“I know one other thing. I’m not going to wait another fifteen years before I kiss you again.”

His mouth settled on hers. His lips were soft and warm and inviting. As sweet as a first kiss. But then everything changed and the boy in her mind became a fully grown version of the person she’d loved. His mouth ravaged hers, exploring, igniting a young girl’s passion into a woman’s need. The sensation of being devoured by that hot, hungry kiss tingled through her body and she answered it with equal passion. It was like coming home and finding a treasure she’d thought she’d lost.

He planted a swift kiss on her temple.

“By the way,” he said. “I’ll be sleeping here from tomorrow night on. Just in case you get some ideas in the middle of the night that can’t wait.”

She already had one, and she was pretty sure he knew what it was.

Dear Reader,

What a thrill it is to write this first reader letter as a Mills & Boon® author. I am so grateful to my agent, Kevan Lyon, and my editor, Charles Griemsman, for making this happen. I have always wanted to write a book about high school teachers and coaches, and now this dream is a reality. I was once a high school English teacher like Rosalie, the heroine of this book. Perhaps my involvement with teens and sports explains why I’ve always had a bit of a love affair with football coaches. There is something about the caged energy they display on the sidelines—a tense expectation that can translate in a second to fist-pumping jubilation. How rewarding it must be to guide young men into adulthood.

This book also explores my first attempt at writing a teenager as the secret baby my heroine raised. I hope you enjoy Danny. It’s easy to love a cute little baby, but a teenager with all that angst and willfulness—if you’ve had one, you know.

Welcome to Whistler Creek, Georgia. Enjoy your stay.

Cynthia

I love to hear from readers. Please send me your reaction to His Most Important Win at Cynthoma@aol.com. Or visit my website, cynthiathomason.com.

About the Author

CYNTHIA THOMASON writes contemporary and historical romances and dabbles in mysteries. She has won a National Reader’s Choice Award and the 2008 Golden Quill. When she’s not writing, she works as a licensed auctioneer for the auction company she and her husband own. As an estate buyer for the auction, she has come across unusual items, many of which have found their way into her books. She has one son, an entertainment reporter. Cynthia dreams of perching on a mountaintop in North Carolina every autumn to watch the leaves turn. You can read more about her at her website, www.cynthiathomason.com.

His Most

Important Win

Cynthia Thomason

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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This book is dedicated to the memory of my loving parents, Barbara and Bert Brackett, who never missed a high school football game under the “Friday night lights” of Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio.

Chapter One

Rosalie pulled into one of the last remaining spots in the parking lot, got out of her car and checked her watch. “Three minutes,” she grumbled. “I’ll just make it if I run.” She still had no idea why the high school principal had called this emergency meeting. His secretary had said he wanted as many of his faculty members who were in town to attend, so Rosalie had missed a lasagna dinner with her mother and her son to be here.

“Hey, Rosalie, wait up.”

Spotting her friend and fellow teacher coming across the pavement, Rosalie motioned for Shelby to hustle. “At least there’s someone who’s even later than I am,” she said when Shelby had fallen into step beside her. “Do you know what this is about?”

“No clue,” Shelby said. “But I’d rather be anywhere but here. The last thing I want to think about in July is school.”

Rosalie held the door open to the three-story brick building and let Shelby go in ahead of her. “I hope Canfield’s not expecting us to volunteer for landscaping duty this summer,” she said. “I’m working more hours at Mom’s produce stand, and I’ve increased my hours at the Brighter Day Center.”

“Why’s that? Have there been any deaths in town recently that I haven’t heard about?”

“No, but grief is an ongoing thing. The more we volunteers can counsel grieving kids at the center, the faster they can get on with their lives.”

Shelby frowned. “I wonder if being around all that sadness is really good for you, Rosalie.”

“It’s been sixteen years since my brother died, Shel.”

“Okay, message received. Forget I said anything.”

They approached the media center at the end of the school’s main hallway. The doors were open. Rosalie caught the subtle aroma of old books, always a welcoming scent to English teachers or anyone who spent a good part of their childhood nestled in a corner of a library. Once they entered the room, the delicious mustiness would be combined with the even subtler smell of modern-day plastic coming from the bank of computers taking up an entire wall.

The media center was buzzing with activity. Apparently Principal Canfield’s calling tree system had worked. Rosalie estimated that nearly three-quarters of the faculty were present along with dozens of booster parents and prominent citizens.

Dexter Canfield, dressed in tan pants and a golf shirt, stood behind the media director’s desk chatting with a group of Whistler Creek’s most influential citizens including Roland Benton, owner of the town’s largest employer, Benton Farms. When Canfield pounded a gavel, the hundred or so attendees stared up at him. Rosalie and Shelby spoke quick greetings to fellow faculty members and took seats in the back.

In his most impressive baritone, the voice Canfield reserved for public address announcements and greetings at halftime sporting events, he thanked everyone for coming and assured the crowd they would not be disappointed. Wasting no time, he proclaimed that a stroke of unbelievable good fortune had befallen the town of Whistler Creek.

“We all regret the recent retirement of Bucky Lowell,” he said. Heads nodded. The revered football coach had been an institution at Whistler Creek High for as long as Rosalie could remember. At the end of the last school year, on the advice of his doctor, the seventy-three-year-old Bucky had stowed away his whistle and closed his game book for the last time. Since then speculations had run wild about who the board would hire to replace him. The man had never had a losing season, a record no other Georgia high school coach had achieved.

“Well, hang on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen,” Canfield said, “because Bucky’s replacement is waiting to come into the room. He signed a contract yesterday, and I think you’ll all agree that the Wildcats couldn’t have made a better pick if we’d ordered his credentials from the Almighty.”

Rosalie studied the expressions of those around her. Some faculty members chuckled. Others shook their heads in bewilderment. A few mumbled guesses about who could possibly fill the shoes of the great Bucky. And then the wait was over. Canfield went to the door of a storage room, opened it wide and in stepped one of Whistler Creek’s native sons and former honored gridiron star. He was also the heir to Benton Farms, the area’s largest agribusiness and supplier of produce to much of the U.S. Southeast.

