Home to Hart’s Crossing
A Small Town With A Big Heart
Robin Lee Hatcher
Electronic Edition Copyright ©2010 by Robin Lee Hatcher
All rights reserved as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the publisher.
StoneHouse Ink 2010
StoneHouse Ink
Nampa, ID 83686
www.thestonepublishinghouse.com
Legacy Lane ©2004
Veterans Way ©2005
Diamond Place ©2006
Sweet Dreams Drive ©2007
First Combined Edition ©2007
Second Combined Edition ©2010
First E-Book Edition ©2010
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to a real person, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Home to Heart’s Crossing: a novel/ by Robin Lee Hatcher. -2nd. ed. p.cm.
ISBN 978-0-9826078-2-4
Cover design by StoneHouse Ink
Published in the United States of America
StoneHouse Ink
Dear Reader:
I enjoyed writing the four novellas in the Hart’s Crossing series and was sorry when they were no longer in print, individually or as an all-in-one volume. So you can imagine my delight when StoneHouse expressed an interest in making them available once again.
I came to love the people of this small town as I wrote their stories, and I hope you feel the same as you read them.
In the grip of His grace,
Robin
www.robinleehatcher.com
Legacy Lane
Hart’s Crossing #1
Robin Lee Hatcher
Chapter 1
May 2005
ANGIE HUNTER STARED OUT the tiny window of the Bombardier turboprop, keeping a death grip on the armrests as the plane bounced and dropped in the turbulent air above the snowy-white mountain range.
Oh, how she hated flying in a tin can. Give her a first class seat in a jumbo jet any day. Not that she’d had other options when she made her flight reservations. Only regional airlines flew into the airport nearest her destination, and those airlines used small planes like this one.
Maybe she should have driven from California to Idaho. It might have been nice to have her own automobile for the next eight weeks, and the trip could have been made in an easy two days.
“Don’t be silly, dear,” her mother, Francine Hunter, had said when they talked last week. “I have a perfectly good car, and I won’t be driving anywhere for quite some time.”
I must be out of my mind.
In the seventeen years since Angie left Idaho, she’d returned infrequently and never stayed longer than three nights at a stretch. While earning her degree, she’d taken summer jobs near the university. Part-time employees didn’t get vacations, so the occasional long weekend was all she could manage back then. As an adult, she’d had the demands of her job as a reason to rush back to the city.
“I’ll go stark raving mad before this is over,” she whispered to her faint reflection in the window. “What have I let myself in for?”
The whine of the engines changed as the plane began its approach. Angie felt her stomach tighten.
The flight attendant, a perky twenty-something blonde in maroon Bermuda shorts and a white blouse, began her landing announcements: Fasten seat belts. Make sure seats are in fully upright position. Turn off electronic devices. Stow all luggage. No smoking until in a designated smoking area in the terminal. No mobile phones until cabin door opens. Enjoy your stay. Thanks for flying today.
With the rough air seemingly behind them, Angie loosened her grip on the armrests. The flight attendant made a final pass down the aisle. She smiled at Angie when she reached her row.
Sure, you can smile, Miss Perk. You’ll be flying out again in another hour or so. I’m stuck here for the next two months!
Angie drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. She should be ashamed. After all, her mother needed her. Eight weeks wasn’t going to kill her.
And it’s not like I have a lot to hurry back to.
She winced at the thought.
Ten minutes later the plane touched down, quickly slowed, and taxied toward the terminal. Angie glanced out the window. The terminal was a single-story building; there were no Jet ways. The passengers of this plane would descend the narrow steps built into the cabin door, then walk across the tarmac. Thankfully, it wasn’t raining.
As the plane braked to a halt, the clicking of opening seat belts filled the cabin even before the seat belt sign dimmed. Angie reached for her purse and carry-on bag beneath the seat in front of her. When she stood, she cracked her head against the overhead compartment.
Oh, how she hated these small commuter planes.
Oh, how she hated everything about her life at the moment.
* * *
Standing between John Gunn on her left and Terri and Lyssa Sampson on her right, Francine Hunter raised up on tiptoes. Her heart raced in anticipation of that first glimpse of her daughter. Francine was almost glad she was scheduled to have knee surgery. Otherwise, who knew when Angie would have found time to return to Hart’s Crossing. Angie’s job at her big city newspaper was important and demanding; she hadn’t taken a vacation in over five years. Or was it more than six? And a serious boyfriend hadn’t been in the picture for…Well, too long, as far as Francine was concerned.
“There she is!” Terri—Angie’s friend since kindergarten—exclaimed.
Angie walked toward them, looking like a model in one of those glossy fashion magazines. She wore a sky blue blouse tucked into a pair of skinny jeans that fit her long, slender legs like a glove. Her thick, dark hair fell loose to her shoulders, where it flipped up on the ends.
“Hi, Mom,” Angie said as soon as she’d cleared the security area.
Francine kissed her daughter’s cheeks, first one side, then the other. “It’s so good to see you, dear. How was your flight?”
