He’s coming up on her blind side

How can Shelby Hawkley forgive Gage Jamero for bailing on her when she needed him most? He and her husband, Nick, were the best part of her life. Now her former best friend is back, shaking up the widowed wine harvester’s world. The safest bet is to protect herself. Except Gage is awakening feelings that are decidedly unfriend-like.

Shelby is the woman Gage has secretly loved since high school. Starting over—together—could be the best dream he’s ever had. If only he can find the courage to say what he should have said all those years ago.

“Gage?”

Her fragile vulnerability was strong enough to slip past his guard.

Shelby made a sound that was half disapproving huff, half sob and ran toward him, practically tripping over her own two feet. He couldn’t say later if he’d met her halfway, couldn’t remember much beyond her arms coming around him, pressing against the contusion near his spine. But the hug…the hug was worth every pang in his bruised and sore back. She held him as if he was a precious gift she didn’t want to lose.

For a moment, Gage imagined what life would be like if she was his...

Like there was a chance of that happening.

The strength of his emotions made him realize coming home was a good thing. He’d needed to see Shelby again, if only to say goodbye to her once and for all.

Dear Reader,

Welcome to Harmony Valley!

Things aren’t as harmonious here as they once were. Jobs have dried up and almost everyone under the age of sixty has moved away in the past ten years, leaving the population…well...rather gray-haired and peaceful.

But things are changing since three hometown boys made good. They’ve started a winery and begun hiring. Young widow Shelby Hawkley, who spent one perfect year of her youth in Harmony Valley, has been hired as the cellar manager. She’s not looking for love. She’s happy making wine and taking care of her aging grandfather, the town vet.

The moment Gage Jamero met Shelby in high school science class, he felt sucker punched, because a kid who relied on science had fallen in love at first sight. And since Shelby chose Nick, Gage’s friend, Gage has been trying to put a cease-and-desist order on his feelings. Will he be able to keep hiding those feelings from Shelby now?

I hope you enjoy Gage and Shelby’s journey, as well as the other romances in this series. I love to hear from readers. Visit my website to learn more about upcoming books set in Harmony Valley, or you can connect with me on Facebook or Twitter (MelCurtisAuthor), and hear about my latest giveaways.

Melinda Curtis

One Perfect Year

Melinda Curtis

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MELINDA CURTIS believes the most common topic in a bio is hobbies. Ask Melinda about her hobbies and you just might hear crickets chirp. She can tell you she likes driving fast cars (she grew up with two motorhead brothers), she enjoys long walks (with her puppy when Tally behaves), and likes the challenge of home improvement (she’s become quite good at tiling). However, she’s most likely to be found writing at her desk and dreaming about hobbies.

Melinda lives in California’s arid central valley with her husband—her basketball-playing college sweetheart. With three kids, the couple has done the soccer thing, the karate thing, the dance thing, the Little League thing and, of course, the basketball thing. Now they’re enjoying the quiet life of empty nesters before the grandparent thing.

MILLS & BOON

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Nothing in my life would be possible without the love and support of my immediate family, extended family, and close friends. A special thank-you to my husband of thirty years for putting up with me and all the voices in my head clamoring for a happy ending.

As always, special thanks to A.J. Stewart, Cari Lynn Webb and Anna Adams for their support throughout the writing of this book. Every writer needs a sounding board. You guys rock!

I spent sixteen years working at a winery. In writing the Harmony Valley books, I relied on my memory, as well as questions to friends and family who still work and own wineries. Think of Harmony Valley as you enjoy a glass of wine from the Iron Gate Winery in Cedar City or the Jordon Winery in Healdsburg, but know that all mistakes regarding wineries and winemaking are my own.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

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

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

SHELBY HAWKLEY KNEW what it was like to go from fulfilled and happy to broken and sad, knew how fast it could happen, knew how it came at you from your blind side.

It could happen in a blink. It could stop your breath. It could break your heart.

It being disaster. It changing her life forever.

Just moments ago, she’d been happy, secure in the knowledge that things were looking up. And then she’d blinked.

“If there’s an earthquake now, there’ll be trouble.” Shelby stood in the middle of a narrow trail carved through her grandfather’s living room, willing herself not to blink.

Thirty or so five-foot-tall stacks of books, journals, periodicals and magazines occupied the space. It looked like crowded Manhattan skyscrapers, minus the straight-gridded streets. Her grandfather had created twisted paths, one of which ended at the television, leaving just enough room for him to sit on the hearth and watch the news.

“Don’t move and everything will be all right,” her grandfather replied, nonplussed. Warren Wentworth sat cross-legged, all sharp, bony angles, his hair a dry white mop. He looked like he’d been lost on this trail for too long, and had missed too many dinners.

“Grandpa, we’ve got to move. Now.” Before she bumped something and their surroundings tumbled upon them. There’d been a time when she thought she and her loved ones were impervious to disaster. That period was long past.

Her grandfather turned off the TV, unfurled his limbs and rose, wobbling slightly.

Shelby reached for him, careful to keep her elbows within the confines of the path, hyperaware that she was prone to stumble if she didn’t keep her attention firmly on the floor. “How did this happen? This...this...book maze.”

He harrumphed. “Don’t overreact, hotshot. This is my library. I’m exploring the stacks. Didn’t you once tell me I wasn’t very adventurous?”

“Grandma said that.” Keeping her tone matter-of-fact, Shelby began backing toward safety, towing him gingerly along with her.

“It’s called the adventure of life.” Grandpa’s breath smelled of coffee. He couldn’t have been sitting on the hearth for long. “What fun would life be if it was a wide, straight road and you knew the ending?”

“What fun would it be if all this fell down on us?” His bones were old and fragile. “If this collapses...I’m just saying...I’m done with surprises and hospitals.” Morgues and funeral homes.

“You’re still grieving, love. I understand.” He squeezed her hands. “I miss your grandmother terribly.”

Grandma Ruby and Shelby’s husband, Nick, had died within a week of one another nearly two years ago. Shelby and her grandfather had leaned on each other through those difficult first few weeks. As only children from a long line of only children, the pair didn’t have a lot of family to rely on.

Shelby wasn’t still grieving. She wasn’t still lost. But she was cautious. She couldn’t say the same about her grandfather. “Tell me the rest of the house isn’t like this.” She’d had lunch with him a few weeks ago, but hadn’t come inside the place.

“Young lady, if it is, it’s none of your business.” He spoke in grandiose tones, as if he was a knighted explorer being led out of a newly discovered jungle instead of a retired veterinarian being led out of his living room in the small remote California town of Harmony Valley.

“I take that for a yes.”

“That is a no.”

Their footsteps were muted by the worn avacado shag. One more turn. One more twist.

“Where’s Mushu?” Her grandmother’s ancient cocker spaniel.

“That dog’s been spending a lot of time in the backyard.”

Shelby couldn’t blame her. One misplaced wag of the tubby dog’s tail and she’d be history. The house needed disaster-proofing.

Shelby navigated the fork toward the kitchen, refusing to dwell on how bony her grandfather’s hands were. One disaster at a time. “And Gaipan? Did you chase her outside, too?” The old Siamese was probably upset that she couldn’t sit on the back of the couch and dream of pouncing on the birds in the front yard. The couch was littered with books, haphazardly stacked, ready to tumble.

“Gaipan doesn’t like me. Never has,” Grandpa said. “She stays outside mostly, except when she’s hungry.”

They reached the kitchen, which was blessedly stack-free and optimistically yellow, just as her grandmother had been. Goldenrod Formica. Daisy patterned linoleum. Canary-yellow walls. The September afternoon sun angled through the windows facing the backyard, making Shelby squint. Mushu lay on the grass in the shade of a peach tree, a black ball of curly fur. Beyond the fence, the Jameros’ empty pastures rolled up toward Parish Hill. The Jameros had left town, like the majority of residents after the grain mill exploded and jobs disappeared, until the once quaint and charismatic town was quiet and quirky. Not exactly the thriving, supportive community of her youth, but a community she longed for nonetheless. And one that was growing again in dribs and drabs.

