A Man's Heart (8 page)

“Odd. He was such a good, tolerant God-fearing man. You would think that forgiveness would come naturally.”

Jules smiled though tears welled in her eyes. Not having Pop around was going to take adjustment. She missed his cheery smile every morning, his voice calling to her from the potato fields. “We're forgiven by the grace of God, Sophie. That doesn't make us perfect in human form. But yes, Pop's inability to forgive Mom not only destroyed his life, but it took mine and Crystal's childhood.”

“And now?”

“What?”

“Are you ready to marry and settle down now?”

“Yes—if there was a man in the picture.” She was ready; she'd love to have her own children. Caring for Ethan and Livvy made her realize that she wasn't getting any younger. Her maternal clock was ticking.

Sophie laughed. “Twice I thought I was ready. You'll never be absolutely certain about the man. You might think you are, but then he'll do something so entirely foreign to what you expect or thought you knew about him, and you realize that you can never really know a person. You have to accept the good with the bad unless the bad outweighs or endangers you. I chose men who met both criteria.” She sighed. “I know people must wonder about my destructive choices.”

“People love you, and if anyone would dare criticize your
choices you have two brothers who would defend you 'til death.”

The wan smile surfaced. “Yeah, they are great brothers.”

Jules watched as Sophia's strength visibly drained. She pushed back from the bed. “Can I bring you anything special tomorrow?”

“No …” She caught Jules's hand. “What day is it?”

“Twenty-eighth of June.”

“Are you riding in the Fourth of July rodeo this year?”

Jules had thought about signing up for the event, but it seemed inconsiderate of Sophie, and it wouldn't bring the same joy. “I think I'll skip it this year. The potatoes take up so much time—did I tell you someone stole one of our tractors over the weekend?”

“You mentioned it.” Sophie closed her eyes and rested her head on the pillow. “Do they have any idea who took it? Cruz and Adan can't afford to lose any machinery.”

Jules shook her head. “Machinery theft is rampant. Our old potato planter is making a racket. Maybe they'll steal that.” Her thoughts turned to the dirt barrels sitting in Pop's tool shed. The one promising experiment had now bloomed, and the potato was growing. She maintained a daily check on its progress. The other four tubs had ordinary looking plants, but the fifth tub … She didn't want to get her hopes up, but there was definitely something unusual about that fifth plant.

“I want you to.”

Jules glanced up, drawn back to the conversation. “To what?”

“Ride the barrel races this year.”

“Oh, Sophie, I don't —”

“For me.” She reached for Jules's hand. “Do it for me. I
don't want this stupid cancer to interfere with tradition. I'll be there with you in spirit. I don't want you to miss the fun.”

Jules had no heart for the event, but if it meant so much to Sophie she'd ride. “Okay. But you'll owe me one.”

Smiling, Sophie nodded. “I'll lie back next year, let you win.”

“Lie back, my foot. I always beat you by a couple of seconds.”

“Not always.”

“Oh right. Four summers ago you got lucky and won by a millimeter.”

“Still won, didn't I?”

Jules bent to kiss her friend's forehead. “You still won. And you'll win this one too, Sophie.” Jules gently readjusted the doo scarf, willing strength into her friend. She knew the long odds were against the fight, but anything could happen, and Sophie was responding to treatment and chemo would start soon. Other than the pesky surgery complications, she was doing great. She'd known people who'd beat this disease and if anyone could, this brave young mother would. Sophie had endured two deadbeat husbands. She could whip a disease.

Sophie caught her hand and held on tightly. Jules could feel the tremble, both in her heart and Sophie's fingertips. “You keep praying,” she whispered. “God's mercy is the only thing that's going to pull me through this.”

A
rriving back at the farm, Jules got out of her vehicle and headed straight for the tool shed. Tub five plant was practically shooting out of the container, so much so Jules couldn't wait to see the product. An ordinary potato would be months away from harvest, but judging by the sheer size of the tub plant, Jules had a hunch if she gave in to her curiosity she'd find a sizable potato under the dirt. She reached for her trowel and turned when Crystal appeared in the doorway.

“Hi. I thought I heard you drive in.” Her sister picked her way through the crowded tool shed, side-stepping picks and rakes. Jules gaze swept the small area. Pop had three different size lawn mowers in here, one that didn't run, one that did, and one that he refused to discard. The stench of oil and pesticide hung in the air. Crystal paused before the tubs of dirt. “Why are you growing potatoes in tubs? Isn't a couple hundred acres enough for you?”

Stepping around her, Jules pulled on her gloves. “They're experimental plants.”

“Like how?”

“Like, they're different from the others, Crystal.”

Her sister eased around the tubs, studying the shoots. “What are you trying to grow?”

“French fries. Pull them out of the ground, heat them, and they're ready to eat.”

Crystal's gullible side flared. “You could do that?”

“Of course not.” Jules left the fifth tub alone and started on the smaller ones. Crystal didn't need to know about her experiment. No one did. After a spiral notebook full of failures she expected more of the same, no matter how good tub five looked. “Where are the kids?”

“Napping.” Crossing her arms, Crystal leaned against a rickety potting table. “How's Sophie today?”

