by Katie Powner
When Grandma June had used up all the batter, she sat down next to Jeremy. She ran her fingers through her hair, but it stuck out in the back, like she’d had a fitful night of sleep and forgot to comb it.
Jeremy patted his belly. “That was delicious. The best syrup I’ve ever had in my life.”
“Oh, shoot.” Grandma put a hand to her cheek. “It’s just a little brown sugar.”
“I didn’t get much home cooking growing up.”
Bea grunted, knowing he’d often been lucky to get any food at all.
Jeremy inclined his head in her direction. “My wife says you’re quite the storyteller.”
Grandma perked up. “We’ve had a lot of good story times around here, she and I. Haven’t we, Bea?”
Bea nodded. “Tell him my favorite one.”
Grandma waved a hand. “He doesn’t want to hear that.”
“Sure, I do.” Jeremy pushed his plate away and leaned his arms on the table. “Tell me.”
Grandma scooted her chair out. “I’ve got to clear the table.”
“No, no.” Bea jumped to her feet and gently pressed Grandma back into her seat. “I’ll do that. You tell the story.”
“All right, all right.” She wiped her hands on her apron and folded them in her lap. “If you’re sure.”
“Of course, my lady.” Jeremy gave a funny little bow and doffed an invisible hat. “Proceed.”
Bea stifled a chuckle.
Grandma cleared her throat and put on the serious storytelling face Bea knew so well. “Once upon a time, many years ago, there was a man named Miner McGee. He had spent his life traveling all over the country, searching for treasure, and had found a little gold here, a few gemstones there, but never struck it rich. And, boy, did he want to strike it rich.”
As Bea moved around the kitchen, she found herself keeping one eye on Jeremy as the story unfolded, wanting—needing—him to love it like she did.
“Eventually, his travels brought him to Moose Creek,” Grandma continued, “on the first day of winter. The same day the whole town was abuzz with a fantastical rumor.”
Bea smiled to herself. Fantastical was Grandma’s favorite story word.
“The rumor told of an enormous diamond hidden away on the mountain—the Big Sky Diamond—and that only a man willing to give up everything else would ever be able to find it. Well, Miner McGee couldn’t believe his ears. He knew he was that man. He’d been waiting his whole life for this. So he stocked up on supplies, strapped on his headlamp, and headed up the mountain.”
Jeremy raised a finger in protest. “All by himself?”
Grandma nodded gravely. “All by himself. Everyone in Moose Creek begged him to wait until spring, but Miner McGee believed he had already waited long enough to fulfill his destiny. Up the mountain he went, just as the worst blizzard Moose Creek had ever seen fell upon the land. The wind began to blow, the snow began to fall, and the roads became impassable. It didn’t let up for three whole days. When the sky finally cleared and the sun came out, the people of Moose Creek gathered to discuss whether to send a search party up the mountain for Miner McGee’s body right then or wait until the thaw.”
Jeremy gently pounded a fist on his knee. “He died?”
Grandma fixed her eyes on him, and Bea inched closer to the table, her task forgotten.
“Everyone believed so. No one could survive a storm like that out in the open. But as the townspeople talked, the sun sank low in the sky, and someone shouted, ‘Look!’ Everyone turned, and there on the mountain was Miner McGee’s headlamp, shining bright for all to see as he worked away, searching for his treasure. And ever since that day, whenever the sun sinks low in the sky, if you look over at the mountain at just the right time, you will see his lamp click on.”
“He’s still looking?” Jeremy asked.
“He’s still looking.”
“What if he never finds it?”
“He will.” Grandma June sat back in her chair with a satisfied smile. “He’ll never give up.”
TEN
Mitch adjusted the pile of clothes in his arms as he stood outside Bea’s bedroom, the words to Trisha Yearwood’s “She’s in Love with the Boy” taunting him in his head. Argh. The reason he loved country music was the same reason he hated it sometimes. It always hit him right where he lived. Why’d Bea have to fall for an unemployed computer geek who didn’t know the difference between an elk and a moose?
