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  “Let's go, Mommy.” The handle of the wagon shook in my hands. The natives were getting restless. Anneke smiled as she rocked the wagon. Nicholas's heavy coat bunched up at his neck, made his head effectively immobile, but his eyes flitted back and forth, taking everything in. As I watched my two children act utterly content in the cold, I realized how long it had been since I had taken the kids out for something as ordinary as a walk. Since the cow-moving day, I'd been either busy setting up the house or the weather had been too cold.

  Smiling myself, I turned around and started down the long driveway toward the road. Anneke burbled snatches of an unfamiliar song—something macabre about God watching a sparrow falling—and then she belted out the chorus: “He loves me, too; He loves me, too; I know He loves me, too.” And every now and again Nicholas burbled some unintelligible comment that I chose to translate as “I'm happy.”

  I sucked in a deep gulp of biting air and turned my eyes toward the road. In spite of a flush of well-being, something nagged at me, scrabbling at the edges of my consciousness. Something eerie and unfamiliar. I paused. Listened. That's when I heard it.

  Nothing.

  No cars. No horns honking. No airplanes. No people calling out to one another. No music. No neighbors.

  I stopped, listening to the great big nothing. Anneke and Nicholas must have sensed my uneasiness, because they grew silent as well.

  Emptiness pushed on my ears, pressing deep into my head. I felt the sweep of the wind urging me along over the fields toward the mountains that guarded our valley.

  My heart pounded, pushing against my chest. I could hear it as my raspy breath drew in and out, in and out. I thought again of that moment just before I had helped with the cows. The same feeling, but then I wasn't alone. Now it was just me, and my two vulnerable, tiny children lost in this huge emptiness…

  Don't panic. It's okay.

  I breathed slowly, like I often told parents of patients to do.

  Easier to be the coach than the coachee, I realized. I got control of my breathing as my heartbeat slowed.

  Then, behind me, I heard the slam of a door. A truck starting up. Dan was leaving. And I would be all alone in this vast, quiet nothingness.

  I spun around and strode quickly to the shop, the wagon bump-bumping over the washboard ruts in the driveway as I honed in on the truck. Nicholas squealed with pleasure and Anneke laughed as I quickened my pace.

  Dan was heading toward the house when he saw us.

  “Hey there. I was coming to say good-bye.”

  “I thought we could go with you.” I had the panic under control now so I didn't miss the faint downturn of his mouth. Though I couldn't speak mechanic, I had “Dan” pretty well mastered.

  He didn't want us to come.

  But Anneke heard “go with you” and with a high-pitched squeal repeated the words, effectively bolstering my faint suggestion.

  “Are you sure? It's not going to be that interesting.” If it wasn't for the fact that Miss Bilingual had moved to Winnipeg and he had promised me it was over, I would think he was heading out to meet her. He looked that guilty.

  “I don't have a lot to do.”

  Dan adjusted the fit of his ubiquitous billed cap and sighed. “I'll get the car seats.”

  Moments later we had the kids strapped in and the wagon in the box of the truck. As I climbed into the cab, Dan adjusted the radio, cutting off some country singer mid-sob. Dan never listened to country music at home. But then neither did he let his hair get this long or go out in public without shaving.

  I climbed into the truck, feeling like I had accepted a ride with a stranger.

  “Are you sure you want to come?” he asked, giving me one more chance before he turned the key in the ignition. “The kids will probably get bored and cranky. These sales go on a long time.”

  “I like the idea of spending the afternoon together.” I wasn't going to let him talk me out of it. Besides, in my current frame of mind I didn't know if I could deal with the strong possibility of a visit from Wilma.

  “Okay,” he said in the “I-think-you're-crazy” tone that usually set my teeth on edge. But these days I was trying to construct a new and improved Leslie VandeKeere and I let it slip under the radar.

  We drove in silence as I stared out at the endless landscape of brown ditches, brown fields, and bare trees, stark and clear against the leaden sky. This is no different from Seattle this time of the year, I reminded myself. Just fewer houses and less traffic. Appreciate it for what it is.