When recognition dawned among the old-timers, enthusiastic applause broke out. And Rosalie couldn’t seem to draw a breath. It couldn’t be. It was. Bryce Benton, wearing a Texas Tech Athletic T-shirt and ball cap, strode to the desk and stood with his hands clasped in front of him waiting for Dexter Canfield to say something.

Rosalie hadn’t spoken to Bryce in over fifteen years. She’d only spotted him in town a couple times since he’d left for college, and she’d always turned the other way. But looking at him now, exuding a casual confidence that came with pedigree, adulation and just the right amount of sun-weathered texture to his skin, she felt the years melt away. She swallowed. For all her efforts to move on with her life, she could have been seventeen again.

She’d never dreamed Bryce would give up his career at Texas Tech. But here he was. For some inexplicable reason, he’d apparently chosen to abandon his upward climb at the university to come home and coach at little old Whistler Creek High. Bryce was the onetime all-state wide receiver of the Whistler Creek Wildcats, the future agribusiness magnate and, most important, devastating to Rosalie on so many levels, he was her son Danny’s biological father.

Shelby snickered. “What the hell is Canfield doing? Looks like he’s bringing his prize stallion into the show ring for all to admire.” She nudged Rosalie in her ribs. “And he definitely is a prize!”

Somehow Rosalie found her voice. “You don’t know Bryce, do you?”

Shelby, who’d come to Whistler Creek only three years before, grinned. “Not yet. Is he single?”

“Divorced.” Whistler Creek was a small town, and over the years the most important details of Bryce’s life had filtered down to Rosalie. Not that she’d asked to hear them.

She stared at the tabletop in front of her. She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t stand to watch that ruggedly handsome face turn smug with the praise of a public that had obviously forgotten all the details of Bryce’s background. Forgotten or forgiven.

Thinking back to when she was a gullible teenager, she felt a flush of shame heat her cheeks. She had once believed she was in love with Bryce Benton, the very same guy who’d just allowed himself to be paraded into the limelight of his expectant hometown crowd as if he were Dexter Canfield’s gift to the people of Whistler Creek.

Some mistakes could never be lived down. And some just hurt forever.

Standing in front of people he’d never met before as well as old friends he hadn’t seen in years, Bryce felt like a damn fool. Canfield had told him to wait in the wings until he’d made the announcement just so he could pique the interest of the crowd. Bryce had argued that such a plan was ridiculous, but in the end, he’d let Canfield have his way thinking maybe it was better that Dexter prepared the crowd for the return of a prodigal son. Bryce had only come home to Whistler Creek a couple dozen times in the last fifteen years. Now, with something like one hundred pairs of eyes drilling into him, he knew he’d been manipulated into being the featured sideshow event for Canfield’s three-ring circus.

He shook his head, raised his hands palms up in an effort to stop the flow of excited chatter that filled the room. When he’d been offered the job to replace Bucky, he’d jumped at the chance. Coaching at Whistler Creek was what he wanted. His goal since college had always been to mentor and guide high school kids on the verge of manhood and possible greatness. Despite the tragedy that would always haunt him, coming home to the town and school that had nurtured him through the years had been the fulfillment of a dream. Now he felt like a trick pony waiting to be led through his paces.

Beaming at Bryce, Canfield said, “I coaxed him away from Texas Tech, and I wanted all of you to share in this victory for the Whistler Creek High Athletic Department.”

Coaxed him away, Bryce thought. He’d taken a ten thousand a year pay cut to be here, and still signed on the bottom line without a moment’s hesitation. Most people would say he should have his head examined.

But Bryce gambled on possibilities. And the options for changing lives at the head coaching level at Whistler Creek far surpassed those as the assistant offensive coach at Texas Tech. And then there was his dad, who was sitting here tonight. His health had suffered a blow. He needed his son, wanted him to come home.

He looked into his dad’s eyes now, saw the pride there and took a deep breath. “Folks, you all have a seat. This isn’t so much a celebration as a chance to get acquainted. Or reacquainted as is the case with many of you.”

“Are you kidding, Bryce,” the president of the Georgia State Bank shouted from the side of the room. “This could be the best football season we’ve ever had.”

Bryce tried to smile and slanted a glance at Bucky Lowell who sat nearby. “I don’t know about that,” Bryce said, gesturing at Bucky. “Coach Lowell here has left me some pretty big shoes to fill, so let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We’ve all got a lot of work to do. The players, the coaching staff, most of all, me. I think we should save the celebrating until we get a few wins under our belts.”

Dexter Canfield continued to grin like the top salesman on a used car lot. “Now you see why I called you here today. We appreciate everything Bucky has done for this program, but today is the beginning of a new era for Whistler Creek athletics. We need to start now, preparing our boys, getting behind our new coach, redoubling our efforts as Wildcat parents and supporters.”

“I appreciate all the enthusiasm tonight and in the future,” Bryce said. “But let’s remember that the ones who need our support most are the young men who’ll soon sweat their guts out on the field once practice starts.” He paused before adding, “Football in Whistler Creek always has been, and will continue to be, a community effort. Thanks for coming today and for giving me this welcome. But as far as I’m concerned, you can all go on home now, knowing that my office in the athletic building is always open.”

He remembered the furor surrounding games in the past and doubted Bucky had kept that same open-door policy for his many years at Whistler. Bryce hoped he wouldn’t regret making that statement.

As the meeting wound down, he endured countless handshakes and pats on the back before the last of his well-wishers left the media center. Then he said goodbye to Canfield and walked with his father to the school parking lot. When they stepped into the humid July air of a South Georgia evening, Bryce took his dad’s elbow and held him back. “Let’s wait until everyone is in their cars,” he said.

Roland Benton smiled. “A little uncomfortable with all this excitement, are you, son?”

“Yeah. I didn’t anticipate this kind of welcome. I’ve been gone a long time.”

“True, but you’ve always wanted to come back.”

Bryce waved to a man who put down his car window and gave him a thumbs-up sign. “I didn’t think it would be like this. You know how it is, Dad. When expectations run too high, everyone can end up disappointed and disillusioned.”

“Just do your job, Bryce,” Roland said. “No one can ask more. And no one should expect more than your best effort.” He smiled. “That’s all you’ll ask of the players, right?”

