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“Yes, ma’am, with the FEMA money.”
“And you’ve been milking your cows?”
“Yes, ma’am. Sylvester has let me use his parlors for a bit. I got my cows at his place.”
“So you have some income?”
“A little.” He looked haggard. “But the price of milk is low, and production is down by half. The cows have been through a major trauma, ma’am. They got respiratory problems, they’re weak…. It’s going to take a year before they’re back one hundred percent.”
“If I can find you feed, Mr. Chouder, can the cows pay for their food?”
“Yes, ma’am. I think so. But that’s it. The rest of the expenses…” He shook his head.
“For now, you need your herd to support itself and get strong. You’ll have a rough winter, but if we can get you through, next year will be better. Has anyone talked to you about the low-interest loans available through FEMA?”
He was already shaking his hands, pushing the paper back. “No offense, ma’am, but you know how much debt I already have? I take more, and I slave for the banks for the rest of my life—or until the next disaster strikes and they foreclose on my farm. No, thank you, ma’am. I’ve seen too many good farmers go down that tube.”
Josie understood fully. Most of the small businesses in Grand Springs were financing their way through the next year. As she’d been telling Hal time and time again, farmers just didn’t have that option. They needed more ingenious solutions.
“I know of a few other programs for you to consider,” she told him quietly. “First, have you heard of the Mennonite Disaster Service?”
“They’re like the Amish, right? I’ve seen them around town. The women wear little white caps.”
“That’s right. They’re not quite like the Amish. They use modern equipment, so to speak. Right now, we have ten Mennonite couples staying at the Boy Scout camp. They drove in to help out. They’re a volunteer service, and they’ve been rebuilding homes and farms across the valley. In their group, they have an electrician and a plumber, so they’re full service—”
“They just do this?”
“Yes.” She indicated the little blue flyer. “They help those in most dire need first. The fact that you have three children and are uninsured may put you at the top of their list. You’ll have to go to the camp and speak to them. If you qualify, they can probably repair your home in a matter of days and help you get your milking parlor reinstalled, as well. They’re very, very good.”
Gabe looked uncertain, but after a moment, he took the flyer. “At the Boy Scout camp, you say?”
“Yes, sir. Talk to them, Mr. Chouder. They’re here for people like you. Someday, maybe you can return the favor by helping build somebody else’s home or barn.”
“All…all right.”
“And the Grand Springs Farm Bureau has opened a bank account for all the donations and fund-raising moneys. A lot of that money will be used to purchase alfalfa to get through the winter. However, you can also apply to receive a small grant. We probably can’t afford to give more than a few thousand per farmer, but it will give you something.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He wasn’t enthusiastic. A few thousand barely bought a new cow, let alone got a farmer through a winter.
“Finally, I’m looking into starting an adopt-a-farm program.”
“Ma’am?”
“It’s been tried in a few other states, Mr. Chouder, with a fair amount of success. Basically, we would do a bio on your farm and match you up with a volunteer who would ‘adopt’ your farm. They would help out with the expenses, sponsor you, so to speak, for the next winter.”
He shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know, ma’am. That farm has been in my family for three generations. My son’s interested in it now—”
“You’re not selling it, Mr. Chouder. You’re not giving it away. You’re just getting help to make it through the next year.”
“But…but what do they get out of it?”
“The usual. The sponsor gets the satisfaction of helping someone out. Also, quite frankly, most of these people are well off and benefit from the tax deduction. They also like feeling that they’re giving back to the community and helping with ‘grass roots Americana.’”
Mr. Chouder was shaking his head. “Sounds too much like pity.”
Josie bit the inside of her cheeks to keep from sighing. The program really could work except for one major stumbling block—farmers had phenomenal pride. It was one thing to receive help from their own, quite another to take assistance from outsiders, particularly, rich outsiders.
“It’s not pity, it’s community. People helping people through a rough time.”
“I…I don’t know. I don’t want to have to call up some stranger with my bills. What if I need a new tractor? Do I have to ask permission? Does he get to pick it out? I dunno.”
