I’ve decided the Marston series is done at four books. After several attempts to write a fifth book, it just isn’t working. So I’ve been looking at stories I’ve started in the last year, and so far this one has seemed more plausible than any of the others.

For your review: The Dream of Home

Paul Richardson folded his arms across his chest, glad he’d put on the thick flannel jacket over the Henley. The brisk fall wind coming across the open area had a sharp nip to it. His booted feet were planted wide apart on the hard, dry ground, bracing against the wind. He’d heard at the hardware store that Amanda Simpson was back in town, but finding her here, fifty yards off the old river road, waving her arms as if angry, appearing to be talking to the barely visible abandoned house even further back off the road, was not how he’d expected to see her again. 

She was dressed in worn, blue overalls, a multi-colored short-sleeve jersey shirt, and wearing a worn blue ball cap over her dark hair blowing in the wind. Paul noted she appeared not to have heard him pull up in his truck nor the slam of the driver’s side door as he climbed out to see what was going on.  

The call had come as he drove home from doing a temporary roof repair at his sister’s bed-and-breakfast in Holman. It was supposed to rain the next two days, and the roofer couldn’t start work until the end of the week. Besides calls for odd jobs for friends and his sister, calls like he’d gotten that afternoon to check out strange behavior at the old Olson place happened more than Paul liked. He hadn’t been a Kenner County deputy sheriff for almost a year, but when things happened that people seemed to think needed law enforcement attention within the twenty-mile radius of the family farm, it was a too common assumption it was better if he checked something out, and then he could report it. People still couldn’t accept he’d left the department and didn’t understand why. Most town people had expected him to run for sheriff when Tom Peterson retired, but that had never been Paul’s plan. He’d said so from day one, but sometimes people just believed what they wanted to believe. 

Suddenly, the woman went to her knees, her face in her hands. Paul drew a deep breath and made his way over the rough ground toward her. 

“Do you need help?” Paul stopped six feet from her. 

Amanda’s head jerked up, her eyes wide in surprise. The surprise quickly disappeared, and embarrassment showed in her azure blue eyes as a deep blush bloomed on her cheeks. 

“Oh. Paul? I. Well.” She shook her head, looked down, and then clumsily got to her feet. “No. I don’t need help.”  

Paul frowned, not believing her. “Did you have car trouble?” 

“No. I. Well.” She shook her head again. “I walked here from Uncle Bill’s place.” She glanced behind her, saw his truck, frowned, and took several quick steps away from him, heading back across the weed-infected land. 

“Amanda, stop. It’s getting colder. I’ll give you a ride to your uncle’s place.” 

She stopped and shook her head, not turning around. “Not going there. Ever again.” 

Paul moved quickly to stop in front of her. “Wherever you need to go.” 

She looked at him with frustration on her face. 

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she snapped. 

“Come on, at least my truck is warmer.” He nodded in her direction. “You’re shivering.” 

“Just because you’re a cop doesn’t mean you have a right to interfere…” She stopped when he raised a hand. 

“Amanda,” Paul sighed. Any hope of their last encounter being forgotten dissolved quickly. “I’m not with the sheriff’s department any longer. Come on. I’m only offering a ride, so you won’t catch pneumonia.” 

She got a confused look in her eyes and looked back toward his truck. “You’re back helping your grandfather?” 

“You could say,” Paul said with a hint of a smile. “Come on. The truck isn’t fancy, but the heater works well.”