“Don’t ask.” Angie turned toward Terri. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Are you kidding?” Terri replied. “I couldn’t miss your homecoming.”
Softly, Angie said, “It’s not a homecoming, Terri. Just a visit. Just until Mom’s back on her feet.”
There were volumes of meaning behind those simple words that Francine wasn’t meant to hear but did.
O God, she prayed, help us find a way back to one another. Help Angie find her way to you. Make these weeks she’s here with me be a new beginning for us.
Terri glanced at the child beside her. “Angie, you remember Lyssa.”
“You’re kidding!” Angie’s eyes widened in surprise, and she shook her head. “This can’t be your daughter. She wasn’t this tall the last time I saw her.”
“Kids grow a lot in four years, Ang. Lyssa was five last time you breezed through town. Now she’s nine.” Terri softened her not-so-subtle rebuke by adding, “We miss you when we don’t see you. E-mails and phone calls just aren’t enough.”
Francine decided now would be a good time to interrupt. “Angie, you haven’t met our church’s new pastor, John Gunn. Pastor, this is my daughter, Angie.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Angie. Your mother has told me a lot about you.”
“All good, I hope.” Angie smiled politely as she shook the pastor’s proffered hand. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”
“I offered to drive your mother down here in my SUV,” John said. “She wa
sn’t sure how much luggage you’d have and was afraid it wouldn’t fit into her trunk.”
“I didn’t bring a lot.”
Francine touched her daughter’s forearm. “Well, let’s go get what you did bring, shall we?” She didn’t want to say so, but she needed to get off her leg. Her bad knee was throbbing something fierce.
“Ang,” Terri said, “why don’t you and Pastor John get your luggage while Lyssa and I take your mom to the car.”
“Sure. That’s fine with me.”
John handed the keys to his vehicle to Terri before walking with Angie toward the baggage claim area.
“You hold on to me, Mrs. Hunter.” Terri tucked Francine’s hand into the crook of her arm. “We’ll get you to the car and off that leg.”
“Thank you, dear. I didn’t want to make a fuss and spoil Angie’s arrival, but I am hurting a bit.” Gratefully, she leaned into Terri and allowed herself to be helped outside.
* * *
Their destination was about an hour’s drive from the airport, but the time passed quickly, aided by Terri’s efforts to catch Angie up on all the latest news of the folks of Hart’s Crossing. As owner-operator of Terri’s Tangles Beauty Salon, she was in a good position to know, perhaps even better than Bill Palmer, the editor of the local weekly newspaper, the Mountain View Press.
Headed toward the rugged mountain range to the north, they drove through farmland that had been reclaimed from the high desert country of southern Idaho. An abundance of horses and cows grazed in pastures turned emerald green by irrigation. Tall poplars shaded old farmhouses and barns that had been bleached over the years by the relentless summer sun.
At last, John Gunn slowed his Ford Expedition as the two-lane highway topped a rise, then spilled into Hart’s Crossing’s Main Street. Of course, the heart of downtown was all of three blocks long. Blink and you’d miss it.
Several people sat on benches outside the Over the Rainbow Diner, licking ice cream cones and enjoying the mild spring evening. Two women pushing strollers gazed through the window of Yvonne’s Gifts and Boutique. The Apollo Movie Theater’s marquee flickered and sputtered, as if it couldn’t decide whether to stay on or off; Angie noticed the film they would show this Friday and Saturday was at least a decade old.
A typical Monday evening in Hart’s Crossing…where there was nothing much to do.
“It looks the same as ever,” she said softly.
John Gunn chuckled. “You’d be surprised. I think you’ll find lots of changes, thanks to our mayor and the city council.”
His comment irritated Angie. She was the one who’d grown up in this town, not him. She certainly knew better than he did if things were different or the same. Glancing at the driver, she said, “Well, you’re new. I know that much.”
If he thought her rude, he didn’t let on. “Indeed. Relatively so, anyway.”
Rather than say something she would regret later, Angie looked out the passenger window again, staring through the glass as they followed the familiar route from the center of town to her mother’s home.
Eight weeks. I can survive anything for eight weeks.
Chapter 2
ANGIE PANICKED WHEN SHE saw sunlight filtering through the curtains. She’d overslept. She’d be late for work.
She tossed aside the bed coverings and sat up. Only when her feet touched the plush, Barbie-pink throw rug did she remember she was in her girlhood bedroom. She also remembered she no longer had a job to be late for. She’d quit last week. Packed up all her personal belongings in a cardboard box and stormed out of the building in a snit.
With a groan, she pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. What a mess! How could everything have gone so wrong so fast?
Angie had given the Bay City Times 150 percent from her first day on the job. She’d routinely put in sixty, seventy, eighty-hour work weeks. She hadn’t taken a day off or called in sick in years. Social life? Forget it. She had none. She couldn’t remember the name of her last boyfriend. She’d eaten, slept, and breathed the newspaper. But she’d been willing to sacrifice anything and everything, especially after she’d been promised Mr. Stattner’s position at the paper when he retired as city editor.
