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  BY WAY OF ACCIDENT

  -A NOVEL-

  L A U R A M I L L E R

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 by Laura Miller.

  LauraMillerBooks.com

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means or stored in a database or retrieval system.

  Cover design by Laura Miller.

  Cover photo © yellowj/Fotolia.

  Author photo © Marc Mayes.

  To the Keeper of hidden things,

  For fate

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One: I Never Even Got Her Name

  Chapter Two: Like the Big Muddy?

  Chapter Three: Who the Hell Is That?

  Chapter Four: It’s My Kansas Thing

  Chapter Five: Be a Daisy with Me

  Chapter Six: Still to Come

  Chapter Seven: Then, We’ll Write

  Chapter Eight: Aquarius

  Chapter Nine: Is He Okay?

  Chapter Ten: Like Bees and Honey

  Chapter Eleven: Unfinished Business

  Chapter Twelve: There Is No Brooke Here

  Chapter Thirteen: I’m Not Ready Yet

  Chapter Fourteen: I’ll Take Care of the Farm

  Chapter Fifteen: You Check the Mail?

  Chapter Sixteen: Sears County Amy

  Chapter Seventeen: It’s Still Her

  Chapter Eighteen: A Good Chance

  Chapter Nineteen: Somethin’ I’ve Lost

  Chapter Twenty: Something Happy

  Chapter Twenty-One: Keep ‘Em in Your Head

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Three Years Later

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Where Do You Always Go?

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Your Secret’s Safe with Me

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Four Years Later

  Chapter Twenty-Six: You Got a Letter

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Love, Brooke

  Chapter-Twenty-Eight: Why Nashville?

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: I Hope You Find Her

  Chapter Thirty: Memphis

  Chapter Thirty-One: I’m Sorry, Buddy

  Chapter Thirty-Two: It’s Me

  Chapter Thirty-Three: I’ve Missed You, River

  Chapter Thirty-Four: Another Offer

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Married?

  Chapter Thirty-Six: Ask Me What I Took

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: It Was Hers

  Chapter Thirty-Eight: Never the Same Love Twice

  Chapter Thirty-Nine: Eight Months Later

  Chapter Forty: Moirae

  Chapter Forty-One: Two Years Later

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Other Books by Laura Miller

  “When the past dies, there is mourning, but when the future dies, our imaginations are compelled to carry it on.”

  ~Gloria Steinem

  There once was a river, who came upon a brook,

  And with all his strength,

  His current was no match for the brook

  For the brook hid her strength in her gentle touch,

  Carving her memory slowly over time into his,

  Making her path so etched in that fate dared him to forget

  That the brook who once changed the river’s course...

  Will always hold his heart

  And that time would only strengthen

  What the river already knew—

  he would never be the same without her.

  And to think a little brook could overtake a river so...

  Prologue

  They say in every guy’s life, there’s a girl he’ll never forget and a summer where it all began. Well, 1999 is that summer, and Brooke Sommerfield is that girl. I’m convinced she was an angel. My grandma always used to say that angels come in blinks. Brooke was just like that. She flew into my life and then flew right back out again—almost as if she were never there at all. But she was definitely there. And I’ve got her invisible memory to remind me of it. But anyway, that was years ago and yesterday when she flew in by way of accident. At thirteen years old on that hot June day, I only had three things on my mind: Cooling off, girls...and girls. So, I’d have to say that June 22, 1999, was also the best day of my life.

  See, there was a creek that ran through the back of our property when I was growing up. It stretched the entire length and then jutted north and disappeared behind old man Brandt’s land. I had followed it one day when I was bored. There’s not too much more to do in Detmold, Missouri. They say the town, or what’s left of it, is named after some big city in Germany somewhere. I’ve never been, but I hear they’ve got old castles and big museums over there. And while we don’t have old castles or big museums, we do have an old building with weeds growin’ in it that used to be a post office...and big fields. We’ve got lots of big fields.

  But anyway, after old man Brandt’s property, that winding, narrow stream crawled past a turn-of-the-century white farm house owned by a little old lady named Samantha Catcher. She doesn’t live there anymore. I guess that house eventually just got too big for her because not too long after Mr. Catcher passed, she moved to a tiny one-bedroom in the next township over. And now, she rents the old farm house out to people who are just passing through our little town. They stay a little while, and then soon enough, they’re on their way again. When I was young, kids would tell stories about why Mrs. Catcher kept the old place. Some said it was because it was haunted by her late husband. Some said she needed the money because Mr. Catcher gambled their life savings away before he died. But I know that Mr. Catcher wasn’t a gambler—well, beyond being a farmer—and I was pretty sure he wasn’t a ghost either. See, I was convinced that Mrs. Catcher kept that old place because it made her happy. I’d catch her in between renters plantin’ flowers in front of its porch or hangin’ a new welcome sign on the front door. She’d always be smilin’ then. See, Grandma also told me once that memories are invisible to everyone but the beholder. So I just assumed that Mrs. Catcher was looking at all her memories that nobody else could see when I would catch her smilin’ at that old house.

