“In this case, this is about me. My name is the one you’re smearing in the dirt with your article.” His voice rose, and he struggled to rein in his anger. He didn’t think of himself as an overly emotional guy, but Amy summoned a host of strong feelings, not all of them good, by any means.
“This isn’t about you,” she insisted. “This is about me. I’m the new reporter here in town and I have to prove myself.”
How many times had he said the same thing—that he had to prove that he was capable of teaching and coaching? He wasn’t just the wounded veteran who’d won the job out of pity; he was capable and talented and the best man for the job. Did Amy really think people were judging her the way they judged him?
“You don’t have to prove yourself,” he said. “People already accept you. You’re Bobbie’s granddaughter.”
She shook her head. “That doesn’t matter to an editor in Denver.”
“Why do you care what an editor in Denver thinks?”
“Denver or Dallas, or any city where I try to get a job once I leave here. I need solid clips that show I can write more than fluff about the local 4-H and tedious reports about city council meetings. I need to show I can uncover the real meat of a story.”
“So you decided to go after me to showcase your skills?”
“I didn’t go after you. I went after the story.”
“I don’t get it,” he said. “It’s a baseball game. Why try to stir up controversy?”
“I’m a journalist. I’m trained to look for the story behind the story.”
“This is the Hartland Herald, not the National Enquirer. There is no story behind the story.”
“I don’t agree with you. I think your story is much more interesting than a baseball game.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You came home from the war and slipped right into a good job and a good life, no problems at all. Do you know how lucky that is? How unusual, even?”
“How do you know I don’t have problems? You don’t even know me.”
“I know the school board went out of its way to make a place for you, and chose you over other candidates who may have been more qualified.”
“So you don’t think I deserve my job?” Saying the words hurt. He hated that she saw him as a charity case.
“Not if every veteran doesn’t get those breaks.”
Every veteran—or the one who could never enjoy the “breaks” he had, because he’d never made it home from the war? Until that moment, he’d forgotten Amy was a war widow. “I’m sorry about your husband,” he said. “But that’s not my fault.”
“This has nothing to do with Brent.”
“Doesn’t it?”
She looked away, but not before he recognized the hurt in her eyes. He felt like a heel for reminding her of that pain. So what if he’d lost a hand? Her husband—and by extension, she and her daughter—had made the ultimate sacrifice. He really was lucky by comparison.
“Never mind,” he said, and turned away.
“Never mind what?”
“Write whatever you want about me. It’s up to me to prove myself despite the naysayers.”
He turned and strode back to his truck, aware of her gaze boring into him. He’d been struggling to prove himself to someone most of his life—his coaches, his father, his superior officers. But most of all, he constantly battled to live up to his own high expectations. One woman’s story in the local paper wasn’t going to change that.
* * *
AMY DIDN’T KNOW who she was more furious with—Josh for questioning the truthfulness of her article, or herself for letting him get to her. So what if she had presented the facts in a particular way to shape her story? That was part of her job, wasn’t it? And maybe the real reason he was upset was because she’d hit too close to the truth. She shouldn’t feel guilty about that, should she?
“What was all that about?” Bobbie didn’t even feign disinterest when Amy returned to the produce stall.
“He was upset about the story I wrote for the paper.” She began picking through a bin of tomatoes, setting aside those with soft spots.
“That story didn’t exactly paint him in the most flattering light.”
“It’s not my job to make him look good.” Amy tossed the tomatoes into a barrel where they saved spoiling vegetables and fruit for a local farmer who fed the produce to his pigs.
“Hartland isn’t Denver,” Bobbie said. “News doesn’t have to be bad to be news.”
“Why are you taking his side?” She tried and failed to hide her hurt.
“I’m not trying to take sides, but if I did, I’d be on your side. If you want to fit in here, you shouldn’t go alienating people right off the bat.”
“Who said I want to fit in?” At Bobbie’s hurt look, Amy wished she could take the words back. “I’m sorry, Grandma. Of course I want to fit in while I’m here.”
Bobbie turned to wait on a young woman who was buying tomatoes, onions and green beans. When they were alone again, she addressed Amy. “I was hoping you’d come to see this place as your home, someplace you’d want to settle down and raise Chloe.”
“I’m not sure I’m the settling down type.” Did she even know what a real home felt like? “But don’t worry. I’ll stay here as long as you need me. When do you see the doctor again?”
Bobbie shifted on her stool, the lines around her face deeper. Was her hip bothering her? Amy knew if she asked, her grandmother would tell her not to fuss. Bobbie hated to be fussed over. “Neal’s taking me tomorrow for a progress report.”
“That’s good.” Not for the first time, Amy wondered what the real relationship was between Bobbie and her neighbor Neal Kuchek. Boyfriend didn’t seem an appropriate term for a man who was in his seventies, but he and Grandma were certainly close. Nice to think that romance could be a part of life even at their age.
“I’ve been thinking,” Bobbie said. “You need to do something besides work here and at the paper. You need to get involved in the town.”
“Involved?”
“A community like this runs on volunteers. You can’t get a feel for what living here is really like unless you throw your lot in with the rest of us and get your hands dirty.”
Amy didn’t want to get her hands dirty. What was the point, since she didn’t intend to stay in town any longer than necessary? “Grandma, I—”
“Humor an old woman. Or think of it as something else you