Well, not promised but given reason to believe. It was what she’d worked toward for more than a decade.
Last week, she’d been passed over by management. They’d given the position to Brad Wentworth—that was the last straw. When Brad “The Jerk” Wentworth was made city editor over her, she was outta there.
Brad actually had the nerve to call and ask her to reconsider. “Come in tomorrow and let’s talk, Angie. Don’t throw away your career over this. There’ll be other openings down the road.”
“I can’t,” she’d told him. “My mother is scheduled for surgery, and I’m flying to Idaho on Monday to be with her while she recovers.”
Of course, she hadn’t planned to come back to Hart’s Crossing. Not at first. What she’d really meant to do was hire a nurse for the duration of her mother’s convalescence. But losing that promotion had changed everything, and now here she was.
Angie stood and reached for her robe. If she wasn’t mistaken, the scent of coffee brewing was wafting through her bedroom door. She padded down the stairs on bare feet in search of her morning dose of caffeine.
Angie found her mother seated at the kitchen table, reading the latest edition of the Mountain View Press. “Morning, Mom,” she mumbled, making a beeline for the mug tree beside the coffeepot.
“Good morning, dear. I didn’t expect you to be up this early. Would you like me to make you some breakfast?”
“No, thanks. I rarely eat this early.”
“Not good for you, you know.” Her mother folded the paper and set it on the table. “As hard as you work and as many hours as you put in at that office every day, you need to start off the day right.”
“Well, I’m not putting in a lot of hours at the office now.” Angie turned, leaned her backside against the counter, and took her first sip. “Mmm. What’s your secret? You’ve always made the best coffee. You could charge over four bucks a cup for this where I live.”
“Thank you, dear, but there’s really no secret to it. I just follow the directions on the coffeemaker.” Her mother smiled and released a happy-sounding sigh. “Oh, it’s so good to have you home again.”
Home again…
Angie let her gaze roam around the kitchen. It hadn’t changed much through the years. It was still painted bright yellow, and as always, there were white and yellow curtains at the window over the sink, although the pattern was different from what she remembered. The Formica table with its chrome legs and the matching chairs with their plastic-covered seats and backs, straight out of the fifties, were like old friends. The mixer and mixing bowl on the counter were the same ones her mother had used when Angie was growing up. So were the canisters and the Princess wall phone.
Francine Hunter didn’t throw away much.
Unlike her daughter, who was a card-carrying member of the use and discard generation.
Or I was until last week. That could all change if I don’t find the right job at the right salary.
But that was unlikely. Angie had an excellent work history and all the right qualifications. She would probably find a new job before she’d even used up her accumulated vacation days. All she needed to do while she was here in Hart’s Crossing was search the Internet for openings and send out resumes.
“Is there anything special you’d like to do today?” her mother asked, drawing Angie from her thoughts.
“Not particularly.” The day stretched before her like an eternity. When was the last time she’d had nothing scheduled in her day planner? She wasn’t much good at being idle. Actually, she wasn’t much good at relaxing. Period.
“Why don’t you call Terri and see if the two of you can go to lunch? She takes Mondays and Tuesdays off from the salon, and Lyssa will be in school. You should enjoy yourself for a couple of days before my su
rgery. After that, you’ll have your hands full.”
Angie swept the hair back from her face with one hand. “Yeah, maybe I’ll do that. Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“Of course not, dear. I’ll have your company for the next eight weeks.” She smiled again. “And I’m so thankful to the Lord for that.”
Angie nodded as she turned to pour herself another cup of coffee. She’d learned it was better to remain silent when her mother started talking about God.
* * *
Lord, Francine prayed as she stared at her daughter’s back, please break down that wall. It’s been up between us for much too long.
Francine’s memories of Angie’s early childhood years were happy ones. Her husband, Ned, had been an insurance salesman. An excellent one, too. He’d loved what he did, loved helping people plan for secure futures. Francine had been a stay-at-home mom, leading Brownies and driving her daughter to piano lessons and dance lessons and baking cookies for the baked food drives. They’d taken a two-week family vacation every summer. One year it was to the Pacific coast, another year to the Atlantic. They’d seen Mount Rushmore and Niagara Falls and Bryce Canyon and the mighty Mississippi River from one end to the other.
Ned had died in a car accident when Angie was twelve. The years that immediately followed had been hard for mother and daughter. Not financially, for Ned had provided well for his loved ones, a fine example of a man practicing what he preached. But emotionally, they’d walked a difficult path, dealing with grief combined with the normal stresses that came with a girl’s teenage years.
Then, at the age of forty-four, Francine Hunter had fallen in love with Jesus, and it had changed her forever. The Hunters had been a churchgoing family, like most folks in Hart’s Crossing, but Francine had suddenly discovered Jesus wasn’t merely an example for her to live by, that the words in the Bible weren’t just good stories. Jesus was real and he was alive and he loved her. Loved her so much he not only died for her but rose for her.
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