He knocked on the door. “Bea?”
She opened it wide. “Just dump it here on the bed.”
He didn’t exactly dump it, but he let the clothes roll out of his arms onto the orange, green, and blue quilt he and Caroline used to sleep under. The quilt his mother’s aunt Gladys had made for their wedding. “I hope something fits.”
Jeremy stood off to the side as Bea dug through the items. He watched her with a bemused expression. “I still don’t understand why I can’t wear my own stuff to the game.”
Bea scoffed. “Nothing you have is warm enough.”
“It’s not that cold.”
Mitch snickered. This kid had no idea what he was in for. He grabbed two pairs of socks from the bed and held them out. “Here. These are the best ones.”
“Two pairs?”
“One pair goes under your long johns, and the other goes over.”
“I think one will be plenty. My feet will get sweaty.”
“Is that right.” Mitch held the socks out until Jeremy took them. It would not do to allow this greenhorn to neglect his feet. Speaking of which . . .
He nodded at the Romeos Bea was wearing. “Those look a little rough, B.B.” He held out his hand. “Here, give them to me.”
“Dad, they’re fine.”
“Just let me rub some Huberd’s on them.”
She huffed and kicked them off to hand over. “Leave in fifteen?”
Mitch nodded, and she turned back to the pile of clothes on the bed. He was glad to see her looking better than she had this morning. When he saw her at breakfast, he’d thought she might be coming down with something, but there was no sign of it now.
He left them to get dressed. Did it ever get below zero in Atlanta? It wouldn’t be below zero tonight, but he did expect a very cold twenty-eight degrees or so. The air always felt colder when it was damp and when you were sitting outside on metal bleachers. With any luck, the freezing rain would hold off until the game was over, but in case it got wet out, he would give Bea’s Romeos a good coating of Huberd’s Shoe Grease for protection.
Once the shoes were rubbed down to his satisfaction, Mitch headed to the kitchen, stepping over Steve to reach his good thermos. As he filled it with coffee, he thought of his father and his stomach roiled with a touch of guilt. When he’d told his dad earlier that he couldn’t get an appointment until next Friday, he’d neglected to mention his failure to call in a timely manner was to blame. His dad had sounded discouraged.
Then there was the football game. Bea hadn’t exactly invited him along when she told him they were going tonight, but of course she must assume he would go, too, right? He went to all the home games. And it made sense to ride together in his truck. Why bother with two vehicles?
Not to mention he didn’t want people seeing that Toyota thing with its hopeless tires anyway. They were never going to make it through a Montana winter. And not to mention Jeremy didn’t know how to drive a stick shift. Mitch had made that disappointing discovery while they were discussing the ride arrangements.
At least he’d managed to dodge having Marge tag along. She’d been in her front yard pruning back her peonies when he’d come home from work, and she’d done her best to rope him into offering an invitation to the game. He’d wriggled out of it like a calf in the tie-down event at Ponderosa’s annual rodeo.
He chuckled to himself, even as a heaviness landed on his shoulders. It was the kind of story Frank would get a kick out of. Mitch’s fingers itched to dial up his old friend and tell him about it. Tell him about ever
ything going on. Tell him his son-in-law couldn’t even drive a stick shift. But he didn’t know how to cross back over the bridge he’d burned two years ago.
A loud clatter made him jump, tossing thoughts of Frank from his mind. Ugh. That stupid ice machine. Now it was spitting out ice cubes whenever it felt like it. His tinkering had only made it worse. A chunk of ice slid across the floor and came to rest in front of Steve, who sniffed at it with contempt.
“Don’t blame me.” Mitch scowled at the cat. “It didn’t start acting up until you got here.”
Bea and Jeremy came bounding down the stairs, chattering happily together. Mitch’s heart wrenched. He loved seeing Bea happy. Loved hearing her laugh and watching her smile, even if it was at Jeremy. But it made him miss Caroline. And he wanted to be the one to make Bea smile. To be what she needed. He’d spent her first eighteen years being everything for her. His only child. And now she looked at Jeremy like that.
