she told him. “Grandma wants you to unload the truck.”
“Does she, now? That woman just loves to order me around.” But he grinned and headed toward the truck parked behind the produce stand.
Amy finished assisting the young couple and turned to the next customer in line. “May I help you?”
“Just these.” A man extended a plastic bag that contained three tomatoes toward her. But the hand that held the tomatoes wasn’t a hand, it was a steel hook. Amy’s smile faltered, and she lifted her gaze to meet that of her customer. He was a young man, near her own age, with the fine creases around his blue eyes of someone who had spent a lot of time squinting into the sun, and the close-cropped brown hair and erect posture that spoke of military training.
He met her stare with a steady look of his own. “You must be Bobbie’s granddaughter,” he said. “She told me you were coming to live with her. I was sorry to hear about your husband.”
In the week Amy had been in the little town of Hartland, Colorado, she had heard similar expressions of sympathy from almost everyone she’d met, each one heartfelt, and each one a sharp reminder that, though Brent had been killed in Iraq three years ago, the loss still hurt. “Thank you,” she murmured, looking away. “Did you know Brent?”
“No. I didn’t have that privilege. I suspect I was already back in the States, recuperating, when he was killed.” He offered his left hand—the one that wasn’t a hook. “Josh Scofield. I teach science at the high school.”
“Amy Marshall.” She shook hands, a brief touch that nevertheless sent a shiver up her spine, maybe because this injured soldier was such a tangible reminder of her late husband, who had never recovered from his own war wounds.
“Hello.” Chloe climbed onto an empty apple crate beside her mother and frowned at Josh. “Why do you have a hook instead of a hand?”
“Chloe!” Amy shushed her daughter, her face burning.
“It’s all right,” Josh said. “Kids are always curious.” He smiled at the little girl. “A hook makes carrying my groceries easier.” He demonstrated, looping the plastic bag of tomatoes over the end.
“But better not try to pick your nose,” Chloe said and giggled.
“You’re right. This broke me of that habit in no time.”
“This is my daughter, Chloe.” Amy put her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “I promise she usually has better manners.”
“Nice to meet you, Chloe.”
Suddenly shy, Chloe buried her face in her mother’s side.
Josh nodded to Amy. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”
Then he sauntered away, a tall, trim figure with a bag of tomatoes nonchalantly looped over the hook on the end of one arm.
“Was that Josh Scofield?” Bobbie joined her granddaughter and great-granddaughter by the cash register. “I hate that I missed him.”
“He was buying tomatoes with his hook,” Chloe said. She grinned, then skipped away, probably to “help” Neal, her current favorite person.
Bobbie’s attention focused on Amy. “You remember Josh, don’t you? Big baseball star when he was in high school.”
Amy shook her head. “I never met him.”
“You didn’t?”
“I was only here a few weeks in the summers—and I mostly stayed on the farm.” Those brief childhood visits had been precious to her, an oasis in her otherwise chaotic life.
“Hmmph. I tried to talk your folks into letting you live here with me full-time instead of dragging you all over the world with them, but they wouldn’t hear of it. They said you needed to experience adventure while you were still young and impressionable.” She sniffed. “I think what children need is a home they know they can always come back to.”
“And I always knew I had that with you.” Amy patted the older woman’s arm. Her parents, who managed an adventure tour company, had lived in twenty-three different places in eight countries by the time Amy graduated high school. As a girl, Amy had studied correspondence courses by lantern light in a grass hut in Zaire, made friends with native Laplanders in Greenland and visited Japanese temples with girls in kimonos. After all of that, spending a few weeks every summer in her grandmother’s apple orchard had seemed the more exotic life.
“Josh is a great guy,” Bobbie said. “He lost his hand in Iraq.”
“I figured as much. He said he didn’t know Brent.”
“No. I guess they were in different units. His family’s ranch, the Bar S, backs up to our orchards on the south.”
“But he doesn’t ranch.”
“He helps out his dad. And the school district hired him this year to teach science and coach baseball. Word is the Wildcats might have their first winning season in four years.”
“I guess I’ll find out tomorrow night,” Amy said. “Ed wants me to write about the baseball game for the paper. Apparently the high school kid who usually does it has come down with mono.” She’d never been particularly interested in sports, but the story would be one more credit to add to her portfolio. Her part-time job at the Hartland Herald wasn’t hard-core journalism, but she hoped the experience would help her land a better writing job in Denver or an even larger city when she left Hartland once Bobbie was on her feet again.
“Josh is single, you know,” Bobbie said. “Not even dating anyone.”
The overly casual way in which she shared this information didn’t fool Amy. “Are you trying to fix me up?”
“No.” She patted Amy’s hand. “I know you loved Brent, and losing him was hard. Believe me, I know.” Amy’s grandfather had passed away five years before, after forty-six years of marriage. “But you’re still young, and sooner or later you won’t want to be alone anymore. You could marry again, have more children...and you can’t blame me for thinking if you settled down with someone local it would be a good thing.”
The genuine concern behind the words touched Amy, erasing any resentment she might have harbored about her grandmother’s matchmaking. “You’re right. One day I probably will want to date again. But I’m not ready for that. Not yet.” And she certainly didn’t want to get involved with someone from Hartland. After a lifetime of traveling the world, she wasn’t ready to settle down in a sleepy little small town. She had big plans for her life.
* * *
IN THE BOTTOM of the ninth, the Wildcats were down by one. Josh paced the dugout, his cleats scraping on the concrete with each step. He didn’t have to look at the lineup card to know who was up next: Chase Wilson, a terrific third baseman who was at best a mediocre hitter. He stopped at the step leading to the field and clapped Chase on the back. “Take a deep breath and focus on making contact with the ball. No heroics, just a solid single,” he said. “I know you can do this.”
The boy nodded and, head down, strode to the plate. Josh leaned over the chain link that separated the dugout from the field and watched. How many times had he stood in this dugout over the years, before and after games, smelling the aromas of sunflower seeds and glove oil, hearing the clear, hollow sound of an aluminum bat connecting with the baseball? He’d sent his share of balls over the outfield fences, and pounded around the bases to the cheers of the hometown crowd. He’d loved the game the way some boys love cars or music or girls. He’d even dreamed of playing professionally, until a stint on a college team had taught him the difference between being a small-town star and having the kind of talent that lured big league scouts and big league contracts.
He’d have been happy playing league softball the rest of his life if an IED on a bleak roadside in Fallujah hadn’t changed everything.
Getting the chance to be around the game again, even