Shelby released her grandfather and sat on a walnut ladder-back chair. The room was clean and uncluttered—the collection of animal salt-and-pepper shakers lining the kitchen counter and grouped in the center of the kitchen table didn’t count. They’d been there as long as she could remember.

“Do you ever hear from the Jameros?” She couldn’t keep herself from adding, “Or from Dead Gage?”

“Don’t call him that.” Her grandfather gripped the chair next to hers. “He’s not dead.”

“He’s dead to me.” Had been since the day of Nick’s funeral. He hadn’t answered any of her calls or pokes on social media. She picked up the bumblebee saltshaker, wiping dust off the curves of its black and yellow body.

“If he was really dead to you, you wouldn’t ask about him.” Her grandfather traversed the kitchen as though he was aboard a ship deck, pitching and rolling with each step.

When had his equilibrium worsened? “Where’s Grandma’s cane?” Shelby stretched a hand toward him.

He tottered backward. “I don’t need a cane.”

“You don’t need to fall.” She extended a hand again, but he swatted her away.

“Give a man some room.”

“I would, but look what you did with the living room,” she said drily, giving up for now. “My question is, why?”

“I’m writing a paper on the non-invasive assessment of equine musculature recovery post-delivery.” Since he’d retired, he’d written many papers. As titles went, this one was almost decipherable. Almost. After a moment, he obliged her questioning look. “How a mare’s muscles regain their tone after delivering a foal.”

“And you need all those books and magazines for that?” Shelby knew her expression was incredulous. It was the face Gage Jamero, her former best friend, used to take one look at and say, “Barnacles.” He claimed her features twisted up as firmly as her resolve, and were just as reluctant to let go. Not that he’d ever given in to her. On the other hand, Nick used to recognize that expression, raise his hands in surrender, and say, “Babe.”

Her grandfather wasn’t looking at her. He’d turned in his chair to see through the archway back toward the living room. “No, no, no. The stacks by the piano were for the paper I did on canine word retention. The stacks by the fireplace were for the paper I did on bovine stimulus-response. The stacks—”

“Hold up.” Shelby raised a hand. “There are stacks in there from papers you’ve already written?”

He nodded.

“Submitted for publication?”

Another nod.

“Been published?”

He shrugged. “Mostly.”

“So we can get rid of those.”

“No, no, no. What if someone challenges my findings? I may need to write a rebuttal or be asked to write a companion piece.” He drew himself up in bony regalness. “I have a system. Don’t touch a thing.”

“You do remember I’m here to stay with you through harvest?” She’d landed a job as the cellar master at the local winery. Grape harvest at Harmony Valley Vineyards started soon. She’d be working ten hours or more a day from now until the holidays, managing the various containers and equipment where the grapes would ferment, plus making clean transfers as the wine moved from crusher to tank to barrel to bottle. Once this was under way, as well as launching construction of a wine cellar, she’d have time to find a place of her own. And she’d know if Harmony Valley would live up to its name and her memories of it being a close-knit town. “You do remember I’m not that graceful.”

“Of course I remember.” Grandpa tapped his temple with a thin, age-spotted finger. “I’m not senile.”

“We need to find a place to put your inactive research, so I won’t—” and her grandfather wouldn’t “—come in late at night when my reflexes are shot, and knock everything down.” Given how he walked, it was a miracle the stacks hadn’t toppled already.

“I like my library where it is. You can come in the kitchen door.” Her grandfather had a barnacle expression of his own, reminding her why his nickname was War.

Shelby realized she’d have to raise the stakes. “You know, Grandma Ruby wouldn’t approve.”

“Maybe not,” he allowed. “But she’d understand. You’ll come through the kitchen door.”

* * *

“ACCEPT MY APOLOGY, Sugar Lips?” Gage Jamero was up to his elbows in trouble with his latest lady love.

Well, at least one elbow.

Sugar Lips’s contraction built like a blood pressure cuff around Gage’s right biceps. His face heated, his fingers numbed, his body felt as if it was wrapped in a too-tight ace bandage.

“Breathe easy, honey.” Gage tried to follow his own advice. During his internship and residency, he’d gained quite a reputation as a horse whisperer when it came to peevish, pregnant horses. Since then, he’d soothed countless mares and saved many foals trapped in utero by breach positions, like this one was. But this foal, sired by a Kentucky Derby winner, was the equivalent of a million dollar baby.

On the floor of a hay-lined stall, sprawled on his back, his legs half across Sugar Lips’s chestnut flanks, Gage sweated through the mare’s next contraction. He hadn’t been this nervous about his performance since he choked while asking his lab partner out in the twelfth grade. Saving this foal would make or break his fledgling career.

He’d graduated. He’d passed his licensing exam, both in California and Kentucky. He had a job offer in Lexington. All he was waiting for was his predecessor’s retirement. Until then, he was working for lucrative per-delivery fees from the Thomason Equine Hospital, a facility in Davis which was also an open classroom to local university vet students. They received notification when a procedure or delivery was imminent at Thomason and were able to observe through specially installed viewing windows. Today they were witnessing Gage, one of their own a year ago, on the main stage. He’d never been requested to deliver such a valuable foal before. If he screwed this up—and there were many ways to fail here—it would be a blow to his young career. He might even lose the job in Kentucky.

As if sensing what was at stake, the student onlookers and support staff in the hallway of the birthing center fell into a hushed silence, much like the gallery at a golf tournament before a pro-golfer shot for birdie and the win. And just like that pro-golfer, Gage knew he had supporters and detractors. No one wanted anything bad to happen to the mare and her foal, but everyone was hungry for the spotlight he’d recently claimed.

The contraction faded and Gage regained use of his fingers, pressing them harder against the flat of the foal’s forehead, pushing it farther back into the mare’s uterus. He shifted more weight onto his shoulders and the mare’s haunches. Extending his arm, he found the foal’s front leg and eased it forward without snagging the umbilical cord until he had two delicate hooves in his grasp.

“Here we go, Sugar Lips,” he crooned, much too aware that his back was at the mare’s mercy should she kick.

The mare’s wet flanks heaved as if this breath would be her last. She was young and this was her first pregnancy. She’d spent much of her prelabor huffing, glaring and kicking at Gage, blaming him for her condition. So far he’d been extremely lucky in avoiding injury, but luck only lasted so long when idiots were present.

“Dr. Jamero?” The question echoed through the birthing stall.

Sugar Lips coldcocked Gage in the kidney with one powerful hoof. Pain sucked his legs and torso into a stiff ball. Gage almost lost his grip on the foal. It was a sign of how spent the mare was that she didn’t kick him repeatedly. It was a sign of good fortune that this position allowed him greater mobility to shift when delivery was at hand. He’d have to remember that.

Sugar Lips’s uterus tensed once more. It was go-time.

Moments later, he lay panting in the hay cradling the trembling key to his dreams. Sugar Lips lifted her head to see what all the fuss was about, whinnying when she saw her newborn.

Gage’s chest swelled with pride. This was what he loved about being a veterinarian—facing difficult challenges, saving a life, making a connection with a beautiful creature that communicated primarily with body language.

Some boneheads started clapping. Gage curled protectively around the foal being careful not to tear the umbilical cord. He glared at the lone student who was still applauding until the onlooker stopped. Steady hands transferred the newborn to the ground, and checked the vitals of both mare and foal.

Dr. Leo Faraji, a colleague and the man Gage had beaten out for the Kentucky job, helped him to his feet. “Need a doctor, doctor?” he asked in his singsong accent.

“Never.” Knowing he looked as if he was the only survivor in a horror movie, covered as he was in blood and birth fluids, Gage drew himself up to his full six-two height, pretending Sugar Lips hadn’t nearly deflated his kidney.

“Someone wanted me?” he asked. And then he smiled. His mother always said his smile could charm a tantrumy two-year-old into eating vegetables. Since Nick had died, Gage saw it more as a first line of defense. He smiled and people assumed he was okay. Now he used it because he wasn’t going to let these clean, white-coated, wanna-be veterinarians see how nauseous and spent he was.

