Book Blurb:
Excerpt:
The fence post split clean under the third strike of the maul, and Levi Holt set the tool against the rail to catch his breath. He rolled one shoulder, easing the ache that had taken up residence there before breakfast. A pale line of sun carved across the back of his neck.
Sweat had soaked through his chambray shirt an hour ago. Above him the sky ran a flat, hard blue. Late May in the Bitterroot Valley, when the cold finally let go and a person could work outside past noon without his hands going stiff.
Levi breathed in the sharp green air, so clean it almost hurt. He used to thank God for mornings like this without thinking on it twice. Lately the thanks got as far as his throat and stalled there. Fresh cedar shavings from the post mixed with the cool, wet field. Sparrow Creek Ranch smelled exactly like it had before life divided itself into before and after.
By the draw, an irrigation pump ticked, the valley’s version of a heartbeat. Down the rail, Dale Hutchins set another post, thirty years of working this ground, every day of it under Levi’s uncle Cal, long before Levi’s name was ever on the deed.
Past him, a dozen cows grazed the pasture with their calves close, the rest of the herd scattered toward the trees. One calf bumped awkwardly against its mother before finding breakfast. Another five months before the calves were sold and the year either worked or it didn’t.
A year and a half back on this soil, and most days the work did its job.
Fence lines. Feed schedules. A ranch that didn’t care what a man had brought back across an ocean. Uncle Cal used to say a body in motion had less room for ghosts. Levi had taken that as gospel. He’d worked hard enough to wear out three pairs of gloves, and the ghosts still kept pace.
Tires crunched on the gravel, and a white Chamber of Commerce truck rolled up the drive, grit lifting in a pale wake. Sparrows burst from the garden rail before they dropped back down to peck at the gravel’s edge.
Annie Whitlock stepped out of the truck, a clipboard low and easy against her hip, her brown work boots taking the dirt without fuss. Dust clung to the edge of her jeans; proof she’d walked more back roads than office halls. She came straight toward him, not glancing at anything in the yard. Her hair slipped its tie, gold strands picking up the light, and she shoved it back. She was exactly as she’d always been after chasing one project too many across Bitterroot. Determined.
A pencil was tucked behind her ear, half chewed, like she’d been solving several problems on the drive over.
“Morning, Holt.” She stopped a few feet shy of the fence, feet planted like she meant to grow roots, her eyes on him.
“Morning, Whitlock.” He peeled off a glove, buying a second. “You’re a long way from the chamber office for a social call. Unless the Chamber has started inspecting fence posts, I’m guessing you’re here for something else.”
“The Founders’ Day committee voted last night.” She held the clipboard out. “Unanimous. You’re a veteran and they want you as Grand Marshal for the Fourth of July parade.”
He didn’t take the clipboard. “No.”
“You haven’t heard the rest.”
“Don’t need to.” He kept his hands loose at his sides. “Plenty of veterans in this county who’d be glad for the honor. Ask any of them.”
“What an idea.” Her fingers landed close enough to the rail to stir the mud. “Though there’s exactly only one former Army chaplain living inside the town limits. The committee figured that fact matters when you’re asking somebody to carry a flag that means a lot more than a decoration.” She tilted her head, giving him the slow stare he remembered too well. The same emerald-green eyes that had once talked him into jumping the creek behind the old schoolhouse on a dare.
He shifted the brim of his hat. “Being the only one doesn’t make a man qualified for a podium.”
“But he’s the guy the town remembers standing up in Mrs. Delaney’s English class senior year,” Annie replied. “That guy talked about what service costs. Half of them still quote your speech when they want to guilt somebody into showing up for the harvest festival. You didn’t even use notes. I sat two rows back wondering how the boy who never said two words in school suddenly sounded like someone twice his age.”
“I had plenty of notes. And I was eighteen.”
“You didn’t read from them.” Her mouth hit a clean, confident slant, like she’d won a hand he was unaware of. “Same as you not needing a script now. You don’t want the job, plain and simple.”
A rough push of wind went through the grass, hauling the tang of cut hay off the lower pasture. They didn’t touch what the wind left behind.
He picked up her old cues; small towns didn’t let those fade.
“The real thing doesn’t come with a marching band and free apple pie at the potluck afterward,” he replied.
“No.” Her thick black lashes dipped in a neat, deliberate beat. “It starts with men like you coming home and deciding whether this country is worth standing up for.”
That one landed. Annie had always known how to aim. She ran the chamber office on more energy than the budget deserved and never missed a committee meeting.
She propped herself in the dirt, immovable as a fence post. Levi’s boots held in place, the urge to step back dying between thought and his next breath.
“I appreciate the offer.” He meant that part. “But I’m not your man.”
“Sure, you are.” Her gaze held clear and sure, the kind that caused him to forget what he had planned to say.
He shook his head. “Try Pastor Greer, Pastor Michael’s associate pastor. Man’s been looking for an excuse to use a microphone since 1995.”
“He’s leaving town to visit family.” She pulled a folded paper free. “Here’s the parade route and committee schedule. We could use a hand with sound equipment, chairs on the lawn. Might be a man can serve this town without standing on a flatbed in front of half the county.”
“Not a podium?”
She shrugged. “Same difference. Either way.”
He took the paper because refusing it seemed the impolite choice, clear as a closed door. Her fingers brushed his for the briefest instant.
“Thanks, but I won’t change my mind.” The paper crackled against his calluses, a reminder of how long it had been since he’d held anything lighter than a tool.
“Not today, but there’s always tomorrow.” She turned and approached her truck, her hand on the door. “For what it’s worth, my grandfather always said a town loses its soul when it forgets what it cost to keep the lights on. He’d have wanted somebody up there who understands the significance instead of reading off a card.” She swung into the cab. “You used to tell me you’d rather be the one who showed up than the one who explained later why he didn’t.”
“I came home from places where showing up got men killed, and I learned to ask first whether it was worth it.” His thumb hooked the seam of his belt and he pressed hard. “Is that the answer you wanted?”
“I’m not asking you to risk anything twice. I’m asking you to tell people what it cost. That’s a different type of brave and is the kind this town’s short on.” She closed the door before he replied. The engine turned over, a light lift in the air trailing the exhaust in a stubborn drift. For reasons he couldn’t explain, her taillights disappearing was a little too much like watching another chance leave without him.
He studied the parade route with a practiced eye. Sun glanced off the paper, bright enough he had to angle it away from the white‑washed barn.
July Fourth. Nine sharp. Rodeo at noon. Potluck on the church lawn at five. Flag retirement at dusk, fireworks afterward. Annie’s neat block letters along the bottom margin. Sound equipment volunteers required. Contact chamber office.
He tucked the paper into the pocket of his shirt, the sun‑worn fabric swallowing it.
The maul was heavier when he picked it up again. He drove it into the next post harder than it needed to be, the impact jolting up his arms and into his chest.
The valley stretched wide around him, generous in a way he hadn’t yet figured out how to accept. The mountains held the heat low, trapping the scent of thawed earth and last year’s hay.
Annie’s voice remained long after the dust came to rest, stirring memories he’d buried behind calving season, broken gates, and dawn chores. Some days work was enough.
Some days it wasn’t.
Author Bio:
Josie Riviera is a USA TODAY bestselling author of contemporary, inspirational, and historical sweet romances that read like Hallmark movies. She lives in the Charlotte, NC, area with her wonderfully supportive husband. They share their home with an adorable shih tzu, who constantly needs grooming, and live in an old house forever needing renovations.
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