“Those kinds of details would have to be worked out. I would be perfectly willing to help you work them out. Usually, we create a straw budget for the year, the sponsor contributes his part of it up front, and you go on your merry way. Here, just take this and read it over. Think about it, Mr. Chouder. Please.”
“All…all right.” He took the small stack of flyers. The lines hadn’t eased around his eyes. She’d given him options, but she couldn’t give him answers. Those would take a long time to find as the whole community sifted through the aftermath.
“Do you have any more questions, Mr. Chouder? I’ll follow up with FEMA for you as I promised.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I guess I’m all set.”
“You can stop by any time you like. Don’t be afraid to call me with more questions.”
“I’ll…I’ll give it all some thought, ma’am.”
“Josie. You can call me Josie.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She smiled. Looking at Gabe Chouder, she felt her heart break a little. His face was wind-worn and rugged, his eyes squinted from spending a lifetime staring into the sun. She’d moved to Grand Springs looking for the Gabe Chouders of the world. She’d sought goodness, she’d sought purity, she’d sought roots.
And now she knew the joy and heartache community could give. It reminded her of her parents. It reminded her of Olivia.
The sadness that swept through her was old, but still potent. She handled it as she always did. She nudged Mr. Chouder gently and gave him a large smile.
“It’s going to be okay,” she assured him firmly. “Grand Springs is a great community, Mr. Chouder. We’re going to get through this!”
She walked him to the reception area right outside her office.
It was after five, but the waiting area was still filled with farmers and small businessmen. Her gaze picked out her new visitor immediately, however. He was taller, leaner than the rest. He rested against the wall, impeccably dressed. Blond hair cut short to hide the wave. A hard jawline. Blue eyes that saw everything.
She knew who he was immediately. She’d met him two years ago, and her attention had wandered toward him ever since. He was the tall, straight-laced but broodingly handsome man who always stood across the room at social functions and studied her with piercing blue eyes. He was the man who’d actually inspired an erotic dream or two. He was the cop she avoided at all costs.
Now Detective Jack Stryker pushed away from the wall. He met her gaze.
He flashed his detective’s shield.
“Josie Reynolds? Five minutes of your time, please.”
It was funny, the déjà vu that swept over her these days. She looked as his badge, and once more, all she could think was Not again.
Chapter Two
Josie led Jack Stryker into her office because she had no other choice. His tall, rangy build quickly filled the space, not that there was much of it to begin with. Her office was comprised of one big oak desk, two chairs, an ancient computer and a whole wall of slate gray filing cabinets. Oh, and there were two scraggly vines hovering somewhere between life and death.
“I’ve got to do something about them,” she muttered as she passed by the two plants on her way to the relative safety of her side of the desk. The office had only one tiny window, permitting very little light. The plants didn’t like that. They probably weren’t thrilled with her constantly forgetting to water them, either.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing.”
Jack Stryker took the old black chair across from her. The chair was too low, making him double over his long body to fit. His knees stuck up comically, which she would have enjoyed more if he hadn’t managed to somehow retain his dignity. His face was composed, his eyes sharp and patient, and his lips… You could tell a lot about a man from looking at his lips. Jack Stryker had very strong, firm lips.
Josie turned away. She smoothed her sensible gray skirt and wished she’d worn pants. She tugged at her pretty gray-and-pink-striped silk blouse, wishing she’d buttoned it up to her neck. Hell, a nun in a wimple would feel exposed sitting across from Jack Stryker. She had no idea what it was about him, but he unsettled her purely by existing. A cop, for God’s sake. A Republican. She ought to have more pride.
No. Her hands were shaking. She was acutely aware of his gaze. And her office had grown too warm. Definite, definite tension in the room. She was an idiot.
“I’m Detective Jack Stryker—”
“I’ve met you before.” She took her seat, and decided it was best to come out firing. “Look, in case you didn’t notice, Detective, there’s at least a dozen people out there waiting to speak with me. I can give you five minutes, that’s it.”
He leaned back, his blue gaze openly challenging. “I’m here about Olivia Stuart’s murder. I would think that would take priority.”
“Then, you didn’t know Olivia very well, did you?”