Someone sucked in a breath, as if awestruck.

That was a more godlike reaction than he’d been hoping for, but as veiled praise went, Gage would take it.

“Yeah, um, Dr. Jamero? There’s some guy on the phone for you.” It was the center’s new student assistant. She hadn’t been around long enough for Gage to learn her name, test her knowledge or teach her barn etiquette. “He’s been on hold awhile now.” She handed him a pink note.

Gage’s smile didn’t break as he reached for the message, dripping the mare’s afterbirth onto the girl’s hand. Accidentally, of course.

“Ew.” She hopped back, shaking the fluid from her fingers.

“Sorry.” Gage checked the stained pink pad and read the name—Dr. Wentworth. His smile faded as he sped from the stall, his steps purposeful and steady, despite the pain radiating in his midsection. Dr. Wentworth had nurtured Gage’s interest in animals since he was a kid. Whenever he called, Gage quickly responded.

Gage’s family had been small town cattle ranchers. Their home was situated in the middle of a neighborhood street on the edge of Harmony Valley, one without sidewalks or streetlights. Their backyard led out to twenty acres of grazing land. Doc’s family had been their next door neighbors and were always bringing home stray animals in need of care. Gage had gravitated toward Doc and his patients. He’d set broken legs and viewed medical procedures before he’d earned his driver’s license.

Minutes later, Gage had ditched the messy smock he’d been wearing and grabbed the office phone. Today was one helluva good day. He couldn’t wait to share the news of the healthy foal with Dr. Wentworth. “What can I do for you?”

“Turn on your cell phone, for one.” The gruff voice, loaded with the attitude of a seasoned hound dog, brought back fond memories of the things Gage liked best about Harmony Valley—its people. “Whoever heard of a doctor nowadays without a phone or a beeper strapped to his waist?”

“I’ll turn on my cell as soon as we hang up.” His phone was in his backpack in the corner of the sparsely furnished office beneath a picture of Secretariat draped in red roses.

The old vet wasted no time on pleasantries. “I wanted to be the first to offer you a chance to buy into a practice—mine. Here in Harmony Valley.”

“Wow.” Gage’s knees buckled and his butt dropped onto the metal desktop. Practice back home? That wasn’t happening. Harmony Valley was filled with bittersweet memories. Not to mention it was wine country now. No racing thoroughbreds or horse breeding farms in the entire off-the-beaten-path valley. “Uh, thanks—”

“The folks in Harmony Valley sure do have a lot of respect for you. We need a vet.”

“But—”

“Don’t interrupt. Did leaving town wipe away all your manners?”

“No, sir.” It had just reinforced the view that life outside Harmony Valley had more to offer and less heartache.

“Now. Where was I?”

“You were talking about good manners,” Gage suggested helpfully.

“My father—” Doc began in a sweeping tone “—would have said you’re being impertinent. I called to talk business, Doctor Jamero. It’s true, I’ve had to let much of my practice go in recent years, although I do still treat Bea Larkin’s milk goats.”

Gage’s shoulders sagged beneath the weight of the old man’s expectations. “Well, you see—”

“There you go again.” There was a snap in his voice that indicated the cantankerous old dog was about to bite. “Just because an old man takes a breath doesn’t mean he’s finished speaking.”

Gage wisely refrained from any jokes about Dr. Wentworth’s age, old dogs and new tricks.

“What I’m trying to say is that we’d make a good team. I can mentor you, like I used to.” The old man drew an audible breath, as if he’d spoken too quickly. “Young people are slowly moving back here. They’ll be having kids, adopting dogs and getting hamsters and all kinds of creatures who’ll need a vet. Don’t tell me you can’t come back. Why, Shelby moved in with me yesterday. I’m sure she called you along with the other volunteers they’ve rounded up to help harvest grapes this Friday night.”

This was news to Gage. Shelby hadn’t called. She’d stopped calling over a year ago.

Secretariat stared down on him with a gaze that had never backed away from a challenge. Of course, Secretariat had his choice of women.

If Gage’s career decision was racehorses versus some old woman’s shaggy milk goats; the excitement of the training yard, breeding stables and track versus the slow paced life in small town Harmony Valley; or a life where no one knew his past versus a life where everyone knew why he had a scar on his right temple...

It didn’t matter how many pros and cons Gage thought of, the life of a racehorse veterinarian was the one he desired. It was the one he’d choose every time he was asked.

So it made no sense that he didn’t reject Dr. Wentworth’s offer outright, other than to show his respect and spare the old man’s feelings.

Because Gage refused to acknowledge that Shelby Hawkley—Doc’s granddaughter—had anything to do with his return to Harmony Valley.

CHAPTER TWO

THE WHOLE TOWN came out to support Harmony Valley Vineyard’s first grape harvest. At least, that’s what it felt like to Shelby as she stood on the winery’s patio Friday night waiting for their volunteer harvesters to arrive. And it felt wonderful. She’d come home. Home to friendly greetings and shared histories, to warm welcomes and “how’ve you beens,” to people who looked you in the eyes when they asked how your day was going and then listened to your answer.

The sun was receding and Shelby turned on the tall propane heaters one by one. During night harvest, the crew would need a warm place to take breaks.

“Shelby, I heard you were back in town. You’ll be registering to vote, of course.” Mayor Larry claimed one of her hands with both of his and gave it a vigorous shake. The unlikely politician—a former hippy who still sported a waist-length ponytail, albeit gray—had been in office for decades. He also ran a profitable online T-shirt business. The mayor reached into a cloth bag on his shoulder and shook out a purple and yellow tie-dyed T-shirt. “How about a shirt? It has the Harmony Valley Vineyard’s logo silk-screened on it.” A black running horse on a weather vane.

“Don’t make it sound as though she has to buy one, Larry. It’s free.” Christine Jennings, Shelby’s boss and head winemaker, plucked the shirt from the mayor’s fingers and gave it to Shelby. “We bought enough for all our workers and volunteers. And you made a tidy profit, Larry.” Christine softened her words with a kiss to Larry’s cheek.

Before Shelby could do more than thank them both for the shirt, another Harmony Valley resident appeared before her.

“I was wondering when I’d get to see you.” Agnes Villanova had been a friend of Shelby’s grandmother. Her big heart came in a petite package. She was barely five feet tall, and one of the town’s most active citizens. She wore a red stocking cap and a bright green sweatshirt. At first glance, she looked like a beardless garden gnome.

Shelby leaned over to receive her hug. “I’ve been meaning to come by.”

“You young people are always so busy.” Agnes moved closer to Christine and slid her arm around her granddaughter’s waist. “First you move home and we think we’ll see you more often, and then you work just as hard as you did before you moved here and so we still never see you.”

“The grapes wait for no one,” Christine said.

“Nor the wine,” Shelby added, exchanging a smile with her boss.

“There’s Ryan. Yoo-hoo!” Agnes waved to the young assistant winemaker. “You ladies go easy on him tonight.”

“Grown man. Paid employee.” Christine’s words were clipped as if this argument was oft repeated. “Don’t baby him.”

“Ah, but he’s so sweet.” Agnes’s expression turned sly. “Until I have great-grandchildren, who can I dote on?”

Christine rolled her eyes.

Just then, Shelby noticed someone shuffling in her direction. It was Hiro Takata, or Old Man Takata as everyone in her generation called him, the town’s retired undertaker. The nip in the air suddenly permeated her bones.

“My dear.” He came close enough to reach for her hand. “It’s good to see you back and doing well.”

The same soothing voice. The same gentle, compassionate handhold. She hadn’t seen the old man since Nick’s funeral.

Old Man Takata used his grip to reel himself to her side. He grunted as he strained to straighten hunched shoulders and lift the kindly aging face of his Japanese ancestors to her. “Where’s your grandfather? Did War skip out on the excitement?” Cigar smoke laced his words.

“He’s at home, hip deep in research.” Shelby couldn’t get Grandpa to promise to stay out of his stacks while she was gone.