  But all the same, that creek kept crawlin’. It kept on goin’ for miles after Mrs. Catcher’s place, but I didn’t. It was gettin’ close to supper time by then, and I was gettin’ awful hungry, so I turned around that day, and I walked back home. But the point here is that I knew that creek like the back of my hand, and I knew everyone who lived anywhere near it too. So that’s why June 22, 1999, was different. It started off normal. I baled hay. I got hot. I went to the creek. Believe it or not, I was on my summer vacation—right here at home, helpin’ my grandpa out around the farm. To me, it wasn’t much of a vacation, but my parents thought spendin’ some more time with Grandpa would do him and me some good. So, there I was on a Tuesday evening gettin’ ready to jump into that creek when I spotted somethin’—somethin’ that would stick with me for a really long time. And that day in the summer of ’99, I walked home with the best souvenir I ever got from a summer vacation—an invisible memory—of a shiny, little thing that would change my life forever.

  But again, that was years ago. And now, I’m just left here smilin’ at this old creek just like Mrs. Catcher used to do at that old farm house. My mind just keeps replaying the little time I held Brooke Sommerfield. That beautiful girl is gone now, but I can still hear her in the wind. If I listen real hard, I can hear her laughter over the whip-poor-will, and I can hea
r her whisperin’ softly about the sky and its secrets and dreams and being happy. I close my eyes and breathe her in. She smells like daisies and fresh creek water—and summer. And all of a sudden, I hear a soft sigh rustlin’ through the trees, and I force my eyes open just in time to see a flock of geese—wings wide, toes spread—landing on the water.

  “Life passes you by when your eyes are closed,” I whisper back to the wind. And then I smile wide, and I sit back against the grassy creek bank, and I watch my invisible memories play out just as if she had never left me.

  That summer came slow, but it went so fast. Turns out, those endless days were never meant for the two of us. I never seemed to get enough time with her. Maybe it was because she taught me how to live. Maybe it was because she taught me how to love. Or maybe it was just simply because I loved her.

  I sit back further into that grass, and I watch those geese float down the creek. All around me, the tree frogs are startin’ to call, singin’ back and forth about whatever it is frogs sing back and forth about. And I just sit there, and I think about that beautiful girl.

  “I’ll find my way back to you, Brooke Sommerfield. As sure as the sun is gonna rise in the mornin’, I’ll find you,” I whisper to the wind. I tell it what I wish I could say to her. I tell it what I told her once before in a letter—a letter she would never receive until years later. See, that’s the funny thing about fate; it works around us, despite us, in spite of us, even. And it’s near impossible to figure out, until all the pages are in place. But all the same, that doesn’t stop me from prayin’. Every day, I pray that this wild ride fate’s got me on ends with her. I pray that you, Brooke Sommerfield, are on my last page. And I pray that page is a happy one. But whether it is or it isn’t, either way, I have to know what became of you. I have to know what became of the girl who stole my last perfect summer. And I have to know if she believes in second chances—because I do, even if they do come with good-byes.

  But until then, Brooke Sommerfield, my summer angel, you and I will be what my grandpa always liked to call...unfinished business.

  Chapter One

  I Never Even Got Her Name

  June 22, 1999 – Thirteen Years Old

  I’m hot, and I’m tired. Balin’ hay ain’t a pretty man’s job. And the only thing on my mind—besides girls, of course, because they’re always on my mind lately—is jumpin’ into that cool creek water. So as soon as we’ve got the last bale put up in the loft, I jump down and start makin’ my way there. I don’t even tell Grandpa where I’m goin’. He already knows where I’m headed. I’ve been talkin’ his ear off about jumpin’ into that creek all day.

  I get from my grandpa’s house to the creek’s bank in record time. I stop first and breathe it in. It’s a combination of dirt and mud and weeds and trees and clear, tricklin’ water. And there’s nothin’ like it.

  After I’ve filled up my lungs, I start to unlace my work boots. The leather is full of hay and dust, but that’s what boots are for—gettin’ dirty—I guess. Once I get them undone, I kick ‘em off. Then I toss my baseball cap to the ground and tear off my long-sleeved shirt and toss it onto a tree branch. It dangles there while I start unbuttoning my jeans. And I just barely get them undone when I hear a branch break across the way. I look up, and I almost damn near lose my breath. I’m expecting to see a squirrel, maybe even a deer. But that’s not what I see. When I look up, I see a girl—the most beautiful thing I have ever laid eyes on. I freeze and drink her in for a second, a minute, a day. Who the hell knows how long my eyes are glued to her? She’s got this beautiful long, brown hair and light eyes and the longest legs I’ve ever seen on a girl. She slowly makes her way toward the creek’s bank on the opposite side. There’s a certain, strange grace in the way she walks—as if each step isn’t just any old step but a new adventure or somethin’. Her eyes are splittin’ time between the creek water and the weeds and brush under her feet. I can tell she doesn’t notice me, but it does look as if she’s thinkin’ about somethin’. I watch as her hand reaches up and tugs on a chain dangling from her neck. Her fingers follow the chain downward until they stop on somethin’ at the end of it. Whatever that something is, it sparkles when it catches the sun just right. She sets her eyes on the sparkle for a second. Then she takes the chain and tucks the necklace into the little top she’s wearin’. I have to force myself to start breathin’ normally again and to tell myself that this ain’t a dream because it sure as hell feels like one.