“True enough.” Seeing the parking lot emptying out, Bryce stepped onto the pavement. He saw two women chatting between cars about a hundred feet down the lot. He stared for a moment before a familiar pang pierced his heart. Could it be? He recognized the lush curls of black hair that fell to one woman’s shoulders. “Dad, isn’t that Rosalie Campano?”

Roland squinted. “Sure is.”

“Is her mother still running her produce stand on Fox Hollow Road?”

“Yes, indeed. Claudia is one of our best local customers. Rosalie still lives with her. You know Rosalie teaches at the high school now?”

“Yeah. Mom told me that a few years back. I should have known she’d be here when I heard Canfield had called the faculty out for this show.” Bryce had thought a lot about Rosalie over the years. She’d been an important part of his life at one time—until the day he’d brought so much grief into hers.

Rosalie laughed as she carried on a conversation with the other woman. Bryce recalled the bright, bubbly sound of her voice. “Is her name still Campano?” he asked.

“You mean did she ever get married?”

“Yeah.”

“No. She’s single. Came close a time or two from what I understand, but it didn’t work out.”

Rosalie had never married? Bryce tried to rein in his careening thoughts. Roland took Bryce’s arm and gently tugged him toward their car parked in the opposite direction.

“Wait,” Bryce said, knowing he could be treading on emotional quicksand. “I want to say hello.”

“Maybe now’s not a good time …”

“Why not? I’m going to be seeing a lot of Rosalie. We’ll be working in the same building, maybe teaching some of the same kids.” Bryce was already several steps ahead of his dad. “Now’s the perfect time.”

It was crazy. Bryce knew that. But the closer he got to Rosalie, the more his heart pounded. For Pete’s sake. It had been almost sixteen years since Ricky had died. They’d each gone on with their lives. But heck, she was right there across the lot, where she couldn’t refuse his phone calls. Bryce always wondered if maybe he’d get the chance to tell her again how sorry he was for what happened. So he quickened his footsteps.

And then she looked up and trapped his gaze. It was only a quick glance, almost as if she hadn’t noticed him at all. But her smile faded and she turned again to her friend, said something brief and got in her car. Bryce stopped dead. Before he could have reached her, she’d backed her red compact car out of its space and was headed to the street.

And for the second time that night, Bryce felt like an idiot.

Chapter Two

Shortly after the meeting at the high school broke up, Rosalie came in the back door of the home she still lived in with her mother. She reached down and scratched behind Dixie’s ear. The golden retriever nuzzled her soft nose against Rosalie’s jeans. The scent of fresh baked bread and pungent Italian spices filled the welcoming kitchen. A half-filled dish of lasagna sat on the table along with the remains of a salad in a seasoned wooden bowl. Rosalie called out, “Mom, you here?”

Drying her hands on a towel, Claudia came out of the pantry. “There’s plenty of lasagna left, Rosalie,” she said. “I’ll heat up a plateful if you’re hungry.”

“No, thanks. I’m going out in a little while.”

“Oh? You seeing Ted?”

Her mother was one of the few people who knew Rosalie had accepted a few dates with Whistler Creek High’s baseball coach. Rosalie tried to keep her personal life private. “No. He’s got his kids this weekend. I’m meeting Shelby downtown at the Creek Side Tavern.” She stepped to the entry to the living room and looked around. “Is Danny here?”

“No. His friends picked him up twenty minutes ago.”

Rosalie sighed with relief, pulled out a kitchen chair and slumped into it. “Good. I don’t have to pretend that everything’s okay then.”

“You certainly don’t have to pretend with me,” Claudia said. “I’ve already heard. Sharon Potter was at the meeting and she called me when she got home.”

“Then you know about our new football coach.”

“I know.” Claudia shook her head. “I always thought Bryce would come back here, especially after his divorce. And now his father had that bypass surgery …”

Rosalie blew out a long breath. “I always prayed he wouldn’t return.”

Claudia pulled out a chair and sat across the table from her daughter. “Don’t borrow trouble, Rosalie. Just because Bryce is back doesn’t mean that anything has to change.”

Rosalie sighed deeply. “I think everything will change, for me at least. I’ll have to face him at school every day this fall and I might even run into him at Benton Farms when I go there to pick up your produce orders.”

Then a startling realization occurred to her and she stared at her mother. “Like tomorrow,” she said. “I promised you I’d go to Benton’s in the morning. What if Bryce is there?”

Claudia squeezed her hand. “I don’t know where Bryce is staying, but even if he is out at his parents’ place, you can go to the market early, before most normal people are even out of bed.”

Rosalie nodded. “Yeah, I can do that. But Mom, having Bryce return to Whistler Creek feels a little like adding gasoline to a long-simmering fire.” She raised her hands. “Ka-boom.”

“You’re jumping to conclusions, Rosalie. The secret has remained buried since Danny was born. That’s a long time. Only four people are alive in this town who even know that Bryce is Danny’s father. None of us has ever broken the promise we made that night.” She frowned and looked away.

Rosalie recalled that stressful meeting at the Benton home nearly sixteen years ago. Claudia Campano had briefly argued in favor of letting Bryce know about Rosalie’s pregnancy, but she had quickly capitulated to everyone else’s desires.

Rosalie picked up a slice of bread from a basket at the center of the table and began shredding it. “I wish I were as confident as you, Mom. But in the back of my mind I picture Bryce coming face-to-face with Danny, and just, well, knowing. Like this cosmic bond will connect the two of them.”

Claudia took the mutilated bread from Rosalie’s hand. “That’s not going to happen, honey. We’ve always been careful. Growing up, Danny never questioned your story about his father.”

“That’s because Poppa was still alive and he was the only father Danny ever needed. He was better to Danny than anyone else could have been.” Rosalie clasped her hands on top of the table. “I never told you, Mom, but last year, a few months after Poppa died, Danny asked me about his real father.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“I kept up the pretense I’d established before—that his father and I only knew each other a short time.” That was a lie. She’d known Bryce all her life. “That we were only together one time.” That was the truth. “That his father was not ready to assume the responsibility of a baby.” That was the truth. “And I told Danny again that I loved him from the moment I knew he existed, and you and Poppa loved him as if he were your own, too.”

Claudia nodded. “And was Danny satisfied?”