The older man smiled. “Are you by any chance a bowler?”

Slade, one of the winery owners, appeared before them. He was knock-your-socks-off handsome, a former Wall Street whiz, and Christine’s fiancé. “She won’t be bowling for your team, Hiro. If she bowls for anyone, it’s the winery.” Slade gave Shelby a brief once-over, like a coach checking out a new recruit. “The winery bowls in a league in Cloverdale. Do you bowl, Shelby?”

Bowling? Athletics? Disaster. “Does pumpkin bowling for the Harvest Queen crown one year count?”

The older man laughed. “It’s coming back to me. A wonky release that nearly took out the spectators.”

“Only Gage,” Shelby muttered.

“Slade, you may have her. Now, find me a seat under one of those heaters.” Old Man Takata released her. “Oh, and, Shelby.” He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Let me know if you need company visiting Nick’s grave.”

Her breath caught. How had he known she hadn’t been able to go alone?

Needing a moment, Shelby faded away from the crowd, retreating to the banks of the Harmony Valley River on the edge of the vineyard.

She drew her green army jacket around herself as the water drifted past with slow swirls that caught the last rays of sunset. Had coming here been a mistake?

The first time Shelby’d moved to Harmony Valley was more than eight years ago. She’d learned quickly she could rely on two things—the steady flow of the river, and Gage Jamero. He had the smile of a heartbreaker and the smarts of a Rhodes Scholar. But most endearingly, he was kind and tongue-tied.

He’d introduced her to his best friend, Nick Hawkley. Nick was handsome and had a way of putting people at ease. She’d felt as if she’d known him forever. Nick had asked her out and that was that. She’d gained a love and a best friend in less than a week. It only took one day to lose both.

She hadn’t visited this part of the river since she’d been in high school. Memories came rushing back. The emotion from events she hadn’t thought of in years welled inside her.

The trouble with being a relatively new widow were all the “firsts.” The first night she’d slept in their bed after Nick died. The first time she’d passed by the church where they’d been married. The first holidays without him at her side.

Firsts were gut-clenching, cold moments. They clogged her throat, flooded her eyes and cut off her breath. It took time to process them. To acknowledge the innocence, to accept things would never be the same again, and to release the melancholy.

Yeah...the melancholy.

She’d once floated around this picturesque river bend on a raft with Nick and Gage. They’d been talking about college options—although they all knew they’d end up at the same university. They were that close. Then Gage had announced he wasn’t coming back to Harmony Valley after graduation.

Because of the scars of her parents’ nomadic, career-driven lifestyle, Shelby had been doggedly against Gage moving elsewhere. She’d lived in six cities by the time she was sixteen while her parents climbed corporate ladders in the advertising world. Always the new girl, always on the outside.

“You have no idea what it’s like to be someplace else. Nobody knows you like they do here. Harmony Valley cares about their neighbors.” She’d pounded the raft’s sides. “We’re all coming back here. Nick’s going to be mayor. I’m going to teach science. And you, Gage?” She’d shot him her most imperial look. “You’ll take over Grandpa’s practice.”

“Come on, Shelby. At eighteen nobody knows what they really want to do or where they’ll end up,” Gage had scoffed. “You think you love...some...something, but it’s just a phase. I loved chicken nuggets when I was four. Now I love sushi. I don’t know what I’m going to love ten years from now, but I do know I’m not coming back here. I want to go someplace where people don’t know my life’s history, including all the stuff I want to forget.”

Nick had been unusually silent.

She hadn’t understood Gage’s sentiment when they were kids. But after Nick’s death, Shelby knew exactly how Gage had felt. She hadn’t wanted to return, either, not because she didn’t love Harmony Valley, but because she couldn’t handle the town’s grief for Nick along with her own.

So instead, she’d taken a job at a winery at the foot of the Sierras, where no one knew her. She worked hard and kept to herself. Ice cream was her best friend. Nick’s pillow her midnight confidante. She was lonely, but loneliness was a guarantee that her heart would never be torn apart again.

Then a few months ago, her car had broken down on a stretch of less-traveled highway north of Sacramento. It was dark and deserted. She’d had no one to call for help. Her parents were working at an ad agency overseas. She hadn’t talked to them in several weeks. In a blink, she’d realized her life was an empty shell. Those things she’d craved growing up? Close friends, being part of a community, the feeling of permanence? She had none.

The next day, she’d heard about the Harmony Valley Vineyards job posting from her grandfather. She’d decided a compromise needed to be made.

A barking black dog ran by her, drawing her attention back to the present. Behind the dog was a panting, ginger-headed young boy.

“Hi, Shelby! I get to stay up late tonight picking grapes.” Truman, a nephew of Flynn, one of the winery’s owners, high-fived her before he disappeared into a row of grapevines behind her.

A few seconds later, Slade’s daughters, dark haired, identical twins, burst out of another row.

“Did you see Truman?” one asked as she gasped for breath and fanned her face.

Her twin, similarly red-cheeked and breathless, scanned the area.

“You can’t catch me,” Truman taunted from deep within a row. His laughter danced over rustling grape leaves.

Giggling, the girls raced after him, leaving Shelby with a lightened heart. It was good to see children back in town, good to see the kind of friendships she’d had the year she’d lived here.

In the distance, cars rumbled over the winery’s gravel driveway. Her Harmony Valley past was returning. Without Nick’s optimism and humor. Without Gage’s wit and blinding smile.

“Shelby, they’re here,” Christine called from the farmhouse porch several hundred feet away.

Shelby walked through rows of bushy grapevines dotted with the occasional browning leaf. The white two-story farmhouse had been renovated into an elegant tasting room on the first floor with open office space above. To the right, the winery’s main building had been constructed over the original barn’s footprint, and housed wine processing equipment along with some expensive wine barrels. It was a very small operation set in the middle of a beautiful vineyard. If done right, the wine would be exquisite. After Christine worked her winemaking magic, it was Shelby’s job to make sure the wine aged to perfection.

The sky softened to twilight gray as cars shut off and headlights dimmed. The nip of evening breathed over the vineyard. Soon the temperature would drop and the only light would come from portable metal booms as they harvested the Chardonnay grapes that would make up the first vintage of Harmony Valley Vineyards wine.

Christine gestured for Shelby to join her on the porch, next to Ryan, and Slade, who was being teased for not wearing a tie—an inside joke, for sure. All three owners—Slade, Flynn and Will—were hometown boys, a few years ahead of Shelby in school and relative strangers until recently. They’d made their fortunes by designing and selling a popular farming app.

On the other side of Slade, Flynn had his arms linked around his nephew, Truman. He nodded to Shelby. “Are you ready for this?”

“I should be asking you that. I’ve done this before.” Shelby bent to pet Truman’s dog. The black fur on her head was velvety soft and immediately settled the last of Shelby’s pensiveness.

Will stood at the opposite end of the porch. His arm was draped over his fiancée’s shoulders. Emma touched his cheek with paint-stained fingers. Come spring, the up-and-coming artist was going to paint a mural on one side of the barn that housed the winery.

“Here they come. Our volunteers.” By the pride in Christine’s voice, one might have thought she was talking about her own children, the ones Agnes was waiting to dote on.

The winery had been unable to entice a professional harvesting team to work on such a small job in this isolated, northeastern border town of Sonoma County. A bit of networking had resulted in former residents being recruited to help. Twenty acres of Chardonnay grapes. Less than an eighth square mile to cover. Together they could be done by dawn. In another few weeks, if the weather remained mild, the final acres with Cabernet Sauvignon grapes would be ready to harvest, and the request for volunteers would go out again.

“This is going to be perfect.” Christine rubbed her hands together. “We’ll divide them into teams and show them how to cut grape clusters. And if someone can’t cut—”

“Or cuts off their finger...” Ryan crossed his gangly arms over his chest as he inspected their volunteer crew.

Shelby silently agreed with Ryan. There were so many ways this could derail. Inexperience led to accidents. Cockiness led to catastrophe. Thank goodness, the aging population was only here to greet their younger relatives and provide emotional support. She couldn’t imagine Old Man Takata shuffling down a row cutting grape clusters all night in the cold.

