Her Second Chance Hometown Groom

by Amelia C. Adams

Each of Austin’s siblings gave their permission, as did Todd. Surprisingly, Melinda was the only holdout.

  “I don’t mean to make things difficult,” she said. “I just hope you can explain something to me—maybe help me feel better about it.”

  “I’ll do whatever I can,” Angela replied.

  Melinda glanced at her husband before she started talking. “The media’s been making a big deal of Austin’s humble roots and how he didn’t have a lot of luxuries growing up. It’s true that we’ve never been rich, but the way they’ve been phrasing things . . . well, it offends me.”

  Austin looked at Angela. She seemed curious rather than bothered by that statement. “Go on,” she urged.

  “Todd and I started out simply, as all young couples do, and we had five children right off the bat. We didn’t have a lot, but we were happy, and later, when Maggie came along, we welcomed her too—the more the merrier. It meant a lot of sacrifice, but our children had room to run and play, plenty of hot homemade bread, and they knew they were loved.

  “Well, when we had the chance to start up our horse training business, things really changed for us. We went from living just above the poverty level to having some money in the bank. We paid off our debts, we put aside money for retirement—and yet the media still talks about us like we’re some backwoods hicks who floss our teeth with shoelaces.”

  “Ew, Mom. Gross,” Maggie interrupted, and everyone laughed.

  “Sorry, my squeamish daughter. But my point remains—I don’t want to go into details about our financial status on television, but I’d sure appreciate it if everyone could recognize our hard work and our success rather than focusing on the lean years and making it sound like we had to diaper our children with newspapers.”

  “I completely understand,” Angela replied. “I’ll do my best to work that in—tastefully, of course.”

  “Thank you. In a case like that, yes, you have my permission to include me.”

  The conversation turned to something else, and Austin leaned over and spoke low in Angela’s ear. “Thank you for that,” he said softly. “That will mean a lot to her. Well, to both of them.”

  “They deserve to be shown in their best light,” she replied. “It’s my privilege.”

  Once they finished up their cocoa and felt a little less frozen, they dragged out the tree ornaments and decorated, the lights going on first, of course. That was Melinda’s special task—no one else could do it quite right, and no one else dared try. They all pawed through the boxes to find the ornaments that held special meaning for them, exclaiming as they located this thing they thought was lost or that thing they forgot they had. Angela hung back a little, smiling, but not participating.

  “Come here,” Austin said, motioning her over.

  “I don’t want to get in the way. You go ahead.”

  “But I have something for you.”

  She raised a skeptical eyebrow, but came anyway. Austin reached into the box and brought out a tiny blue glass hummingbird.

  “My mom found this in a thrift store last year right after Christmas,” he said, placing it in her palm. “She didn’t know why she felt drawn to it, but she felt like she should buy it. She brought it home, polished it, and put it away with the ornaments, saying that someday, she’d understand what it was for.” Austin nodded toward Angela. “I think we know now—it was meant to be yours.”

  “I . . . I don’t understand,” Angela said, looking at the delicately blown glass, the soft shade of the blue. “How is it meant to be mine?”

  “A hummingbird beats its wings up to seventy times a second,” Melinda said, coming up beside them. “He’s trying so badly to get somewhere that he often doesn’t realize he’s already there. You’re trying so hard to fit in, to be loved, that you don’t realize you already are.”

  Angela’s lower lip trembled as she studied the ornament again. Then she reached out with a shaking hand, put it on an empty branch, and ran from the room, heading toward the back patio. Melinda watched her go with a thoughtful look on her face.

  “I’m sorry for upsetting her, but she needed to hear those words,” she said. “Go talk to her, son. Go help her glue her broken pieces back together again.”

  “Only if she’ll let me,” he replied.

  “She’ll let you when she knows you want to.”

