At Home In His Heart . . . 

Oh, man. Just his luck.

     Sandi Bradshaw. Keith's widow.

     Bryce Harding stared down at the dainty blonde with shiny, blunt-cut hair, her long-lashed gaze leveled on him. Dark blue eyes reflected the same dismay that slugged him in the stomach when she'd turned toward him..  She recovered faster than he did, though. Planting fists on her curvaceous, jeans-clad hips, she gave him a wary-eyed once-over, taking in his T-shirt, shorts and flip-flops.

     "How may I help you--Sergeant?"

     He forced cheerful warmth into his words. "I didn't know you worked here, Sandi."

     Had he known, he'd have steered clear of Dix's Woodland Warehouse tonight. He liked to patronize locally owned businesses in his mountain-country hometown of Canyon Springs, Arizona. But a big-box store would have fit the bill just as well.

    "I work here part-time when I'm not teaching school." She folded her arms, expression still guarded. "May I help you find something?"

    "I--" Why was he scrambling for words just like he did last winter when he approached her? He'd voiced his sympathy concerning her loss. That seemed appropriate considering he and Keith had been buddies since second grade. But it had been an awkward meeting. She'd pretty much looked at him as if he'd sprouted antlers. Kind of how she was doing now. She'd murmured ill-at-ease words of thanks and that was that.

     He'd tried to convince himself at the time it was because he'd caught her off-guard.  Maybe she hadn't heard he'd gotten out of the army, had returned to town. But more likely, judging from the look on her face both then and now, her too-candid husband had spilled the beans. Told her about his best friend's campaign to keep him from marrying the cute little fox he'd fallen combat helmet over steel-toed boots for. Sometimes, Bradshaw . . .

      "I--" He cleared his throat and scrubbed the knuckles of his hand along the jawline of his beard. "I'm looking for one of those patch kits. You know, that putty you fix walls with."

     "I'm afraid we don't carry anything like that."  She sounded a little too pleased to share the news of a gap in the Warehouse's extensive inventory. "You'll need to try the hardware store down the street."

     "Already did. He's out of stock."

     A perky eyebrow lifted.  "If you've exhausted the local merchants, I'd say you're in for a drive to Pinetop-Lakeside's Home Depot."

    She tilted her head, dipped her chin slightly and looked up at him--a mannerism that made his breath catch. A subtle bit of appealing body language that the way-too-smitten Keith had described to him in detail. More than once. Funny how he'd articulated it so well it seemed almost familiar now, not the mannerism of a stranger.

    Pulling himself back to the conversation, he cleared his throat again. "Think I'll try the discount store first."

    "You do that."

    "I intend to."   He didn't need her approval to go to the discount store. To drive to Home Depot.  To do anything.  It appeared she'd changed little in the nine years since she'd first caught Keith's eye with that "Dear Soldier" letter of hers.  Or since he himself had issued his buddy a disregarded warning. Keith laughed him off, but she was still a bit too pushy for his own tastes.

    "Is there anything else you need?"

    Obviously she wanted to get rid of him, but he wasn't going to let her shoo him out the door. Free country and all that.

    "My grandma could use some . . . aspirin."  Though she had a medicine cabinet full of it.

    Sandi's resolute expression transformed to one of concern. "Mae isn't feeling well?"

    That's right. She knew his Grandma Harding. Grandma Mae he called her. "Arthritis is acting up."

    She took an unexpected step forward, but his body blocked her and she pinned him with a pointed look. Guess she wanted him to get out of her way. After a moment's hesitation, he obediently stepped aside, the wooden floor creaking under his weight, but he caught the sweet scent of her as she manuevered around him. Vanilla. LIke Grandma Mae used in her chocolate chip cookies.

   She motioned for him to accompany her as she headed down a store aisle. Past the souvenir items, sweatshirts and backpacks he followed along, determined not to let the alluring sway of her hips distract him.

   After all, she was Keith's wife.

   And not his type by a long shot.

Second Chance Courtship . . .

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Cowboys ain't nothin' but trouble.

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      The oft-heard parental warning echoed through Kara Dixon's head. No surprise, for in the dim light and blowing snow outside a Canyons Springs, Arizona, restaurant, her eyes had fastened on the back of a broad-shouldered, dark-haired specimen of the cowboy variety. The Western hat and shearling jacket might be mimicked by wannabes, but the horse trailer hitched behind a big, silver Ford pickup vouched for his authenticity. 

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     A cowboy. Yet another reason she had to get out of this town and back to Chicago. The sooner the better, too. She'd yet to run into a bona fide wrangler on the streets of the Windy City, which suited her just fine.

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     But how could she not take pity on the poor man? A man who valiantly endeavored to hand-brush fast accumulating snow from his crew cab pickup--while juggling a wailing toddler in one arm and making frequent grabs for a wandering-off preschooler with the other. Poor guy. Women shouldn't send their helpless men out into the world without adequate kid training. And back-up.

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     She signed. She didn't have time for this tonight. Customers straggling in late with cross-country ski rental returns had delayed the closing of her mother's general store, Dix's Woodland Warehouse.  Much longer and Mom would start wondering why she hadn't brought home the promised Friday night dinner from Kit's Lodge. A quick call would put her mind at ease, but being accountable to Mom again was already getting old. It was bitter cold, too, with wind whipping out of the northwest in buffeting gusts. No, it wasn't a good night to stop and offer a helping hand.

