Written on Her Heart Read online

  Written on Her Heart

  by

  Julie Anne Lindsey

  A Honey Creek Novel

  Written on Her Heart

  Copyright © 2013, Julie Anne Lindsey

  Digital ISBN: 9781622371327

  Editor, Wendy Williams

  Cover Art Design by KJ Jacobs

  Digital Release, March, 2013

  Turquoise Morning, LLC

  P.O. Box 43958

  Louisville, KY40253-0958

  www.turquoisemorningpress.com

  This is a dpgroup exclusive.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.

  This edition is published by agreement with Turquoise Morning Press, a division of Turquoise Morning, LLC.

  DEDICATION

  Because scars tell the story: We survived.

  WRITTEN ON HER HEART

  Emma has her reasons not to fall in love, but fate has other plans. When she finds a journal near HoneyCreekLake, she sneaks a peek at the words of a stranger but finds the heart of a hero instead. Soon she’s savoring every word, opening her heart to the man inside and her mind to the possibilities she gave up long ago.

  Across town, Nicholas is devastated at the loss of his grandfather’s journal, one he’s written in since he left for Iraq a decade ago. The thought of a stranger mocking his words, or worse, someone from Honey Creek knowing his most intimate trials…. If his journal falls into the wrong hands, humiliation is sure to follow.

  But what if it fell into the right ones?

  Chapter One

  Lying in the grass beneath the lake’s only weeping willow, Emma tried not to sneeze. Dandelions tickled her nose as she steadied her daddy’s old camera against one cheek. Less than two feet away, a pair of hummingbirds danced around a swath of floppy purple flowers in the sun. The shot showcased everything she loved about this place. A slip of sand and twinkling blue water filled the backdrop. The image snuggled inside her viewfinder defined HoneyCreekLake. Summer in Ohio. Life as she knew it.

  With slow steady pressure, she anticipated the moment the shot would be hers. She’d learned long ago never to rush the moment. Then, just like that, the magical click of the shutter announced her success. She’d captured the most beautiful moment. Preserved it. Emma smiled and rolled onto her back under the shade of long, stringy branches. Sounds of children’s laughter punctuated by hoots from an impromptu volleyball game pushed her back a decade. How many days had she spent lying under that tree?

  She tugged the cotton tee away from her neck. Humidity snapped it back, reapplying the fabric like a sticker. Memories of tank tops and swimsuits flashed through her mind. She shoved them into a carefully constructed mental vault before they stung her eyes like smoke from a summer bonfire. Emma lurched upward, pulling her knees to her chest, ending the slew of thoughts that never led anywhere good. The distant hoots grew louder as the number of players in the sand increased. Emma’s cue to leave.

  Her muscles stretched slowly as she stood. Waiting for the perfect shot sometimes took hours. She’d waited almost two for the pair of playful hummingbirds to stop by the flowers where she lay. Only the bright purple puffballs would do. Eventually they grew brave and she caught them, mid-flight, enjoying the day. If only she could be up and on her way as easily. The hard rooted ground wasn’t as forgiving as it used to be. Then, as if to taunt her already stiff muscles, the plastic lens cap missed its thread and rolled from her camera into the grass and over a slope behind the tree.

  “Figures.” Emma glanced toward the volleyball players in the distance, admiring their tanned skin and public shenanigans. She knew most of them. Some were visiting, but the majority lived in town. If she didn’t know them personally, she still knew their names and their parents and probably where they lived. Small town living.

  Around the tree, she squatted to retrieve the lens cap and toppled over. Careful not to drop her camera as she fell, her backside took the brunt of the misstep. Her heel landed on something firm enough to worry her. Not a root. Not grass. With one eye closed, she peeked beside her sandal, praying it wasn’t a bird or other animal dragged there by a local cat. To her relief she found a simple brown leather book, wrapped with long skinny straps which wound around what looked like a shiny black rock with a hole drilled through it. The contraption reminded her of things her grandfather made years ago.

