Patricia Potter - A Soldier's Journey

Josh knew the results. Nate had returned to Covenant Falls two years ago. He’d worked at every construction job he could find. It was how they’d met—Josh had needed help installing a new floor and hired Nate. He found a talented craftsman with three years toward an architecture degree in addition to eight years in the army.

Nate had shared stories about his time in Iraq but not the years afterward. Josh had never asked and never would, but he knew Nate carried a load of hurt. He’d just had a glimpse of how heavy it was.

Josh gave him a searching look, then nodded. “Eve is going to ask you to pick her up tonight. She and I will be cooking, and Andy doesn’t know Clint or Stephanie. Do that, and I’ll tell—ah, ask—her to refrain from asking anything else. Okay?”

Nate nodded. “Deal.”

They separated, Nate going to his truck and Josh, Amos at his side, to his Jeep.

* * *

ANDY WAS RESTLESS. She’d finished the last few issues of the bound newspapers. She had scrawled a couple of notes of dates and events she thought might be important.

She wanted to know more about the Monroe family. If she was going to talk to the man, or even try to, she needed as much information as she could find. She decided to drive to the community center, return the volume she had and look at more recent newspapers.

She drove the Bucket, since she had the newspapers with her. Bill Evans wasn’t there, but a Mrs. Wilson was.

“Bill told me you might be showing up. I’m real glad to meet you. My husband is Calvin Wilson. He and my son run the hardware store. You need anything—a replacement lightbulb, anything at all—you call them. They would be real proud to help.”

The real proud reminded Andy of home. It sounded like her mother. It also reminded her she needed to call her mother, make sure everything was all right and let her know where she was. She had made duty calls once a week, but she knew they had been more worrying than comforting. She had repeatedly refused to go home to heal. She didn’t want to add another burden to a family that already had more than they should have to handle.

“You need anything, you just call me,” Mrs. Wilson said. “There’s usually coffee in the club room.”

“Thank you. I might try that.” After Mrs. Wilson left, Andy looked through the stacks of bound newspapers and picked up one that covered the years 2005 through this year. Someone, probably Bill Evans, had conscientiously added each newspaper.

After flipping through them, she understood exactly what Bill Evans had meant when he’d dismissed The Covenant Falls Herald as a serious newspaper. The editions were little more than a collection of gossip, dry recounts of city council meetings and legal ads. She flipped through them until she came to a headline—Councilman Monroe Resigns After Arrest of Nephew.

She read the article. Al Monroe, chairman of the city council, had resigned when his nephew was arrested for kidnapping. Her interest boiled over when she read that the victim had been the mayor’s son, who was rescued by the mayor’s current husband and her husband’s dog, Amos.

Maybe Covenant Falls wasn’t quite as tranquil as she’d thought, and now she understood, at least in part, why the mayor indicated she wasn’t exactly the councilman’s favorite person. And maybe, just maybe, why she wanted an outsider to write—attempt to write—the history of the town.

Strangely enough, it deepened her interest. She had been intrigued before, but now her thoughts were going at warp speed.

She turned to the next week’s news. Nothing much of interest.

The nephew was being held for trial. Al Monroe disappeared from the papers.

She kept turning the pages. The wedding, four months later, of Josh and Eve Manning. Then the arrival of chopper pilot Clint Morgan last fall was duly reported.

Andy closed the paper. This was getting her nowhere. She wanted to go farther back. She wanted to know Covenant Falls when it was little more than a trading post.

She checked the other bound volumes of papers, but none went back farther than 1919, unless there were scattered editions in the pile of boxes lining the room.

Then she found what she was searching for: a box marked “Early Years.”

She wished she had a computer. She hadn’t bothered with one in the hospital or the months of recuperation. The purchase of a cell phone after her release from the hospital had been a big deal.

Note to self—laptop computer. It would take a bite out of what little money she had, but it was necessary. Not only for this task but for day-to-day living now that she’d decided to be a functioning person again. She opened a box and started prowling through it.

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