Jules stuck a trowel in the dirt. “Weak, but she's coming along. I wouldn't be surprised if she didn't get to come home soon.”

“Really?” Crystal's features softened. “But stage three, Jules. That means it's spread —”

“And that's the reason she'll go through radiation.” Jules rammed the tool into the dirt and loosened the soil. Sophie had years ahead of her with proper treatment. “When did you become such a pessimist? Didn't Mom take you to church — teach you the power of faith?”

“Not often. Mom was a free-spirit. She drew her strength through the things God provides. The wind, trees, and all living things. She didn't trust people.”

Jules straightened to face her. “Mom didn't believe in God?”

“She did, Jules. She didn't believe in religion. She believed God was God and his ways, though different from ours, need no explanation, and someday, if it's important, we'll understand why some prayers are answered and others aren't.”

Jules dropped her gaze back to the potato plant. Well, the reasoning wasn't exactly flawed. “What was Mom like?”

Crystal smiled. “You don't remember her?”

“I remember her.” Jules had lain awake nights picturing the blonde, petite woman who always smelled of Red Door perfume. “I remember her soft voice when she came in at night to hear our prayers.”

“Yeah. And that voice could be shrill as a harridan when she and Dad were fighting.”

“That I remember all too well. Fred, I'm going to leave you!” Jules mocked.

“Go ahead! Make my day!” Crystal could sound exactly like Pop. Angry, hurtful words that can never be forgotten.

Jules couldn't find a big enough pillow to block the angry voices, accusations and horrifying threats. Alone, Pop was mild-mannered and easy going, but with Mom he lost it. “Why do you suppose they hated each other so much?”

Crystal sighed. “I'm not sure she hated him. She spoke of him often — and she grieved that you were caught in the middle.”

Jules pitched a trowel of dirt into the tub. “That's why she wrote or phoned me so often?”

“She didn't call or write because she didn't want to further tear you apart. She always planned to make it up to you, and she would have if it weren't for the car accident.”

“Maybe.” Jules rammed the trowel in the dirt and reached for the fertilizer. “I hear Olivia.”

“She didn't sleep very long.” Startled, Crystal headed back toward the house.

When her sister cleared the shed, Jules returned to tub five. With Christmas-like anticipation, she took the trowel
and loosened the dirt around the plant. Even at this distance, she could see a potato, a very large potato.

Working more quickly, she turned the dirt and her eyes widened at the sight of a perfectly formed Russet Burbank. Smooth, about the size of two fists held together. Lifting the jewel out of the dirt, she held it for closer inspection. She examined for green peach aphid, a disease that doesn't affect people but causes tubers to have brown internal markings called net necrosis. The potato in her hand showed no sign of the insect pest.

Excitement grew as she picked up a knife and sliced into the potato and again, the white flesh was flawless. No brown spots. She took a bite and savored the extraordinary flavor, fresh, meaty. The tuber had grown in six weeks compared to the normal growing season from planting in late May until harvesting began around the Fourth of July and continued through late summer. This particular tuber had survived on neglect, little water in the beginning, and minimum fertilizers.

Jules's brain spun with the realm of possibilities. Fields could be used more than once during the season. The need to “kill” off the ground—stop all irrigation or spraying with special chemicals that kill the leaves and stems before the harvest, might be eliminated. Her hand came up to cover her mouth. Now all she had to do was wait a few days and see if the potato would rot, grow eyes and sprout roots. If this potato failed to do that, then she had created the perfect spud.

Turning to her notebook, she thumbed through the pages, impatient when her notes stuck together, the result of too many nights of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches while she worked. She reached the date of planting: May 25. The page was blank.

She flipped back a page and glanced at the date. May 24. She turned back. May 25. Blank. Where was the data for May 25? The night Pop died.

Blood pumping, she stepped to the John Deere calendar Pop kept over his work bench. Leaning on her tiptoes, she flipped back to May and studied the date.

Her mind reeled, going back over that evening. She'd planted the experimental tubers. The phone rang. Her heart double-timed. The awful news that Pop had been in an accident. She was brain dead from finals and lack of sleep —

She hadn't written down the hybrid mix.

Impossible! She always wrote down the experimental tubers. She returned to the notebook, dumping it upside down in hopes that she'd penned a note and left it inside the book. Nothing fluttered out. Shaking the spiral pad, she willed the combination to come out, but nothing materialized but dry crumbs.

She lowered the notebook to the bench and sat down, dropping her face into her hands. She had created the perfect potato. A few days under a heat lamp and she'd know if the product was perfect. And if it were …

She'd forgotten to write down how she achieved it.

G
unshots pierced the air. The annual Fourth of July rodeo galloped into full swing. Red, white, and blue banners draped the outdoor stadium. Fireworks popped and sizzled in the distance.

The sleek mare bolted from the start gate and Jules mentally prepared for the pocket. She knew Maddy's speed like the back of her hand; was she feeling frisky tonight? Settling deeper into the saddle, she gripped the pommel, legs tucked closely to the horse's side; her leg to the inside of the turn, supporting the animal's ribcage to assist her to effortlessly make the tight turn. Maddy cleared the barrel.