  I was starting to get good at this self-talk, I thought, leaning back in the seat.

  Dan cleared his throat, laying his hand on my arm.

  “I'm sorry about this morning,” he said. “I shouldn't have walked out on you like that.”

  Usually this was my cue to meet him halfway, acknowledge my part in the argument, then shore up my defenses. But usually I had most of the day or night shift at work to go over the argument and find weaknesses in his statements, and usually I had the help of sympathetic co-workers who faithfully took my side.

  But today he had caught me defenseless and rebuttal-less.

  “I still think we should do the assessment.” Lame reply, but the best I could do on the fly.

  Dan looked away. “If I agree, will you be willing to put our money into the farm?”

  Marriage was about give and take, but on this I couldn't give. The money from the house was the down payment on the life I needed to return to. On a future that had security and steady, regular income. I didn't dare risk losing any ground on that. Not the way he talked this morning.

  “I'm sorry, Dan, but I can't.” He held my gaze and I pushed. Had to. “We'll get money from that court case against Lonnie Dansworth, then we'll be okay.”

  “And if we don't?”

  “Then we can use the house money to start up another business and in time, we'll get it back.”

  “How can you talk about putting the money into a business I don't like, instead of putting it into something I do like?” He looked ahead again, his jaw clenched.

  And we're off… “Because we agreed we were going back.” I could do stubborn too. What I lacked in creativity, I made up for in persistence. Dan, however, was exceeding his usual quota. Of course, he had the rallying support of his family behind him. I was on my own. “We agreed, Dan,” I added for artistic impression.

  Dan reached over and turned on the radio, filling the cab with wailing guitars and nasal twangs. The conversation was over. And now I had put myself in the unenviable position of being stuck in close proximity to him for the rest of the day.

  This was a mistake.

  Chapter Six

  Along snakelike line of pickup trucks—twin metal caterpillars—lined each side of the narrow road leading to the farm sale. As we walked toward the farm's driveway, I wondered where all these people had materialized from. In the twenty-five minutes it had taken us to get here, I had counted maybe twelve yard sites. There were at least eighty vehicles parked along the road.

  In the distance, as if in counterpoint to the silence that had risen between Dan and me, a nasal chanting rose and fell, then paused and continued again. After a few minutes I realized the sound came from the auctioneer, his voice carried to us by a faint breeze.

  “So, why are there so many people here?” I asked, glancing sidelong at Dan. “Is this a special sale?”

  Dan glanced my way, recognizing my conversational peace offering for what it was. Avoidance. But his light shrug told me he was game. “Not really. I remember going with my dad to farm sales every spring. Most of the people are ‘lookie loos.’ It's something to do and a chance to visit.”

  I pulled my coat a little closer around me and thought of a hundred other ways to visit that didn't require standing around in cold weather.

  “So, why do people have farm sales?”

  “This one is an estate sale. Dwayne Harris died about three months ago, and the wife is moving to town ‘cause the kids d
on't want to take over the farm. Been happening a lot lately,” Dan said, melancholy edging his voice.

  I was about to ask him if Wilma would have an auction sale when we left, but his tone told me he didn't need my happy questions.

  We turned into a long, narrow driveway enclosed by trees. The amplified voice of the auctioneer lured us on while chiding the bidders to recognize the deals they were getting. Bargains, folks. Absolute bargains.

  The driveway wound for a few hundred feet and then opened up onto a wide yard. A large red barn, the kind that come with farm play sets for kids, held court on one side of the yard, its doors and windows creating a face that looked with bored tolerance at the large group of people milling about in the yard below it. Beside the barn, a large shed, open in the front, held an assortment of machinery.

  The house sat across the yard from the barns, an older two-story affair with a large wraparound porch. Brown paint peeled off the siding and a few old pots trailing dead branches and leaves still hung from the beams of the porch. The house looked weary, as if it were ready to move to town as well.