Christine gave Ryan the stink eye. “If they aren’t skilled at cutting, they can transport grapes to the de-stemmer and then the crusher. Everyone works. Everyone should feel needed. That’s the most important take away from this experience tonight. They’re getting paid with a T-shirt, a bottle from our first vintage, a thank-you on the web site and our graciousness.”

“Compensation enough to come back for the Cab harvest,” Ryan deadpanned, stroking the long, sparse whiskers on his face. His dark hair curled in disobedient waves that nearly brushed his shoulders. It was a mark of pride that male winemakers didn’t shave or cut their hair from the beginning of harvest season until the last grape was picked and crushed. Female winemakers were more civilized.

“It’ll be enough.” Christine narrowed her eyes at her young assistant. “Say you believe me.”

“Of course. Optimism is my middle name.” Ryan waited until Christine turned away to whisper to Shelby. “Twenty bucks says we lose half of them by break time.”

“Was it just a few months ago that I hired a sweet, shy assistant?” Christine shook a finger at Ryan. “Whatever happened to him?”

“He blossomed under your tutelage.” Ryan grinned.

“More likely in my grandmother’s kitchen eating her homemade strudel. She’s spoiled you.” Christine turned away again, and rubbed her hands together as she took in the group on the porch. “Let’s welcome our workers.” She led them down the steps and into the growing crowd.

The young volunteers embraced their elders, called out greetings to their other hometown friends, hugged each other and shook hands, looking as if they were coming to a family reunion instead of a race to pick grapes before they over-ripened.

Shelby mingled with friends from her past—Emily Johnson, Carl Quedoba, Tanya Romero, Umberto Escabar. She met the recently hired town sheriff for the first time, as well as a woman who was thinking about opening a bed-and-breakfast in her grandmother’s ancient Victorian.

A lone vehicle turned down the driveway, its headlights high between the palms. A truck. A white truck. A white truck with a dented rear fender.

It can’t be. Shelby held her breath.

The driver parked and got out, flashing a dazzling smile beneath a faded red Harmony Valley Hedgehogs ball cap.

A brisk wind rustled the grapevines, chilling her.

It was Dead Gage.

* * *

AWARENESS OF SHELBY kicked through Gage’s system like an electrical current wearing combat boots.

If Gage had been a lab rat hooked up to sensors, every time he saw Shelby scientists would record an intense release of dopamine, serotonin and norepinephrine. He wasn’t a lab experiment, but the trifecta of his body’s chemicals heightened his perception at the sight of her. They focused his attention on the things he found physically attractive about Shelby—her slender curves, her warm smile, her big blue eyes—and the things he admired about Shelby—her intelligence, her gentle humor, her nurturing tendencies— It was all imprinted in his memory.

Luckily, no one kept track of his internal responses except Gage. And to this day, since he’d been careful, no one knew how Shelby affected him.

He was a doctor, a scientist. He could catalog his physiological response to her, rationalize his feelings and control his behavior. And if that control was threatened, a joke to break the tension was always the answer.

And so, upon seeing Shelby, he didn’t smile like an idiot when he admired her in body-hugging jeans. He didn’t let his gaze linger more than a second on her sweet face. And he didn’t reenact his fantasy of staring into Shelby’s sky-blue eyes as he reeled her slowly into his arms, brushed aside her short, soft blond curls, and kissed her.

Not when their small town friends flanked her.

Not when, presumably, her new boss stood nearby.

Not when he hadn’t talked to her since Nick’s funeral.

Gage took off his old high school baseball cap and wiped his brow. The hat was useless anyway, as it did little to hide his seminervous expression from Shelby.

Two years ago, he’d overslept and missed meeting Nick for a day of kayaking on the swollen Merced River rapids. That was the day his life changed forever.

If Gage had woken up on time, he might have talked Nick out of getting on the raging water that day. He might still spend Saturday mornings snowboarding black diamond slopes in winter. He might still spend Saturday mornings in summer free-climbing cliffs in Yosemite. And Nick might still be alive.

Born a month apart, and raised a block from each other, Nick and Gage had been more like brothers than friends. Gage would do almost anything for Nick, even ignore the feelings he had for Shelby.

Take the day he’d met Shelby. She’d stumbled into his high school science class during his senior year. He’d felt as if he’d been sucker punched. Unbelievably, he, who’d always relied on proof and facts, had fallen in love at first sight. How else could he describe how discombobulated he felt just seeing Shelby? But while he’d overanalyzed those strange, new feelings, Nick, who’d never hesitated in his too-short life, acted right after Gage introduced them.

Once Gage discovered his feelings for Shelby were substantial and real, it was too late. He’d fallen for his lab partner, and she’d fallen for his best friend. And his feelings hadn’t waned. Not at their high school and college graduations. Not at the engagement party. Not at the wedding. Not at the funeral.

He’d never acted on his impulses. And tonight would be no different.

“Gage?” Shelby’s voice. So unsure.

He closed the distance between them slowly. The slower he approached the longer he had to take note of her features. That no-nonsense, short blond hair beneath a yellow knit cap. That slender figure bundled against the late October chill. That tentative look in her eyes.

He was the reason for that look, while she was the reason his pulse kicked up a notch.

He stopped and brought out the heavy artillery—his smile. “Did somebody call for a grape picker?”

Without missing a beat, she put her hands on her hips. “You didn’t answer any of my messages.”

He shook his head. The crowd of volunteers watched silently, as if this was enthralling cinema.

“You didn’t reply to any of my texts or emails either.”

His smile dimmed.

“You un-friended me on Facebook.”

The crowd gasped. A few chuckled.

“I shut down my Facebook page,” he told her, and the crowd. There, at least that was a defendable excuse.

“And your phone?”

Don’t do this to me, Shel.

He’d never admitted to anyone that he was supposed to have been with Nick the day he died. The secret ate away at him. It probably always would.

“Gage?” Her vulnerability was strong enough to slip past his guard.

“I couldn’t.” The words were wrenched out of him.

She made a sound that was half disapproving huff, half sob and ran toward him, practically tripping over her own two feet. He couldn’t say later if he’d met her halfway, couldn’t remember much beyond her arms coming around him, pressing against the hoofprint contusion near his spine. But the hug...the hug was worth every pang in his bruised and sore back. She held Gage as if he was a precious gift she never wanted to lose.

For a moment, Gage drew Shelby close, inhaling the intoxicating scent of her hair, imagining what life would be like if she were his: no-overanalyzing. No careful responses. No distance.

Like there was a chance of that happening.

The power of his emotions made him realize coming home was a good thing. He’d needed to see Shelby again, if only to say goodbye to her once and for all.

“This makes up for nothing,” she whispered, before pushing Gage away to introduce him to those he didn’t know.

Her boss divided the volunteers into different groups—bin runners, crush pad operators, but mostly grape harvesters. Gage ended up with Shelby’s group of harvesters, along with several of their friends.

They were outfitted with plastic tubs, work gloves, and curved, serrated knives. Shelby led them between two rows of grapevines, halting beneath a boom with lights that illuminated three rows across, positioning them six feet apart on either side. “We’ll go through each corridor tonight. You’ll locate a cluster of grapes, and cut the stem as close to the cluster as you can.”

Gage’s breath caught as Shelby held up a very sharp-looking knife. Back in high school, after she’d sliced open her finger while dissecting a pig—twice—Mrs. Bernhardt had forbidden Shelby to wield sharp instruments in her biology class.

“Plant your feet. Grab hold of the vine. And...” Shelby smoothly slid her knife beneath a leaf, made a cut, freed a grape cluster bigger than her hand and set it in the bin next to her. Then she demonstrated her technique again, slower this time, surprising Gage with how capable and confident her movements were. “Hold the cluster in one hand, make a diagonal cut with your knife and then show the grapes some love as you put them gently in the bin.”

“Nicely done,” he said.

