Chapter 1
June 22, 2010
Midday on the Monday to end all Mondays
Riley Cole.
The name echoed in her mind like a curse. Of all the men in the Army, the Department of Defense had to send him. Couldn’t they have sent a John or a Joe, maybe even a Nathan—anyone but the one man who’d haunted her dreams for the past decade?
“Sam?”
She heard her sister’s voice from the entryway to the farmhouse kitchen, but she couldn’t tear her eyes off the piece of paper lying innocently on the butcher-block island. It must be a different Riley Cole. There had to be hundreds in the world, maybe thousands. The Riley Cole from her fantasies, the man she’d written about in her notebooks ever since college, had been a liberal-arts-educated party boy, not an Army Ranger.
Of course, it had been ten years. People changed. She wasn’t the same person she’d been freshman year of college. But she had a hunch the Riley Cole she’d mooned over in college was married to a bleach blonde former model and living in an overpriced mansion in the Hamptons.
“Samantha Murphy? Are you still with me?”
Sam looked up at Eliza. “Hmm?”
“Are you ok?” Eliza asked.
“Not even close.” Sam picked up the remote to the CD player resting on the counter by the fridge and hit play. The Bangles’ Manic Monday filled the room.
“Eighties music?” Eliza said, shaking her head. “Really Sam, this is a good thing. You should be happy. This is a Best of Garth Brooks kind of day.”
“I know, but it’s still sinking in,” Sam said. “Just give me a minute and I’ll come help you prepare the bedrooms.”
Eliza nodded and retreated from the kitchen.
Sam lowered her head to the counter. Resting her forehead on the paper, she replayed the events of that morning over in her mind. If only the Senator hadn’t called . . .
###
Earlier Monday Morning . . .
The call came moments after Samantha fell into a heaping pile of manure. It came at the precise moment when she was beginning to wonder if a series of ‘just one of those days’ could become ‘just one of those months.’
“Sam, Chuck Lewis is on the phone.” Eliza crossed the gravel parking area that separated the mountain of manure from the house, cordless phone in hand. “And he wants to talk to you.”
“Why does he want to talk to me?”
A wide smile spread across Eliza’s face. “Chuck says it is good news.”
“Chuck?” Sam used the pitchfork to push her stinky frame into an upright position. Stumbling from the pile, she reached for the phone. “You’re on a first name basis now?”
“Just take the call.”
Unlike her sister, Sam did not feel even the slightest tinge of excitement over the Senator’s supposed good news. The man had made a habit out of dangling “possible funding” in front of her nose the way one might tempt a greyhound with a stuffed rabbit. And Sam didn’t feel like running anymore, not when she knew the vexing Senator’s primary interest was not her farm, but her Angelina Jolie look-alike sister. She should never have taken Eliza along to that fundraiser last fall. The Senator had been pursuing her sister ever since and now he was pulling her into it.
Sam kicked the gravel with her boot. The only bright side to her current situation was that the Senator could not possibly smell her through the phone. “Good morning Senator, what can I do for you?”
“Ms. Murphy, I understand you applied for a grant recently. Funding for your horse rescue farm? Are you still interested?” he drawled.
Was she interested? Damn him and his rabbits! Without additional funds, she might be forced to close her operation by the end of the year. She could barely afford to feed the animals, especially after she’d been forced to expand last month when a friend had dropped off six homeless hogs. And then there were the goats . . .
She definitely needed an additional source of cash beyond the minuscule charitable donations she received each month. And the money she earned teaching lessons barely kept the lights on.
“Yes” Sam said, choking back the words: And if you can make that happen, I’ll gladly send you my best cashmere goat.
Not everyone viewed farm animals as a gift.
“Ms. Murphy, today is your lucky day. The U.S. government is prepared to award your farm a one hundred thousand dollar grant from the Department of Defense. In exchange, all we ask . . .”
