t remember enough about that man’s face to say whether or not Tyler resembled him in any way, but she’d seen the way Tyler had reacted when she’d plopped that loaf of bread on the table.

Normally, with a guest in attendance, she made hot bread or at least served the sliced variety stacked on a pretty saucer. Tonight she’d left that bread in its wrapper just to see what he would do. He’d stared as if he’d thought the thing might pop up, point a floury finger and identify him.

“Supposing he is who you think he is, what’s he doing here?” Holt asked, going to the refrigerator to take out the plate of leftovers she’d stowed there earlier. “You reckon he’s going to open a store hereabouts? That’d be cool.”

Charlotte frowned. She hadn’t thought of that possibility. After all, he’d said he was stranded, and she had no reason to doubt him. Except that just then he drove by in that flashy car of his. Apparently he had some gas. She turned to look at her brother, who carried the food to the microwave and set the timer.

“An Aldrich store might be very welcome,” she said, “unless you’re Stu Booker.”

Stu had taken over the local grocery from his father, Teddy, who sat at the domino table in the front room with Hap at that very moment.

Holt turned to lean against the counter. “I see what you mean. Another grocery would put Booker’s out of business.” The microwave dinged, and Holt reached inside to remove the plate, asking, “Still got that carrot cake, I see.”

“Yes,” Charlotte muttered, “but you’ll have to eat it in here. Grover’s playing dominoes tonight.”

Nodding, Holt took a fork from the drawer and strolled into the other room and toward the lobby, his big boots clumping on the bare floor. “I’ll be back, then. Thanks, sis.”

“Welcome,” she answered automatically, her mind on other matters.

Should Aldrich Grocery put in a store here, the Bookers would undoubtedly suffer. It was, she decided, a matter for prayer. And perhaps a bit of subtle investigation.

Chapter Three

Charlotte glanced at her watch, more than a little miffed.

On weekdays, she started cleaning the rooms as soon as the oil-field workers left in the mornings and by this time usually could be sitting down to lunch with her grandfather. On Saturdays, she got a later start because the workmen liked to sleep in a bit before heading home to their families. Lunch, therefore, came later on Saturdays, but not normally this late.

It was already past twelve, and she still had one room left to do before she could begin preparing the midday meal, thanks to Tyler Aldrich. On a few occasions she’d had to put off the cleaning until the afternoon, but that pushed her workday well into the night as she had a weekly chore scheduled for each afternoon.

Saturday afternoons were reserved for washing and re-hanging drapes. If she didn’t do at least three sets of drapes each week, she’d either be a week behind or have to do it on Monday, the day she shampooed carpets. Tuesday afternoons were dedicated to outside windows, Wednesdays to replacing shower curtains, Thursdays to cleaning oil stains off the pavement and policing the grounds. Fridays she cleaned the lobby top to bottom and did the shopping.

In this fashion, she not only cleaned every occupied room each day, she completely freshened every room once a month, while maintaining the lobby and grounds on a weekly basis and keeping their storeroom stocked. Hap did his part by handling the registration desk and banking, balancing the books, ordering supplies and helping out with the daily laundry.

She did not appreciate having her carefully balanced schedule upset. Obviously, the man had no idea what it took to keep an operation like this running smoothly. Then again, few folks did. Deciding that she was being unfair, she left the service cart on the walkway in front of number eight and rapped her knuckles on the door. She began slowly counting to ten, intending to walk away if he hadn’t answered by then. She’d reached seven before the door wrenched open.

Tyler Aldrich stood there in his bare feet, rumpled slacks and a half-buttoned shirt, looking harried and irritated, his dark hair ruffled. A day’s growth of chocolate beard shadowed his face. If she’d had to guess, she’d have said he hadn’t slept very well.

He wrinkled his face at the glare of the sun and demanded, “What is that noise?”

“Noise?” She glanced around in puzzlement.

He put a hand to his head. “Ka-shunk, ka-shunk. All night long.”

“Oh, that noise. There’s a pump jack out back.”

He sighed. “Of course. Oil pumps. Should’ve figured that one.”

“I’m so used to the sound, I don’t even notice it anymore,” she admitted, “but we don’t get many complaints about it.” They hadn’t actually had any complaints about it until now.

“I don’t suppose it would bother me if it wasn’t so quiet around here,” he grumbled.

Well, which is it, she wondered, saying nothing, too quiet or too noisy?

He put a hand to the back of his neck. “Didn’t think I’d ever get to sleep, especially after those two fellows showed up about midnight.”

“What two fellows?”