  Furniture stood in neat orderly rows on the grass. A couple of couches, one with a matching chair and loveseat, some beds, a dining-room table and chairs.

  People looked into boxes, sat on chairs, tried out appliances, inspected items normally secreted in the cupboards of the house behind us but now laid out for anyone who had the least bit of curiosity to look over and comment on.

  “I can't believe she's selling this,” one woman sniffed, holding up a chipped porcelain dog. “Why not pitch it out?”

  Maybe it was a daughter's favorite figurine, I thought as the other woman rolled her eyes.

  “Hey, Dan, there you are.” A tall, older man wearing a red plaid shirt over a T-shirt strode toward us, waving. Two younger men trailed him. One of them wore a jean jacket, the other a loose hoodie and the oversized pants favored by young city boys trying to look tougher than they really were. I would know. I'd stitched up enough of them.

  Both of these clean-cut, strapping young men who didn't look like they would know beer from iced tea had the same sandy blond hair as Dan, and when the one smiled I saw Dan as a teenager. They had to be relatives.

  “Why haven't you been by?” the man asked, clapping a large hand on Dan's shoulder. “Auntie Gerda made your favorite pie when she heard you were back, and she's been waiting for you to come and eat it.” His dark eyes slid over me, then the kids, then back to Dan. “And you got your family along?”

  “Leslie, this is Uncle Orest and my cousins Ben and Jason. This is Leslie and Nicholas and Anneke.”

  Orest gave me a huge grin and caught my hand in both of his, burying it in a pack of calluses and thick knuckles. “Good to see you, girlie. Heard lots about you.”

  Which, of course, begged the question, what? But I wasn't going to head down that path and simply smiled, trying not to look too threatening.

  Ben and Jason acknowledged me with the imperceptible nod of teenagehood, then turned back to Dan.

  “So, you here to check out some deals? I saw a Massey here, like the one Keith used. ‘Course, Keith didn't use it much after he blew the head gasket on it.” Orest shook his head as if he couldn't understand Keith or his actions. “That man didn't know how to maintain equipment. You ought to check this out. Old man Harris got T-boned with it turning a corner with a load of bales so the body is useless but I bet you could scam the engine off it.”

  Dan's eyes lit up… until he looked my way. “I'm going to check out a few things. Do you want to come or stay here? I can take the kids.”

  I shrugged. I sensed a mini-family reunion and I would cramp his style. “Go ahead. I'll keep the kids.”

  He gave me the kind of smile that reminded me why I fell in love with him in the first place, and I knew I had done exactly the right thing. For a change.

  “I'll keep an eye out for the dryer.” Dan touched my arm lightly, cementing our brief flash of togetherness. Then he and Uncle Orest and his cousins left, deep in discussion about head gaskets, cylinders, and pistons. I knew the terms but hadn't developed the deep affection for them that Dan had or, it seemed, his uncle and now animated cousins did. What was it with men and internal-combustion engines that put a light in their eyes that even lingerie could barely compete with?

  In spite of my assurances that I'd be okay, fear nipped at my heart as Dan walked away. I felt trapped in a bubble of strangeness that pushed people away, separated me from the crowd. I tried to smile and make eye contact, but no one seemed to notice or care.

  “Mommy, I want out,”Anneke called out from her perch.

  “No, honey. Stay in the wagon.” I couldn't let her go in this strange place. One glance away from her, and she would be gone, lost. And I would be running around, calling out her name, an irresponsible mother full of panic.

  No thanks.

  “Let me out, let me out, let me out, let me out!” Anneke called out, her voice rising a few decibels with each repetition.

  Of course she chose this moment and this place to push.

  “No, honey. You stay in the wagon with Nicholas.” I kept my voice low and quiet as I concentrated on projecting “be rational” vibes, the only tool available to mothers when their children are spiraling out of control in a public place. I don't know why I tried it here. It didn't work in toy stores, grocery stores, or parks.

  And, of course, she started to climb out just as I turned around to warn her. I went to grab her arm and she danced out of reach, and suddenly I was giving the auctioneer competition as irritated eyes turned toward me and my daughter.

