“Sounds like heaven,” Scott sighed.
“Speaking of fireworks, Independence Day is in a couple of days. Have you found someplace to get out of town yet?”
“Not yet. I don’t suppose I can set up a pup tent on your isolated, rural farm in Iowa, could I?”
A vast expanse of yard ran around Sarah’s farmhouse. “I don’t expect that would be feasible, but you could probably stay in the barn with the horse and cow.”
Scott asked, his voice even more wistful, “There’s a horse?”
“Yeah, he’s a great horse. His name is Charlie.”
“I haven’t curried a horse since I was eight years old, when I used to go to my grandparents’ farm sometimes.”
Blaze joked with him a little. “If you can milk a cow, you might be able to get on as a hired hand.”
Scott chuckled. “My grandpa didn’t have cows, just roping steers. Milking those might not give you the taste you’d expect.”
“This farm is so idyllic. The VA should have vets to come out here as therapy.”
Scott’s voice relaxed, just talking about the farm. “I would pay to come out there to currycomb the horse and learn to milk a cow. You should get a VA program started.”
Blaze stood and scratched the stubble growing on his cheek while he looked over the garden and the cornfield stretching to the horizon. The house was too small, and the land not used for crops wasn’t enough for cabins or barracks. “I don’t think it would work.”
“How’s that shopping mall property in Chicago working out?”
“The architects have submitted their plan to renovate it into residential wings and medical and therapy areas. The food court would stay as it is, but I think we should open up a barbecue rib joint in the big restaurant pad.”
“Chicago does a huge fireworks show, though.”
“The mall is located far enough outside of the city center, and the walls are thick enough that fireworks shouldn’t be much of a problem.”
Probably.
For some.
“Sounds like veteran heaven.”
“Yeah,” Blaze said, looking over the miles of corn rustling under the bright country sun. “It’s probably the right choice.”
7
MONEY PROBLEMS
SARAH
Sarah turned back to the skillet on the stove and stirred the potatoes and onions sizzling in butter she’d churned two weeks before.
And by churning, she meant dumping the cream into the stand mixer while she washed the eggs to sell at her farm stand out on the country highway.
She pushed the potatoes around the pan with a wooden spatula, glancing up to watch the dirt road through the window over the kitchen sink.
Just green corn and blue sky out there. No dirt cloud was swirling over the corn.
No cars.
No trucks.
No SUVs bearing Easterner mafia dudes sent to kill her.