He waved a hand at that. “Roadside service sent them. I called before I stopped in here. Then after I decided to stay, I forgot to call back and tell them not to bother bringing me gas.”

“They came at that time of night just to bring you gas?” she asked in disbelief.

“A few gallons,” he muttered. “I still have to fill up.”

She shook her head. The rich really did live differently than everyone else. “I hate to be an inconvenience, but I need to clean this room before I feed Granddad.”

Nodding, he hid a yawn behind one hand. “Yeah, okay, just give me a few minutes to get out of your way.”

“I’ll be right here when you’re ready,” she told him politely, linking her hands behind her back. No way was she going away again. Experience had taught her that a guest would just head straight back to bed and she’d have this exercise to repeat.

Tyler gave her a lopsided grin. “Swell. Uh, listen, can I get breakfast at that café downtown?”

“Sure,” she answered, and then for some reason she couldn’t begin to fathom she went on. “But if you’re willing to settle for lunch, you can eat with us again.”

He stopped rubbing his eyes long enough to stare at her, his brow beetled. “Lunch?”

Wondering why she’d issued the invitation, she hastily backtracked as far as good manners would allow. “Just sandwiches, I’m afraid. I don’t have time for anything else.”

“What time is it, anyway?”

She didn’t even have to look. “About ten minutes past noon.”

Tyler goggled his eyes. “Noon? You’re sure?” She held up her wrist, just in case he wanted to check for himself. His sky-blue eyes closed as he turned away. “I must’ve slept a lot better than I thought.”

“You mean you’re not used to sleeping till noon?” She clapped a hand over her mouth, shocked at herself. She never made unwarranted assumptions about people. Well, hardly ever. Fortunately he had not noticed.

“Not anymore,” he muttered enigmatically, looking for something. Finding it, he hurried over to snatch his foot-wear from the floor beside the low dresser that held the television set. Plopping down in the chair that pulled out from the small desk in front of the window, he began yanking on his socks. “Sorry about this. I’ll get out now and let you clean.”

“No problem.”

“Say, is there someplace I can buy a toothbrush and shaving gear?” he asked, rising to stomp into his shoes.

She hesitated a moment before telling him, but really, what harm could it do? “Booker’s will have everything you need. Just go out here and turn right.” She pointed behind her. “They’re a block east of downtown.”

Nodding, he stuffed in his shirttail and reached for his suit jacket. “Thanks.”

He started toward her, then stopped and went back to snatch his wallet and keys from the bedside table attached to the wall. With a glance in her direction, he picked up the room key and pocketed that, too.

Did he intend to stay another night? That didn’t seem like the behavior of a man who just happened to have gotten stranded by an empty gas tank. On the other hand, he’d obviously been unprepared to stay. Maybe he just needed someplace to clean up before he headed out of town. Knowing that she should give him the benefit of the doubt, she backed up as he came through the door.

He went to his car while she maneuvered the service cart into the room. A moment after that, the low-slung car rumbled to life.

She whispered a prayer as she stripped the sheets from the bed. “He’s not a bad sort, Lord, but the Bookers have been here a long time, generations, and I know You look after Your own.”

For the first time, she wondered if Tyler Aldrich, too, could be a believer. A shiver of…something…went through her, something too foolish to even ponder.

“Well, hello, there! Abe Houton.”

For at least the fourth time in the space of the past ten minutes, Tyler put down what could well be the best, not to mention the cheapest, cup of coffee he’d ever tasted in order to shake the hand of a stranger. Dallas owned a reputation as a friendly city, Tyler mused, but tiny Eden, Oklahoma, put it to ridiculous shame.

He cleared his throat, managed a brief smile and returned the greeting. “Tyler Aldrich.”

Built like a fireplug, short and squat, Abe Houton sported a fine handlebar mustache that would have made Wyatt Earp as proud as the tall brown beaver cowboy hat poised on Houton’s bald head.

“Good to meet you, Tyler. Welcome to Eden. Haven’t seen you around here before. What brings you to town?”

Tyler would have wondered if the shield pinned to Abe Houton’s white, Western-style shirt had more to do with the question than simple friendliness but for the fact that he’d been asked the same thing repeatedly since he’d come into the Garden of Eden café. And he hadn’t even had his buckwheat flapjacks yet.

When he’d sat down at this small, square table in the window, he’d intended to fill his time with people-watching while he dined on an egg-white omelet or a nice bagel with fat-free cream cheese and fruit. Unfortunately he’d become the center of attention for everyone who passed by and the healthiest breakfast he could come up with from the menu was whole-grain flapjacks. The forty-something waitress with the hairnet had openly gaped when he’d asked her to hold the butter and inquired about organic maple syrup.

