“I know. We used to have this old guy, Elmer Randall, who worked at the newspaper office helping to run the presses. He was part Comanche. Every time we had a drought, he’d get into his tribal clothes and go out and do ceremonies outside town.”
“Did it work?” he asked with real interest.
She laughed. “One time after he did it, we had a flood. It almost always rained. Nobody could figure it out. He said his grandfather had been a powerful shaman and rode with Quanah Parker.” She shrugged. “People believe what they want to, but I thought he might really have a gift. Certainly, nobody told him to stop.”
“Whatever works,” he agreed. He checked his watch. “I’d better get home. I’m expecting a phone call from Japan.”
“Do you speak the language?”
He laughed. “I try to. But the company I’m merging with has plenty of translators.”
“I’ll bet Japan is an interesting place,” she said with dreamy eyes. “I’ve never been to Asia in my whole life.”
He looked surprised. “I thought everybody traveled these days.”
“We never had the money,” she said simply. “Grandad’s idea of international travel was to buy Fodor’s Guides to the countries that interested him. He spent his spare cash on books, hundreds of books.”
“He taught history, you said. What was his period?”
She hesitated as she looked up at his lean, handsome face. Wouldn’t it sound too pat and coincidental to tell him the truth?
He frowned. “Well?”
She grimaced. “World War II,” she confessed. “The North African theater of war.”
His intake of breath was audible. “You didn’t mention that when I ordered books on the subject.”
“I thought it would sound odd,” she said. “I mean, here you were, a total stranger looking for books on that subject, and my grandfather taught it. It seems like some weird coincidence.”
“Yes, but they do happen.” He moved restlessly. “Did he have autobiographies?”
“Yes, all sorts of first person accounts on both sides of the battle. His favorite subjects were German Field Marshal Erwin Rommel and General George Patton, but he liked the point of view of the 9th Australian Division, as well as British General Bernard Montgomery’s memoirs.”
“I asked the high school age son of one of my vice presidents which of the generals he liked to read about when he was studying history. He said they hadn’t taught him about any individual officers. He didn’t even know who Rommel was.”
The allusion to vice presidents went right by her. She smiled sheepishly. She’d only graduated from high school two years before, and he didn’t know that. “I didn’t, either, from high school courses,” she confessed. “But Grandad was good for a two-hour lecture on any subject I mentioned.”
He pursed his lips, really interested. “Who was the last commander of the British Eighth Army before Montgomery in North Africa?”
She chuckled. “You don’t think I know, do you? It was Auchinleck—Sir Claude. He was a big, redheaded man, and his wife was from America.”
His eyebrows arched. “You’re good. What was Rommel’s wife called?”
“Her name was Lucie, but he called her Lu. They had a son, Manfred, who eventually became Lord Mayor of Stuttgart, Germany.” She wiggled her eyebrows at him. “Want to know what sort of anti-tank field artillery Rommel used that confounded the British generals? It was the 88 millimeter antiaircraft gun. He camouflaged them and then lured the British tanks within firing range. They thought it was some sort of super weapon, but they were just regular antiaircraft weapons. One captured officer told Rommel that it wasn’t fair to use them against tanks. But it was war.”
“It was.” He was looking at her in a totally different way than he had before. “Do you ever loan books?”
She frowned. “Well, I never have before. But I might make an exception for you. Grandad would have loved talking with you about North Africa.”
“I would have enjoyed it, too.” He glanced again at his watch. “Lord, I’m late!”
“I have to get back home, too.” She looked down at the tombstone. “I’m sorry about your daughter.”
He sobered. “I’m sorry about your grandfather. Holidays are the worst times, aren’t they? I stayed drunk for two days last Christmas. It was my first without her.”
“I don’t drink,” she replied. “But my heart wasn’t in celebrating. I spent Christmas day at one of the senior citizen homes, reading to a lady who didn’t get any company.”
He reached out unexpectedly and touched her hair. “I wouldn’t have guessed you had so many soft spots. Sara. Isn’t it?”
She nodded, thrilled by the faint caress. “Sara Dobbs.”
He smiled tenderly. “I’ll be in touch.”
She smiled back, her eyes twinkling with emotion. “See you.”
He drove off in a fancy red sports car like ones she’d seen on televised auto shows. She smiled as she considered his interest in her because of Grandad’s favorite subject. First Harley, now the iron cowboy. She felt better than she had in years.
But she wondered if her ogre would still be interested if he found out how young she was. She’d just keep that to herself, she decided, like her past. There was no need for him to know anything about either subject yet. And by the time there was … well, maybe it wouldn’t matter anymore.
On Thursday, when she got home from work, she sorted out Grandad’s books, carefully pairing subject matter with time period, in case Jared Cameron wanted to borrow one. She knew her grandfather wouldn’t have minded. He enjoyed teaching students about the amazing contradictions of the North African theater, where what many called a “gentleman’s war” was fought. Rommel had actually called a truce during one bloody battle and sent his men to help move Allied wounded off the battlefield.
Patton had entered the campaign too late to face off against Rommel, but he had read Rommel’s book about the strategy and tactics of World War I. The general was known for his own lightning strike sort of attack; he said that fewer soldiers were lost when battles were won quickly. Both soldiers led from the front, and both were respected by not only their own men, but by the enemy as well.
Her hands touched a book by a missionary who’d worked in Africa and stilled. This had been one of Grandad’s favorite biographies, although it had nothing to do with World War II. The author of the book was a physician. He’d gone to Africa, sanctioned as a missionary, and remained there for many years treating natives. The book had inspired Grandad to missionary work, but he’d chosen to become a college educator instead. He’d regretted his decision later in life and had sold the idea wholesale to his daughter’s husband.
Sara put the book aside, shoving it into a bookcase with undue savagery. If only he’d realized what the consequences of his fervor for mission work would be …
She stacked the books she was through sorting and got up. Morris was crying to be fed.
As she moved into the kitchen, she felt suddenly nauseous, and that pain in her stomach came back full force. She managed to get the sack of dry cat food and poured some of it into his bowl. Then she sat down and groaned. She was so sick she could barely move. It hurt to move, anyway.
She rested her forehead on her forearm, draped across the scarred little kitchen table where she and Grandad always had meals. She was sweating. It wasn’t that hot in