A Place in Her Heart Read online

  “You still work in the orchard?” Rick followed her around the tree, lured on by the smile she had given him. Something had shifted between them in the past few days and he wanted to explore it.

  “I try to. Just too busy these days.”

  “I know. I didn’t think you could fit anything more in that Day-Timer of yours.”

  Becky’s horrified look came at the same instant he realized what he had said.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered, holding his hand up in a gesture of surrender. “I just… When I had it, I opened it up because I thought it was mine.”

  To his surprise Becky didn’t get angry. Didn’t ask what he was doing snooping through her book. Instead, she stared at the tree, her hands still holding on to a lower branch.

  “It was an honest mistake,” he continued, trying to catch her eye.

  “How much did you see?” she asked quietly, licking her lips.

  “I saw that every available moment of every available day is full,” he answered, evading her question neatly. “I also saw that you’re going to have to do some major rescheduling if you’re going to go on the trail ride.”

  Becky caught one corner of her lip between her teeth. “About that ride…”

  “You’re not going to beg off on me, are you?” His reasons for wanting her to come were mixed. He wasn’t sure himself. Only that the more he thought of spending some time with her away from the office, the more he liked the idea.

  “No. It’s just that—” she lifted her hands as if in a gesture of surrender “—I have a lot of obligations.”

  “And a financial obligation to the magazine.”

  “That’s true.”

  He sensed she was wavering and pushed his advantage. “I’m going to need your perspective. Otherwise, all I might write about is the mess the horses leave behind and how cold it is in the mountains.”

  Becky laughed. “Okay. I’ll see what I can do.” She picked at a hangnail, still looking down. “So, what else did you see in my Day-Timer?”

  He could be evasive and keep her secret, or he could be honest and maybe find out if her feelings had changed. “I did read that you weren’t quite sure what to do about me.”

  Becky closed her eyes and blew out her breath. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I was worried about working with you. And maybe a little angry with you yet over my book review.” Becky glanced up at him, her expression serious now. “I poured my heart and soul into that book. Though I should have felt honored that you read it, it was still hard to see it trashed so publicly.”

  Guilt twanged through Rick. “My grandfather wasn’t happy with how I’d handled it, either. After the review came out in the magazine I found out that he hadn’t given me the book to review it. He had been hoping it would touch some cold part of my heart.”

  Becky gave him a wry smile, which surprised him and encouraged him at the same time. “Guess I failed in that, too.”

  “Not completely. There were some genuinely moving pieces and I did finish the book.”

  “I know you well enough to know there’s a huge ‘but’ hanging here.” She winced. “If you’ll forgive how that sounded.”

  Rick couldn’t stop his laugh. Couldn’t stop himself from taking a step closer to her, encouraged by her honesty. “Okay. The but.” He paused, trying to find the right words. “I don’t think this story was the right vehicle for what you wanted to say. It was melodramatic. Too derivative of many books out there. Once in a while you had a passage that rose above the rest of the book, but then you seemed to pull your writing down to make it fit the story.”

  She held his gaze, her head canted to one side. Smiled a bit. And his heartbeat fluttered a moment.

  “Okay, I’ll concede that,” she said. “How could I have done it differently?” She came around the tree, took a step closer to him, one hand still holding on to the trunk as if seeking strength from her great-grandfather’s legacy.

  “You need to take more time with your story. Commit emotionally to the book. Put yourself in it.”

  “Funny. I thought I had done that.”

  “Not really. You’re a funnier person than the story shows. A more optimistic person. I think you might benefit from writing a story in first person. Getting deeper into the character. Being more honest. Exposing yourself.”

  “Hey! I’m a good Christian girl,” Becky said with a laugh, hitting him lightly on the chest.

  Before he could stop to think what he was doing, Rick captured her hand against his chest, captivated himself by her honest humor. He held her hand close, its warmth pressing through his shirt.

  Becky’s gaze jumped to his face, her eyes searching his features as if trying to discover what he wanted, what had changed between them. She swallowed, then let her gaze fall to their joined hands as she pressed her fingers ever so lightly against his shirt.

  Rick curled his fingers around hers, wondering if she could feel the increased tempo of his own heart.

  “I should go help—help my mom,” Becky whispered. But even as she spoke, she took a slow step closer.

  “I think your mom can manage.” Rick rubbed his thumb along the back of her hand, wondering what his next step was.

  He didn’t usually have to second-guess himself. A hand under her chin. A careful, encouraging smile. Then the kiss. All carefully choreographed and planned.

  But he didn’t want to treat her like other women. She was special. He wanted to share more than a kiss. More than the physical expression of love. But she was a sincere Christian who loved her Lord. And he didn’t know if he could share that with her.

  Becky looked up at him then and he saw his own confusion mirrored in her soft hazel eyes. “What’s happening, Rick?” she whispered.

  He gently fingered a tendril of hair back behind her ear, his hand lingering on her neck as a stillness surrounded them. As if the very trees waited, wondering what they were going to do. “Come on the trail ride. Maybe we can find out more.”

  “I’ll try.”