Tyler looked the local policeman in the eye and repeated words he’d already said so many times that they were ringing in his ears. “Just passing through.”

“Aw, that’s too bad,” the diminutive lawman remarked, sounding as if he meant it. “This here is a right fine town.”

Tyler sat back against the speckled, off-white vinyl that padded the black, steel-framed chairs clustered around the red-topped tables. A floor of black-painted concrete and, oddly enough, knotty pine walls provided the backdrop. What really caught the eye, though, was the old-fashioned soda fountain behind the counter.

“I hope you don’t mind if I ask what’s so special about this town,” Tyler said, truly curious.

Houton rocked back on the substantial heels of his sharp-toed brown cowboy boots, one stubby hand adjusting the small holster on his belt. The pistol snapped inside looked like a toy. Then again, Houton himself resembled a stuffed doll. Tyler had to wonder just how lethal either might be.

“Why, this is Eden, son,” the little man declared, as if that answered everything. Then, with unabashed enthusiasm he added, “You should see our park.”

“You mean the park at the end of the street?”

“So you have seen it! Bet you didn’t notice the footbridge. My daddy helped build that footbridge out of old train rails. Prettiest little footbridge you’ll ever see. Really, you should stop by and take a look.”

Tyler didn’t know whether to laugh or run out and take a look at this local wonder. Fortunately, the waitress arrived just then with his flapjacks, along with a dish of mixed berries, a jug of something that passed for syrup and a refill of aromatic coffee. Houton excused himself with a doff of his hat to straddle a stool at the counter, his feet barely reaching the floor.

Lifting the top edge of a suspiciously tall stack, Tyler saw that succulent slices of ham had been sandwiched between the airy brown flapjacks. A sane, sensible, health-conscious man would remove the meat. A hungry man would just dive in. A self-indulgent one would pour on the so-called syrup and enjoy. Tyler reached for the jug, thinking that he had nothing better to do all day than work off a few extra calories.

An unexpected sense of freedom filled him as he watched the thick, golden-brown liquid flow down. Maybe, he thought, surprising himself, he’d even check out the park.

Nearly half an hour later, Tyler made his way out of the small café, nodding over his shoulder at those who called farewells in his wake. Stuffed to the gills and ridiculously happy about it, he decided that he might as well walk off some of what he’d just consumed and left the car sitting in the slanted space across the street where he’d parked it in front of a resale shop. Hands in his pockets, he strolled along the broad, street-level sidewalk, nodding at those who nodded at him in greeting, which was everyone he encountered. Even old ladies driving—or, more accurately, creeping—down the street in their pristine ten-or twenty-year-old cars waved at him. Tyler nodded back and kept an eye peeled for someplace to work up a good sweat.

He came rather quickly to the park and spied at a distance the aforementioned footbridge spanning the creek that bisected the gently rolling lawn studded with brightly leaved trees. Erosion from the banks of the creek colored the shallow water red-orange, which seemed oddly apt in this autumn setting.

Concrete benches scattered beneath the trees invited him to sit for a spell, but he resisted the urge. Picnic tables clustered in one section of the broad space.

A few children and a pair of adult women peopled a playground near the small parking area, where carelessly dropped bicycles awaited their young riders. Tyler turned away, wondering what he was doing in Eden, Oklahoma. He pondered that as he strolled back toward his car.

A plump woman in baggy jeans and an oversize sweater swept leaves off the sidewalk in front of a small white clapboard church on the corner nearest the park. Tyler thought he recognized the sedan parked in front of the modest brick house beside it as one he’d seen at the motel last night, but he couldn’t be sure. Walking on he realized that the boxy two-story building behind the church actually belonged to it, easily tripling the building’s size.

He got in the car and set off to purchase toiletries, taking in the town along the way. All of Eden had been laid out in neat, square blocks that made navigation laughably simple. Turning off Garden Avenue, he meandered along Elm and Ash streets. Elm offered primarily commercial buildings, but Ash hosted the most substantial homes he’d yet seen. Constructed of brick and mottled stone, most with square or round pillars supporting deep, broad porches, none could be described as stately and all dated from the 1920s and ’30s.

Noting that he’d driven into town on Pecan, he wondered if all the streets were named for trees. Turning on the GPS, he sat with the engine idling at a stop sign long enough to study a city map. It turned out that only the streets running east and west were named for trees. The streets running north and south were named for flowers. He smiled at such fanciful monikers as Lilac, Sunflower, Iris and Snapdragon.

