Chapter One
Cucumbers, zucchini, yellow squash, cantaloupe, watermelon, black-eyed peas. I closed my eyes and walked through last year’s garden trying to remember what I was missing. Okra! I spun the display carousel around until I found a seed packet marked ‘spineless okra’.
“The tiller is loaded in the truck, are you ready to check out?” I continued to shuffle through the seed packets the same way I would a hand of gin rummy.
“I think so,” I answered, as I turned to smile up at the man who was trying to rush me out of the garden store.
Jack Turner, my fiancé, a Detective with the Overly County Sheriff’s Department, and soon to be a farmer. Well, maybe not a farmer, but he had promised to help me with my vegetable garden. He’s a novice in the area while I had been in the garden with my mother when I could barely walk. But he’s game to learn, so I planned to take advantage of his strong back for the first step: tilling the garden plot.
“Claire, are you finding everything you need?” I turned and saw Hank Lazaro, owner of Lazaro Gardens, standing behind me.
“Hey, Hank. Yeah, I think we have everything. Have you met Jack Turner?” Hank reached his hand out to Jack.
“No, I haven’t. Hank Lazaro, glad to meet you. You must be the guy that I’ve been hearing about. You’re going to have your hands full with this one,” he said, nodding toward me, “she’s been getting herself in trouble for as long as I’ve known her.” Jack shook the other man’s hand before laying his arm around my shoulders.
“Yeah, I found that out pretty quick. You’ve got a nice store here. I just loaded one of your tillers in my truck.”
“Thank you, and thanks for the business. I guess she’s going to put you to work?” Hank asked, grinning.
“That’s the plan.”
“Well, I’ll let you go, just wanted to let you know we’ll be out sometime this week to prune your fruit trees.”
“Okay, that will be great. Hopefully my dog will remember you, if not, give me a call.”
“I will. Jack, nice to meet you. Claire, we’ll be seeing you,” Hank said, then hurried toward the front of the store when his name was called over the store speakers.
“Do I want to know how well you know Mr. Lozaro?” Jack asked, as we walked to the checkout lanes.
“He broke his leg in September of our junior year of high school. Our principal said if he couldn’t play football, he had to pick an elective class to take, but everything was full by then, so they put him in Home Ec. The only thing we’ve done together is burn a meatloaf to a crisp,” I answered.
“Okay, just making sure. With your checkered past, I can’t be too careful, you know.”
My name is Claire Shannon. I live ten miles outside of Allen Creek, Texas, in the house where I grew up. My parents owned a large farm when I was younger, plus additional pastureland where Daddy raised cattle. Mama’s idea of a garden was to feed the family all summer, then preserve the rest to eat throughout the year. As Daddy got older, the land got to be too much for him to take care of. They retired and sold all the land except for the three acres surrounding the house, then they deeded what was left to me and my brother, Conner. Several years later they both died in an auto accident. So, since Connor, his wife, Ruth, and daughter, Brynn, live in Rockport, I’ve made the house my home again. It won’t be long before Jack will be moving in with me.
Allen Creek has always been home to me, but Jack didn’t move here until last spring. Before that, he had worked Homicide for the Plano Police Department. It was a big change for him, job-wise and city wise, but he moved to be closer to his mother who lives in a nursing home thirty miles south of here. Our relationship had started as a fun flirtation until we found a body. Yeah, a body. In my office. Not the most romantic start, but it worked for us.
A lot has happened since then. We’ve fought and laughed and grown closer despite some stressful times. Last August we decided to get married and in five weeks, I will become Mrs. Jack Turner. Thanks to my best friend, Maggie, the wedding plans are right on schedule. The ceremony will be in her back yard. Her husband, Ben, owns a landscaping company. Their backyard looks like the pictures you see in garden magazines. The flowers will be pink and white gladiolus and apple blossoms with just a few white roses. The music will be played by my friends from our church band and Pastor Bell will perform the ceremony. The ladies from the church are preparing the food. My brother, Connor, will give me away, and his daughter, Brynn, will be the flower girl with my dog, Indie, as her escort. Maggie will be my matron of honor and Jack’s friend, Will Tucker, will be his best man. Everything is ready to go. Except for my wedding dress, which means Maggie is close to having a stroke. Did I mention that I haven’t found a wedding dress?
I was standing in my kitchen an hour later when I heard Jack start the tiller. I had helped him unload it from his truck. He said the guy at Lazaro’s gave him quick instructions, so I figured it would be better to leave him alone.
Two months ago, on a rare, warm Saturday in February, I had moved the fence that surrounded the garden and worked several bags of manure into the soil. It should be broken down enough by now that it wouldn’t burn the plants. I finished filling two large glasses with ice, added water, then carried them and a towel outside. I started around the side of the house toward the garden but stopped when I saw Jack.
It was a warm, sunny, April afternoon and he had taken his shirt off. Anyone that’s ever used a tiller knows it’s a little like a wrestling match. I watched the muscles in his arms and across his back strain with the effort. Before I knew it, I had drunk half of my glass of water. My goodness, he’s gorgeous. He reached the end of the row and maneuvered the tiller around in the other direction. I stared at the dusting of dark hair across his chest that tapered down his flat belly. His worn jeans rode low on his hips. I turned around, went back into the kitchen, and refilled my glass. In five weeks, I would be his wife. The thought thrilled me and scared me to death. Ten minutes later I had regrouped and walked back outside.
Jack turned off the tiller when he saw me and met me half-way across the yard. He took the glass of ice water and drank half of it down before pulling off his cowboy hat and running the glass across his forehead. I handed him the towel and he wiped the sweat from his face and chest.
“Now I understand why you needed help with this. It’s hard work. If you’re not careful that thing will get away from you.”
“I usually need to get someone to help me with it, so I don’t do it but every other year. I’ve tried running the tiller myself, but I’m not strong enough to hold it back so it doesn’t dig deep enough.” I watched him empty the glass. “Of course, now that I have you, we can do it every year,” I said, grinning. He handed me the empty glass and grabbed my arm with his other hand, pulling me up against him.
“Eeeww! Let me go, you’re soaked with sweat!”
“That’s not sweat, Darlin’, that’s hard work,” he said, laughing, as he grabbed my glass. He pulled his hat off and dumped the rest of the water over his face, then shook his head making the water fly all over me. Grinning, he winked and handed me the glass before walking back to the tiller. He braced his feet, pulled the starter cord, and eased back the throttle. I looked down at my wet shirt then up at that strong back. Five More Weeks!
Amy J Bryant 