He eyed the windbreaker in Jeremy’s hand. “You got a coat?”
Jeremy looked down at the jacket. “Uh . . .”
Bea raised her eyebrows at him. “Dad.”
“Okay.” Let him freeze to death if that’s what he wanted. “Let’s go.”
Although there was some comfort in the sameness of everything—the home stands, the cheers, even the hot dogs—Bea fidgeted in her seat, wedged between Jeremy and her father. Everywhere she turned, there was someone in the sea of blue-and-gold team apparel wanting to ask invasive questions. When did you get back? What are you going to do now? And the worst one: Georgia State didn’t work out, huh?
Georgia State. Sigh. It was tempting to believe going there had been a mistake. She’d spent the first six months in an aimless daze, changing her mind weekly about what degree to pursue and keeping the other girls in her dorm at arm’s length. She couldn’t remember a single thing she’d learned. But if it weren’t for Georgia State, she’d never have met Jeremy.
She scooted a little closer to her husband and looked around, finding her eyes drawn to the land surrounding the football field. Cows grazed in the acreage to the west. The mountain loomed to the east, its face golden pink as it reflected the sunset. She caught her breath as she realized what time it must be. Miner McGee should be switching on his headlamp right about . . .
“There.” She nudged Jeremy’s shoulder and pointed. “Look.”
His head swiveled. A flicker of light appeared, shining from one of the mountain’s many folds.
“Miner McGee?” Jeremy asked.
She nodded. “There’s an old forest service cabin up there. When the sun is low in the sky, it reflects off the window. Just for a minute.”
They peered at it until the sun moved too far and it blinked out. Bea could remember being young enough to believe Miner McGee was really up there. She would shout with delight whenever the light appeared. Would her own child do the same one day?
The game started as the Moose Creek Spuds ran the kickoff back to the thirty-two-yard line. The thwacks and thuds of helmets and pads colliding echoed across the fields around the stadium. With nothing to absorb the sounds, people miles away could hear what was happening in the game. Many of them even stopped what they were doing to set their hands on their hearts when the national anthem played through the speakers.
“I’ve never seen so much camo in my life,” Jeremy said.
She gave him a half smile. “Wait until opening weekend.”
He leaned closer to her ear. “I didn’t realize your dad was coming.”
One eyebrow rose. She wasn’t thrilled about it, either. But Dad attended all the home games, like most people in town. They couldn’t just leave him home while they went out, could they?
A jolt of excitement rippled through the crowd as a man wearing a suit made from potato sacks appeared in the stands.
The crowd cried out, “Booger!”
He raised his fists and yelled. The crowd went wild, chanting, “Booger! Booger! Booger!”
Jeremy gave her a funny look, his lips looking a little blue. “Booger?”
She shrugged. “It’s not his real name.”
“What’s his real name?”
“Beauregard.”
“Oh.” Jeremy stuck his hands under his armpits. “That wind is brisk.”
The sky was clear as the harvest moon peered over the mountain to check the score of the game. But the damp chill portended the freezing rain to come. She looked at him sideways. “I thought your feet were going to be sweaty.”
His face tightened. “I only wore one pair.”
“Should’ve listened to my dad.”
He frowned and looked away. She tensed. She shouldn’t have said that.
“How are your shoes?” Jeremy asked, low enough only she could hear.
Was that what this was all about? She looked down at the Romeos and turned her face away from where Dad sat on her other side. “He was only trying to help.”
“He wants me to know I’m out of my element here.”
She spoke in an irritated whisper. “The leather needed some grease, that’s all.”
Jeremy didn’t answer. She pressed her lips together. Was it going to be like this the whole time? What did he want from her?
The quarterback threw a short pass for eight yards, and the announcer’s voice crackled over the loudspeaker. “First down . . .”
The crowd answered eagerly, “Spud Town!”