He stiffened, clearly caught off guard by the sharp retort. Josie smiled sweetly. Round one to the con man’s daughter. Hah, she’d been dealing with cops longer than this man had probably dreamed of becoming one. She wasn’t some pushover and she wasn’t going to be antagonized in her own office, even if the man looked incredibly handsome.
Across from her Detective Stryker stopped leaning back and his eyes narrowed. He had very blue eyes. She’d noticed them the first time they’d been introduced. The shade was bright, piercing, riveting. She was certain that from a hundred yards away a woman would still be able to feel those eyes on her. She definitely felt them on her now.
“How long did you know Olivia?”
“Two years.”
“How did you meet her?”
“When I was interviewed for the position of Grand Springs treasurer.”
“I thought you two were friends.”
“We became friends over the course of the next few months. As the treasurer, I work very closely with the mayor. And Olivia…” Her voice grew husky with the raw emotion that even after almost four months thickened her throat. “Olivia was very kind. She showed me around, made sure I got settled. She was very generous, very…warm.”
“Do you miss her?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Have you ever thought of running for mayor yourself?”
Josie frowned, then shook her head, not following his line of questioning. “No.”
“You seem to take your work very seriously.”
“Of course.”
“You were very patient with Gabe.”
“How would you know?”
“I overheard.”
“What do you mean, you overheard? The sound doesn’t carry that easily to the reception area.”
“It does if you put your ear against the door.”
“You…you…eavesdropped on my conversation?” She didn’t know whether to be outraged, amazed or impressed. She settled on outraged, hotly stabbing her finger through the air. “You had no right to do that. Isn’t that illegal?”
“I was just leaning against the door,” he said calmly. “There’s no law against leaning against a door.”
Damn, now she was impressed. She fought the feeling vehemently. “I thought you were the one they called ‘Straight Arrow Stryker.’ You do everything by the book, that’s what I was told.”
“I didn’t break any law.”
“You invaded my privacy! Worse, you invaded Mr. Chouder’s privacy!”
“Ms. Reynolds, I would never repeat anything I overheard about Mr. Chouder’s affairs. I was just trying to determine whether it would be appropriate for me to interrupt the conversation or not.”
He said the words so steadily that she almost believed him. She caught herself immediately, of course. It was always a mistake to believe a cop. In their own way, they were as manipulative, conniving and Machiavellian as the people they were trying to catch.
She drew herself up to her full five feet six inches. “Detective Stryker, if I ever hear gossip about Mr. Chouder’s financial affairs, I will personally hunt you down.”
“And?”
She smiled sweetly. “And announce your five-thousand-dollar donation to the Grand Springs Farm Bureau relief fund, of course. I’m sure you want to help out Mr. Chouder and the other farmers like him as much as possible.”
Perhaps it was only her imagination, but Stryker’s clear-cut, voting Republican face seemed to ease into a small smile of appreciation. “You are good,” he murmured.
“Hah, you haven’t seen anything yet.” Josie yanked open her center desk drawer and pulled out a bright yellow flyer.
“Band, Bingo, Bake Sale next Friday night. Ten dollars to get in, great country music, a chance at cash prizes in bingo, and maybe you can pick up a blueberry pie for your lonely bachelor nights. All proceeds go to the relief fund. I think you should buy two tickets.”
“How did you know I was a bachelor?”
“Are you kidding? Ever since the day I moved here I have been regaled with stories of Mr. All-American, Jack Stryker. There are mothers with eligible daughters who do nothing but contemplate your future. Soon they’ll have set up a Web site for you—your favorite foods, hobbies, likes, dislikes. Oh, that’s right, no one’s supposed to mention the name of your ex-wife. Let’s see, Mary…Margaret…”
“Marjorie.” His voice had become definitely tight.
“Marjorie. Well, no one’s supposed to bring her up. So what do you say, two tickets?”
Jack Stryker blinked his eyes several times, appearing speechless. Was it the mention of his ex-wife, the fact that she knew he was a bachelor or her persistent pushing of the fund-raiser? Josie didn’t care. In this preliminary battle of wills, she was finally winning. She liked winning, and these days, it didn’t happen often.
“You’re either the rudest person I’ve ever met or the absolute best strategist,” Jack said at last.