“I guess. I appeased him by promising that later, if he wanted to try and find his father, I would help him do that. Of course, I hoped that he would never ask.”

“And he hasn’t,” Claudia said. “Just because Bryce is back in town doesn’t have to mean anything. The physical resemblance is almost nonexistent. Danny need never know.” Her eyes widened as her lips turned up in a strange sort of smile. “Unless you decide to tell him.”

“What? Mom, I can’t see that as a possibility.” Rosalie pressed her finger against the bridge of her nose where a headache was just beginning to form. “I wish I didn’t have this feeling of foreboding, like something terrible is going to happen.”

“Give this some time, Rosalie. Bryce will settle in. You’ll continue with your life—your teaching and your volunteer duties. I’ve always believed that things just work out for the best—eventually.” She touched Rosalie’s cheek. “Now, go. Get ready to meet your friends. You need to get your mind on something else.”

Rosalie stood, pushed her chair under the table. “I don’t think I’m going to be good company.” She headed toward the living room but turned around when her mother said her name. “Something else, Mom?”

“Did you talk to him, honey?”

“No. After the meeting he came toward me in the parking lot. I panicked, got in my car and drove away.” She bit her bottom lip. She’d never admit that certain instincts, long suppressed, had almost caused her to wait for him to reach her. “I wasn’t ready to face him,” she said. “I don’t think I ever will be.”

Claudia nodded. “Time will tell.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? It’s been more than fifteen years. And tonight I learned that all time has told me is that I still react to Bryce Benton.”

Trying to put Bryce out of her mind, she went down the hallway toward her room, the cozy, familiar, rosy space that had been her private sanctum all her life. On the way, she stopped at another door, put her hand on the knob and took a deep breath. Her brother’s old room, which was now Danny’s. For three months after Ricky had died, Rosalie hadn’t been able to even look inside this space. Her father, in his attempt to heal his family, had eventually gone in and packed up many of the items Ricky had treasured. He hadn’t asked the women of his family to help.

But there had been practical matters to consider. A family had to move on. A baby was coming. They’d ordered a crib and other essentials. This room was needed for the future of the Campano family.

Rosalie turned the knob and opened the door. Although other mementos of Ricky existed in the house—in her mother’s room and the living room—the only reminder of Ricky in this space now was a photo of him in his Wildcat uniform. Danny had insisted on keeping the photo of his “Uncle Ricardo,” whom he’d never met, on that hutch above his desk.

Rosalie walked into the room and picked up the photo, which was both comfortingly familiar and achingly sad. She smiled at the image of her “second half,” the other part of her. With his football helmet tucked against his side, his shoulders unnaturally wide and strong under the padding, his dark hair military short as if he’d prepared for the battle on the football field, Ricky was the picture of invincible confidence.

She touched the tip of her finger to the letters of his jersey. She’d been so proud of him, the Wildcats star quarterback, recipient of a scholarship to Florida State University. Even now, looking at his cocky smile, her heart melted.

“I miss you,” she said to the quiet room. She still felt his presence in every square foot of the Campano house, but especially here. Could anything really separate twins? Not time. Not even death.

Setting the photo back on the shelf, she looked around at the things that identified her Danny. A baseball bat signed by Alex Rodriquez. A weathered mitt he’d outgrown after three seasons of Little League. Pictures of his heroes on the walls—current Atlanta Braves, legendary New York Yankees. A photo of Danny in his junior varsity baseball uniform. Soon that would be replaced by his freshman picture in a varsity uniform when he would take the mound as the Wildcats newest star pitcher.

By Danny’s third birthday, Rosalie had known he would be an athlete. He’d had the passion, the determination and the skinned knees to prove it. When, at a very young age, he had picked up a football he’d found in the park, her heart had seemed to stop beating for several long, painful seconds until she’d taken it from his hands. That very day she brought him to the sporting goods store and introduced him to every other sport. He’d settled on baseball and she’d encouraged him through all his years.

She’d never been sorry she’d pushed him in that direction. Once, when he had mentioned trying out for the football team, she had discouraged him, saying his talents lay on the diamond, not the gridiron. He’d accepted her advice, and he’d thrived. He’d proven himself. Most important, she’d been able to watch his progress from the bleachers without fearing that the next moment, the next play, could alter his life forever. She couldn’t go through that again. Much like she couldn’t face Bryce Benton.

She closed the door to Danny’s room and went to shower and dress. She’d make it an early night so she could do as her mother suggested and be at Benton Farms first thing the next morning. While Bryce and most of the world slept in, she’d pick up her order and be gone.

Benton Farms was located five miles outside of Whistler Creek on a two-lane road that wound through rolling hills, green pastures and what real estate agents called some of the best farmland in America. At 6:50 a.m., after pulling on jeans and an old T-shirt and fastening her unruly hair in a clip, Rosalie sipped coffee from a thermal mug as she chugged along the sparsely populated route in the old pickup Claudia had purchased for her produce business.

Over the years Rosalie had managed to maintain a working relationship with the Bentons despite the heartache their son had brought into her life. And she’d been grateful Danny had inherited the dark eyes and olive complexion of the Campanos and not the lighter skin tones and fair hair of the Bentons. No one in town had ever suspected that the onetime childhood friends, Rosie and Bryce, had ever conceived a child. And Rosalie had further protected her son’s identity by slightly modifying his birth records.

Today she planned to be first in line to drive through the wholesale distribution section of Benton’s corporate sales area which opened to local buyers at 7:00 a.m. Rising before dawn hadn’t been a problem. After coming home from dinner with friends, Rosalie had slept restlessly. Finally she’d kept one eyelid raised to her window, watching for the first hint of a pink sunrise on the eastern horizon.

Her mind raced with the possible ramifications of last evening’s odd turn of events. Why had Bryce sacrificed his climb up the university coaching ladder? Did he miss his hometown that much? Did he feel an obligation to his parents? Had the divorce she’d heard about set him back emotionally so that his return to Whistler Creek was as much a healing exercise as anything else? Rosalie could almost understand that explanation. She couldn’t imagine living anywhere else herself.

But Bryce, at least the young man she’d known and fancied herself in love with, had always displayed enough confidence to combat any of life’s trials. Surely he could handle news of his father’s declining health, the breakup of a marriage. After all, he’d recovered easily enough from the death of his best friend.