She ignored him and cut another grape cluster free. “Remove any leaves or excess stems. When your tub is full, empty your load into the large wheeled bin and move ahead to another section. And if the knife makes you uncomfortable—” she made eye contact with everyone but Gage “—let me know. We’ll find something else for you to do. Nobody’s getting hurt on my watch.”

He realized in the past two years he’d missed out on something: Shelby had changed.

She wasn’t the cute, naively optimistic, bumbling young woman he’d fallen in love with and his best friend had married.

She was something more.

Something that made it hard for him to remember he should only have come to say goodbye.

* * *

EACH WINERY’S HARVEST was different. The weather, the slope of the property, the crew.

Some crews spoke very little English. Some sang rowdy songs.

This crew was like being at a high school reunion without the alcohol or cocktail dresses. They fell into an easy camaraderie—joking, reminiscing, telling stories about college, jobs, spouses and kids. Everyone, that is, except Shelby and Gage.

“Three kids already?” With a waggle of eyebrows, curvy Tanya ribbed Emily. “You’ve been busy, girl.”

“I love my kids.” Emily had that look about her that many young moms seemed to have—equal parts joy and weariness. “But every mom needs a break. That’s why my husband is home with them tonight.”

They all laughed.

Carl hadn’t changed a bit. “I couldn’t wait to get out of here after graduation. Santa Rosa has everything I need—sexy cars, sexy women and the food...” He’d always been focused on the trappings of success and quite the talker. Only now, his brown hairline was receding. “I sell solar panels for swimming pools. I drive a company truck, and as a perk they put solar panels on my roof for free. If anyone needs to heat up their pool, let me know.”

Broad shouldered Umberto’s grin was just as wide as always. “California’s been hard up for water. How’s the pool biz working out for you?”

“It’s been tough,” Carl admitted begrudgingly. Then he gave Umberto a friendly slug to the arm. “But I’ve always been a survivor. Remember that baseball game against Cloverdale senior year? I was not going to let their superstar score and beat us.”

And Carl hadn’t. He’d decked the runner trying to steal home, hitting him so hard the boy got a concussion.

Shelby glanced at Gage. He and Nick had played in that game. Afterward, they hadn’t been proud of the win. Gage said nothing.

Seeing Gage triggered so many memories. Bright ones—laughing with their heads bent over a science book, racing Nick and Gage on bikes to school, dancing with Gage on her wedding day. And darker memories—her calling to ask Gage if he’d heard from Nick, him showing up at their apartment in the middle of the night to drive her to identify Nick’s broken body, him fading into the crowd of mourners at the funeral.

A part of her ached anew trying to imagine the reason he’d disappeared. He was hurting as much as I was.

A part of her rose up in indignant anguish. He left me when I needed him most.

Wounded pride stiffened her backbone. She refused to need anyone anymore. Needing, attachment, loving. It all led to heartache.

For two years, she’d coped with the loss of his friendship by creating the metaphor of Dead Gage. If she was dead to him and not worthy of a phone call, he’d be dead to her. Tit for tat. Quid pro quo. Right back at you.

Then why did you claim him for your crew?

Because... Because they’d been close once. Because there was a look in his eyes now that echoed hers on difficult days. And because his happy-go-lucky smile when he’d arrived was the one he used to hide his true emotions.

Before she could ask Gage how he was doing, Tanya started up again. “Do you remember that time Mrs. Horvath took us on a field trip to the coast?”

As the night wore on, fog blanketed the vineyard. Cold seeped through her work gloves, the same as it had seeped through her heart at the sight of Gage.

“Do you ever hear from Maria?” Tanya cut a thick cluster free.

“I heard she’s living in Vegas.” Emily straightened, pressing her thumbs into the small of her back. “I’m using muscles I haven’t used in years.”

Umberto dumped a tray of grapes into the big bin on wheels. “My grandmother said she went to prison.”

“My grandfather said she’s dead.” Carl’s chortle echoed through the vineyard.

The group fell silent and cast covert glances toward Shelby and Gage, whose gazes collided. The cowlick over his forehead stuck up the way it did when he got frustrated and wouldn’t leave it alone.

Dead Gage. When Gage hadn’t answered Shelby’s calls or texts after the funeral, she’d had a meltdown. Not a week earlier, her husband hadn’t answered her calls or texts, and he’d turned up dead.

“I heard Vegas,” Shelby said thickly.

“Me, too.” Gage bent to the vines.

“I bet Maria dances in one of those topless shows.” Carl filled the silence gleefully. “I need to track her down. I’d love to score some front row seats and maybe land a date with a dancer or two.”

“Two? That’s the attitude that led to Tracy Jackson dumping you.” Umberto chuckled. “Now her brother’s a millionaire and is one of the owners of this place. I heard one of them bought his sister a condo and a new car. You could’ve been on easy street.”

“Tracy Jackson. I haven’t thought of her in forever.” Carl showed not a hint of remorse for breaking Tracy’s heart in high school. “Does anyone have her number?”

Shelby smiled at his perseverence, although if she had Tracy’s number there was no way she’d pass it on to Carl.

* * *

“LET’S BREAK,” CHRISTINE called out shortly after midnight.

Agnes, Umberto’s grandmother—who owned the Mexican restaurant in town—and Mayor Larry had arrived with hot tamales, sandwiches, chocolate cake and fresh coffee. They set everything out on the wrought iron patio tables beneath portable heaters. Agnes fawned over Ryan, serving him a sandwich and bringing him a large piece of cake.

Bypassing the food, Shelby headed toward the river. She didn’t have to ask Gage to follow. She knew he would.

At the riverbank, she sat on a log, and turned to face him. The moon did a poor job of illuminating his features, which were hard planes and shadows. His dark hair blended into the night.

“How’ve you been?” Gage surprised her by breaking the silence between them. He’d always been a reticent conversationalist, more likely satisfied by simply being part of the group than participating.

“Fine.” It was what his parents had said when she’d asked about him. Fine? Shelby had wanted to put her arms around Gage to see for herself. She’d had to settle for fine. And so would he.

A frog sang a baritoned lament across the river.

“I miss him,” Gage said.

“Don’t.” Her shoulders deflated as if pressed down, threatening to bend her over. She kept herself upright by pushing her palms onto her knees. “You weren’t around when I needed to talk about Nick, when I needed to share the things that made him special with someone who knew him as well as I did. Where were you?” Her voice made her sound hurt and disappointed. She hated it. She was a professional. She couldn’t break down tonight. “I can’t talk to you as if I just saw you yesterday.”

But she wanted to. That once young, innocent part of her she’d assumed was long dead and buried—that stumbling, lonely misfit—wanted to.

She covered her lips with her fingers, but that didn’t stop the lonely misfit from talking. “Gage, marriage to Nick...your friendship...they meant everything to me and for one precious year, I had both. I felt I had what everyone else took for granted.” Dropping her hand, Shelby drew a shaky breath. “Let’s face it. I’m not the same person anymore.”

“I’m sorry.”

Shelby let Gage’s words drift by with the river.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I can’t tell you how often I started to get in touch. But what would I say?” He clasped her hand.

It was a very un-Gage-like moment. He wasn’t a touchy-feely sort of person.

She’d taken her gloves off. The warmth of his skin heated her palm. But his touch sent more than physical warmth. It offered more than belated comfort. The feel of his hand around hers—an intimacy she hadn’t experienced since Nick—sent a prickle of awareness along her spine.

Awareness? Of Dead Gage?

“There’s nothing more to say.” She snatched her hand back from his and hopped to her feet. Breaking their connection, reassembling the I-don’t-care expression on her face, she almost tripped over a tree root as she backed away. “Friendships are like seasons. There’s a cycle. A beginning, an end. Ours ran its course.” Friendships cooled. People moved on, except for those who stayed here in Harmony Valley. “Time to get back. We’ve got a long night ahead.”

She turned away, one hand cold. The other, the one Gage had held, still tingled.

Awareness of Gage? It was a fluke. A product of her loneliness.

When they got back to the others, she almost believed it.

