Her Cowboy Soldier

Amy’s grandmother really was amazing. When Amy was a little girl, she’d believed Bobbie could do anything. She was so strong and capable and independent, the way Amy wanted to be. After Amy’s grandfather died, Bobbie carried on by herself, managing the orchard, taking care of the house and doing everything that had to be done.

Whenever Amy felt overwhelmed by everything she had to do, she thought of Bobbie and felt stronger. She didn’t have to lean on a man. She could take care of herself, and her daughter, without depending on another person. Without risking being hurt again.

CHAPTER TWO

“WHAT DID YOU do to that reporter after the game?” Zach sauntered into Josh’s classroom Tuesday afternoon and tossed a copy of the Hartland Herald on his desk. “Sounds like she’s really got it in for you.”

“Amy Marshall?” While she’d been a little confrontational at first, Josh had thought he and Amy had parted friends. Luck Leads Wildcats To Another Victory proclaimed the headline on the front page. He picked up the paper and scanned the story, anger rising. “‘Coach Scofield noted that this game was meaningless, since the team has already been eliminated from the play-offs,’” he read. “That’s not what I said.”

“Did you get to the part where she points out that you’ve never coached before and much of your initial success has been due to luck?” Zach asked.

“How does she get away with saying something like that?”

“Is she an old girlfriend you dumped or something?” Zach asked.

“No. She just moved to town. Her grandmother is Bobbie Anderson. She has the orchard next to my folks’ place.”

“You obviously didn’t make a very good impression on her. Or maybe she doesn’t like baseball.”

Though Amy had struck Josh as a little reserved, he hadn’t sensed any outright hostility against him. Their conversation in the parking lot after the game had been friendly enough. He’d always thought of himself as a good judge of people, but clearly he’d been all wrong about Amy. “We’ll see about that,” he said.

“What are you going to do?” Zach asked.

“I’m going to talk to her. She owes me an apology.” He tapped the paper. “And a retraction.”

“Careful there,” Josh said. “Make a woman like that mad and no telling what she’ll find to print about you.”

He didn’t care what Amy Marshall had to say about him, as long as it was the truth, not half lies designed to stir up controversy. It was bad enough that Rick Southerland pointed out his shortcomings whenever possible. Knowing someone else—a reporter—agreed with critics like Rick stung. “I can’t let her get away with saying things like that about me,” he said. “I’m the new guy in this job. I constantly have to prove myself.”

“If you say so. But you might be better off just letting this die down on its own.”

Josh wished he could believe the idea that he’d gotten where he was through luck and favoritism would die down, but people like Rick would see that it didn’t. And there was always the chance that more people would join him in siding against Josh in every argument,

As soon as the last bell rang for the day, he drove to the produce stand. If Amy wasn’t there, Bobbie could tell him where to find her. But as he pulled his truck into a space near the front of the stand, he spotted Amy bent over a display of tomatoes. Her long brown hair fell across one cheek and she tucked it behind one ear with slender fingers, revealing a shy smile. The unexpected beauty and innocence of the moment made Josh’s heart thud hard. He took a deep breath, and steeled himself against the rush of emotion. Amy wasn’t his friend. She’d stabbed him in the back and all but ridiculed him in public. He couldn’t let his guard down around her.

She straightened as he approached and regarded him coolly, the smile vanished. “Hello, Josh.”

“We need to talk,” he said.

“I’m busy right now.” She picked up a tomato and weighed it in her hand, her slender fingers curled around the plump red fruit. Was she debating throwing it at him?

He suppressed a smile at the thought and called to Bobbie, who sat at the cash register across the stand. “You can spare Amy for a few minutes, can’t you, Bobbie?”

“Of course. Amy, you can give Josh a few minutes.” She looked over the top of her glasses like a stern schoolmarm.

Amy gave a little shake of her head, but walked out from underneath the canopy that covered the produce stall, to the shade of a gnarled elm. He followed her. Even at this distance the air was redolent with the smell of ripe tomatoes, peppers and onions, the fruits of the Anderson Orchards greenhouses. Josh had worked in similar greenhouses in college, a lifetime ago.

Amy stood with her back to him, arms folded across her chest. He’d come here all fired up to argue with her about the hatchet job she’d done on him in her article, but now she looked, not defenseless exactly, but vulnerable. “I read the article in the paper,” he said. “The one you wrote about the game.”

“Oh.” Her gaze met his, calm and steady. Unreadable.

“Why did you twist my words around?” he asked. “You left out everything I said about the kids and focused on everything negative.”

Color rose in her cheeks. “The story was not negative. I focused on what I saw as the real news angle—how an inexperienced coach managed to turn a losing team around.”

“You misquoted me.”

She unfolded her arms and drew herself up as tall as possible. “I did not.”

“All right, but you left out part of my words. That changed the meaning of what I said.”

“Nothing I wrote in that article is untrue.”

“It’s not exactly true, either.”

She relaxed her shoulders and lowered her voice, visibly pulling herself together. “I have a job to do and I’m trying to do it. That job isn’t to make you look good.”

“I don’t care if you make me look good, but if you’re going to tell a story, tell the whole story, not just the part you think makes good copy.”

She looked as if she really wished she had that tomato back. No projectiles handy, she settled for glaring at him; the fire in her eyes might have moved him if he hadn’t been the one she was searing with the heat. “Look, there’s nothing personal here,” she said. “I’m just trying to do my job.”

“And I’m trying to do mine, without people like you questioning my abilities.”

“The way you’re questioning my abilities?”

Ouch! Okay, so maybe he had that coming. “I already told you I thought you were a good writer. But maybe you should leave the sports stories to the regular sports reporter.”

“Oh, this is so typical!” Her pretense of calm vanished. Face flushed, she clenched her fists at her side. “You think the world revolves around you and what you want.”

“In this case, this is about me. My name is the one you’re smearing in the dirt with your article.” His voice rose, and he struggled to rein in his anger. He didn’t think of himself as an overly emotional guy, but Amy summoned a host of strong feelings, not all of them good, by any means.

“This isn’t about you,” she insisted. “This is about me. I’m the new reporter here in town and I have to prove myself.”

How many times had he said the same thing—that he had to prove that he was capable of teaching and coaching? He wasn’t just the wounded veteran who’d won the job out of pity; he was capable and talented and the best man for the job. Did Amy really think people were judging her the way they judged him?

“You don’t have to prove yourself,” he said. “People already accept you. You’re Bobbie’s granddaughter.”

She shook her head. “That doesn’t matter to an editor in Denver.”

“Why do you care what an editor in Denver thinks?”

“Denver or Dallas, or any city where I try to get a job once I leave here. I need solid clips that show I can write more than fluff about the local 4-H and tedious reports about city council meetings. I need to show I can uncover the real meat of a story.”

“So you decided to go after me to showcase your skills?”

“I didn’t go after you. I went after the story.”

“I don’t get it,” he said. “It’s a baseball game. Why try to stir up controversy?”