Wildflower Road Read online

  PRAISE FOR JANINE ROSCHE AND

  THIS WANDERING HEART

  “This Wandering Heart is a heartwarming novel that embraces all the wondrous elements of romance: love to last a lifetime, family values, loyalty, forgiveness, and second chances. Janine Rosche has crafted an amazing book that will remain in your memory long after you turn the last page.”

  —Catherine Anderson, New York Times bestselling author of Huckleberry Lake

  “As the story unfolds across the pages of This Wandering Heart, the characters pulled me deeply into a romance I wanted to happen even as the obstacles seemed insurmountable. This book is perfect for readers who love romances filled with heart and characters you can’t quit rooting for. And traveling vicariously through the heroine? An added bonus in an already heartwarming book.”

  —Cara Putman, award-winning, bestselling author of Delayed Justice and Shadowed by Grace

  “In this debut novel, high school sweethearts are reunited in a tender second-chance story that takes the reader on a journey of self-discovery. Up-and-coming author Janine Rosche deftly uses a dash of humor to balance out weightier issues in This Wandering Heart. Romance readers are sure to fall in love with this adventurous heroine and swoon-worthy hero!”

  —Denise Hunter, bestselling author of the Bluebell Inn series

  “Warm and charming, with a uniquely vulnerable and affecting hero, This Wandering Heart moves with insight and grace. Janine Rosche’s writing hits all the right notes about family, fidelity, and faith.”

  —Jo Goodman, USA Today bestselling author of A Touch of Forever

  “Janine Rosche’s debut novel sparkles with romance, reconciliation, and deep emotions. I thoroughly enjoyed traveling to beautiful settings, exploring the ties that bind us to our family, and experiencing the hero and heroine’s second chance at love. . . . A delightful beginning for a talented author!”

  —Becky Wade, Christy Award–winning author of Sweet on You

  “A tender look at how the wounds of the past impact the present. It delves into spiritual aspects of forgiveness, second chances, and refocusing our priorities on a God-centered view instead of a fear-centered view. The dialogue is fun, the growth is sweet, and the hero . . . well, he’s just absolutely wonderful. This story is reminiscent of Becky Wade’s My Stubborn Heart, with a heroine who needs a lot of help, hope, and love to get her sights turned in the right direction. What a fun story.”

  —Pepper Basham, author of the Mitchell’s Crossroads series and My Heart Belongs in the Blue Ridge

  “With her emotionally rewarding debut, Janine Rosche sets herself apart as one to watch. Lush imagery, relatable characters, and a spot-on balance of humor and heartache come together to create a romance that speaks to the wanderer in us all—and the part of us that wants nothing more than a place to call home. This Wandering Heart is a must-read for anyone who believes love is the greatest adventure of all. Highly recommended!”

  —Bethany Turner, award-winning author of Wooing Cadie McCaffrey and Hadley Beckett’s Next Dish

  “This Wandering Heart is a charming romance; a classic tale of love lost and found, told with warmth, humor, and energy. Readers will cheer for these engaging characters, and leave this book believing in happy endings. And, eager for more from this talented new author.”

  —Katherine Spencer, New York Times bestselling author of Thomas Kinkade’s Cape Light: When Christmas Comes

  “Janine Rosche is a fresh new voice in the world of contemporary romance and her debut is full of heart and soul! With an intriguing premise and relatable characters, This Wandering Heart is a delightful story of secrets and second chances.”

  —Melissa Tagg, Carol Award–winning author of the Walker Family series and Now and Then and Always

  Also by Janine Rosche

  THIS WANDERING HEART

  A JOVE BOOK

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2020 by Janine Rosche

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  A JOVE BOOK, BERKLEY, and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN: 9780593100530

  First Edition: October 2020

  Cover art by Chris Cocozza

  Cover design by Judith Lagerman

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  pid_prh_5.6.0_c0_r0

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise for Janine Rosche

  Also by Janine Rosche

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  To my mom and every other person who lost a spouse too soon: your courage to keep on living with a broken heart is admirable.

  To my dad: in my image of heaven, a river just like the Madison runs through it, and you’re wading knee-deep with a fly rod in hand and the perfect cast each time.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Wildflower Road deals with sensitive issues including harassment, depression, and suicide. Although I have tried to be careful, combining my own experience and education with advice from sensitivity readers, some scenes may be triggering to those with direct or indirect experience in these areas.