“One hundred thousand dollars?” Her knees gave way and she sank to the ground near the paddock filled with horses in need of expensive medicines and more oats than she could currently afford. One hundred thousand dollars could save her fledgling rescue operation. But—
“The Department of Defense?” Sam said into the phone. Why would the Department of Defense wish to save her horse rescue operation?
“Yes, the DOD will award your farm a grant in exchange for training four men from a select unit of soldiers. You’ll have to teach these men how to ride, care for, and live with horses.”
Sam managed to keep the phone pressed to her ear as she leaned back on the gravel and turned her gaze to the crisp blue sky. Train a team of soldiers to ride? Was she dreaming? Was this conversation a mirage born from her desperate need for cash?
“My office sent a FedEx package with the details. The package should arrive today and the men tomorrow. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m running late for a meeting. Call my office if you have any questions. And give my best to your sister.”
The line went dead. Sam stared at the heavens. Tomorrow? Four men, four soldiers, would arrive tomorrow?
She sat up to ask her sister if she was dreaming and spotted the FedEx truck speeding down the uneven tree lined driveway. Eliza was already on her way to greet the truck. Sam quickly pushed her body up off the ground and ran to catch up.
“Here comes the welcoming committee,” Eliza said. The pack of four-legged greeters included her yellow lab Brooklyn; Daisy, the goat who insisted she was a dog and . . .
Oh crap, the black and white llama.
“How did Patches escape this time?” Sam said. In an ideal world, the llama would be grazing contently in the newly appropriated goat pasture—it had belonged to the horses until someone showed up with a trailer full of half-starved cashmere goats Sam couldn’t refuse. But her world was far from ideal.
Sam chased the escaped llama toward the goat pasture with Brooklyn and Daisy at her heels. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Eliza sign for their package. From the Department of Defense.
“What does it say?” Sam called, opening the metal gate.
“Tomorrow four men will arrive for a two week stay. They’re part of a special operations unit.”
“Two weeks?”
“We are expected to provide room and board,” Eliza continued. “And if anyone asks we should say they’re on leave for a team vacation. I paraphrased that last part.”
“No one is going to believe four soldiers decided to take some Army sanctioned R & R at a horse rescue operation.”
“Maybe no one will notice they’re here.”
“Impossible. The fundraiser is on Saturday. This place will be crawling with people. What are we suppose to do? Hide a special operations team in the hayloft for the day?”
“They can help with the pony rides. It can be part of their vacation,” Eliza suggested. “They need to learn to ride and care for horses. And we could really use the help given my condition.”
“True,” Sam nodded. Her sister was an Angelina Jolie lookalike—when the actress had been pregnant with twins. Despite her size, Eliza’s belly only held one baby, due in one month.
“It won’t be that bad,” Eliza said. “And it’s only for two weeks.”
“I have two weeks to teach four men to ride and care for horses?” Sam drew the chain around the metal gate. It wasn’t enough time. Even if the men had ridden in the past, which seemed doubtful given that U.S. government had decided to send them on vacation to rural New York.
“It says here we’ll be reimbursed for room and board to the tune of one hundred dollars a day per soldier,” Eliza added.
Four hundred dollars per day plus one hundred thousand dollars. How many animals could she save with that money? More than she could house in their current set-up. She could buy a new barn with part of the cash and maybe even use a small amount to fix up the old farmhouse she’d inherited from her grandfather.
Sam plucked the packet from Eliza’s hands and scanned it, needing to see the words with her own eyes. Shaking her head, she walked toward the house. “We’ll need to prepare rooms and take a trip to the grocery store.”
“There’s always the cabin,” Eliza suggested.
Sam shook her head. “For a hundred dollars a day they deserve indoor plumbing and real beds, not sleeping bags on wooden bunks. They can have my room. I’ll move in with you.”
Built in the 1800s, the Willow Farmhouse featured four bedrooms—one of which had recently been transformed into a nursery—and a study with a pull out couch. If some of the men didn’t object to sharing, everyone would fit. But it would be tight. And there was the issue of meals.
“What are the chances a team of US Army Rangers are vegetarians?”
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