Never did Moose Creek embrace their potato heritage like during football season, which happened to coincide with harvest.
Dad elbowed her. “They’re looking pretty good this season. You know they’ve won three games already?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Really?”
He pulled his beanie down tighter over his ears. “This could be the year.”
Jeremy leaned forward to join the conversation. “The year for what?”
“The year we finally make the play-offs.”
“That’s never happened before?”
“Not yet.”
The second quarter ended with Moose Creek up 14 to 7. People stood and stretched and shouted to each other from across the bleachers as “Callin’ Baton Rouge” played through the speakers.
“Garth Brooks.” Dad bobbed his head to the music. “The best.”
“Garth Brooks?” Jeremy asked.
Bea turned to stare at him. Sure, he was raised in the city and everything, but how could he not know Garth Brooks? The bestselling country artist of all time?
“Garth is Dad’s third favorite.”
Jeremy winced a little. “Dare I ask who his first two favorites are?”
Dad’s face took on a solemn look. This was a serious subject for him. “Randy Travis is number one, of course. Then Miranda Lambert.”
Jeremy gulped. “Of course.”
Bea laughed. “Dad loves him some Miranda.”
“She’s got spunk.” Dad held up the fingers of one hand. “Then Alan Jackson and Taylor Swift round out the top five. If you must know.”
Jeremy gaped. “Uh . . . Taylor Swift?”
“Oh, here we go.” Bea rolled her eyes.
“Taylor Swift’s not a country singer.”
Dad glared. “You don’t know what you’re saying, son.”
“Dad, please.” Bea looked up at him, surprised at how easily she took on the role her mother used to play in this familiar discussion. “You’ve got to let her go. She moved on. It wasn’t personal.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “She was born to be a country artist. She’s going to come back.”
“Taylor Swift is too gifted to be confined to any one genre, Dad. She has to be able to spread her wings.”
“I didn’t realize she was ever a country singer,” Jeremy said.
Dad ignored him and gave Bea a meaningful look. “She’ll be back. You wait and see.”
“Okay, okay.” Bea held up her hands. “If you say so.”
Dad stamped his feet and rubbed his hands together. “I’m
going to The Shack to warm up and get some popcorn. Want anything?”
“Ooh, popcorn.” Bea smiled. “Get me one, too.”
“You got it, B.B.”
Jeremy watched him walk down the stairs with a guarded look on his face. “I thought you didn’t like that name.”
She chewed the inside of her lower lip. B.B. wasn’t who she was anymore. B.B. was a kid with dreams and plans and a mother who was there for her no matter what. “I don’t.”
“Then why don’t you say so?”
“He doesn’t mean anything by it.” She looked down to where he’d gone. “It’s just a habit.”
“Well, I don’t—”
“Beatrice, I’ve been looking all over for you.” A young woman holding a baby in one arm dropped into the seat Dad had left empty and threw her other arm around Bea’s neck. “I heard you were back. I tried to text, but the number was out of service.”
Bea stared at the child. His cheeks were rosy, and snot ran from his nose. She pulled away from the hug. “Oh, uh, hey, Amber.”
Why had Amber Moss wanted to text her?
When she left Moose Creek, she’d ditched her old phone and old number as a way to leave it all behind. Start over new and all that. She hadn’t been that close to anyone when she graduated anyway, having spent the last couple months of high school completely checked out as her mother’s health faded. She hadn’t thought it would bother anyone that they couldn’t keep in touch with her, least of all Amber Moss. Once you left town, people tended to forget about you.
Bea gave the baby a pointed look. “Who’s this?”
Amber arranged the little one on her lap. “This is Hunter.”
“Is he . . . ?”
“Mine?” Amber grinned. “Yes. Eight months old this week.” It was her turn to give a pointed look in Jeremy’s direction. “And who is this?”
“This is my husband, Jeremy.” Bea leaned back a little to make the introductions. “Jeremy, this is Amber. We went to school together.”