Changes of the Heart

By Debra Erfert

Buying the 1920s farmhouse south of Phoenix, where the rumors of John Dillinger's gang hid out in the 30s, is supposed to be accident-prone Grace Evanheart's way of escaping an old romance. When she finds an ancient diary with a map under the bedroom's floorboard, the rumors solidify into fact. She doesn't know who to trust with the news; Micah Stevens, the handsome deputy and the great grandson of the original landowners with whom she's attracted, or Jerry, the young historian who seems too intent on learning about her new home.

Micah seems convinced their paths cross exactly at the right time and in the right place for them to fall in love. Now he just has to convince Grace of the same thing before suspicions of his real motive have her running again.     

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stone Horse Press, LLC
• Release date: Jun 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533794796

Book preview

Chapter 1

Strawberries slid down the stark white wall, juices dripping in thin bloody ribbons toward the broken bowl near the baseboard. If I’d aimed six inches to the left, I’d have hit my boyfriend’s head as he left.

Correction—my ex-boyfriend.

Three soft, confident taps on the door preceded my neighbor’s entrance. I knew who it was before I saw Chelsea Vanderbilt’s short, rainbow sherbet tips and blonde roots. She made my brown hair seem dreary and bland.

Hey, Grace. I take it David’s gone.

 He’s gone. I followed her gaze to the newly redecorated wall. I missed.

 Chelsea knelt down and picked up the largest chunk of ceramic bowl. "Well, lady, it’s probably a good thing you missed. He is the litigious type."

I fell onto my hide-a-bed sofa, sighing loudly. He told me he’s not ready to commit. That we should just be friends.

Chelsea picked up a smaller bit of broken bowl and dropped it into the piece in her hand as she snorted. I thought you were already friends.

I thought he was going to ask me to marry him. Instead, he dumped me. I turned on my side and bumped my head on the worn-out arm of the couch. The brief pain only solidified my anger. I’m going to be thirty next month. Alone forever! What am I doing wrong?

You’re not doing anything wrong, Chelsea said, dropping the broken bowl into the trash, except for maybe putting your trust in a man who never earned it.

I probably shouldn’t have dated someone younger.

Chelsea turned and rested her skinny hip against the cabinet. Five years isn’t that much of a difference. David’s a grown man.

Apparently he thought I was too old for him.

I don’t think your advanced age has anything to do with it. I threw a tiny accent pillow at Chelsea’s head—and missed. Either I needed to stop throwing things or take better aim.

I stared at the many rings on Chelsea’s fingers, including the ones on her thumbs, and said, Or I just wasn’t exciting enough.

Maybe now you’ll learn not to fall instantly in love with the next guy to look into your baby blues.

They’re green.   

You know what I mean. 

I wish I didn’t.

David Sullivan had asked me out about five minutes after running into me—literally. I was out for a rare morning jog, went around a bend, and ended up in a tangle of arms and legs with a bloodied lip. That was two short years ago.

What are you going to do now?

I gazed around my apartment. None of the beat-up furniture was mine. I barely had room in one corner for my six-foot easel, and most of my cabinet space was taken up with my art supplies instead of dishes. I needed room. And I needed to get away and forget about David.

I sat up and put both feet on the worn-out carpet. Start over. I know how. I’ve done it before.

 Are you sure about this? Chelsea asked.

About my hair? Standing outside my vintage lime-green V-dub van, I stared at the reflection of my new cut in the side window. The misguided trip to the beauty parlor left me with hair not much longer than Chelsea’s. While my friend’s rainbow-colored hair was barely three inches long, my hair’s blunt cut didn’t quite touch my shoulders. Chelsea tried to talk me into purple and blue streaks, but, as a concession, I’d given in to blonde highlights.

 I didn’t recognize the new me in the window, at least not right away. I touched the bangs covering my forehead. They were probably a huge mistake, one that might drive me crazy. I remembered my mother cutting my bangs after I had gum stuck in my hair when I was eight—an eternity ago.

No, I meant you buying this old house so far from Phoenix.

I’d begun to doubt my own sanity in the snap decision of buying the old farmhouse. It needed work, a lot of work, which was why Charlotte Hudson, my realtor, said it was a great buy. But it had seven acres, big enough for a healthy garden and lots of trees. I’d seen the house a half dozen times before the title cleared and the loan went through, and I loved it more each time.

Yes, I’m sure. I nodded at Chelsea. Thanks again for coming all this way and helping me move my things. I opened the sliding door of my v-dub.

You’ll owe me, Chelsea said, smiling and holding the box of painting supplies I couldn’t squeeze into my bus.