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     Nevertheless, she returned to the SUV she'd borrowed from her mom and retrieved a heavy-duty snowbrush. Then, securing her jacket's insulated hood, she approached the struggling male and raised her voice over that of the squalling child.

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     "Could you use some help?"

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     He swung toward her, his face in shadow.

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     She waved the snowbrush.

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     "Oh, man, thanks."  His own raised voice held a note of grateful surprise as he endeavored to calm the unhappy little girl now flinging herself back and forth in his arms. "Didn't know it snowed so much while we were inside."

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     "That's mid-January in mountain country for you."

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     Before Kara could register what he was intending to do, the man stepped forward and thrust the flailing toddler at her.  What?  She didn't want to hold the kid. All she'd intended to do was help clean off the guy's truck. But the bundled-up, squalling tyke was stretching out arms to her.  Even though she was irritated with "Daddy," Kara reluctantly relinquished the snowbrush and gathered the tiny screamer into her arms. Lovely.

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     The man snagged the sleeve of the older child and gently pushed her toward Kara as well, then turned to the truck and set to work.  Through the passenger-side front window, she glimpsed a lop-eared, mixed-breed mutt taking in the outside activity with interest. Almost as if laughing at her.

     Kara awkwardly jiggled the bawling little one and fished in her pockets--in vain--for a tissue to wipe the miniature nose.  She winced as slobber-wet fingers brushed her face. Where was the kid's mitten? Kara glanced at the snow-covered ground but saw no sign of it, then caught the tiny, sticky hand in her own.

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     Hurry it up, Cowboy.

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     As she warmed the little hand, she caught the older child staring at her. Even in the dim light it was clear she didn't think this stranger was handling her sibling with any degree of expertise.  Kara bestowed a weak smile. It was hard to tell through the dim light and pelting snow, but the face peeping out from under a hood looked familiar.

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     Kara made shushing sounds at the youngster in her arms, then raised her voice over the howls. "What's your name?"

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     "Mary."

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     "Mary what?"
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     "Mary had a little lamb."  The preschooler giggled and danced away.

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     Kara forced another smile. A comedian. She turned her attention again to the toddler who, for whatever mysterious reason, had abruptly quieted. Thank goodness. She'd pulled her tiny hand free, rubbed her nose and was now studiously exploring Kara's facial features with the tip of a moist finger. The girl giggled. Sniffed. Then hiccupped.

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     Kara turned her face aside to see what had happened to Cowboy. She shifted the kid and squinted through the steadily falling snow. Oh, there he was. On the far side of the pickup.

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     "Uh, you about done over there?"

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     "Almost. Hang on."  He said something else but the wind snatched away the words.

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     Cowboy made a few more swipes with the brush, then limped around the front of the truck to open the passnger-side door. He motioned to the older girl. "Hop in Mary."

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     With a boost from him, the child obeyed.  Then tucking the snowbrush under his arm, he leaned inside the truck to harness her in a car seat.

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     "What's your phone number, sweetheart?" he called over his shoulder to Kara. "9-1-1-Kid-Help?"

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     He chuckled.

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     Her heart dipped.  Then stilled.

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     She knew that laugh.

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     She shook her head, in part to loosen the toddler's fingers now snaking into the hair under her hood. but mainly to dash away the foolish imagining. Being back in Canyon Springs made her jumpy. Paranoid. And at the present moment, a little sick to her stomach.

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     It couldn't be him. No way.

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 Dreaming of Home …

           At precisely one o’clock on a sunny, September Saturday afternoon, Megan McGuire spied the pirate.

           Had Canyon Springs been a coastal, historic reenactment community or adjacent to Disneyland, she might not have looked twice. But to the best of her knowledge, the mountain country of northern Arizona generated little demand for the likes of seafaring swashbucklers.

           Only minutes earlier, she’d propped open the door of the general store, allowing warm, pine-scented air to permeate the cool interior of the natural stone building. Once again huddled behind the oak counter and intent on reviewing next week’s lesson plan, the creak of the wooden floor reached her ears. At that moment she glimpsed the flash of a gold hoop earring and a black eye patch as a bandana-headed man disappeared behind a shelf.

           What now? The little town, with its many seasonal visitors, seemed to draw from a bottomless grab bag of eccentric individuals. Meg gave her short, tousled hair a shake and smiled. She’d come here as one of them herself six months ago, so she could afford to be tolerant.

            Reluctant to leave her cozy little nook, she nevertheless set aside her pen and straightened her maroon, Arizona State hooded sweatshirt. The guy was probably a motorcyclist, not a pirate as her too-active imagination labeled him. But to fulfill her role as a part-time employee of Dix’s Woodland Warehouse, his appearance warranted an investigation.

            She found the man crouched in front of the medication shelf, his muscled arm extended toward a row of aspirin boxes. Short-sleeved black T-shirt. Faded jeans. Well-worn tennis shoes. Except for a gold band on his left hand, all other fingers were pinched into dime store quality, gem-studded rings. A foot-long plastic sword tucked securely in a belt loop topped off his unconventional regalia.

            Nope, not a biker. A pirate.

Definitely a pirate.