  If you or someone you know is experiencing suicidal thoughts, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255), or text the Crisis Text Line (text HELLO to 741741). Both services are
free and available twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The deaf and hard of hearing can contact the Lifeline via TTY at 1-800-799-4889.

  If you have experienced harassment or sexual assault, please call the National Sexual Assault Telephone Hotline at 800-656-HOPE (4673) to be connected with a trained staff member from a sexual assault service provider in your area.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Ryann Ashcroft rolled onto her back, clinched her arms across her stomach, and surrendered her breath into the dreary, gray sky. The newspaper had predicted snowfall for the mid-May evening, and the morose clouds hovering over the Gallatin mountains seemed keen to obey. Soon, if there were any justice under heaven, the grave would swallow her whole. If not, in the morning, the groundskeeper would find her dusted in white, though certainly not pure.

  A peregrine falcon soared overhead, gliding above the cemetery in a grand figure eight. Funny how gracefully predators moved about, as if God granted them a unique skill the prey lacked. Maybe a bit maddening as well. Either way, Ryann pitied the mouse or songbird who would lose its life so the falcon could live.

  A cold breeze slithered over the hills. Shivers seized her bad shoulder so tightly she couldn’t define where the physical pain ended and sorrow began. She swallowed down the sob threatening to choke her and gasped, but the thin air didn’t satisfy her burning lungs. One tear, then another. They burned on release and quickly cooled as they rolled down her temples and into her hair. If only the tears that now salted the grass and dried leaves instead soaked into his shirt as she lay with him on their bed. Her chest constricted.

  Lord. This simple yet honest prayer had wriggled into her nine long years ago, building a home in the spot between her spine and her stomach where guilt liked to forage. Lord, give me strength.

  The breeze weakened, and a warmth overtook her. She sat up and brushed wisps of red hair from her tear-soaked eyes and cheeks. With a composed breath, she faced the marble stone. Her fingers traced the grooves, waltzing up and down in lines and curves: Beloved Husband.

  “Happy Birthday, Tyler.”

  She stood and brushed off her jeans, longing for the comfort of her cabin. Tonight, within its cedar-planked walls, she would lay beneath their wedding portrait and drift between memories, focusing on the good ones, though there were few. This would be her last evening of rest. Tomorrow the preparations for the upcoming tourist season would shift into high gear, beginning with the arrival of the new cook. Hopefully, this one could fry an egg. With the resort’s first guests arriving in nine days, she wouldn’t have much time to train him.

  Somewhere nearby a twig snapped, and she spun toward the sound. The only other figure in the field of headstones was the concrete angel in the cemetery’s center. The peregrine falcon from before perched atop the angel’s halo, watching Ryann. In folklore, falcons were said to be messengers from heaven. Ryann had never believed it. But now, accusations seemed to pool in its obsidian eyes.

  She glanced back at the tombstone. “I’m so sorry, Tyler,” she said, his name breaking in her throat. Then, she hurried toward the parking lot, careful not to step on the grass directly in front of each headstone. After all, these were her neighbors, her customers, her friends and family.

  Daisies and a tiny yellow teddy bear leaned against the smallest headstone in the cemetery. Little Ella Lawrence.

  The same water that flowed peacefully past her cabin had ripped away the toddler’s life one mile downriver from the resort. She shuddered.

  In high school, Ryann had shared a friend group with Ella’s mother, but that was where the similarities ended. Ella’s mother had done nothing to deserve her tragedy.

  Out of sight, an engine roared to life.

  Ryann stopped cold. Dread filled her stomach and spread through her body. She was a fool to think she was ever truly alone. Not in this town. Ryann wrenched open the door of her old Jeep. Before she climbed inside, the flapping of wings rushed over her. The falcon narrowly missed her head before ascending toward the clouds.

  Oh, Lord.

  * * *

  * * *

  Shane Olson glanced up from the sheet of directions, forcing his gaze back to the road just in time to see the mountain goat in the middle of the highway. He yanked the steering wheel to the left, and the tires screamed. The shoddy car skirted across the double yellow line and came to rest in the slush less than twelve inches from the mountain’s unforgiving rock face. Shane gathered his lost breath. He shifted into reverse, and the wheels spun over the mud and melting snow. Why had he chosen the sensible, fuel-efficient sedan at the dealership the week prior? Not that he’d had many options.

  Five thousand couldn’t do much on a car lot these days.

  No wonder he hadn’t seen another car like his for a hundred miles. The sedan had gasped for breath on every incline of the snow-slicked mountainous highway and slithered like a snake on the declines. Now this. He’d be late and miss his only chance.