  A muffled giggle slipped into the silence followed by the soft “plop” of an apple in the grass at their feet.

  Becky blinked, as if coming out of a trance, then pulled her hand away, turning to the source of the laughter.

  “Okay, you brats. You can come out now,” she said loudly. But Rick heard the faint tremor in her voice and was encouraged. She had been as moved as he had.

  The three children Becky had been playing with spilled out from behind a row of bushes, followed by Leanne.

  “We were wondering where you were,” Leanne said, tossing a speculative glance Rick’s way. “Grandma Diene sent us to get you.”

  More likely, protect you, Rick thought, remembering Diene DeGraaf’s veiled warning.

  The children ran to Becky, but the smallest girl veered at the last moment and lifted her arms up to Rick. “You carry me,” she said with a child’s brashness.

  “Serena, be polite,” Becky reprimanded. “Maybe Mr. Ethier doesn’t want to carry you.”

  “Please carry me,” Serena said, adding an angelic smile.

  “Of course.” Rick swung her up onto his shoulders as she squealed her appreciation. “You have to duck for the trees,” he warned as he glanced sidelong at Becky.

  She stood in front of him, bracketed by a boy and a girl, a faint smile teasing her lips as a breeze teased her hair. Rick winked at her—a casual connection to ease themselves away from the intimacy of the previous moment—then turned and sauntered back to the house.

  But even though his long legs easily outpaced Becky, he was less aware of the little girl on his shoulder, clutching his head, than he was of Becky walking behind him.

  Chapter 8

  Rick looked over the parking lot of the church full of minivans, cars with children’s car seats, sports cars and trucks. All representing a family, a person, a couple inside. And singing, from the sounds that streamed through the door beside him.

  Since that Sunday when Becky had finessed hi
m into coming to church, he hadn’t found—or made—time to attend. Yet each Sunday, when he passed the building, he had wondered if he would find something behind those doors. The same nebulous something that had called to him that Sunday when Becky sang the prayer.

  So who was he interested in? God? Becky? Both?

  He took a hesitant step toward the door. Then, releasing a sigh, he pulled the door open and stepped inside. The sounds of the singing drew him on and he slipped through the narthex into the sanctuary. The congregation was standing, but thankfully there was an empty space at the end of the back pew and he took his place in it and let the music and the words take him along.

  And then he saw her.

  Becky stood in the front of the church, with a group of young children lined up in three rows. She had her back to the congregation, but from where he sat Rick could see her face in profile as she and the children sang along with the congregation. She wore the same blue dress she had the first Sunday he’d seen her here. And she looked just as beautiful as she had then. Maybe even more so.

  Then the song ended, the congregation sat down and Becky turned around to address them.

  “I’m sure many of you parents have been wondering what your children have been doing all those Wednesday nights when they disappear with me to one of the downstairs rooms,” she said, looking around the sanctuary. “Well, this morning you’re going to get a sample of the program the choir is putting on tonight. Think of it as a teaser. And if that’s not enough to tempt you to come tonight, then I feel I should mention that the Ladies’ Aid Society is hosting a dessert night in conjunction with the program. So if you want a taste of Kathy Greidanus famous squares or Gladys Hemple’s chocolate cake…” Becky raised her hands in a “What can I do?” gesture. Then with a smile, she turned around, cued the musicians, lifted her hands with a smile to the children and they began.

  The song was a light, happy tune, an introduction to the story of Jonah and the whale. Becky’s animated expression was contagious and the children responded with wide smiles.

  Their light voices were clear and boisterous as they sang about a reluctant prophet who questioned God and who God used anyway. Rick caught himself humming along during the chorus, smiling at the children’s obvious enjoyment.

  When they were done, Becky nodded, and with a surprising amount of restraint the children walked back to their parents, grinning with pride.

  Becky stayed in the front and when the regular worship team came up, she ducked out a side door.

  Probably off to perform yet another obligation, Rick thought. And for a moment he was tempted to leave, as well, but the minister came forward. It wouldn’t look good to leave during the main attraction. So he sat back and settled in for another sermon.

  The minister instructed the congregation to open their Bibles to Psalm One and Rick read about a man who does not stand in the counsel of the wicked, but whose delight was in the law. Rick tried to imagine someone who would delight in laws. And rules.

  “He is like a tree planted by streams of water which yields its fruit in season and whose leaf does not wither.”

  Like the trees of Sam Ellison’s orchard.

  Like Becky. Rooted and grounded. A part of something larger than herself. Her family. This church. Her community.

  So what did that make him? The chaff? Blown about with every changing wind. He knew he didn’t have what she had.

  But did he want it?

  “So how do you propose to do this?” Rick’s office chair creaked in protest as he leaned way back. He ran his index finger back and forth over his forehead as if trying to draw some inspiration from his mind. He had been talking to Terry Anderson, their accounts manager at the bank, for twenty minutes now. They still couldn’t agree on how to deal with the serious cash-flow problems the magazine was having.

  “The magazine needs to show some kind of profit,” Terry was saying. “Or at the minimum, break even. At least on the books. The higher-ups are getting a little antsy.”