She had a stud on her tongue. It was a new piercing, and it glinted off the setting sun as she talked. It made me smile. So did the way she slightly lisped every other word. I know. Let’s get a move on. The power company said they’d turn on the electricity tomorrow, so we need to get done before we lose the light.

Chelsea looked into the back of the microbus. You don’t have any furniture.

Sure I do. They’re inflatable.

Everything?

Yep!

She sighed. So high class.

I stared at the round, silver ball stud protruding from under her bottom lip and laughed. Thank you.

What are you even going to do way out here in the wilderness?

Reaching into the sliding door, I lifted a plastic storage tub and walked toward the front porch. I start my new illustrator’s job as soon as I’m online. I get the Internet tomorrow, too. I smiled, feeling like I was on a new adventure.

That has to be the strangest career I’ve ever heard of, Chelsea said, following me up the front porch. You literally never have to leave your house. How freakin’ hilarious is that?

I thought it sounded fine. No more boyfriends hurting me, and I could finally start building my own life free from residual family pain. The long-distance graphic art career would give me the freedom to get paid for my passion without having to move to a major city. Not that I had anything against living in Utah, New York, or Los Angeles. They’d be fine a little later. Later... Everything always seemed to come later for me.

The front door of the house wasn’t locked and the hinges squeaked when I pushed open the heavy wooden door. Every room had hardwood floors, something unusual for an Arizonan house. Charlotte told me the house had a storm cellar—another unusual feature that sold me on the subdivided farm property before I ever saw it.

Plopped midway between Phoenix and Tucson, off Highway 84, the land I bought had originally been part of a massive farm over ten years ago. Charlotte’s continual back history of the area was borderline gossip, but there must’ve been some amount of fact scattered amongst the fiction. There usually was in hearsay.

It’s creepy in here. Chelsea set the box she carried down next to the wall and looked around at the cracked plaster.

It’s not so bad. The floorboard squeaked beneath my flip-flop. I stopped and pressed my heel on the offending board, remembering where it was before I walked over to the stone fireplace. The room did feel a little creepy. The cobwebs tucked in the top corner of the room drifting in the quick breeze from the open door didn’t help dispel the feeling. I looked closer at the web. Fortunately for me, it wasn’t occupied.

We had the microbus cleared out in less than ten minutes. I didn’t have much. Did I make a mistake moving out of my apartment so quickly? At least there I had real, if not worn, furniture.

Should we set up your couch, or would you rather use it as a doorstop?

Sarcasm filled Chelsea’s voice, and I turned to find a full smile on her mouth. The black lipstick she wore made her white teeth stand out in the low light. I grabbed the heavy bag out of her hand, and in my zeal, or possibly embarrassment, almost dropped it on my bare toes. Have a little respect, I told her.

The sun had dropped below the small mountains, emblazoning the few clouds banded together in a pinkish magenta and layered in orange cream. We didn’t have much time before the light completely disappeared. In a more controlled manner, I set the bag down and opened the drawstring.

What are you going to do tonight, lady?

I opened a big plastic storage tub. Unless I find my foot pump, I’ll be spending my time blowing this up with my lungs. I moved the matching set of purple towels, digging down below my blow dryer and bubble bath. Here it is.

Do you have any lights at all? She unfolded the couch on the floor.

I have candles.

Chelsea sat on her heals and unscrewed the stopper. Have you picked up smoking?

I threw a towel at her, smacking her on her colorful head. She laughed and threw the towel back at me.

I want to know if you have matches.

I stopped by Wal-Mart earlier and picked up a few things, including a camp lighter.

 How about a flashlight?

I bought one, plus extra batteries.

 Chelsea smiled, and took the pump from my hands. So, you didn’t answer me. What are you going to do tonight? You don’t have power, so no lights. You don’t have Internet access, so no computer, which means no music or television or movies.

Standing up, I stretched the pump’s tube straight and waited for Chelsea to plug them together. What did people do before television?

Chelsea laughed. I’d say I could run down to the nearest convenience store and buy you some booze so you could drink yourself to sleep, but I stopped trying to corrupt you years ago.

I nodded toward her hands. Is it ready?

Yeah. Pump away.

I pushed down with my foot on the bellows and the air flowed into the loveseat. Slowly the surface rose, first forming a primeval blob of green, fuzzy vinyl, and then steadily the arms and backrest crept higher than the faux seat cushions. By the time the loveseat became rigid enough to sit on, Chelsea had turned on the flashlight lying next to the plastic tub.