And why had he approached her in the parking lot yesterday? Did he suspect the truth about her quick getaway—that she’d seen him and was avoiding a face-to-face meeting? She’d tried to appear casual, spontaneous, as if she hadn’t noticed him. She hoped he’d believed that a sudden thought had occurred to her and she’d naturally and without ulterior motive gotten into her car and sped away. And if not, did he suspect the other, more devastating truth, that facing him, dredging up memories, both good and bad, possibly initiating new ones, was the last thing she needed in her life?

Thankful that the electric gates had been parted a few minutes early, Rosalie drove onto Benton property and headed a quarter mile down the road toward the steel buildings that housed the wholesale division of Benton Farms. As she pulled up next to the overstuffed bins of vegetables, she noticed that she was the first local produce dealer to arrive. The usual farmhands, wearing the trademark green Benton Farms polo shirts, waved at her as they always did. She knew each of them would be willing to help her choose her stock and load it into the back of the truck.

She climbed out of the driver’s seat and spoke to Juan Gonzalez. He’d been hired by Roland Benton to work under her father’s direction when Enzo Campano had supervised the wholesale area. Rosalie had known him since she was a little girl.

“Juan, I need red peppers today and ten bushels of corn. Maybe eight pounds of Vidalia onions.” She handed him her list.

“I get you set up in no time, Miss Rosalie.” He began loading cartons while she walked among the bins of rich, ripe crops recently harvested on Benton land.

She picked up a tomato and was deciding if this particular one was overripe when a hand settled lightly on her shoulder and a familiar voice spoke into her ear. “Hello, Rosalie. Been a long time.”

She jerked as if his fingers had delivered an electric shock to her nervous system, whirled around and dropped the tomato on the pavement. It exploded into a pulpy mass, which immediately attracted a number of tiny winged insects. Rosalie swallowed and looked up into clear blue eyes that had haunted her teenaged dreams. She swore under her breath. What the hell was Bryce doing out here at the crack of dawn? Her voice came out dry and tinny sounding when she frowned down at the mess by her sneaker. “Sorry about that,” she said.

Dressed in the same Benton Farms shirt as the other employees, Bryce grabbed a paper towel from a nearby dispenser and bent over to scoop up the mess. “No problem.” He swept his other hand over the loaded cartons of tomatoes. “As you can see, we have a few others.”

He tossed the soggy towel into a trash can and wiped his hand on his jeans. If he’d planned to shake hands with her, he changed his mind. Thank goodness. Rosalie didn’t need to test her reaction to another touch.

“I saw you last night at the high school,” he said.

She blinked a couple times, trying to blur the image of Bryce’s face that seemed determined to burn itself into her retina. Last night he’d worn a ball cap low over his forehead, and he’d been at the other side of the room. Today his features were clear, undiluted by shadow and the play of artificial light. And she would have known him anywhere. Just as she remembered, the corner of his mouth quirked up in an odd half grin. His eyes, nearly the rich color of blueberries, narrowed under thick, brown lashes. Strands of his hair, longer than she would have thought he’d like and darker blond than she recalled, fell to the arch of his slightly darker eyebrows.

He continued to pin her with a disturbingly intense gaze as the grin broadened. “Rosalie? You okay?”

Of course he would ask that. She’d been standing for several awkward moments hoping her senses would return along with enough intelligible words so she wouldn’t sound like an idiot. She shook her head, trying to clear her mind. What had he said? Something about seeing her at the high school. Hunching one shoulder with feigned indifference, she said, “I was there. Canfield wanted all the faculty to witness …”

She stopped, knowing she was about to finish the sentence with a biting example of sarcasm.

“… the spectacle?” Bryce filled in for her.

“I wasn’t going to say that.” Sure she wasn’t. That was the exact word that had popped into her mind.

He chuckled. “Well, that’s what it was. Only an appearance by the Wildcat marching band could have been worse.”

“Obviously your return is viewed as a miracle by some people around here. Who better to take over for Bucky than a hometown football hero?” A shudder rippled down Rosalie’s spine. She really hadn’t meant to sound so unkind. A better plan would be to appear totally indifferent to Bryce.

“I guess we’ll see about that,” he said.

“Miss Rosalie!” The call came from a few yards away.

She stood on tiptoe to see over Bryce’s shoulder. “That’s Juan by my truck. He must have my order together.”

“I’ll give him a hand.”

Bryce stood aside as she walked ahead of him to the pickup where her order was stacked on the pavement. Knowing he was behind her made the skin at the nape of her neck prickle. Her footsteps felt leaden; the distance of only a few yards to her truck was like the length of a football field.

A line of trucks and trailers had started to form behind her. “We’d better hurry and get this loaded,” she said. “You have other customers.”

The three of them filled the pickup’s cargo area. Rosalie quickly consulted her list and wrote a check. When she tore it out of the book, she hesitated, looking first at Juan and then Bryce. “Who do I give this to?”

“Give it to Juan,” Bryce said. “He’s the boss. I’m just here to do what I can.”

She handed over the check and opened the door to the truck. “I suppose your father is happy you’re back.”

“He seems to be. I hope I can be more of a help than a hindrance.”

She climbed inside the truck, shut the door and started the engine. Bryce leaned on her open window. “Funny, but as soon as I got out here among the harvest this morning, it all came back to me,” he said. “I suppose produce is in my blood.”

“And football,” she said.

“Yep. And football.”

Rosalie stared out her windshield. All she had to do was put the truck in gear, and this whole anxiety-inducing episode would be over. She’d survived a face-to-face with Bryce. Maybe she could even walk by him in the halls of Whistler Creek High School without dissolving into a mass of insecurities. Not risking another look at his face, she lifted her hand. “Well, see you. Say hi to your parents.”

“I will. Give my regards to Claudia.”

“Sure thing.” Eyes straight ahead. Lips tight. Truck shifted into drive.

Now just take your foot off the brake….

“Oh, Rosalie,” he said, his arm still on her door.

She swiveled her head slightly, just enough to see him out of the corner of her eye. “Yes?”

“You want to get together?”