  Curiosity seized her. Her gaze darted up, scanning the perimeter for the book’s owner. The book weighed more than she expected and filled her hands with warmth collected by the day’s steamy temperature. Running her fingertips over the soft leather binding, she traced the word Journal tanned into the leather-covered spine. Again she checked for someone returning to the scene of his or her loss. No one. She bit into her lip in wonder.

  “Who do you belong to?” Her fingers pinched the stings, untangling them from the stone. The binding creaked softly under her touch. Inside the cover a faded stamp contained a set of numbers and a line of text. U.S. Army 1948. “Hmm.”

  Worn blue ink lined the opening pages. Time and possibly water warped and ruined them. She thumbed past to find much of the rest of the book written in clear black ink. The later pages wore a different handwriting than the former. The ink appeared fresher and the neatly printed words from the book’s introductory pages gave way to the lazy loops of a generation unconcerned with penmanship. A family journal, perhaps? She checked again for approaching beach goers, certain her time with the book was limited. Closing the book once more, she looked for a name tanned into the cover or written inside. Nothing. Emma let the pages fall open at their leisure, blowing slightly in the soft breeze. Short entries about sandstorms and heat filled the page where she landed. Under a heading named “Confessions” were three short sentences. “I love my country, but I don’t believe in this war. I’m afraid for my men. I’m worried about my mama.” Tally marks stood like fence posts in the corners of each page. They reminded her of a condemned man counting the days to his freedom in a movie.

  Emma’s lips rolled in over her teeth. Her brows knitted together. “I could leave you here, in case your owner returns, but what if it rains? Is that what happened before?” She ran her fingers over the wavy pages near the front. No. Only some pages were dilapidated. The bulk remained smooth and untouched aside from ropes of scrolled black ink. Her gaze drifted upward to the silky blue sky and narrow strips of stark white clouds on the breeze. It could rain. Maybe not today… Still, better to be safe.

  Husky voices closed the distance behind her. With no more time to consider, she stuffed the book into her satchel and secured the lens cap where it belonged. The willow’s shade dissipated behind her as she hurried away. Sun-blinded temporarily, she hoped the writer’s mama was okay now. A number of possibilities came to mind, and she glanced at her satchel. She’d check with the lodge to see if anyone lost a journal.

  From her periphery she saw a pair of locals slow near the tree for a long drink of water. Both dripping in sweat and carved in muscles. Only one had bothered with a T-shirt. The cuter one if anyone asked her. No one had. She kept moving.

  A blast of cold air gusted down inside the heavy lodge doors, freezing her sweat dampened hair and skin as she walked inside. A few long auburn locks flew in a cyclone around her face. Her hand ran to her throat on instinct as she bounced across the threshold. Shivers coursed down her arms and legs. The line at the front desk stopped her midstride. She should have packed a lunch. Emma examined the unfamiliar faces in the lobby. Did one of them suffer through a sandstorm, missing his mama?

  “You checking in?” A leggy blond grabbed a length of renegade hair from Emma’s shoulder and tossed it into the air.

  “Hey, Baywatch. How’s things?”

  Heather smiled her easy movie star smile, and half the men in the room took notice. Her low cut red suit did look like the ones on the old television show, but her friend looked better than any of those girls: healthier, less dye and silicone, more personality.

  “Hot.” Sweat on her lips and temples accentuated her words. “What’re you waiting in line for?”

  “Lost and found.” Even as she spoke she wished it wasn’t true. What happened after the storm? Why was he fighting a war he didn’t believe in?

  “Are we still on for dinner? I’m starving.”

  “Yes.” Images of a soldier hunkered over her book ran through her mind. His book.

  “Same time?” Heather tossed an enormous amount of her perfect ringlet curls over one shoulder and headed for the door. Either her break was over or she had better things to do than wait in line.