That was a workout. Maybe we should’ve inflated your bed first. Chelsea held the light while I closed the valve.

I can always sleep on this. I wasn’t serious. I’d probably roll off it and break a bone or something.

You’re kidding, right?

I giggled, shaking my head. I’ll get it done next, but you better get on the road.

Yeah, okay. I have to teach a class at seven in the morning. I still have a sample painting to finish.

I jerked my head up. And you’re here helping me?

Chelsea shrugged one of her shoulders. This was more important. You shouldn’t have to make two trips into the city for a few boxes. She grinned. I can make it an abstract. All I need to do is dribble some colorful paint on the canvas and say my inspiration was Jackson Pollock.

Your summer classes are way too easy. I took the flashlight from her extended hand and lit up the front door. I don’t feel so bad now.

You still owe me.

I know I do. I smiled over at my friend. I’m going to miss living next door, you know. Chelsea’s dark brown eyes shimmered, and she quickly blinked a few times as she looked outside. She couldn’t hide her feelings from me. I knew beneath the west-coast rage veneer beat a heart of pure marshmallow. 

We walked outside. A huge covered porch with ripples of peeling white paint ran the length of the front of the house. I took a deep breath of cool air and wished for more light than just the half-moon shining down on the desert landscape. Chelsea stopped beside me.

Will you be okay here? I could stay.

I looked over at my friend. I’ll be fine. I guess I need to get used to being alone. It’s not like it was a new reality, really. Having a best friend living next door and working down the hallway had been a treat for the past few years. Now she would be an hour away. Not far in the grand scheme of things. I reached my arms around Chelsea’s neck. The small gasping sounds she produced brought a lump the size of a peach pit in my throat as tears flooded my eyes. Chelsea didn’t say a word before she fled to her car.

Dark loneliness sank deep into my stomach as I watched Chelsea’s taillights fade down the highway. Old memories flooded my mind, suppressed visions of watching my parents driving away, leaving my brother and me, yet again, with anyone willing to babysit while she went into the hospital for another test, or for surgery. I could never remember whole events, just bits and pieces, but what never left my memory were the intense feelings of abandonment and isolation whenever something flicked on that mental switch.

Mine was the oldest house in the area and still had the original driveway off Highway 84, now renamed East Frontier Street. The only reason anyone would turn at that crossroad would be to visit me, or they’d made a wrong turn. In the darkness I could see my neighbors’ lights burning. The houses were a good distance away. Charlotte said the original land was sold in seven-acre lots. I tried to imagine what the farm looked like before the son greedily broke the land into smaller pieces. Looking at all the houses in the distance, I guessed it had been huge.

The whole house had smelled musty when I’d first walked inside. Now it stank of new plastic furniture. It was kind of a unique fragrance, not unlike a recently unpackaged shower curtain. Between leaving the front door standing ajar and opening the kitchen door, I thought nature would bring in the fresh and take out the rank while I pumped up my air mattress.

To save money, I’d bought the kind of bed that didn’t have the automatic pump included. Sometimes being thrifty took more work, but for the next few weeks saving every dime I could would have priority over comfort.

With the doors opened I couldn’t use the candles, but I left the flashlight off, not wanting to use the batteries up all in one night. The bedroom I’d declared as the Master sat closest to the kitchen. Charlotte told me the house was built in the early 1920s, and although it had been renovated in the seventies, the owners hadn’t thought about adding a master bathroom.

A floorboard squeaking froze me in mid pump. My first thought was Chelsea had changed her mind about staying the night, but why, then, didn’t she say anything? Then I noticed faint illumination in the hallway. Whoever came in must’ve had a flashlight; my heart leaped against my ribs in panic.

Chapter 2

Ilistened. Were the footsteps getting closer? Or maybe they got farther away into the dining room? I couldn’t tell for sure with how my pulse beat loudly in my ears, interfering with my hearing. My cell phone was inside my handbag by the fireplace. Considering I only had the plastic pump and a half-inflated vinyl bed, I didn’t have anything to defend myself with—or hide behind. I knew I needed to get outside and run to a neighbor for help.

I just had to get my body to agree with my brain.

Fear had an ironic way of paralyzing important muscles. With my mouth open, I took a slow, deep breath—at least I took in a breath and convinced my feet to turn toward the bedroom door. The floorboard in the dining room creaked. I took off and rounded the corner, heading for the open front door. Heavy footfalls ran behind me.

Stop! a man shouted.

I didn’t stop. He grabbed my arm, slowing me down. I threw my best punch at what I hoped would be his head. His flashlight hit the floor—and so did I. He tackled me face first onto the dusty hardwood floor with my arm shoved up my spine. When I took in another breath, I realized the frantic screaming I’d heard a moment before had been my own.