Now her eyes snapped to his. Was he kidding? No. He actually appeared sincere. “Ah …”

“I’m only working until noon today, just until the out-of-town orders are loaded on trucks. Maybe we could meet at the Whistler Inn for lunch.”

“Lunch?” She gripped the steering wheel and resisted the urge to slap her forehead. She was an English teacher for heaven’s sake, and all she could muster was monosyllabic responses.

He chuckled. “Yeah. It’s the meal in the middle of the day. Most people eat it.”

She glowered at him. “I can’t do lunch.”

“Are you sure? I thought maybe I could catch up on fifteen years of Whistler Creek gossip.”

“Bryce, your parents can fill you in on what’s happened around here.”

“I suppose they could, if all I wanted to know about was the sixty-something country-club set. But I never cared much about those people when I lived here.”

Right. You much preferred the simple earthiness of the Campanos. Well, not any more. “Look, I just can’t. I’m working at the stand today.” That was a lie. Saturday was Rosalie’s errand day. She did chores while Danny helped Claudia at the stand. Now she had to hope Bryce didn’t stop by.

“Some other time then?”

She eased off the brake, gratified when the truck slipped away from him. “Maybe. Who knows?” she said.

“Rosalie?”

She gingerly stepped on the pedal, slowing the truck to a crawl. “What?”

“I still miss him, too.”

She hit the accelerator and drove off. When she looked in her rearview mirror through burning eyes, she saw Bryce standing there, hands on hips, watching her leave.

Chapter Three

Marjorie Benton slid another pancake on top of the stack she’d already layered on Bryce’s plate. “You ready for more bacon?” she asked.

He stared up at her. “Mom, enough. I’ve only been home a few days, and I’ve probably gained five pounds.”

She scooted the syrup bottle closer to him. “It’s Sunday, Brycie. We always have big breakfasts on weekends, remember?”

Bryce sought help from his father who remained hidden behind the newspaper. “So that plate of scrambled eggs and sausage that you brought to me in the wholesale market on Friday morning was a light meal?” he said to her.

Roland Benton covered up a chuckle with a rustle of the sports section.

Marjorie sat at the table next to her son. “It wouldn’t hurt you to put on a few pounds,” she said. “I know you don’t cook for yourself as a bachelor …”

He started to tell her that he was a good cook, even had a recipe box in one of the cartons currently stored in the garage, but figured she’d then tell everyone in town about her son, the kitchen wizard. Probably not the best image for the new football coach to project. Besides he could always tell when his mother was on a roll and knew the futility of trying to stop her.

“… I suspect you haven’t eaten properly in years,” she continued. “I know that woman you were married to didn’t like to cook.” She paused. “Or keep a clean house.”

Bryce smiled around a bite of doughy pancake. It wasn’t as if he and that woman had lived in squalor for four years. True, Audrey hadn’t been the domestic type, but she’d made sure the cleaning lady showed up weekly, so he’d never been able to write his initials in the dust. And she’d mapped out the best take-out restaurants in Lubbock, so when he didn’t feel like cooking for the two of them, they’d never gone hungry. Housekeeping issues hadn’t been what broke them up.

Marjorie raised one finger in the air. “But …”

Bryce swallowed and washed down the pancake with a big gulp of milk. Here it comes.

“I think we should discuss what’s really concerning me this morning,” his mother said. Behind his newspaper, Roland took a long swallow of coffee.

Bryce set down his fork and pushed away his plate. “Mom, do we really need to go over this?”

She tapped a manicured fingernail on the tabletop. “I don’t see why you’re meeting with a real estate agent today, Bryce. Give me one good reason why you’re rushing into this.”

He set his elbows on the table and looked at her. “Mom, would you like to see my driver’s license? It’s proof that I’m thirty-three years old.”

Her spine stiffened. “I know how old you are, Bryce. I was there the day you were born.”

“But you haven’t been there every day for the last fifteen years,” he said. “I’m used to living on my own. I need my own place.”

“What’s wrong with your old room?”

“Nothing. It has four sturdy walls, a big window overlooking the back patio, a view of the cornfield and the peach orchards. It’s a paradise.” He took a deep breath. “In fact, I think you and Dad should strip it bare, paint the walls a bright sunny color, move in your sewing machine and cutting table and make it your home hobby center.”

“Really, Bryce! I’m only thinking of you.”

He glanced at the ceiling as if inspiration, and patience, could be found there before covering her hand with his and once again wishing he weren’t an only child. “Mom, I love you. You know that.”

She brushed a strand of blond hair off her forehead and sniffed.

“I want a home—my home—and I want it in this town.”

She pursed her lips a moment. “This is your home, Bryce. What need do your father and I have for this big house?”

“That’s a good question,” he said. “And one for you and Dad to think about. But for now, I’m tired of living in places that, for the last fifteen years, have always seemed like temporary shelters to me. Dorm rooms, apartments, condos. I want a house, a little bit of land, some grass with honest-to-goodness roots that I can fertilize and watch grow. I’ve waited a long time for this opportunity to come my way, and I want those roots in Whistler Creek soil. Soil with my name on the deed.”

Marjorie looked out the sliding glass doors which opened onto a view of acres and acres of rich Benton farmland. “But all this will eventually be your soil, Bryce.”

“Maybe so, Mom, and I look forward to helping Dad when he needs me. But for now …”

Marjorie started to speak, but stopped when Roland suddenly made a show of folding the newspaper and setting it on the table. Roland didn’t say much, but when he did, everyone in the room generally gave him the floor. “He’s a grown man, Marjorie. He’s going to contribute to this community in more ways than just as the heir to Benton Farms.” Roland leaned forward, leveling a steely gray gaze on his wife’s face. “Let him go. What’s a few miles between you and him anyway?”

Marjorie fingered the flowery buttons on her robe before standing to her full, impressive five feet eight inches. She picked up Bryce’s plate and walked to the sink. “Fine,” she snapped, turning the water on full blast.

Bryce sat in the uncomfortable silence for a full minute wondering if he should say something to bridge a gap between his parents which all at once seemed cavernous. And then his father reached across the table for a slice of crisp bacon on a platter. He picked it up and had it halfway to his mouth when Marjorie, the always effective eyes in the back of her head in full operational mode, stormed the table and smacked his hand. “Don’t even think about it,” she said, pointing to his chest as if his heart had ears.

