Charlotte Douglas - Shoulda Been A Cowboy

“How could you?” Caroline asked in surprise. She’d drawn the same conclusion but wasn’t about to admit it. “You didn’t even meet him.”

“Cop’s intuition,” Brynn said. “He was one of the good guys.”

“And now he’s gone,” Caroline said in a tone that she hoped ended the conversation. She rose to her feet. “And I have to go, too.”

“Don’t leave yet,” Merrilee said. “Between families and work, the four of us haven’t had a chance to talk in ages.”

Caroline tossed her a regretful smile. “Wish I could stay, but Eileen has a tenant arriving at Orchard Cottage tomorrow, and I promised Rand I’d check today to make sure everything’s ready.”

AFTER SETTING A DATE for a girls’ night out with her friends, Caroline had climbed into her old Camry for the short ride up Valley Road to the turnoff to Blackberry Farm.

Brambles, thick with almost ripe blackberries, draped the split-rail fence that lined the road to the main farmhouse. Caroline slowed as she passed the old homestead, half expecting Eileen to appear on the wide front porch with a wave of welcome. The road forked just past the house, and Caroline took the left branch, a narrow red dirt road overgrown with weeds, that led to Orchard Cottage.

She parked her car in front of a picket fence in desperate need of paint and eyed the property with dismay. Eileen’s tenant needed to be more than an artist. He needed to be a miracle worker. Or at least a licensed contractor, if he expected to live here. Between the sagging porch floor and missing shingles on the roof, the tiny house appeared dilapidated and sad. Caroline doubted even a good cleaning would make it presentable.

But the property was hers now, and she was embarrassed to have anyone, much less a paying tenant, view it in its present state. With a sigh of resignation, she removed a change of clothes and her bucket of cleaning materials from the car and trudged up the front walk.

THREE HOURS LATER, the cottage was still derelict but clean. She had swept the floors, cleared cobwebs and scrubbed the kitchen and bathroom fixtures. She’d even washed the windows that overlooked the porch. With an ancient scythe from the barn, she’d cleared the foot-high weeds from the front yard. In an effort to make the place more welcoming, she’d filled old mason jars from the kitchen cupboard with Queen Anne’s lace from the roadside and roses from the rambling bushes that grew along the fence. She placed the containers of lacy white flowers and deep red blooms on the kitchen counter and the living room windowsills. But not even the roses’ cheerful color could distract from the cottage’s glaring short-comings. Caroline wondered if the poor condition of the house would be a lease-breaker. If so, the departure of her tenant would take care of one of her obligations to Eileen.

Which would still leave Caroline with the problem of what to do with little Hannah. She’d have to find just the right people to love and nurture a child who’d lost her mother.

Loading her cleaning supplies into the trunk of her car, Caroline heard the rumble of an approaching vehicle. She slammed the trunk lid and turned to see a pickup truck kicking up dust on the red dirt road. Sunlight glinted off the windshield, obscuring the driver from view. She didn’t recognize the truck. It didn’t belong to the Mauneys, who operated the neighboring dairy farm. Uneasiness gripped her, alone with a stranger approaching, and she headed for her car, thinking it better to be locked inside and behind the wheel with the engine running for a quick getaway when confronted by someone she didn’t know.

The truck parked behind her car, and in the rearview mirror, she watched the driver’s door open. First one leg swung out, clad in jeans and a workboot. Then the other leg appeared, and the driver jumped out. She recognized the Western hero of her daydreams, with his tall figure and broad shoulders silhouetted against the setting sun.

No longer afraid, she shut off the motor and climbed from her car to confront him.

“You?” he said in surprise. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Caroline’s astonishment mirrored the newcomer’s. “What are you doing here?”

“I stopped at the house,” Ethan Garrison said, “but Mrs. Bickerstaff isn’t home. I’m her new tenant.”

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