© 2006 by Paige Lee Elliston
Published by Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
www.revellbooks.com
Ebook edition created 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-3512-1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.
This one is for Jaye Chambery,
who made all the difference.
“Big Sky Country, my foot,” Amy Hawkins grumbled as she watched sheets of rain skitter across the vast expanse of burgeoning grass that was her front lawn. When the lawn—the full two acres of it, including the front and the back—went in almost three weeks ago, the rain had started. At first, it was gentle and nurturing, and Amy had welcomed it. Now, it seemed like the sort of deluge Noah faced, and the uniform drab gray of sodden day after sodden day was depressing. This certainly wasn’t the glorious Montana weather she had expected.
Amy stepped back from the window, and her foot found a home on the spike tail of Nutsy, the kitten she’d adopted a month before. Nutsy reacted as cats—regardless of age—do: he yowled with a wail that was far too big and loud for his diminutive body, arched his back, hissed, and dashed off to cower under the couch, his favorite fortress against the often cruel and confusing world.
A hissing streak of chain lightning flickered outside, followed immediately by a sharp crack like the report of a gun, which preceded the now-familiar hollow boom of thunder. Amy walked across her living room and stood gazing out of the picture window into her front yard. The house smelled new, as did the furniture, and the fine scent of the wall-to-wall carpeting was still strong. She smiled at the aroma.
Amy, with an architect friend, had designed the house. It was a modest-sized two bedroom, one-and-a-half bath, but seemed like a luxury cottage to Amy after living the last few years in a small and terribly overpriced New York City apartment. When she wasn’t on the road, working for one writer or another, that is. Her parents’ mansion in Connecticut, where she had spent her childhood and precollege life, had always seemed to Amy like a cruise ship run aground—a look and a feeling she strived to avoid in her new home.
Starting a new life is a great concept, Amy thought. But is it possible at age thirty-five? She grinned. It sure is—and I’m doing it. A geographical change didn’t eliminate or even alter the baggage of the past. All of that stayed solidly in place, she knew. But just because the weight existed in the past didn’t mean it had to be hefted and carried in the present. Being an itinerant book editor and all that went with it was then—this is now.
Confined too long by the weather to sit comfortably, Amy paced through her home like a lioness in a cage. She stopped at the sliding doors off the kitchen and looked at her reflection in the glass. Her hair, brunette and shoulder length, framed a finely sculpted face—high cheekbones, a delicate nose, and a generous, smiling mouth. Her eyes, a rich, liquid brown, were perhaps Amy’s best and certainly most striking feature. Tall for a woman at five-foot-ten, Amy had decided early on not to give in to the tall girl stoop, the mildly hunched stance many taller girls opted for in order to appear shorter. That, Amy thought, made as much sense as a man calling attention to his baldness by wearing a cheap toupee.
Amy’s laptop was on the kitchen table, where it had rested since yesterday afternoon. As an editor now branching out into the world of writing fiction, she had few demands on her time other than those she imposed on herself. That was at least partially what the Montana move was all about—a place to see if the novel she’d fantasized about for years could actually turn into anything that might snare the reading public’s attention.
The problem with all that, Amy admitted, was writer’s block—a crippling state of mind that steps on creativity, joy in writing, and progress on a project. Amy had never actually believed in writer’s block in the past. She’d attributed it to either fatigue or simple laziness on the part of the writer. Now, she realized, it was neither. It was a very real and quite frightening problem with which she now wrestled on a daily basis. Writer’s block was doing a fine job of robbing her of sleep and casting shadows of self-doubt into her days. “I can beat this” had become a mantra-like affirmation, but it often felt to her like whistling in the cemetery, a weak attempt to push away her fear.
Up until now, everything for her career change had clicked into place like the movement of a fine watch. Her reputation as an editor—and three bestsellers she’d worked on, two of which were made into major box-office hits—had gotten her a famous and very effective literary agent. Inheriting a significant amount of money from an obscure great-aunt she had met a grand total of two times as a preteen had made the move and the home possible. The money, however, was finite, and Amy had quickly learned that anything and everything having to do with building and furnishing a new home was astoundingly expensive. The advance on her novel her agent had been able to negotiate had been sizable—not in the six-figure range heavyweights such as King and Updike garnered, but a good sum nevertheless. Now, though, her bank balance had dwindled to subsistence money, and the numbers kept her awake late at night. Her novel, she knew, could save her. But the way it was going... Amy shuddered.
A gust of wind slapped the side of the house. Amy smiled—not a window rattled. The rain continued to beat down, sweeping in gray sheets across her property and onto that of Jake Winter, her horse-farmer neighbor. There’s a strange one, Amy thought. Perfectly content to ride around on his quarter horses and grow his thousand or so acres of hay and live alone, except for the cowboys who work for him. Takes all kinds...
Jake had ridden over when the construction people were digging Amy’s basement and beginning her landscaping and introduced himself. He was a good-looking guy, maybe a couple of years older than her, who was dressed in a faded denim jacket, jeans, and boots. His eyes were a pale blue, which in some faces could have appeared weak or submissive. The depth of Jake’s tan and the strong line of his jaw made his eyes look open, friendly, almost mischievous, as if only he knew the coming punch line of a joke.
