Ruth Herne - Small-Town Hearts

Meg refused to budge despite his proximity; she tilted her head up and met the undisguised twinkle in his gaze. She bit back a sigh, met Danny’s gaze with an equanimity she didn’t feel and angled her head slightly. “But we’re not friends.”

He grinned. “We might be in two months. Wouldn’t hurt to get in practice, Miss Russo. After all, we are going to be neighbors.”

And that’s all they’d be. She’d make certain of that. She gave him an over-the-shoulder glance as she descended the stairs. “Megan. My friends call me Meg.”

Danny’s grin deepened. “Can I move in tomorrow?”

She withdrew a key from her front pocket and dangled it in front of him. “Whatever works for you.” She stuck out a hand once he accepted the key and flashed him a smile. “Welcome to Jamison.”

Born into poverty, Ruth puts great stock in one of her favorite Ben Franklinisms: “Having been poor is no shame. Being ashamed of it is.” With God-given appreciation for the amazing opportunities abounding in our land, Ruth finds simple gifts in the everyday blessings of smudge-faced small children, bright flowers, fresh baked goods, good friends, family, puppies and higher education. She believes a good woman should never fear dirt, snakes or spiders, all of which like to infest her aged farmhouse, necessitating a good pair of tongs for extracting the snakes, a flat-bottomed shoe for the spiders and the dirt…

Simply put, she’s learned that some things aren’t worth fretting about! If you laugh in the face of dust and love to talk about God, men, romance, great shoes and wonderful food, feel free to contact Ruth through her website at www.ruthloganherne.com.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Remember not the sins of my youth and my

rebellious ways; according to Your love remember

me, for You are good, O Lord.

—Psalm 25:7

To Aunt Isabelle and Gram, two stout-hearted ladies who rescued me more than once. I know God has a special place in heaven for both of you. Keep a rocker handy with my name on it… We’ll rock babies together.

Big thanks to Lynn McCutcheon and Richard Buckles for their added information about the Great Wellsville Balloon Rally and hot air ballooning. To Don and Karen of the Angelica Sweet Shop, your charming establishment lures people in. The great staff and wonderful selection do the rest. To Anita Green whose dedication to her daughter Michelle is true inspiration to this author. To Dave, who drove the truck back to “Sandy’s Place” on Route 19 to pick up my swing. Gulp…

To the Sekler family who first drew me to Wellsville for the Little League state championship in ’07. You got the ball rolling.

Huge thanks to Mandy, who road-tripped Allegany County with me before and will again, only this time we get to bring “Mary Ruth” along. God is, indeed, good. And I’d be remiss not to acknowledge the amazing help of my children and their spouses and our good friend Paul, in many different ways. Their never-ending gifts of time, effort, money and baseball tickets have helped keep us afloat during rocky times, and that’s what family’s all about. God truly blessed me with each and every one of you. And do I have to name you all again? Seriously???

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

Meg’s Allegany Maple Fudge

Letter to Reader

Questions for Discussion

“Ben! No!”

A shriek pulled Danny Romesser’s attention across the cobbled historic street nestled beneath deep-green maple arches, the early summer day a gift from God.

Right up until then.

He swung around, watching, helpless from this distance.

The young woman’s admonition only intensified the unfolding drama as a young man with Down syndrome withdrew a plump, ripe mango from the base of a perfectly mounded boardwalk display. The fruit toppled, one nudging the next, the mangos and peaches free-falling their way to the broad wooden surface below.

“Oh, Ben…”

Distress laced the woman’s voice while the mentally challenged young man stood nearby, clasping and unclasping his hands in typical Down fashion, his face a study of remorse, his voice loud and earnest, stirring Danny’s memories. “I-I’m sorry, Meggie. I didn’t touch a thing, I really didn’t.”

The woman stared, dismayed, a picture herself, dressed in historic garb that seemed oddly in place here in Jamison, New York.

She grimaced, set a sizable basket down, glanced at the tiny clock pinned to her chest and bent low to retrieve the fruit.

“Not again?”

An irate man with thinning hair pushed through the front door of the nineteenth-century-style mercantile, set in the middle of a Brigadoon-like village that seemed to have stopped the clock about the time Danny’s great-grandma Mary was born.

Possibly before.

If the guy’s scowl pumped Danny’s adrenaline, his ensuing tirade literally pulled him into action.

“How many times do we have to go through this, Megan?”

“Mr. Dennehy, I—”

“Too many,” the older man thundered, not giving the young woman time to reply, red splotches marking his thin face. “If he—” he pointed a bony finger at Ben, his voice rising “—doesn’t have the good sense to avoid my displays, then you certainly should! There is…” his voice cooled with disdain as he switched the direction of his finger to the opposite side of the street “…another perfectly good sidewalk over there.”

Memories of Uncle Jerry surged forth as Danny approached, how Danny had defended the much older man from the jeers and taunts of ill-mannered people who considered him little more than the village idiot. Kids could be heartless and cruel. Adults, too, from time to time, as evidenced by the grocer’s harangue.

“I need your word, Megan.”

The young woman straightened, chagrined, the last of the fruit picked up and deposited in a small grocery cart. Danny saw a flash of anger mixed with consternation. She ignored his approach and kept her gaze trained on the shopkeeper. “It won’t happen again, Mr. Dennehy.”

“It’s happened four times.” His tone didn’t cut her any slack. “That’s three times too many.”

“I-I’m really sorry, Mr. De-henny,” the young man offered.

His tone spiked feelings within Danny. But he had no idea what he could do to help. He only knew he wanted to interrupt the man’s verbal smackdown of both the woman and the mentally challenged young man.

The young man noticed him. “Hey, Mister, you wanna buy some chocolate?”

The woman and the grocer turned his way, the conflict forgotten momentarily. That was good, right? Danny jumped into the fray with a nod toward Ben. “Sure. Do you sell chocolate, sir?”

The respectful title lightened the woman’s features with a flash of pleasure. She inclined her head toward Ben, her patience allowing him to continue what he started. A good trait, Danny knew, and not one easily attained.

“M-Meggie makes the best chocolate around.” Ben swiped away a tiny spit bubble with the back of his sleeve. The grocer grunted disapproval. Danny nodded, patient.