Pinal County Deputy Sheriff, ma’am. Stop struggling.

His breath was next to my ear, his heavy body pressing down mine, but his words were spoken softly.

Let me go—you’re hurting me—

You need to stop struggling.

Nodding, I did what he said. After a moment, he let my hand loose and got up off me. I slowly moved my arm around and rolled onto my side, pulling up my knees. Squeezing my wrist didn’t squelch the pain, but at least I knew my hand was still attached and not lying next to me. I cradled my arm to my chest with my eyes closed and tried not to cry while his hand stayed on my shoulder. I guess he didn’t want to chance me getting away. I didn’t know if I could anymore. A bright light shined in my face.

Do you have any weapons on you?

I shook my head.

How about some ID?

In my purse... by the fireplace. I could feel the pressure ease up, if only slightly. The so-called sheriff didn’t want to let me go, but I knew he couldn’t reach it from where we were.  

Why did you run?

He still had his light full in my eyes. I lost my temper and yelled, What right did you have to come into my home without permission?

Your home? The light swept over to the inflated loveseat sitting in the corner.

What did you think? I yelled that, too. It was that temper thing, and at the moment I didn’t feel like controlling it. 

What’s your name?

Grace Evanheart. I closed my eyes again, prompting tears to drip down the side of my face. And this is my house as of noon today. He stopped pressing my shoulder and gently lifted me until I sat upright in front of him. With the flashlight pointed at my arm instead of my face, the ambient illumination made it possible for me to finally see the shiny star pinned to his shirt, along with about a dozen dark blind spots floating in the center of everything. I kept blinking, hoping they’d disappear.

Are you injured?

I held my arm closer to my chest. You threw me to the floor and wrenched my arm. What do you think?

He reached out and touched my hand. I’ll call for the fire department and get a medic to take a look at you. He pinched a microphone attached to the top of his shoulder.

No, don’t, I... I shook my head. It’ll be... okay. He grasped my hand and pulled it toward him. I didn’t make it easy. The short tug-of-war we had didn’t last long before I begrudgingly let him win.

Does your wrist hurt?

I nodded. I decided I’d better keep my mouth shut now, since he was a real cop. After all, I did have the right to remain silent.

Do you have any ice? he asked.

I tried to get a drink a little while ago, but the water wasn’t working. I don’t know why.

He looked around. Do you have electricity?

I shook my head and tried to take my hand back. He wouldn’t let go.

I know why, he said. I gazed up into his shadowed face for the first time. He didn’t look like an ignorant ogre who liked to beat up on innocent women. His light-colored hair was short, his face smooth—and the corner of his lips were tipped down. This is the original homestead, and it has a well with an electric pump. He ran his fingers along the joint of my wrist. I think it’s swelling. I’ll go to my car and get you an icepack.

You sprained my wrist?

I didn’t mean to. He got up and left.

I sat alone in the darkness wondering how my first night in my first house could go so wrong.

The floorboard squeaked again. The deputy had returned with supplies in his hands and his flashlight tucked beneath his armpit.

Here— He pressed a cool bottle of water into my hand.

Who are you? I took a long swallow and waited.

The man in tan rubbed a pouch between his hands. I’m Deputy Micah Stevens. The pouch he pressed to my wrist felt icy cold and heavenly.

Deputy Stevens, why did you come in here in the first place?

Stevens bent the tubular icepack around, giving me better coverage. This house has been vacant for ten years, ever since the owner went into the nursing home. Charlie Kirby, uh, he died six months ago.

Did you know him?

Yeah, I did.

I leaned closer to the deputy. Was he related to the original owner of the farm?

Yeah. Charles Kirby was the son of Harold Kirby.

I wished I had lights. I’d like to have seen Micah Stevens more clearly than the shadows and vague outlines his flashlight lying on the floor could give. When he talked about the house’s former owners, his voice became tender and gentle, like they’d meant something personal to him. My curiosity about the deputy increased, along with the history of my new home.

You liked him, didn’t you?

You could say that. He fumbled around with another package. Charlie was my grandfather. Hold out your hand. I held my arm closer to him. He wrapped an elastic bandage around the icepack and then around my hand, somehow making it colder while keeping it from falling off my wrist. If the pain isn’t gone by tomorrow, you need to go into the Urgent Care in Casa Grande and get it checked out by the doctor. Just tell them what happened and the county will pay for it.

"I don’t understand what happened, Deputy Stevens. Why