  Austin nodded, then followed Angela’s path through the house and onto the back patio. It had been screened in two summers ago and made a nice place to enjoy nature without getting eaten alive by mosquitoes. In the winter, the blinds were down, giving privacy and protection from the biting weather.

  He stepped up behind Angela and slid his arms around her waist just as he had so many times when they were together. She leaned back against his chest, and they stayed that way while he searched for the right words. After a moment, he realized that he didn’t need words. He just needed to be there.

  “My mother never loved me like that,” she said at last. “What your mom just said? Elaine Dingle would rather die.” She pulled in a shuddering breath. “Why wasn’t I ever enough?”

  “Because she wasn’t enough,” Austin replied. “Somewhere deep down, she’s got a piece missing inside her, and until it’s found, she won’t know how to give others what they need.”

  “I actually blamed her. For the attack, I mean. If she’d ever approved of me, I wouldn’t have fallen for him so easily—that’s the story I’ve told myself because I haven’t wanted to realize how foolish I was.”

  “Only one person’s to blame, and that’s him. Don’t ever forget that.” Austin gently turned her so she was facing him. “His choice, his fault. And you know what? You don’t have to find someone to blame in order to heal. Healing is your choice.”

  She wiped her eyes. “You’re pretty smart for a jock.”

  “Well, not all my college classes were about how to kick a ball.” He hesitated, but only for a moment, before reaching up and brushing a stray tear from her cheek. “What do you think it would take for you and your mom to sit down and have a real talk?”

  “Oh, wow. I don’t know. The zombie apocalypse, maybe?” Angela shook her head. “I can’t see it ever happening. I’ve tried—I don’t even know how many times I’ve tried—but she shuts me down every time. I wouldn’t even be in town this week if it wasn’t for this interview—Christmas is not a happy holiday at my house.”

  “Then you should come here.” He paused, wondering if he should say the words. “And bring her with you.”

  “Oh, no. No.” She took a step back, holding up both hands. “I can’t do that. It would be horrible in so many ways.”

  “I promise that all my brothers will wear actual pants, if that would help.”

  She shook her head. “This is more than a funny joke will fix, Austin. So much more.”

  “I’m just making an offer. No pressure.”

  “When are you heading back to Texas?”

  “The twenty-second, so we’re doing Christmas on the twenty-first.”

  She gave a nod. “I might come over for a little bit, but bringing her—out of the question.”

  “Like I said, it’s just an offer.” Austin sat down on one of the patio chairs and rested his elbows on his knees. “We’ve all got broken pieces, Angela. Every one of us.”

  She didn’t respond. She didn’t really have to.

  A moment later, they heard Melinda’s voice calling out that dinner was ready, and they headed back into the dining room. The roast and vegetables were delicious, and after a few minutes, Angela was smiling and laughing with the family, but Austin still felt unsettled. How could a relationship as fractured as hers with her mother ever be mended . . . especially when it had started out broken?

  Chapter 8

  “After many unfortunate delays, here we are,” Austin said, bringing his truck to a halt. “When was the last time you were here?”

  Angela looked out the truck window and tried to pick out some distinguishing landmarks, but nothing was c
oming to her. “Are you sure I have been here before?”

  “How many girls do you think I’ve brought frog hunting with me? Of course you’ve been here. I remember it as plain as day. You were wearing a pair of denim overalls, and you had a yellow shirt underneath, and your hair was supposed to be in braids but you’d taken them out because you thought they made you look like a little girl.” He chuckled. “You were a little girl.”

  “If this is such a great frog hunting place, why didn’t we come back?”

  “Because you said you didn’t want to. The swamp was too swampy.”

  Now she was starting to remember. “But . . . it’s not too swampy today?”

  “No, it’s perfect today because we stand a good chance of finding some frogs in hibernation. The swampiness, if you will, actually insulates the frogs a bit.”

  “I see. So, you’re going to make me get out, huh?”

  “Yes, I am. And bring your camera.”