  All of a sudden, she stops on the opposite bank and faces my way. I think I stop breathin’. I’m so still I wonder for a second if I’ve passed out standin’ up. But after a few moments, her gaze leaves my direction. Then I slowly lower myself down so that I’m kneeling on my heels. I’m not sure what to do yet and besides, I might have fallen over if I hadn’t rested my ass on somethin’—fast. I’ve never found myself in a situation like this. And it gets me to wonderin’. Of all the dumb shit I’ve ever done, what on earth had I done right to deserve this—her? If my uncle were here, he’d remind me that Mercy is a strange creature. He’d tell me to just keep my mouth shut and roll with it before the devil can realize Mercy’s mistake. So that’s what I do, I guess. I ride on the coattails of Mercy, hopin’ she doesn’t find me out.

  My eyes follow the girl as she carefully steps along the bank. Her gaze rotates from the water to the path in front of her still. Every once in a while, she stops to step over a tree branch or around a big rock jutting out of the ground, until she stops for good. I stiffen up and think about sayin’ somethin’, but when I open my mouth, nothin’ comes out. So instead, I watch her turn and make her way down the grassy embankment to where the dirt meets the gravel at the bottom. And when she gets to the gravel, she slips off her shoes one after the other and lets them lie where they fall. I’m not sure what kind of shoes they are because they aren’t tennis shoes exactly and they definitely aren’t work boots. Barefoot, I watch her take a step toward the water. Her face grimaces in pain for a moment, but then she takes another careful step, and she’s back to normal. It looks as if it’s the first time she’s ever walked on gravel. Besides the fact I’ve never seen her before, it’s the first sign I get that this girl ain’t from anywhere around here. You live this close to the creek; you ain’t a stranger to anything about it. I laugh to myself and then quickly notice my mistake and cover my mouth with the inside of my hand. She doesn’t seem to notice. I’m directly across from her now—pretty much in plain sight—and she still doesn’t even bat an eye at me. It makes me not feel so bad for spyin’ on her. It’s her fault she ain’t seen me yet.

  I keep my eyes trained to her as she gets to the water and slowly drops a toe in. Everything she does makes her look as if she’s made of honey. Her movements are calculated and smooth. And I guess she doesn’t think the water’s cold because she leaves the toe there and then slides the rest of her foot in. She’s wearing these little cut-off jean shorts that hug her slender body in all the right places. And she’s got a little top on that, I think, shows more skin than it covers up. God, this has got to be the best thing I’ve ever lucked into. I tilt my head back and mouth thank you to the heavens. And I think about sayin’ somethin’ again. But what do I say? My heart races. I feel my darn palms getting sweaty. I didn’t even know your palms could get sweaty when you weren’t doin’ any work. I think real hard for a second, until it comes to me; I’ll ask her a question. My uncle says a question is always a good place to start. I hope he’s right. I take a sharp breath and then force it right back out again. Okay. Here goes nothin’.

  “You thinkin’ about takin’ a swim?” I ask. The words come out a little squeakier than I wanted them to.

  She doesn’t look up at me, but I can see every muscle in her body stiffen. Much to my surprise, she doesn’t turn and run, though. I can tell she thinks about it, but in the end, she doesn’t even move an inch except to lift her head. Then, a look—a look that, if I’m not mistaken, says a million different things and nothin’ at al
l, all at the same time—catches on me. And I feel my heart skip a few beats.

  “About time you said something.” Her voice glides to my ears faster than a water bug can skate on water. I’m not sure if I actually jump or if I just imagine I do.

  “How long you been here?” she asks before I even have a chance to say anything else.

  “Long enough,” I say. Long enough to know that I’m not leaving this creek without findin’ out who this girl is.

  She keeps her light eyes on me. She doesn’t seem at all startled or angry. Who is this girl?

  I don’t really know what to do next, so I just stare back at her. It doesn’t hurt me none to stare at her. But I have to admit, there’s a part of me that’s thinking about turnin’ and runnin’ myself. I’ve never met a girl like her before. She’s just as terrifying as she is breathtaking. And I’m bound to screw this up somehow.

  “You from around here?” she asks with an off-centered smile.

  Even her half-smile is beautiful—albeit terrifying, but still beautiful. I can’t even imagine what the whole thing looks like. I didn’t even know I had a weakness when it came to girls necessarily, but I swear I just found one—a girl with a pretty smile.

  I nod. I want to say I live over yonder, in a house not too far from my grandpa’s on his 300-acre farm, and I want to point to the land behind me, but neither my mouth nor my movements cooperate, and I just end up standin’ there, noddin’.

  She just wrinkles her brows at me. What’s she thinking?

  “Detmold, Missouri,” she recites out loud, almost as if it’s a proclamation or somethin’. “Detmold’s a funny name.”

  I shrug. “I didn’t come up with it.”

  Suddenly, a laugh falls off her lips. And with it, a funny pride washes over me. I’m proud I could make such a terrifying creature as herself laugh.