A Hopeful Harvest. Ruth Logan Herne

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      She went pale. Her eyes went wide. She stared out the back window at a monster-size pile of broken sticks and bricks and huffed out a slow, sad breath. “The barn.”

      Jax hated to bring more bad news, but he’d already spotted her grandfather outside when the barn went down. So something else had awakened the elderly gentleman. He crossed to the side door, opened it and stepped outside.

      A swirl of gravel dust stirred old memories he’d shoved aside. Haboobs. The Iraqi desert sandstorms. Troops hunkered down.

       That was then.

       This is now.

      Determined, he walked to the back of the house. And there it was. A second barn, much smaller, but just as flat. Would the house be next?

      The house blocked the wind, allowing him time to give it a quick once-over. Where the barns lay in splintered pieces, the house stood firm and square. It was old, maybe the original structure, even, and craftsmen knew how to put a solid building together back then. No, the house looked solid, if worn.

      He drew a breath and walked back inside. The home health nurse was brewing tea in the small kitchen. She raised her brows as he entered. “Bad?”

      “Yes.”

      “Both barns?”

      What could he say to make this better? Nothing. He nodded.

      “But no one died. Or got hurt,” the nurse added as the old man’s granddaughter came through the connecting doorway. “It could have been worse.”

      He turned toward Libby. “Someone could have been hurt. Or killed.” He looked toward the living room beyond. “He was walking along the road in his skivvies, dazed and confused because he was all alone.”

      Her gaze narrowed. The smile he’d found engaging disappeared. “And who are you, exactly?”

      “Jax McClaren. I was driving by when I spotted him. And the barn.”

      “Mr. McClaren…” Carol Mortimer began.

      He included the nurse in his look. “When someone is that sick, should they be left alone?”

      The nurse made a face. “Some patients are fine on their own for an hour or two. It depends on what stage they’re in. In this case, Cleve’s been fine for short periods. But seems like we might need to revisit our thinking if he gets riled that easily.”

      “Having a barn destroyed seventy feet from the nearest window isn’t an everyday occurrence.” Libby folded her arms and faced him. “We need to remember we’re not dealing with a small child but a grown man who thinks he’s okay, and some of the time he is. And there’s still work to be done because this is a working farm. Mortie—” she moved closer to the home health nurse “—you understand. He doesn’t want to go someplace else. It would kill him. Grandma said that time and again. He was born on this place and he’s made his wishes clear often enough. He was born here and wants to die the same way. How can I deny him that after all he’s done for me?”

      “But what if Mr. McClaren hadn’t come along when he did?” asked Mortie. “What if Cleve had wandered until a branch hit him? Or an airborne missile from someone’s roof or barn speared him?”

      “What choice do I have?” The young woman splayed her hands. “He wants to be on the farm. It’s his one link to reality, but the barn’s gone, the shed’s demolished and we should be harvesting the early fruit, except there’s no place to put it now. Do I throw in the towel on the harvest and tuck him somewhere safe? Or keep my promise to Grandma and let him have one last season?”

      A school bus pulled up to the driveway, leaving the question unanswered.

      Libby hurried out, wrapped an arm around a small child and walked her inside.

      A woman and child striving to make ends meet on a falling-down farm.

      They needed someone who knew construction. Someone who knew apples. And, maybe most important of all, someone who’d cared for an Alzheimer’s patient before.

      Jax didn’t want to help.

      This place, this farm, this family had too many needs. He could handle any one of them and maintain his distance, but to face all three?

      That called to the protector in him, a side he’d buried when he’d lost four good men to an accident that never should have happened.

      He needed to walk away. They’d get by, one way or another. Folks always did.

      But when Libby drew the little girl in, laughing about the wind and shrugging off the blown-down barn as if it was no big deal, he realized he had no choice.

      He tugged his faded army cap into place. “I’m going to let this wind ride itself out, then I’ll be back.”

      Libby frowned. “What? Why?”

      “To help.” He brushed one finger to the brim of his hat. “I’ll be here first thing in the morning.” He turned, not waiting for permission that might not come. “Miss Mortie. And Miss—” He tipped his gaze down to the little girl.

      The little girl didn’t cuddle into her mother’s side like so many would. She beamed a big smile his way and held up her hand, splaying five little fingers. “I’m CeeCee and I’m this many and Gramps said we could get a dog someday. Won’t that be the best fun ever?”

      “It sure will.”

      He trotted down the steps and to his truck.

      He shouldn’t do this. He knew it. He could pick up the phone, inform his family of the situation, and they’d bankroll whatever was needed, letting him stay away.

      Except this time he couldn’t.

      Was it the old fellow’s struggle that drew him? Or the beautiful and determined young woman? Or the guileless child?

      All three, he realized as he drove around the semicircular drive.

      He’d help. Then he’d leave, like he’d been doing for three long years.

      End of story.

       Chapter Two

      Huge equipment came rolling up the farm driveway at 6:55 a.m. the next morning. CeeCee let out a squeal of delight when she spotted huge Caterpillar treads spinning by the first-floor windows. “Mommy! A monster scooper thing is here! And a truck! Like a really, really big one!”

      Libby got to the window in time to see the first machine lumber past. It was followed by a big dump truck. And then another. Within five minutes, the ginormous scoop arm was loading barn scrap into the truck’s wide bed.

      “I heard a commotion.” Gramps came into the kitchen. The sight of the big machines riled him. “What’s going on? Who brought those here? Lib, we’ve got to stop them!”

      “Gramps, СКАЧАТЬ