  “Same sandbox.” Emma’s response gained too much attention. Her cheeks heated until her eyes blurred. Heather strode out as a man pulled the door wide, allowing her to pass. The duo from near the willow tree walked in. The cute one held Emma in his gaze. His brow creased. His lips tight. Nicholas Fenton. Her heart pumped hard against her ribcage. Before the door closed behind them, she left her place in line and darted around him. Back out into the heat.

  “I’ll call later,” she said to her satchel, speed walking to her truck behind the building.

  ****

  “I smell no dinner.” The screen door slapped shut.

  Emma jumped in her seat, spilling the journal onto the floor. Sandals snapped over black and white checkered ti
le in her foyer. Confusion set in.

  “Are you asleep?”

  “No.” The room was darker than she remembered. She looked out the window behind her couch. Trees cast long shadows over her porch.

  “What happened with dinner?” Heather’s beautiful face fell. “What’s that?”

  All eyes locked on the journal beside Emma’s foot. “What?”

  “That.”

  Emma moved her head side to side. “What time is it?”

  “Seven.” She leaned in for the journal, and Emma kicked it under the couch. Heather snapped up, hands on hips. Eyebrows high. “Is that what you think? You’ve got a secret, and I’m going to waltz into the kitchen and forget about it?”

  “I’ll make hamburgers and a salad big enough to climb inside.”

  Her friend stared.

  Emma sighed. A protective instinct swept over her. “It’s nothing. Just a book I found. I was reading.” She read all the time. The explanation shouldn’t cause suspicion, but Heather saw through her, always had.

  Her hand opened and closed in the gimme motion she always used to get her way.

  “Fine.” Emma fished the journal from under the couch and handed it over. Regret churned in her tummy. She went straight for the kitchen. Perhaps out of sight, out of mind would work, or cooking could distract her from the fact her best friend was reading his secrets too.

  But Heather wasn’t a casual reader. She said time was too precious. Every book she picked up had a purpose in teaching her something new. Starlet good looks aside, Heather was smarter than most people she’d ever met. Ten sandal snaps and a kerthump later, the friends occupied the room in comfortable silence. “What’s it about?”

  Relief washed over Emma. His secrets were still safe. “It’s a journal.”

  “Whose?”

  “I don’t know. I found it under the willow.”

  “And you’re reading it?” Mischief thickened the words.

  She knew it wasn’t nice. Mail fraud came to mind. With any luck a court wouldn’t think they were the same thing.

  Heather fingered the shiny rock on the cover without opening it.

  “I didn’t mean to. I wanted to see who it belonged to so I could return it, but there’s no name.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t know. I read one page, then I kept wondering why he wrote something so I read another.”

  Emma loaded a plate with seasoned burgers and vegetables from the refrigerator. At least she remembered to make them when she got home from the lake. Carrying a tray with her hands, she shoved the screen door to the back porch open with a hip. One foot stopped the door from shutting on her. She leaned into the doorframe and wedged the tray into her side, freeing a hand to open and heat the grill. The sweet repetition of the act calmed her. She tossed the food onto the grill pressed against the railing of her thin back porch and sighed. A busy bird carried a length of string overhead and presumably into the spouting. For the little bird’s sake, she hoped the first rain wouldn’t wash it away.

  Inside she busied her hands wiping down the counters and tray. Looking at her friend would give away too much. But she wanted to talk about him. “He was in Iraq for three years. Every time they promised him he’d come home, they lied.” She bit her lip.

  “Then what happened? Did he die?”

  “What? No. How would he even write that?”

  The girls broke out in laughter. Heather tossed a tiny tomato at her friend. “Shut up.”

  “I think he got hurt though. He said he had to do something he couldn’t even write details about. The next entry came more than six months later and he was home.”

  “He didn’t say what happened?”

  “I don’t think so. Not yet. I thought he had another year a few pages before he got cryptic about whatever secret thing he had to do. So, coming home in six months, especially after the complete run around he got the other times… I was reading when you got here.”

  “How long have you been reading this thing?” Heather’s expression wavered between amusement and interest.

  “All day.” Her cheeks burned, probably matching her hair.