Marveling at the neatness and simplicity of the city scheme, he looked up. A check of his rearview mirror revealed an SUV queued up behind him. He had no idea how long it had been there, but instead of blaring the horn, as any driver in Dallas would have done instantly, the frothy-haired woman behind the wheel gave him a cheery wave. Saluting in apology, Tyler pulled out and made his way to Booker’s.

The store fascinated him. Occupying a former ice house, it served as a historical microcosm of progress over the past half century, with goods ranging from a fair but mundane selection of groceries to cosmetics and cheap bedroom slippers.

He bought the necessary items, paying cash, before taking himself back to the motel, where he shaved and brushed his teeth. He put off showering in hopes of finding an adequate health club somewhere close by. Relishing the thought of working himself into a state of sweaty exhaustion, he walked over to the motel lobby in search of information.

Charlotte adjusted the heat on the heavy-duty clothes drier, set the timer on her watch, checked the load in the washer and walked back into the apartment through the door that opened from the laundry room to the kitchen. Moving swiftly, she passed through the dining room and on into the reception area. With Hap and his buddies at the domino table, she need not worry about having the front desk staffed and so turned at once toward the office. A familiar voice stopped her in her tracks.

“I wonder if you gentlemen might tell me where I can find some workout clothes and a gym?”

Laughter erupted.

Rolling her eyes, Charlotte moved at once to the counter. Justus had all but fallen off his chair, while Teddy and Hap tried to maintain some semblance of good manners, without much success. Tyler stood before the game table, his hands in the pockets of his pants as he waited stoically for their amusement to die away. At length, Hap cleared his throat.

“Only gym hereabouts is down to the high school, son.”

“If you’re wanting a good workout, though, you can get that out at my place,” Justus teased. “I got about a hunerd head of cattle what need feeding and a barnyard full of hay ready for storage. Keys are in the tractor.”

Justus chortled at his own joke, while Teddy snickered and Hap kept clearing his throat in a belated effort to remain impassive. Torn between amusement and pity, Charlotte leaned both elbows on the counter and interjected herself into the conversation.

“He looks like he’s in pretty good shape to me, Justus. You never can tell, Tyler might be able to shift those big old round hay bales without a tractor.”

Tyler shot her a wry, grateful look over one shoulder.

“He could get one on each end of a metal bar and lift ’em like weights,” Teddy suggested with a big grin.

“Speaking of weights,” Charlotte went on, addressing Tyler directly as he turned to face her. “If that’s what you’re interested in, I could always call my brother. He could get you into the field house.”

“That would be, um, Holt?”

“Ryan. Holt’s the older one.”

Tyler nodded. “The driller. Among other things.”

Uncomfortably aware that the other three men were suddenly listening avidly, Charlotte kept her tone light. “Exactly. Ryan’s the coach—”

“History teacher, assistant principal,” Tyler finished for her. “I wouldn’t want to put him out.”

“Well, he’s your best bet,” she said a bit more smartly than she’d intended. “Nearest health club is around fifty miles from here.”

Tyler looked lost for a moment. Then Hap laid down his dominoes. “Here now. We could use a fourth for forty-two. Straight dominoes has me bored to tears. You wouldn’t consider sitting in, would you? Least ways until Grover finishes his sermon for tomorrow.”

Tyler shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I don’t know how to play forty-two.”

“Oh, we’ll teach you,” volunteered Justus, as if making amends for his teasing earlier. “Won’t we, Teddy?”

“Sure thing. He can play opposite Hap.”

To Charlotte’s surprise, Tyler pulled out the empty chair at the table. “Does that mean we’re partners?”

“That’s what it means,” Hap answered, obviously pleased that he’d picked up on that. Hap began turning the dominoes facedown and mixing them up. “Since I’m paired with the new kid, I get first shake.” He looked to Tyler, instructing, “Now draw seven.”

Hanging over the counter, her chin balanced on the heel of her hand, Charlotte got caught up in the game. She jerked when her timer beeped. By then, Tyler had learned enough to engage in a bidding war with Justus. Ill-advised, perhaps, but gutsy.

“Two marks.”

“Three.”

“You don’t even know what you’re doing,” Justus warned.

“Then your partner can take me off.”

“I’m not bidding four marks. You two are nuts.”

Charlotte laughed as she slipped through the door into the apartment, hearing Hap declare, “Lead ’em, partner. I got your off covered.”

It wouldn’t surprise her one bit if the newbie made his bid and taught a couple of old dogs a new trick or two, but why that should please her so, she couldn’t say.

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