  Angela tried to suppress her shudder as she stepped down from the truck and her booted feet touched the squishy ground. She preferred solid ground, thank you very much, ground that didn’t make her feel like she was about to get sucked into quicksand or experience some other horrible and untimely death. She just had to stay focused on this interview. This was the last segment she had to film, and then she could start piecing everything together into a story. So close to impressing Mr. Wiltbank, so close to landing that morning talk show job . . . She could endure a swamp for a few minutes, couldn’t she?

  Austin pulled on his hip waders, then walked toward the edge of the creek. “Here I am, getting ready to locate a sleeping frog,” he said in his best nature show narrator voice. “Because frogs hibernate, we might not have much success, but Ms. Hathaway has promised to come back out in the spring, and then we’ll be sure to find a frog.”

  She pulled a face at him, but didn’t say anything. She didn’t want to ruin this take.

  “Now, I can’t speak for every species and for every frog within that species, but I’ve generally had luck right about here. See how the reeds are sticking up close together through the snow? Down in the water, they’re making a nice little thicket, and if we reach down . . .”

  He took a second to pull on a long rubber glove. Angela thought he looked like he was about to wash the dishes, but she didn’t say so.

  “If we reach down right behind those reeds, we just might find one.”

  He bent over, a look of concentration on his face, but when he straightened, he came up empty.

  “What’s the appeal of going frog hunting?” Angela asked. “Why do you enjoy it so much?”

  “It’s the fun of the chase, the challenge of figuring out where they’re most likely to be hiding depending on the weather or the time of day. There’s some strategy involved, some quick thinking, and some quick action too. I guess it’s not too different from football except we don’t usually run down fields with our frogs and spike them in the end zone.”

  “I should hope not,” she said, shuddering. “So, let’s sum up all the things that make Austin Mayhew tick. You like things simple and straightforward, but you still like challenges. You’d rather spend your time outside than almost anywhere else, and you’d gladly give the shirt off your back to someone in need. You don’t need anyone else to tell you who you are—you know who you are, and that’s the compass you rely on most because it’s driven by your conscience. How’d I do?”

  “Pretty well,” he responded. “You forgot something, though.”

  “Oh? I did?”

  “Yes. You forgot to say that I really, really like frogs.” With that, he bent down, felt around for a second, then came back up, a dopey-looking frog clutched in his hand. “Come here, Ms. Hathaway.”

  “No, thank you. Why don’t you tell our audience what sort of frog that is?”

  “It’s a sleeping frog, and it’s waiting for you to come here, Ms. Hathaway.”

  “How . . . how can it be waiting if it’s asleep?”

  “It’s been waiting so long, it fell asleep.” Austin reached into his pocket with his free hand. “Look—I brought you a pair of gloves, and you’re already wearing boots. Just a few steps this way—it’s not hard.”

  “It’s hard. It’s so hard.” Her stomach churned. The last time she’d been frogging . . . She closed her eyes. “You can just tell us about it. We’ll live vicariously through you.”

  “Angela,” he said softly. “You can turn off the camera. It’s just you and me. Take my hand and hold on to me—I’ll get you out here safely. But you need to do this.”

  “Why? Why do I need to do this?”

  “Because it will remind you of a time way back before the world went crazy, back when you were a girl in braids and overalls. Don’t you deserve to remember that?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was small.

  “Put your camera in your pocket, put on this glove, and you can hang on to me while you come out here. Three steps—that’s all.”

  Quickly, before she could stop herself, she did as he said, and she stepped out to join him in the creek. She did her best to ignore the squishy texture of the ground beneath her, the absolute chill of the water, and everything else. She was here because he’d asked it of her—nothing more.

  “Hold out your hand,” he said softly, and when she did, he placed the frog in it.

  She used to love frogs. She used to go out to the riverbank in back of her house every summer and catch them, then release them. Now, though, revulsion shook her body, and it was all she could do not to fling it away.