Roland dropped the bacon, gave his son a little smile and picked up his newspaper.

Bryce stood in the middle of a stand of live oak trees and looked at the front of the weathered clapboard house he’d just toured. Turning to the real estate agent he’d hired, he said, “I can’t believe how many times I’ve driven this road, Lisa, seen this driveway, but never really knew what was back here behind all these trees.”

“I’m not surprised,” the agent said. “You can’t see the structure from the road.” She consulted notes in her portfolio. “The house was built in 1953 by a Canadian man, Clive Harbin. It’s only had two owners, Clive and his son, who inherited the place and used it as a winter residence since sometime in the ‘80s. The son, whose name is Wyatt, has been unable to make the trip for the last three years, and the house has remained unoccupied all that time. I guess that’s why Wyatt’s kids convinced him to sell.”

Bryce noted the missing shingles, crumbling bricks on the chimney. “It needs work,” he said. “Gutters need to be replaced. The whole house needs painting, inside and out.” Even as he listed the home’s problems, his hands itched to get to work on it. An hour ago, when he’d cleared the narrow, rutted drive and had his first view of the house, he’d fallen in love with its clean, traditional lines. Now he was trying to keep his enthusiasm at a reasonable level so he wouldn’t make a mistake with an offer.

A classic cottage farmhouse, the Realtor had called it. Steep second-story roof, a pair of gabled windows, an inviting porch that extended along the front and wrapped around one side. The inside floor plan met his needs exactly. A big living room with a stone fireplace, nice-size dining room, a kitchen that needed updating but was plenty big enough for a small table and chairs. A master bedroom downstairs with a small bonus room he could use as an office, and two small bedrooms upstairs.

“Let’s walk around back,” the agent suggested. “It says on my specs that the property extends three hundred yards into the wooded area.”

As they made their way around the side of the house, Bryce noted the well and water softener, and a patch of green grass that probably indicated the septic system. The rest of the yard was mostly weeds and overgrown shrubs. “How much total acreage?” he asked when they looked beyond the border of the backyard to a forest of pine, oak and magnolia trees.

“Four-and-a-half acres,” Lisa said, looking down at her shoes. “I’m not going into the woods with you in these new heels, but you go ahead.”

Bryce walked into the thick forest and returned after a few minutes. His mind buzzed with plans. He’d need to hire a backhoe operator to clear the wild shrubs and scrub trees, buy a decent chainsaw and weed eater….

“So what do you think?” she asked. “When you gave me your wish list, I immediately thought of this place.”

“It’s the best of the three we’ve seen,” he said.

“And its location on Fox Hollow Road makes it easily accessible to town.”

And the Campano’s house, Bryce thought. As he was following the agent to this property, he’d passed the home where he’d spent so many happy days growing up. When he’d glanced at the house, his heart had lurched in his chest. For most of his formative years, Bryce had felt as comfortable in the Campano home as he had in his own house. Maybe even more so. He and Ricky and Rosalie had been like siblings, Enzo and Claudia, like second parents.

He’d noticed too, the cars parked at Claudia Campano’s roadside stand. Not surprising that on a beautiful Sunday afternoon folks would be stopping for fresh produce. He hadn’t seen Rosalie. Bryce made up his mind to stop at the stand on his way back down Fox Hollow Road and say hello to Mrs. Campano.

“What do you want to do?” the agent said, breaking into his thoughts. “I’d love to draw up a contract on this house.” She gave him a brilliant smile. “I think it would be perfect for our town’s new football coach.”

“I’ll need to arrange inspections first,” he said. “Check for termites. Check the roof, plumbing and electrical.”

“Of course. But we can make the contract contingent on the inspections coming in satisfactorily.” She tapped a pen on the top of her portfolio. “You don’t want to lose this place by not having your name on the dotted line.”

He smiled. “How many offers have you had on this property since it was listed last year?” he said.

She shrugged. “Admittedly it’s been a slow market.”

Bryce was going to own this house. He felt it in the jangle of excited nerves in the pit of his stomach. “It’s listed at ninety thousand?”

“That’s right.”

“Write up an offer at twenty percent under that price. We’ll see what happens.”

She held out her hand. “Meet me in my office in a half hour. I’ll get the paperwork started.”

Rosalie joined her son and her mother at the produce stand midafternoon on Sunday. “When are your friends picking you up to go to the park?” she asked Danny.

He checked his watch. “They should be here any minute. I need to get my gear. Are you staying to help Grandma?”

“Yes. You go on.”

“Thanks.” He pointed to an insufficient number of small baskets of tomatoes sitting in a bin. “You need to restock. I was just getting ready to do that.”

“Sure. Looks like it’s been a good day.”

He agreed, said goodbye to Claudia and jogged away just as a Honda Civic pulled into the drive and followed him toward the house. Rosalie waved to Danny’s friend at the wheel. She took a stack of miniature bushel baskets from under the bin and started to fill them with tomatoes from a large crate. Her attention was diverted when a black pickup with sparkling chrome accessories braked in front of the stand. She immediately noticed a front bumper license plate in black and gold that said Texas Tech University, and a moment later, Bryce Benton got out of the driver’s seat.

He started to walk to Rosalie but stopped when Claudia hooted so loud a customer spilled a bag of peaches. “Bryce Benton! Oh, my stars. Get over here.”

Bryce strode around the back of the stand and gave Claudia a hug. When she finally let him loose, she placed the flat of her hand over her heart and stared up into his face. “You have gotten even better looking, if that’s possible.”

Rosalie hurried to the front to help the customer retrieve her peaches. As she worked, she couldn’t help thinking that her mother’s reaction to seeing Bryce was amazing, and not in a good way. For a time, both women, and Rosalie’s father as well, had nurtured bad feelings against Bryce every bit as strong as the ones Rosalie still seemed to cling to.

Numb with grief at the sudden, tragic death of their son, Rosalie’s parents had sought comfort in the only way they knew how—by blaming the young man whose show-off antics had resulted in the accident which took the life of his best friend. Looking back, Rosalie realized that the anger and bitterness against Bryce, rightly or wrongly, had probably been the glue that had held the Campano family together through the weeks and months of mourning.

