LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter One

      Nick Garroway had three items on his to-do list for this warm and breezy July morning, and the sooner he dealt with the complicated first two, the sooner he’d get to the third—the prize.

      One: check on a woman named Brooke Timber. Make sure she was all right/see if she needed anything. He had no idea if Brooke was still pregnant or had given birth. He’d soon find out.

      Two: visit his father whether the man liked it or not, despite the fact that Nick’s brother would probably punch him in the face if he stepped foot in the family home.

      Three: buy a ranch far, far away from Wedlock Creek. He envisioned a couple thousand acres, a white farmhouse with a weathered barn, a few dogs from the local humane society running around, a horse, a hundred head of cattle to start, maybe some sheep. Definitely chickens.

      Nick parked his Jeep in the public lot by the Wedlock Creek town square and got out, stretching his legs. It had been a long drive from Texas, and he’d started well before the crack of dawn. With his aviator sunglasses on and his brown Stetson pulled down low, he headed toward Main Street. He wondered if Dee’s Diner was still around. He hoped so. He could use a big plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and Dee’s really good hash browns with peppers and onions. And lots of coffee. An entire urn wouldn’t be enough to deal with the second item on his list.

      He glanced up the street, which was bustling already at just before 8:00 a.m. with folks heading to work, into the coffee shop, the bakery, a line of little kids in Wedlock Creek Day Camp T-shirts turning into the gated entrance to the park just a few feet away, and lots of dog walkers.

      He was glad to see Dee’s Diner still there, at the end of Main Street, with a swanky new sign depicting a cowgirl roping a plate of pancakes atop the door. Small towns were all about mom-and-pop businesses, and Dee’s must be doing well. He headed in, taking off the shades and hat and hoping no one would recognize him and make small talk. Nick wasn’t in the mood.

      And who’d recognize him anyway? He hadn’t been back in Wedlock Creek in almost five years, since his brother had let him know he hadn’t been welcome that Thanksgiving and should spend the holiday from now on in Afghanistan “since he preferred military life and combat over his family.” His father hadn’t said otherwise, so Nick had stopped bothering to come home on leave or between tours.

      His brother’s scowling face came to mind. Good God. The thought of dealing with Brandon Garroway today almost made him lose his appetite. But Nick was starting a new life, and the only way to actually get going on a new one was to square away the old one. Nick needed to square away things with his dad.

      He pulled open the door to Dee’s Diner and took in the delicious aromas of pancakes, French toast and bacon. And coffee. His appetite was saved.

      Nick was greeted a warm hello, led to a small booth by a waitress with a coffeepot in her hand and, within five minutes, his order was before him, along with today’s Wedlock Creek Gazette.

      The home fries were as good as he remembered. As he ate, he flipped through the newspaper, full of town happenings and local sports, ads and classifieds. He already had three solid leads on ranches a few hours or so from Wedlock Creek, but figured he’d check out any listings the Gazette might have. He scanned them—all too close to town. He did want to live in Wyoming—his roots were here—but a few hours’ distance between him and the Garroways sounded about right.

      Nick forked a bite of eggs and bacon and was about to close the paper when a name in a boxed ad taking half the page caught his eye.

      Nanny Wanted

      Experienced, caring, tenderhearted nanny sought for relatively easy three-month-old twins.

      Monday–Friday, 9–1. Hours negotiable.

      If interested, call/text Brooke Timber:

      (307) 555-1022

      So, she’d had the twins. Nick didn’t know anything about Brooke Timber other than that she was very pretty—he’d seen a photo—had long brown hair, enormous pale brown eyes and a dimple in her left cheek, and that someone he owed a big favor to, the ultimate favor, had “done her wrong” and wanted to rectify that. Between having two reasons to come home to Wedlock Creek—making good on a promise to a fallen soldier and dealing with his dad—here he was.

      He finished his mug of coffee and was grateful when the waitress appeared with a fresh pot and refilled. He tore out the ad so he’d have Brooke Timber’s telephone number. He’d already googled her address and had that memorized. She lived over on Oak Lane, which was within walking distance from here, a couple houses off Main Street.

      He stared at the words relatively easy in the ad. That had to be a good sign that Brooke was okay, that she was fine and he could cross her off his to-do list after a quick visit to her home. A couple of guys in his unit had been fathers, and one talked a lot about his very colicky baby but had always said he’d give anything to be with the screamer rather than thousands of miles away.

      Once upon a time, Nick would have said he didn’t know anything about that. Or babies at all. But now the stirring of a memory socked him in the gut, a little face with big dark eyes and shiny black wisps of curls, fifteen pounds at most in his arms, and he closed his eyes against it, downing half the mug of coffee to keep the face at bay.

      Take care of business, he told himself. Check on Brooke Timber, talk to your dad and then you’ll be home free to buy a ranch. The land and hard work will make you forget anything you need to.

      The waitress glanced at him with her coffeepot lifted, and he nodded and smiled. Oh yeah, bring on the third cup. He’d need it.

      * * *

      Waiting in a long line at Java Jane’s coffee shop, single-mother Brooke Timber hoped her three-month-old twins wouldn’t get too fidgety and start screeching before she could order a large iced coffee. She glanced at the huge sign on the wall, the menu handwritten in colored chalk. Small, plain iced coffee: $1.95. What she really wanted was a large iced mocha with whipped cream, but that was $5.45. And forget the cherry Danish in the display case. She could bake something at home for free—if she could find the fifteen minutes to stand still at her counter with flour and eggs.

      Money was tight. Time was tight. Brooke’s nerve endings were tight.

      “Ga ba!” Mikey gurgled from his stroller, waving his little chew toy, which he promptly threw on the floor with a big smile.

      Brooke scooped up the sticky orange toy and shoved it in her stroller bag. Yes, fine, things weren’t easy. She’d known that would be the case. A single mother with baby twins, no family,

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