  She needed a new subject. “Wait until you see the shots I got at the lake today. They’re gorgeous. I think I’ll frame one and give it as a gift. I got hummingbirds in flight.” Emma tossed the little tomato into her mouth. “Mmm.”

  “Well, show me already. I love your pictures. When I use a camera, all I get are fuzzy torsos with no heads, or devil heads with red eyes.”

  “Silly.” She rubbed her hands into the apron tied to the oven door and hoisted her laptop onto the counter. “Start here.” She opened a folder with her most recent shots. “I’ll check on dinner.”

  “Hot lifeguard,” Heather called as Emma turned burgers outside. “Pretty hair too.”

  “Yeah, I hear she’s a jerk.”

  Heather snickered and grew quiet. “Do you have enough to make the brochure yet?”

  “Not even close.” She stretched the door wide and retrieved their meal from the grill. Hefting the tray of perfect burgers onto the island inside, her house filled with scents of summer. “To make a brochure worthy of what they’re paying me, I’m going to be at it all summer. HoneyCreekLake deserves the best work I can manage.”

  “You have quite the life going here. Doing what you love.” The pride in Heather’s voice warmed Emma. “Meanwhile I’m an ER nurse who daylights as a lifeguard.”

  “You have a serious super hero complex. Can you go one day without saving someone’s life?” She popped her mouth open in mock horror. “Anyway, you love it.”

  “I’d love it if I got to marry a doctor,” she mused.

  “Marry one? You should be the doctor.”

  Heather threw a palm between them. This conversation was off limits to Miss Smarty Pants. She may be brilliant, but she only wanted to be a mom. Heather told her for career day in kindergarten she brought an old sock doll and said when she grew up she wanted to be a mommy. Emma had wanted to be a space cowgirl. She tried not to judge.

  “Whatever, Barbie. Eat up.”

  “What is this?” Heather pointed to the tray of vegetables Emma slid onto the table between them.

  “Corn, tomatoes.”

  “On the grill?”

  Emma stabbed a piece of tomato and braced herself for the flavor. Growing up on a small farm, she thought she’d grilled everything, but the journal told her otherwise. She’d read one page several times when she realized she shared the rural grill attachment with her stranger. They both loved the sensation of watching loved ones flip burgers and toss horseshoes. During the sandstorm, he’d distracted himself with memories of his dad’s barbecue and his mom’s heirloom tomatoes on the grill. Emma wondered if she did it right. Pushing her fork between her teeth answered that. Delicious. If she could invite him for dinner, she would. She’d make grilled tomatoes and tell him “thank you” for protecting her, for putting himself in harm’s way while she went on clueless, as if the war were nothing more than a segment of the six o’clock news.

  “This is good.” Heather’s eyes stretched wide. “Why haven’t we always grilled these?”

  “Thanks, I just thought I’d try something new.”

  Heather nodded and continued clicking through the shots taken at the lake. “You should pace yourself. I hear they’re adding a gazebo and new landscaping to the field around your willow tree.”

  “Hopefully they hire someone from town. Otherwise they won’t get it right. That willow’s the only one in Honey Creek. If they know anything at all, they’ll plan their addition around it.” Emma scooped the burger into both hands and hoped her willow would survive. Not everyone recognized beauty without Hollywood’s input or a graphic artist’s airbrush faking everything up. She chewed and worried. All the landscapers and carpenters she knew were men, and men had their own idea of beauty.

  The bombshell before her wiped her mouth on a napkin and spun the laptop around to face her. On the screen, Nicholas Fenton stood alone 50 yards from the camera looking at the sky. “What’s this?” Heather raised an eyebrow. “Nothing’s happening except that body. Who is that?” She squinted at the screen and rubbed at it with her thumb.

  “I don’t know,” Emma lied. “I couldn’t figure out what he was looking at, so I took the shot.” Looking at the image now, she wondered what the soldier would’ve traded to stand still in the sun-warmed safety of her hometown. “Do you think whoever lost the journal is staying at the lodge?”