And then Danny came along and their lives progressed according to a new purpose and pace. Rosalie continued to cry every night for her brother. Enzo Campano buried his grief so deep that Rosalie often wondered if he allowed himself to think about Ricky at all. And Claudia threw her efforts and mothering skills into making a home for her grandson.

Unlike her daughter and her husband, at some point, she’d let go of the anguish and resentment. At least she said she had. But had she ever really forgiven Bryce? Since the Campanos didn’t talk much about the incident, Rosalie had always wondered. Today, however, almost sixteen years after her son’s death, Claudia tried to convince her daughter in this grandiose gesture of welcoming Bryce home that she had.

“You’re the talk of the town, Bryce,” Claudia said. He grinned in a seemingly modest way and chatted quietly with her.

Rosalie rang up the customer’s order. When the lady got in her car and drove away, Bryce walked over. “So how’s business, Rosalie?” he said.

“It’s okay.”

The Honda sped past with Danny in the backseat. The driver honked his horn and turned onto Fox Hollow Road.

Bryce stared at the car for a moment and then snapped his fingers. “That’s right. You have a kid, don’t you? My mother told me you went to college, met a guy and had a baby.”

“That’s right.”

“A boy?”

“Yes.”

“And you moved back home with Claudia?”

“Right again.”

The car rounded a curve and disappeared. Rosalie hoped that would be the end of the conversation. Nope.

“Is your son in high school yet?” Bryce asked.

Vague. Vague. Keep your answers vague. Divert attention away from Danny. “Starts this year,” she said, returning to the task of packing tomato boxes. Bryce didn’t take the hint and move away, so she looked up at him, swallowed an involuntary sigh, and said, “You’re surrounded by fruits and vegetables at your house, Bryce, so you’re obviously not here to shop.”

He smiled. “Not today.”

“Then …?”

He leaned a hip against the stand. “Campanos does business with Benton Farms, and I’m grateful for your years of support. Would you believe it’s customer appreciation day?”

Right. She rearranged tomatoes to fit more boxes in the bin. “Not unless this magnanimous event just started today.”

“As a matter of fact, it did.”

She huffed. “And exactly how many Benton customers have you visited so far to show your appreciation?”

The grin broadened. “You’re the first.”

She frowned at him and continued working, though on some deeper emotional level she was aware of his every move. “As you can see, I’m busy. If you want to go appreciate someone else, feel free.”

“I stopped by for another reason, too,” he said.

“And that would be?”

He stood straight and looked down the road. “You and I are going to be neighbors.”

Her hand stilled. She clutched her fists at her sides. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m about to become a home owner. I put a bid in for a place down the road, about halfway between your house and the old gristmill.”

Her mind scrambled to come up with a location. Houses were separated by acres of land on Fox Hollow Road. There were no close neighbors in the traditional sense. The only property she knew of that was for sale was the old Harbin place. Surely he didn’t mean the homestead that was less than a mile away.

“I just left the Harbin property,” he said. “I’ve made an offer.”

She could only stare, reining in her first impulse to shout at him that he had no right. That she didn’t want him living so near. That she didn’t need to be thinking about him driving past her house every day, invading the space in her heart that once had been filled with him. Instead, after a few moments she found her voice. “That place has been vacant for quite a while.”

“I know. It needs some work. Have you ever driven back there to see the house?”

She had once or twice, when she was a kid. But she couldn’t tell him right now what the house even looked like. “My dad knew old Mr. Clive,” she said. “And he sometimes drove produce out to Wyatt Harbin when he was in town. I don’t remember much about the place. The people who stayed there kept to themselves.”

Light animated Bryce’s eyes. “It’s a great place, Rosalie. Got real potential. I can’t wait to start fixing it up.”

It wasn’t enough that she was going to work with Bryce at the high school. Now they were going to be neighbors. In a spread-out, rural community the size of Whistler Creek, why hadn’t he found a house miles away on one of the other country roads?

She realized he was talking and forced herself to tune in.

“… a done deal yet. The family will have to accept the offer….” He stopped, stared at her. “But I really want that house, Rosalie. I’ll start to feel more like a part of the community once I’ve moved in.” He waited for a reaction from her and when he didn’t get one he said, “Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”

At the risk of choking she said, “Congratulations, Bryce.” She almost said, Once again you’ll get everything you want, but instead said the words she knew her eavesdropping mother would be waiting for. “I hope you’re happy in the new place.”

He smiled. “Since we’ll be living so close, maybe you’ll bring me a cup of sugar if I need to borrow it.”

That was the last straw. In spite of Claudia’s listening to every word, Rosalie said, “Look around you, Bryce. Nothing but fields and barns and open space. This isn’t Wisteria Lane for heaven’s sake. We don’t meet in the mornings for coffee and in the afternoons for margaritas.”

She spared a glance in her mother’s direction and immediately felt the sting of her heated gaze. Well, sorry, Ma.

“I’m kind of disappointed to hear that, Rosalie,” Bryce said. “I was hoping we could put the past behind us.”

Rosalie let out a long breath and with it, some of the anger trapped in her chest. “Bryce, I hope you become the best football coach this town has ever known. And I hope you get as much out of this job as you can. I really do. But as far as you and I are concerned, the past will always be an issue. It won’t go away. It shaped us, made us who we are.” And I won’t let your coming back to town change the woman I’ve become now. I can’t.

He crossed his arms over his chest and gave her an intense stare. “Rosalie, Ricky was the best friend I ever had,” he said so only she could hear. “You were the second-best until one day you became so much more. I can’t forget that. I don’t want to forget it.”

“Then you’ll have to live with it any way you can. That’s what I’ve had to do.”

He started to say something but stopped when two cars pulled into the lot. Excited passengers spilled out of the doors and headed to the stand. Bryce gave her one last look, filled with sadness and longing. “I’ll see you around, Rosie-girl,” he said, calling her by a former pet name. “But it’s all just a damn shame.”

“That we can agree on,” she said.

He said goodbye to Claudia, got in his truck and drove off. And Rosalie began greeting customers. Anything to avoid the censure in her mother’s eyes and an old longing that was trying to squeeze its way into her heart.

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