Sunrise Point (Virgin River #19)(14)

“I told him it wasn’t necessary,” Nora said quickly. “I like walking. I do.”

“You should probably carry a weapon of some kind if you’re walking through the forest before dawn. It’s a rare thing that a human is attacked by a cat or bear, but it’s been known to happen. Sunrise and sunset are busy times for the wildlife—on their way to breakfast or off to bed, thinking they’re all alone… .”

Hah, she thought. She’d never spend money on a gun when she had children to feed and protect. “It was thoughtful of Tom,” she said instead.

“How do you get along with him? Is he giving you trouble?”

She thought about her answer before saying, “I think I annoy him. I think he sees me as a burden, someone he’s forced to look after.”

“It’s probably not so much that as Tom getting used to his new role here. He was raised on this orchard and knows the ropes, but he’s been away. He spent the past several years in the Marine Corps. Two of those years he was deployed, first to Iraq and then to Afghanistan. He separated from the military after his second deployment—there were a lot of casualties in his command, I gather. I’ve noticed a kind of impatience in him that wasn’t there before. Sometimes I catch him brooding and I wonder—has he lost good friends? Comrades? Taking and giving orders—that’s not really the way we’ve been running this business, but that’s what Tom was used to in the military. We’re all going to have to give him time to adjust, I think. I suppose he has issues. Combat issues.”

War? She hadn’t been watching television coverage, obviously, so was left to her imagination and what she’d heard. And what she’d heard people say was terrible! Even with all she’d been through, she couldn’t imagine the war in Afghanistan. She heard a couple of the apple pickers talking about how it had recently been the bloodiest month in Afghanistan so far with the loss of sixty-five soldiers.

And although life had held challenges, incredibly difficult challenges, she and the babies had enough to eat, were safe and warm, healthy. She vowed to never complain.

“Oh, of course,” she said softly. “I had no idea. What could possibly be worse than war? Well, don’t worry, Maxie. He seems perfectly normal to me. He’s been very kind to me. If he’s a little impatient sometimes, I suppose there’s very good reason.”

“One of these days, maybe on a weekend, I’d love to have you and the little girls come to the house. We could include Adie. I’d love to meet them. I hardly ever get to be around little girls. I had a son, then a grandson.”

“That’s so lovely, but I don’t have anything like car seats,” Nora said. “No car, no car seats.”

“I know. Don’t worry about that right now—I would never transport your children without them.”

“That’s very kind of you but you—”

“It’s completely selfish, Nora. I love children. Especially little girls. I hope that fool grandson of mine does something about that before I die.”

* * *

Nora had a great little chat with Maxie but she had to remind herself that they weren’t friends. Maxie owned the orchard; Maxie was her employer. Maxie and Tom. “Are there any other family members?” she asked Buddy when they were dumping their apples one afternoon.

“Nope, that’s it. I hear she raised Tom since he was a baby, but I don’t know anything about why and Maxie’s husband died around ten years ago or so. There’s Junior—the foreman. He’s been on this orchard as long as I can remember, since I was a little kid. He must be just about family.” Then Buddy laughed. “Anyone Maxie cares about is usually considered family. When you know her a little better, you’ll get that.”

“I think I already get that,” she said, thinking of this woman wanting to bring her girls and Adie out for an afternoon, though she hardly knew Nora at all.

This revelation about Tom Cavanaugh caused her to look at him a bit differently. Over the next week she found herself thinking about him and keeping an eye open to catch sight of him. While she was up in the branches of the taller apple trees, on top of her tripod ladder, she would occasionally see him and she could stare without being obvious. He spent a lot of time working with Junior, a big, muscled man of about fifty; they laughed together while they worked. And while Tom loaded large crates of apples into a delivery truck to take to grocers, straining his muscles, she couldn’t help but admire his physique. He dressed the same every day, jeans, boots, his work shirt with the Cavanaugh Apples logo over the left breast pocket, sleeves rolled up, a whisper of soft brown hair on his forearms. His hands were very big and as she could attest, rough with calluses. The muscles of his upper arms, shoulders, back and legs moved under the fabric; that perfect male butt in jeans that weren’t too loose or too tight drew her eyes. Sometimes he seemed to get a little worn out—the tendons in his neck stood out and after putting a crate in the truck, he’d stop to wipe his brow. Then he’d laugh with one of the guys.

She wondered what it must be like to be the kind of girl he’d smile and laugh with. What kind of girl would that be? A pretty and smart young teacher? A model or movie star who would be more than willing to leave the limelight for life on an orchard?

Now and then she’d be staring at him and imagine him in military fatigues rather than his work shirt, carrying a gun rather than a crate of apples and she’d wonder—had his losses been many? Had he been afraid, so far from home in a place of great danger? Did he miss the edge, the adrenaline rush of combat?