  “Hey, little girl. I don't think you should wander off.” A man blocked her line of flight by crouching down in front of her. Curious, she stopped, sizing him up.

  “My mom says I'm not ‘posed to talk to strangers,” she said primly, as if her mother's feeble pronouncements were the laws that dictated every action of her day, instead of the other way around.

  “That's a good thing your mother told you,” he said, glancing up at me with brown eyes fringed by thick lashes. His dark hair had a wave that would make a woman as jealous as his eyelashes did, and when he smiled a slow, lazy smile, I caught the faintest flash of a dimple. He wore blue jeans, a leather jacket, and cowboy boots. Something about the combination, the quality, the way he wore the clothes set him apart from all the other men present. Even my Dan. He could have been anywhere between thirty and forty-five and had that self-assured air that both appealed and sent warning signals up my spine.

  Axe murderer, I thought instantly as City Leslie kicked in.

  “She sounds smart,” he said, pushing himself up, his gaze still holding mine. “You've done a good job with her.”

  Now he was he flirting with me? I glanced down at my farm-wife clothes. No makeup, hair worn in the artfully tousled “mommy ponytail” that looked great on Julia Roberts and sloppy on me, yet, when I looked back at him, I caught the faintest hint of interest. Had to be crazy.

  I caught Anneke by the hand to pull her away just as the man held out his own hand.

  “I'm sorry, Leslie. I should introduce myself. I'm John Brouwer.”

  He knew my name. He wasn't flirting with me at all. Fear grabbed my heart with icy fingers.

  Stalker, then. Well-dressed stalker. Did he know where we lived? Would we have to move?

  “I was talking to your sister-in-law Judy,” he continued, “and she told me that you used to work ER in Seattle.”

  I blinked and stopped edging away from him as reason pulled me off my usual rabbit trail of delusion. “Pardon me?”

  “I'm a doctor in the local hospital, so when I heard you were a nurse, I paid attention.”

  My heart slowed down, and I mentally gave myself a slap on the head. Some animals have a fight-or-flight defense mechanism when they are frightened. Me? I freeze and let my mind dive into the worst possible scenario and then I run with it.

  I finally took his outstretched hand, regretting the
shoulder cramps he must've suffered while I mentally labeled him everything from Lothario to deranged killer. “Sorry. My name is Leslie VandeKeere, but it seems you already know that. And yes, I did work as an ER nurse.”

  “You must have seen your share of trauma.” Now that his status had been downgraded from psycho to physician, I realized how attractive he was.

  “The usual,” I said with an airy wave of my hand. “Gun-shot wounds, stabbings, sometimes a broken arm to keep us on our game.”

  He nodded and glanced at the kids. “How old is your little one?”

  “Nicholas is a year and a half.”

  “So, when did you go back to work?”

  “Pretty much right after he was born.”

  “Dedicated, then.”

  “Broke, then.”

  “And now?”

  “Well, I'm trying full-time motherhood on for size.” I swung Anneke's hand to remind myself that I was still supposed to be interacting with my children, that they weren't mere accessories.

  “And how does it fit?”

  “Still working out the wrinkles.” Okay, enough with the metaphors. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Again, I apologize. Not too deft with this head-hunting business,” he said, suddenly serious. “When I heard you were an ER nurse, I thought I'd ask. I'm not a stalker, and I'm not trying to come on to you, in case that's what you were thinking…”

  I dismissed the comment with an airy wave of my hand as if that wasn't even worth consideration.

  “But I hope I can talk you into coming to work for us.”

  Desperate much?

  “I've decided to take a hiatus from nursing.” I tried to inject a note of heartiness into my voice. “The kids are only young once.” And wasn't that profound?

  “If you ever change your mind”—he lifted his hands in a “what can I do?” gesture—“I'm sure you know where the hospital is.”

  Forty-eighth Street, along the main highway going through town as you come to the bottom of the hill heading into Harland.