  “Waiting for Going West to show a profit is like trying to turn the Titanic. It doesn’t happen in three issues.”

  “Going West hasn’t shown a profit for more than three issues, Rick.”

  Rick turned his chair around so he could at least see the river valley below him. “This is what you can do for me, Terry. Make it clear to the suits in Calgary that Going West has been bought and is under new management. That you foresee a change in the near future. That has to count for something. That to pull the loan now would be a short-term loss and if they wait, they’ll have a valuable asset on their hands.” Brave words, but it was the only thing he could give Terry right now. “Your job is to go to bat for me, Terry. Once things start looking better, this will reflect well on you.”

  “My job is also to keep my job.”

  Rick sighed. “If you pull the loan and you guys end up with a dead asset, your job won’t be looking that good, either, Terry.”

  The silence on the other end meant Terry was considering and Rick pushed a little harder. “We’ve got a dynamite issue coming up, Terry. Surely the bank won’t go belly-up by extending our line of credit for another six weeks.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Terry said. “I’ll let you know which way the wind blows as soon as I can after our next meeting. I think I’ve made it clear that Going West is in a precarious position.”

  “Whatever. And while I have you on the phone, would the bank consider putting an ad in the next magazine?”

  “You don’t quit, do you?”

  “And that’s exactly what is going to make the difference in the long run.” Rick grinned as relief sluiced through him. In spite of Terry’s warning, he knew he had bought some time.

  He rang off and picked up the latest issue of the magazine. He turned the page, pleased with the overall result of this, his second magazine. It looked professional. The content needed a little boost, but that was coming, as well. He and Becky didn’t always agree on what to put in, but slowly they were coming to a compromise that seemed to work.

  He turned to the page that held his and Sue’s column.

  Runaround Sue

  I think it’s time newspapers own up to the old adage Bad News Travels by Itself and not help the business along. For once I’d like to read how millions of children got tucked into bed last night. Millions of married couples didn’t have a fight or threaten to kill each other. Millions of people made it home safely from work. Millions of people did their jobs well today. “This is not news,” the newsmakers wail, gripping their foam-covered microphones and waiting for a disaster to backlight their perfectly coiffed hair…

  From the desk of the publisher

  The most important task of any magazine, newspaper or newscast is the delivery of timely and pertinent information according to its subscribers needs and wants. Sue clearly states that bad news travels by itself, but it is the bad news that often determines how businessmen will make their decisions…

  Rick couldn’t help but smile. He’d never admit it aloud, and especially not to Becky, but Sue had a point. He wouldn’t mind meeting her; she sounded like an interesting person.

  Someone knocked lightly on the door and Becky stuck her head inside his office. “Hey, there. You busy? Trixie said you were on the phone.”

  “No. Come on in.”

  Becky shook her head. “I gotta run. Just thought I’d tell you that I will be able to go on the trail ride with you. I cleared a few things off my calendar, so—” she tossed her head a bit as if mentally juggling her new schedule “—let me know when you want to leave.”

  “That’s great, Becky.” His first good news of the day.

  She retreated with a quick smile.

  And Rick started planning.

  Becky leaned forward, as if to catch a better view of the river that cut through the valley, creating a vista that made her realize how little time she had taken lately to appreciate the countryside she lived in.

  The road Becky trav
eled on wound through rolling hills, wooded with pines, the river to her left.

  An arch holding the Triple Bar J brand came into view. Becky turned and followed the gravel road to the yard she saw nestled in a hollow of a hill.

  She pulled up in front of one of many log buildings, hoping it was the horse barn Rick had told her about last night when he phoned to make final preparations.

  The phone call had been short and Becky held her questions back. Last night her very helpful sisters had let her know that Rick had been in church Sunday morning. The knowledge had been enough to lift her heart and kindle the faint hope she’d been nurturing since he’d held her hand in her father’s orchard.

  That moment hadn’t been a turning point for her as much as a culmination of the attraction she had felt for him from the moment she saw him. She had tried to dismiss it as a mere physical draw of any woman to a man possessed of Rick’s charm.

  But she couldn’t dismiss the connection she had felt with him then, and, it seemed, anytime they spoke or sparred. That he had come to church added another dimension to that connection.

  Where would it go?

  Becky got out of the car, shading her eyes against the morning sun as she looked around the yard. A group of horses stood patiently waiting in a corral off the horse barn, tails swishing at flies. The more impatient ones shuffled around raising dust that caught in Becky’s throat. One horse lifted its head and looked beyond her, its ears pricked forward. Becky turned to see where it was looking.

  And why did her heart give one long slow thump then begin racing faster than her car engine on high idle? All it took was the single glimpse of a thin trail of dust coming far down the road, one that could only be from Rick’s Jeep, for her involuntary muscle to act even more involuntarily.

  “Hey, Becky.”

  Becky spun around at the voice. The man coming toward her looked as if he had just stepped out of a Western. Tall, lanky, his face shaded from the bright sun by a large cowboy hat, his shirt dusty and sweat stained, his hands encased in leather gloves. The leather chaps swinging around his legs almost covered his slant-heeled boots.