“What are those fellows doing there?” Jake asked, pointing at a small backhoe that was digging a doghouse-size pit every dozen feet or so and following a line of white twine attached to short metal rods stuck into the ground.
“I have a load of bushes coming in the next couple of days,” Amy said. “They’re going to follow the driveway up to the house.”
“The bushes are already mature?” Jake asked. “Most folks buy seedlings and...”
“Patience isn’t my strongest virtue.” Amy smiled.
He met her smile with his own. “I can’t say it’s mine, either.”
Jake let his eyes roam over Amy’s property. “Fine piece of land. I didn’t even know ol’ man Woerner was selling it until I saw you up here walking around with the Realtor from town.” He shook his head. “Mr. Woerner never much cared for me since my friends and I tossed a string of cherry bombs into his privy one Halloween night a bunch of years ago.”
“I hope there was no one in it.”
“No, there wasn’t,” Jake said. “I’ll admit that it made a bit of a mess, though. Anyway, that’s probably why Woerner didn’t come to me when he wanted to sell.”
“Would you have bought this parcel?” Amy asked. “Well... probably. Yeah. I guess there’s no such thing as owning too muc
h land.”
Jake’s horse snorted, and Jake turned to the animal, whose reins he held loosely in his left hand. “I’d better get this boy home,” he said. “I have chores waiting.” He stepped into a stirrup and swung easily into his Western saddle. “Do you ride, Amy?”
“Not since a pony ride on my sixth birthday,” Amy said.
Jake grinned. “I have an ol’ mare I can put you on. If you like, we can go out on horseback, and I can show you around a bit. There’re Indian burial grounds not far from here that not many know about. Maybe you’d like to see them.”
“I’d love to, Jake. Thanks.”
Jake nodded. “Good, then. See you soon.” He turned his horse away from Amy and loped off toward his own land, the horse’s hooves thunking heavily on the soil and steel shoes tossing an occasional divot into the air behind them.
The sound of a vehicle entering her driveway brought Amy back to the present. Through the sheets of rain and mist at her window, she watched a red Dodge pickup wend its way toward the house. She tugged the business card out of her jeans pocket and read it once again: “Julie Pulver, Reporter” it stated, with the words superimposed over the American eagle logo of the Coldwater News-Express. Amy scurried to the front door and opened it wide. “Come on in,” she called. “Hurry—you’ll get soaked!”
The reporter had called two days before to request an interview. Amy had been perplexed then—and still was now—about why News-Express readers would have any interest in her. But, she thought, such a piece could serve as an introduction to her new neighbors and her new town.
Julie had stopped her truck in front of the main entrance to the house and now hefted herself onto the passenger bucket seat to avoid part of the frantic rush through the driving rain. She hustled out of the truck, slammed the door, and rushed up the steps.
Amy stepped aside, smiling. “Welcome, Julie. I’m Amy Hawkins. Here, let me take your coat. Isn’t this rain something?”
“It sure is.” Julie smiled. “What the farmers around here call a ‘frog choker.’”
Amy looked at her visitor. Even the short rush from her vehicle to the house had left the woman’s hair sopping wet and her denim jacket dripping. “I’ll get a towel for your hair,” she said. “Go on into the living room by the fireplace.”
Amy selected her thickest, most absorbent towel from her linen closet, handed it to Julie, and then watched as the reporter stood in front of the fire, unself-consciously drying her hair. All these Montana women look so healthy, Amy thought. So natural. Look at her—no fat anywhere, the face of a movie star, and she makes her jeans, boots, and shirt look designer-made for her.
“Coffee?” Amy asked. “Or tea or Diet Pepsi?”
“Coffee sounds great,” Julie said. “Black, please.”
When Amy returned to the living room with two cups of coffee on a small Japanese-style tray, Julie had settled into a love seat adjacent to the fireplace, pen in hand, yellow legal pad on her lap. Amy sat in a matching love seat on the other side of the fire.
Julie looked around the living room appreciatively. “This is a fantastic home,” she said. “It’s really charming.”
“Thanks. It’s kind of eclectic, I guess. It’s a culmination of things and features I’ve always wanted in a house—lots of glass, so there’s lots of light, open rooms, wood everywhere, no chrome, and none of that sterile, hard-edged furniture.”
Julie nodded. “Why Coldwater, Amy?”
The question caught Amy off guard. She’d expected more house questions: number of square feet, how many bedrooms and bathrooms, and the thinly veiled digging to determine what the place cost. “Well... I guess a number of reasons. I love the state, for one thing. I’ve spent time here—the Billings area, actually—with a husband and wife team of mystery writers. I’ve never really been comfortable in cities. I had a Realtor looking for land for me, and this piece came up for sale, and here I am.”
“But why Coldwater in particular?”
“It was kind of strange about Coldwater. After I finished editing the Mountain Man series of books, I rented an SUV and kind of wandered through the state. I was simply driving and gawking, with no destination—not even a daily plan—in mind. I came to Coldwater, and I stopped at the bakery on Main Street and stood on the sidewalk eating a donut and felt the texture of the town and fell in love with it.”
