Free My Foolish Heart by Susan May Warren

trapped inside this frozen wasteland just south of the Canadian tundra. Lilacs and roses—must be ten kinds of roses—and pots of overflowing pink and red and white geraniums on the back deck, and a stone pathway winding through it all. In the center sat a royal blue birdbath and a wooden bench. It called to him to plop himself in the middle until the whir of his brain stilled to a soft flutter.
    Yes, he liked his neighbor’s garden. And when he’d stopped home after the parade, he’d seen the owner working in it, her long brown curly hair like a waterfall down her back, her skin baked by the sun.
    He’d like to meet her.
    Except, maybe not at this moment. Perhaps he’d let his ego heal first. Just in case she reacted the same way as the woman in the store. But if there was a way to meet a nice woman in this town, he wouldn’t resist.
    Caleb stood now, groceries in each arm, looking at her house, remembering her sitting back on her heels as she soaked in the sun, the way she lifted her face to the sky, wiping her brow with her forearm, and . . .
    The woman in the grocery store. She’d worn sunglasses, but something about her . . . That long brown hair, the tanned arms. A pretty girl.
    Oh no .
    And to think he’d come to this town to start a new life. Perhaps he was dreaming too big for a guy with his scars. Maybe he should come to accept the horror in the eyes of women. After all, what woman would stick around long enough to get to know him, to see past his wounds?
    He crossed around the back of the pickup into the forest of his front yard. He needed to mow, but he hadn’t seen a mower in the shed. He heard his foot scuff on the cement pathway, shuffled up it, found his front steps.
    He should put one of the bags down, hold on to the railing, but four steps wouldn’t topple him, right?
    Caleb managed the first, was on the second when he heard the barking. A deep, throaty bark that issued from the belly of something large. He turned and spied the dog rushing up the stairs beside him. It knocked him on his bad leg, and he was a goner.
    The groceries flew as Caleb grabbed for the railing, but it didn’t stop him from twisting, going down, slamming hard into the steps. Pain spiked up his leg, all the way into his brain. He ground his teeth against the burn as he reached out to swat the dog.
    â€œDog! Get!”
    The animal trundled down the stairs, then turned, his tail slicing the air. He barked as if saying, Don’t just sit there! Play with me!
    â€œYou’re the one who’s been digging for gold in my backyard, aren’t you? You’re going to kill me, animal. Go decimate someone else’s yard.”
    He’d describe the beast as a cross between a mastiff and a Saint Bernard, brown and black with saggy eyes and a tail that should be registered as a lethal weapon. Mud caked its coat, and balls of matted fur hung from its tail.
    â€œPlease don’t tell me you’re homeless.” He reached for the dog, and it came to him, slurped him in the face as Caleb ran his hand down its neck. Frayed and caked with mud, the collar revealed nothing in the way of identification.
    â€œAwesome. Are you hungry? What was this, an ambush?”
    Sure enough, the dog scooped up the bacon and ran for the hills.
    â€œI hope you get trichinosis!” Caleb yelled.
    Groceries. All over his front yard. He looked to see if the neighbor might be peering out her window. Or if the folks across the street, next door to the library, might be on their front porch, staring.
    Thankfully, no one saw his dinner scattered on the lawn. No questions to answer, no help to refuse.
    Caleb moved to get up, and that’s when the pain screamed through him. He had wrenched his knee harder than he realized yesterday. But he fought his way down to the yard, forced himself to pick up the crushed sour cream, milk, the sodden carton of eggs, the flattened bread, and the