CHAPTER THREE

GAGE HAD BEEN coldcocked twice in one week. First by Sugar Lips. Then by Shelby.

It’d been a long, physically demanding night, made longer by the residual reminders of Sugar Lips’s blow, and Shelby’s proclamation that their friendship had run its course. It was exactly what he needed to hear to be able to take the job in Kentucky and get on with his life.

There would be no “what-if” hypotheses about a future with Shelby, which were foolish, childish ideas to begin with. There would be no arguments about his being disloyal since Shelby was now free—disheartening, to say the least. There would be no 2:00 a.m. sleep-depriving worries about where Shelby was, if she was dating, if she felt as alone as he did.

Gage parked his truck in his old driveway on Adams Street and zipped up his jacket against the early morning autumn chill. When he’d informed his parents he was volunteering for the harvest, they’d told him not to go by their former house. But how could he not?

“Helping two kids through college,” his dad had said. His parents lived in Santa Rosa now, both working at a livestock auction instead of their ranch. “We could only afford the taxes on the place. And now it’s not as if anyone’s going to buy it.”

The once cheerful blue and white house seemed to have given up hope of the Jameros returning. The roof on the ranch home sagged beneath wisps of fog. Someone had been by to cut the weeds where the lawn used to be. Boards from the tree fort that Gage and Nick had built dangled dejectedly from the oak tree in front. The basketball hoop over the garage was rusted, the netting frayed. He thought of his sister, always trying to join in the game. The curtains were drawn. Not only did the house not want to see the desolation outside, it didn’t want anyone to see the similar emptiness on the inside. Down the road, where Nick used to live, was much the same.

There was nothing left to keep Gage in Harmony Valley. All he needed for closure was to tell Dr. Wentworth, “Thanks, but no thanks.”

Gage walked next door, taking the shortcut through the side yard.

Doc had the kitchen door open and waved him closer. “Heard you drive up. You’re just in time for breakfast.”

Mushu waddled over to meet Gage, her black curly fur in bad need of a grooming. He knelt down to give her some love, stroking her while doing a brief health inspection. No tumors, no scaly skin, no sensitive spots. Just matted fur.

The cocker spaniel didn’t follow him inside, despite the tantalizing scent of bacon. “You’ve either been overfeeding Mushu, or she’s got a hyperthyroid issue.”

“She’s fat.” Dr. Wentworth looked at Gage over the top of his thick glasses. “I’m busy, so I set out a dog feeder. She’s like a hobbit. She eats more meals than she needs to.”

“It’s not healthy for her.” Gage caught sight of the stacks of books and magazines in Doc’s living room. “What’s all this?”

“My research. I’d like to discuss it with you.” The old vet dished a plate of scrambled eggs mixed with bite-size chunks of potato, red pepper, cheese and bacon, and handed it to Gage.

After the night he’d had, the hearty meal was a welcome sight. Gage took a seat at the table. Whereas his abandoned home looked like a candidate for demolition, Doc’s was bright and lived-in. It was on the tip of Gage’s tongue to ask if Shelby knew about the clutter, when she came through the front door, looking haggard.

“Shoot. I forgot this was here and I’m too tired to go around.” Shelby wended her way carefully through the tall stacks. Her blue eyes were dark-rimmed, betraying her exhaustion. They stayed firmly trained on the path in front of her. “But I’m relieved Grandpa didn’t knock anything over.”

“Hey!” Doc protested.

Gage held his breath, prepared to leap up if she misstepped and knocked over anything.

She didn’t. Instead, her gaze stumbled into his as she entered the kitchen. “You didn’t come in this way, did you?”

Gage shook his head, grateful that he wasn’t being given the silent treatment, grateful that her effect on him wasn’t as strong as when he’d first seen her last night. “I came in the back.”

“Which is the door I told you to use, Shelby,” Dr. Wentworth scolded, filling another plate for his granddaughter. “What’s your schedule today, hotshot?”

“This hotshot is taking a nap, first thing.” Looking just as tired as Gage felt, she sank into a kitchen chair opposite him, accepting the food and glass of milk her grandfather put in front of her with heartfelt thanks. “I’m meeting Christine downtown after lunch. We’re going to choose a site for the temporary wine cellar.”

“Aren’t wine cellars underground?” Gage had the strongest urge to put an arm around her shoulders and tuck her close. Instead, he made a mental list of the salt-and-pepper shakers on the table—a pair of Mallard ducks, a pair of kissing geese, brown spotted cocker spaniels, bumble bees and Siamese cats. “I didn’t think anything downtown had a big enough basement.”

“There isn’t. But we have to make do.” Shelby’s response was all business. “The wine cellar was left out of the original winery plans, made before they hired Christine. The grapes we picked will ferment at the winery’s main facility in steel tanks. Then they’ll be put into oak casks, which require climate controlled storage while they age enough for bottling. The sooner we get a wine cellar cobbled together, the better off we are in terms of wine quality.”

“You plan to use one of the vacant stores downtown?” Gage had overheard some volunteers discussing it while taking a coffee break during the night.

She nodded.

Doc turned off the burner and moved the pan to the rear of the stove. “You can shower if you want to, Gage, before we check out the clinic.” He joined them at the table with a loaded plate for himself. “I could wash your clothes while you nap in the guest room.”

“That’s very domestic of you,” Gage said with a straight face. No offense, but he didn’t want Doc anywhere near his skivvies. It violated the Man Code.

“Grandpa, you’re embarrassing him.” Shelby grazed Gage with a sideways glance. “And me.”

“I’m being hospitable.” Doc’s rumble filled every corner of the kitchen. “Gage is here to talk details on reopening my practice.”

Gage swallowed quickly, nearly choking on his eggs. “About that—”

“You’re not seriously considering moving back?” Shelby blurted, her gaze intense. “I thought you didn’t want to live here.”

“Well, I—”

“The boy needs a job.” Dr. Wentworth shook his fork in Shelby’s direction.

Shelby shook hers right back. “I’m sure the boy has dreams that don’t involve treating overweight cocker spaniels and aging dachshunds with back problems.”

The familiar way they argued had Gage hiding a smile.

“Are you implying the challenges in practicing here aren’t good enough for him?” Doc squinted at Shelby over the top of his eye-glasses.

“Yes.” She popped a bite of potato in her mouth.

Dr. Wentworth pounded a fist on the table, rattling shakers. “Why don’t we wait to hear what the boy has to say?”

They both turned to him expectantly.

Gage chose a bumblebee from the collection of shakers at the center of the table, and peppered his food, wisely keeping his mouth shut.

“You see,” Shelby said at the same time her grandfather said, “I told you so.”

They each stabbed a bite of food.

Gage couldn’t prolong disappointing Doc any longer. “I have a job. Starting in January, I’m going to be the veterinarian for a group of racing stables in Lexington, Kentucky.”

They both stared at him with equal parts dismay and pride.

“So far,” Shelby murmured, while her grandfather muttered, “Dogs, all mighty. I should have called you sooner.”

Had Nick been alive, the ensuing silence would have been filled with a supportive comment. Instead, Gage found himself stepping in. “Shelby’s right. I wouldn’t be happy here. It’s my dream to work with racehorses.”

More silence.

Gaipan appeared at the back door, announcing her presence with the distinctive complaint only a Siamese could give.

“Two months.” Dr. Wentworth stared at Gage through thick, smudged lenses. “I’ll take you for two months. In that time, we can have the practice up and running again. It’ll look attractive for some other vet to come in. Or maybe you’ll decide to stay.”

In his mind’s eye, Gage could see himself shaking his head, his neck twisting to and fro. But his view had stuck on Shelby, on her fringe of mussed up hair beneath her cap and the weary set to her shoulders. She wasn’t just tired. She was unhappy.

I could make her happy.

As a friend. Only as a friend.

He should have ended Doc’s hopes. Instead, Gage kept them alive with a nod and a curt, “We’ll see.”

* * *

“MAE, HOW ABOUT YOU? When can you work the gift shop? Saturday afternoon is still open.” Agnes had a way of looking at you and smiling that almost made you forget she was putting you on the spot. Almost.