“Texture? What do you mean by that?”
Amy reflected for a moment. “You know how places—towns, cities, even homes—have a particular feel to them? Whether they’re welcoming or unwelcoming? But sometimes a place simply feels good and right. That’s how Coldwater felt to me that day.” After a heartbeat, she added, “It still does.”
Julie’s smile was warm. “I know what you mean about certain places. I was never so safe and loved and warm as I was in my grandmother’s kitchen. It had a feel all of its own.”
“Exactly.”
The reporter changed gears. “I’ve seen some of your work, Amy. It’s impressive. The Dancing Days—Crying Nights book Lucas Reynolds dedicated to you was great.”
Again, Julie’s words were honest, without hype.
“Thanks. Lucas was great to work with. But now, instead of editing, I’m writing a novel, and it’s my first venture into fiction.” She smiled. “I think a lot of editors think of themselves as undiscovered novelists—or screenwriters. I know it’s a cliché. But still, the things I’ve seen and the people I’ve talked to and have gotten to know give me all kinds of plots and themes and characters.”
“I know what you mean,” Julie agreed. “I’m an aspiring novelist myself. I’ve been working on mine for over a year.”
Amy grinned. “Well—a fellow dreamer! We’ll have to compare notes on writing fiction.”
“That’d be fun. Let’s do it soon.” Julie thought for a moment before going on. “I suspect books have been a major part of your life since you were a child. Am I right?”
“You sure are. My mom and dad always had books around—they were great readers, and my dad read to me every night at bedtime. I picked up the love of reading from them and... well... here I am.”
“Tell me a little about your childhood, Amy.”
“I’m afraid there’s nothing very exciting about it.” Amy laughed. “I guess I was a typical middle-class American girl. I was a good student, involved in clubs and church groups, in love with various grungy rock stars, all that. When I was fifteen I went through a phase of wearing thrift store clothes and those army boot clodhoppers—it drove my parents nuts.”
They laughed together. “Didn’t we all,” Julie said. “Maybe driving our parents nuts was part of it, no?”
“Sure. Harmless rebellion type of thing. And it was fun, too. Oh—one other thing I remember about that—the kids I hung out with all carried their books and things in brown paper sacks instead of the fancy backpacks that were the style then.”
Julie pretended to be greatly impressed. “Wow! You and your pals really struck a blow against materialism and conformity!”
Again, they laughed easily and comfortably together. “When did you start writing?” Julie asked.
“I can’t remember not writing, actually. I wrote stories for my parents, and I recall writing plays and bribing my friends with candy to act out the various roles. I’ve always loved the process of turning a piece of blank paper into a word picture of life and action and love and have others see that picture.”
“When did you begin editing?”
“In high school. It came easily to me—I could see almost intuitively what the writer was after, what he or she was trying to say, and I had the words to make those concepts clearer. I found that I loved editing almost as much as writing.”
“And in college?”
“I got lucky. I won an academic scholarship and became a junior editor on the campus literary magazine. I really liked that work, and the writers I edited seemed pleased with what I did with their stuff. In my junior year, I was made the managing edit
or, and I loved it. I had tons of stories and articles to edit, and I worked with the junior editors, and...” She smiled deprecatingly. “I’m rattling on about myself too much.”
“Not at all. I’m here to learn about you,” Julie answered.
“Let me ask this,” Amy said. “Why will your readers care about me? I’m not being self-effacing, but there are tons of struggling writers around. I’m not a name or a celebrity or anything close to it. Book editing fame lasts about as long as it takes to step in a puddle during a rainstorm.”
“At least a few reasons,” Julie answered, making eye contact with Amy. “You’re single, attractive, and new here.” She grinned then. “Maybe new is the operative word, but the single and attractive don’t hurt in terms of reader interest. Neither does the fact that you’re a full-time writer. That’s a glamour profession in my readers’ eyes.”
Amy laughed at the reporter’s candor. “You get right to the point, don’t you?” She thought about what Julie had said for a moment. “A glamour profession? Only if you consider grinding away all day, every day, scrounging for the right word, the perfect line of dialogue, the most vivid character. I don’t see much glamour in that. Don’t get me wrong. I love the entire process of writing fiction, but it’s work, just like any other job.” She smiled, adding another thought. “And except for the biggies who write the bestsellers, the pay is awful.”
Julie scratched a few words on her pad. “No one gets rich reporting for a small newspaper either,” she observed. “Still, we do it, and it’s a paycheck every two weeks. That’s something you don’t have right now, right?”
“Right. I saved some money, and I got an inheritance from a relative I hardly knew a few years ago, but the house cost more than I estimated. Actually, everything—furniture, carpet, all that—cost more than I estimated. So it’s pretty important that my novel catch on and sell well.”
Julie smiled. “Dare I say ‘movie contract’ or ‘TV series’?” Amy laughed. “Only in my dreams.”
Thunder boomed, and both women instinctively looked over at the picture window. A silence followed, but it wasn’t an uneasy one.
Chasing the Dream Page 1