  Shane shifted the car into drive and pressed the gas pedal.

  The car refused to move.

  He shouldn’t have stopped to sleep at the rest area in South Dakota. An early start could have allowed him to make it to West Yellowstone, Montana, by nine in the morning. Yet no matter how hard he pressed the gas pedal, the sunlight caught up to him. At least until he’d ducked behind the mountains, like a sinner hiding from God.

  Ah, that sounded like a sermon from his prior life. Of course, he hadn’t written any since last September 4.

  The day he lost everything.

  He reversed again, and the car finally broke loose from the mud. From the rearview mirror, the mountain goat watched him ease back onto the road. Strange world.

  Five minutes later, he double-checked the printed directions—without nearly crashing this time—and turned onto a wet gravel road marked by a crooked metal mailbox and almost swallowed by a field of wildflowers. A decrepit wood sign towered overhead. With some imagination, he could connect the chips of red paint sprinkled across the wood to read River’s Edge Resort. Shane drove between tall pine trees, gravel crackling beneath the car’s wheels.

  The first building that came into view was small but wide, with sun-faded paneling that had once been red, topped with a tin roof dusted by last night’s snow. Shane steered the car toward the front door, pulling it to a stop near a dirty ice chest. A large cardboard sign rested inside a window. The words Office/Restaurant/Fly Shop were written in clean and precise script with a hint of femininity that looked out of place among the cobwebs.

  With a turn of the key, he cut the radio. Early in the drive, he’d found a Christian station, but the songs could not have sounded more foreign if they had been played in Swedish. He changed it to a series of country stations, each one beginning and ending with static every hundred miles or so. He’d never liked the twang or style, but it added noise to the cross-country trek that had thankfully come to an end.

  Now only the bugs on the windshield kept him company. Even they seemed confused about the late spring snow. A heaviness filled his chest, pulling down his shoulders and chin. He had the mind to pray, but . . . no. It was 9:07, and he had no time for self-pity.

  He pushed open the car door. It squeaked loudly as he leaned on it while unfolding his tall frame from the cramped driver’s seat. He stretched his arms over his head and sucked in a lungful of Montana air.

  The sun crested the eastern mountains, and a warm, golden hue began to wash across the scenery, replacing the blue of morning. Down the stretch of gravel road leading away from his car, cabins ranged in size, all matching the restaurant with their red wood and tin and sheltered by the tall pines. Behind him, the gravel road disappeared behind trees, civilization fading into the wilderness and the seclusion he desperately craved.

  He rapped on the Office/Restaurant/Fly Shop door, stopping after two knocks for fear that another would crack the rattling windowpane. He waited a
minute before raising his hand to the glass and peering in.

  A loud, sudden curse rang out. A flock of birds erupted from the tin roof.

  Shane turned.

  No one.

  Another curse word cut through the peaceful air. He’d had to get used to foul language this past year, but these words were not threatening or angry. Instead, they were pained.

  He walked around the side of the restaurant toward the growing sound of rushing water. Beyond the covered porch, the scenery opened into a living, breathing mural. Mountains rose into the sky. The river water glistened with the morning’s sunlight as it rushed between the rock-strewn banks patched with snow. A faint yellow fog hovered above the water, slowly creeping downriver.

  No, not fog. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of tiny insects bobbed up and down in a dance. And sitting on a picnic table ten yards away was a woman.

  She faced away from him, toward the river. A veil of wild curls, brick-red with streaks of gold, grazed the middle of her back. The woman was so still and her color so warm that Shane had at first mistaken her for one more element of the picturesque landscape.

  Another swear word, but this time it was spoken in quiet desperation—almost a prayer of sorts. Fingertips reached around her shoulder, kneading it gently. Her head fell in defeat to some unknown force.

  Shane’s heart lurched for the stranger in front of him. Yet he remained frozen in the shadow of the porch. He was no longer a pastor. It was not his job to care for the flock. Not anymore.

  The woman sighed and raised her chin to the emerging sun. She lifted her hair off her neck and wound it into a bun on the crown of her head. Her left arm froze, and a small cry escaped her. Gingerly, she secured her bun and then carefully removed her flannel shirt to reveal a white tank top and strong arms. She stood, then gripped the end of the picnic table and lifted, balancing most of the weight on her right arm. With a small grunt, she dragged the table across the ground, leaving footprints and lines in the quickly melting snow.