Besides, Heath and his grandmother had argued from the time he was a teenager. He’d concluded that it was better for everyone involved if he stayed away—from the bank and from Lily Quantrill.
Then Max had died and Heath had no choice but to come home. His grandmother needed him, and to his surprise, Heath discovered he needed her, too. They were all that was left of the family. Overnight, Heath found himself responsible for the business. The Quantrills had been in banking for three generations, and there were now ten branches in as many towns and cities around the state.
As part of his training he’d taken over the management of the Buffalo Valley bank—the original location. He worked there three days a week and two days in Grand Forks at the corporate office. It was when Rachel Fischer applied for a loan to buy a pizza oven that he’d met the young widow.
At first he hadn’t given her much notice. In fact, he’d refused her loan until his grandmother had taken him to task. She’d pointed out that Rachel was willing to invest in the community when few others were doing so. That one loan had been a valuable lesson. His grandmother had insisted all his schooling wouldn’t do him a damn bit of good unless he learned to look at loan applications with his head and his heart.
He’d frequently looked at Rachel with his heart in the months since. Their first date had ended in disaster. Heath knew she was attracted to him, and frankly it was mutual; as a result, he’d said some things that would’ve been better left unsaid. Afterward they’d ignored each other. Okay, she’d ignored him and he’d pretended to ignore her.
Being rejected by a woman was a new experience for him. She’d been serious about it, too. Time had proved it wasn’t just a ploy or a trick to keep him interested. Quite simply, she didn’t want what he was offering. Once he was able to set his ego aside, Heath had asked Rachel for a second chance, which she’d granted, and to date, eight months later, he’d been a perfect gentleman. He’d challenge anyone to fault his manners.
Twice now he’d taken her to dinner with his grandmother. He’d spent time with Mark, Rachel’s ten-year-old son. He’d gone out of his way to prove himself and the sincerity of his intentions. He just didn’t know how much longer he was going to have to do penance.
Rachel’s small restaurant was situated where her parents had once operated the Morningside Café. She’d started out making and delivering pizzas on weekends; demand had escalated to the point that she now opened the place five nights a week. No one was more surprised than Rachel herself at this success.
The first time Heath tasted her pizza, nearly a year ago, he knew she had a winner. Rachel prepared her own sauce from the tomatoes that grew in her garden, and the crust was completely homemade. As soon as she got her bank loan, she’d purchased an oven, and she was in business.
In the past year, she’d managed to pay off the pizza oven and purchase ten new tables and chairs. She’d renamed the restaurant The Pizza Parlor. Needless to say, pizza was her specialty, but she also made lasagna—the world’s best. He should know; he’d eaten enough of it.
Heath was the last one to leave the bank. After he’d locked up, he paused at his car and looked down Main Street. He couldn’t be in Buffalo Valley and not think of Rachel. Not that it did him much good.
Oh, they dated occasionally. Very occasionally. With the restaurant open five nights a week, that left only Sunday and Monday evenings free, and she insisted those were her nights with her son.
In other words, she didn’t have time for him.
He’d say one thing for her: She certainly knew how to hurt a man’s ego. Every other woman he’d dated since his return had been flattering and eager for his company. Yet after two or three dates with anyone but Rachel, he simply grew bored.
Taking his briefcase, he walked over to the restaurant, certain he was setting himself up for another disappointment.
“Hello, Heath,” Rachel called out when she saw him. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I’ve been busy.” He picked up the menu, although he already knew what he wanted. “How’s the lasagna today?”
“Good as always,” she promised, emerging from the kitchen, water pitcher in hand.
“That’s what I’ll have,” he said. “Everything going okay?”
She nodded. “Wendy Curtis is working for me now.”
Heath wasn’t familiar with the name.
“She’s from a farm outside Bellmont,” Rachel explained. “They grow mostly wheat, some soybeans. Wendy’s kids are in school now, and I hired her part-time in September.”
“Business must be good.”
“Very good.” She filled his water glass. “You want ranch dressing on your dinner salad?”
“Please. Still driving the school bus?” he asked, although he already knew the answer. She’d stopped doing that around the same time she stopped doing the books for Hassie Knight. Giving up those jobs had been an act of faith for her. Her entire income now came from the restaurant and what she collected from Social Security. He’d asked the question because he craved conversation with her; he wanted to hear something that would tell him he’d been in her thoughts, too. Their last official date had been in July, following Lindsay and Gage’s wedding, and he’d gone out with five or six women since then. Not one of them held his interest or stayed on his mind the way Rachel did.
“Janice Moser’s driving the school bus these days,” she told him. Rachel disappeared and returned a few minutes later with his salad and a basket of bread sticks. “Your lasagna will be ready soon.”
“Do you have time to chat?” he asked. It wasn’t as though she was busy right now. It was only a little after five, early even for him.
“Sure.”
He pulled out the other chair for her. She sat down, folding her hands demurely.
“How’s Mark?”
“Fine. Leta Betts watches him for me. It works out all around. She said she’d go stir-crazy nights if it wasn’t for Mark keeping her company. Says it gives her a reason to cook dinner.”
“How’s Kevin liking art school?” Heath asked.
“So far so good,” she said.
Reaching across the table, Heath took one of Rachel’s hands. He opened her palm and studied the lines but they told him nothing. Unfortunately he couldn’t read fortunes, hers or his.
“How about dinner Sunday night?” he suggested. “Just the two of us.”
“I can’t,” she said without pause. “We’ve been through this before. Sunday evening is my time with Mark.”
“It isn’t that you can’t, you won’t.”
“Fine, I won’t, then,” she said. The chair made a scraping sound as she stood. “Besides I thought you were dating Tammy Zimmerman.”
So Rachel was paying attention. Heath had wondered.
“We went out a couple of times,” he admitted. “She’s