“I won’t be working at the shop.” Mae Gardner sat in her chair at El Rosal, her full lunch plate lying untouched in front of her.

The first Saturday of the month used to be the widows meeting. They talked about gossip and meal planning and men.

Agnes had increased the frequency and changed the focus of their gatherings to opening a gift shop downtown. “How many pot holders can I put you down for, Mae?”

Mae squished a piece of cold enchilada with her fork. “None.”

The rest of the room gave a collective gasp. Mae always made quilted pot holders for town fund-raisers, had been for more than five decades. Her refusal was like saying there would be no Christmas this year.

Mae’s breath hitched. She turned to Rose Cascia. “Did Emma’s wedding dress come in yet?”

Rose shushed her.

“Okay, how about Lila?” Agnes shifted her attention elsewhere. “Can we rely on you for a baby quilt or two?”

Mae swung her gaze around the room. Nineteen other widows were in attendance, eating and head-nodding whenever Agnes reached a head-nod moment. Were they all really interested in opening a boutique?

A glass clinked in the corner. Rhonda Matson was on her third mimosa. That usually meant her son had cancelled plans to bring her grandkids to visit on Sunday.

Janine Lee kept tugging down the ends of her blond wig. Was her hair finally growing back?

Olly Bingmire’s attention kept drifting toward the front door. She gave a mouse-like squeak and stared at Agnes as Thomas Higby came through the door, nearly five-and-a-half feet of single senior man and a hard worker.

Mae would like to have a word with Thomas. Life was too short to live alone. She’d like to have a word with Janine, maybe congratulate her on beating the Big C. She’d like to tell the waiter to stop bringing Rhonda mimosas. But there was Agnes and this boutique business.

“The next item on the agenda is a name for our venture.” Agnes tapped her pencil against her palm. “Ladies, we need something unique and creative.”

“Pretty Things,” Clementine Quedoba said. “I enjoy pretty things.” She had, but the poor dear had hocked many of her pretty things over at Snarky Sam’s pawn shop.

“Harmony Valley Boutique?” Linda Sue suggested in her kitten-soft voice. She always came across like a fragile flower. You’d think she would have gotten over her husband’s passing five years ago. Instead, Linda Sue had cats. She could be dating a well-preserved retired fireman who rescued cats, but no. She and the cats lived alone.

“A Stitch in Time,” Meg Galinsky piped up. She still had both her God-given hips and mobility. Why wasn’t she dating someone in the town’s bowling league?

Mae mashed up her enchilada some more, waiting for the meeting to be over. Maybe then she’d be able to get to the really important things—the emotional status of her friends.

But Agnes clearly had other plans. She beelined to Mae as soon as she adjourned their meeting. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve lost weight again.”

“I’m fine.” Liar, liar, polyester pants on fire.

Shoot. Linda Sue was heading out with Meg and Olly. Janine and Rhonda were gathering their purses.

Agnes worked that politician smile of hers. She was the sweetest member of the town council. “You know we’d love to have some pot holders to sell in the store.”

Janine and Rhonda drifted outside with the crowd. Mae wasn’t moving fast enough to catch them. She had so little joy left. Why was this being taken from her, too?

“Agnes, do you really want to spend the last few years of your life selling pot holders in a store?” Mae didn’t wait for her friend’s answer.

* * *

WHAT HAPPENED TO believing Gage was dead to her?

Dead Gage shouldn’t make her want to smile just by seeing him sitting at her grandfather’s kitchen table.

Dead Gage shouldn’t tug at her heartstrings when he talked about leaving town.

Dead Gage shouldn’t open up long shelved feelings, ones that made her feel bad for thinking of him as Dead Gage.

“Grandpa, I’m going to my meeting.” Shelby kissed the crown of her grandfather’s head. She’d had a nap and a shower and almost felt human.

Her grandfather was working at the computer desk in his room. He acknowledged her announcement with a soft grunt.

It was just under a mile to the town square, so Shelby decided to walk. Someone on a motorcycle passed by her and waved as she tried calling her parents. There was no answer. The message she recorded was brief.

A flock of birds fled a nearby tree. On the property was a house that was boarded up. There were too many boarded up houses in town. People were returning to Harmony Valley, but slowly.

A block from the town square, Flynn and Slade were building a ramp over the front steps of Mr. Hammacker’s house. Truman, his dog, and the twins ran around the yard playing keep-the-ball-away-from-the-dog. Their laughter was infectious.

Shelby stopped on the sidewalk and waved at one of the girls. “I would have thought you guys would be catching up on your sleep.”

“Kind of hard to sleep when your to-do list is as long as your arm and you’ve been drinking coffee all night.” Flynn stood and shook out his shoulders, seemingly grateful for a break.

Drill in hand, Slade shaded his eyes as he turned toward her. “Off to that wine cellar meeting?”

“Yep.”

He gave her a half grin. “Make sure Christine doesn’t offer anyone any money before she talks to me.”

She laughed politely, but instantly sobered. Like she was going to get between the owner and her boss. The safest course of action was to smile and move on.

Life hadn’t just taught Shelby a harsh lesson. It had also taught one to Harmony Valley. People leave.

Her friends from high school had lives elsewhere. Nick was buried in his family plot in the town cemetery. Gage would be moving on, most likely sooner than later.

Funny how Gage’s announcement about Kentucky affected her. She’d had to fight the urge to ask him why he couldn’t find a job closer to town. She didn’t understand the urge. She understood how things worked. People leave. And yet, it was his leaving that jostled her emotions.

She felt restless, as if something needed to be done. Today. Something more than a search for a temporary wine cellar location.

Shelby crossed the town square.

Agnes opened the door to El Rosal, and waved her over. The only restaurant in town served breakfast, lunch and dinner, as well as sold grocery staples in what used to be the lobby. The bright primary colors of the restaurant’s interior—red tables, blue chairs, green walls—were almost too much for Shelby’s sleep-deprived eyes.

Agnes was having coffee with two other gray-haired women while the waitstaff cleaned up the tables around them. “I know you’re probably in a hurry, but neither Rose nor Mildred have had a chance to say hello since you returned.”

“Unfortunately, I only have a few minutes.” Shelby sat with her grandmother’s friends, just as she’d sat in their kitchens back in the day and mixed cookie dough or tried to learn how to make a decent casserole. Hands down she’d been the worst of their culinary students.

“I seem to remember you performing in a version of West Side Story I directed for the high school.” Rose Cascia smoothed her already smooth chignon as she studied Shelby. She had a regal, tightly wound posture. In her youth, she’d performed in ballets and on Broadway. “But I can’t recall what role you had.”

“I was in the chorus.” Where Shelby had tried very hard not to trip her way into the orchestra pit.

Rose tsked. “That will have to do. On Sunday nights—”

“She’s going to be too busy to sing theatricals with you on Sundays.” Agnes patted Shelby’s hand. “I know because my granddaughter works 24/7. That’s a term, isn’t it?” She arched a silver brow as she looked at Shelby. “24/7? Or is it 7/24?”

“24/7.” Shelby tried hard not to smile. “It was lovely to see you all again, but I really need to be going, I’m meeting—”

“Tell me.” Mildred’s round white curls complemented her plump pink cheeks, but her gaze was unfocused, giving away she had deteriorated vision. “What kind of car do you drive?”

“A white SUV. Why?”

Mildred shook her head. “Young people nowadays. No imagination. No spunk.” In Mildred’s youth, she’d blazed many trails, including being one of the first female professional race car drivers. “I expected more from you, Shelby.”

“Her vehicle is practical,” Agnes pointed out kindly.

“But boring.” Rose patted Shelby’s other hand. “No offense, dear.”

“None taken.” Shelby pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and checked the time.

“She needs to take some risks,” Mildred interjected. “Fast curves, fast dancing, fast men.”

Shades of Carl Quedoba. Shelby stood. “It’s been lovely, but I’m going to be late if I don’t leave now.” Shelby hightailed it out the door.

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