  “The last time I went frog hunting,” she said, forcing the words out, “was the first time my mother hit me.”

  Austin didn’t say anything. He stood motionless and listened.

  “She thought I’d been gone too long, and I gave her some kind of sassy answer. I shouldn’t have, and I knew it at the time, but it just came out of my mouth, and then she slapped me. I think it shocked both of us, but it almost seemed to unlock a door for her. She hit me once or twice a month after that. My dad never knew—I never told him. Just like I never told her about the attack.” She studied the frog, the coloring of his skin, the way he lay there dazed and disoriented. She felt a bit like that frog at times, yanked from a soft, comfortable place to be shown a reality she didn’t want to see, and she was tired of it. She was tired of feeling different, of feeling less than, of feeling as though she had to prove to the world that she was worth using up oxygen.

  She reached into her pocket and pulled out the recorder. “Would you please push record?” she asked Austin as she handed it to him. Once he was set to go, she held the frog up to her cheek and smiled. “This is Angela Dingle, reporting from Frogwater, Wyoming.”

  He lowered the camera, a look of shock on his face. “You’re going to tell everyone your real name?”

  She nodded. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since the night of the charity ball. You were right, Austin—I’ve been ashamed of who I am and where I come from, but that’s because I was thinking about all the shady pieces of my past. Who would want to remember some of that? But I did have some great childhood memories here, and I’m grateful for those. I’m going to concentrate more on those and less on the things that weren’t so pleasant.” She pulled in a deep breath. “Don’t be thinking that I arrived at this easily. It’s been eating at the back of my head, and the amount of pride-swallowing I’m going to have to do . . . Just be impressed, all right?”

  “I’m very impressed,” he said with a grin. “I think you’ll find that accepting every facet of yourself makes your whole life at least a little bit easier.” He paused. “Now, would you like me to take the frog?”

  “Yes, please! I’ve had enough soul searching and spiritual enlightenment for one day, thank you very much.”

  He laughed, reached out, and took the frog, then lowered it back into the water. Then he helped Angela back toward the truck, away from the squishy ground.

  They pulled off their muddy w
aders and put on regular winter boots, then started up the heater. The wind was starting to pick up again, bringing a nip along with it and the definite promise of more snow.

  Austin’s cell phone rang. “Hey, Mom. What’s up?”

  He listened for a minute, then turned to Angela. “The extension cord on the Christmas tree stopped working. Mind if we stop by the hardware store?”

  “Of course not.”

  He turned back to the phone. “Sure, Mom. We’ll be there soon.”

  As they pulled out of their parking spot, Angela said teasingly, “You’re such a good son.”

  “Well, I try to be. I’m only here once in a while—might as well do what I can when I can.” He passed a hand down his face. “When I first got here and found out about my dad, I was ready to quit the team and move home—did I tell you that?”

  “No! What changed your mind? Or are you still thinking about it?”

  “Chad gave me a pretty stern lecture about following dreams and being where we’re supposed to be, and also how terrible I am at raising horses. So no, I won’t be quitting the team anytime soon.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, but I’m sure your intentions were good.”

  “Yeah, I was going to fix the roof and save the world.”

  “The roof needs to be fixed?”

  “It’s leaking, and Maggie says everyone’s refusing to fix it. Truth is, I think they’re all too busy. I’ve noticed a lot of repairs that need to be done, and it’s not like my family to let things go like that. I think my dad’s health has rattled them up more than they’ve admitted.”

  “And you feel guilty heading back to Texas without helping out.”

  “Exactly.”

  Angela thought for a minute. “Why don’t you give your parents a handyman for Christmas?” she said at last. “I don’t mean to actually give them a person because that would be super weird, but what if you hired one to come out and handle a certain number of jobs?”

  He glanced at her as he turned into the hardware store parking lot. “I think you’re brilliant,” he said. “I’ve been trying to figure out what to give them, and that’s perfect.”