Written in Stone: Cloverton Romance, #10

By Haven Saunders and Marci Wilson

After years of service overseas, Evan Calloway returns to Cloverton with nothing but a duffel bag and a heart full of ghosts. The town hasn't changed much—but he has. Hoping to keep a low profile, he's drawn instead into a community project he can't ignore: a memorial to honor the town's veterans. It should be simple. Quiet. Temporary.

Harper Lynn came to Cloverton to heal from her own loss, pouring herself into revitalizing her family's struggling newspaper. When she learns about the memorial project, she sees more than a story—she sees a chance to unite the town and maybe reclaim her sense of purpose.

But working with Evan proves to be anything but easy. He's guarded, skeptical, and too familiar with heartbreak. She's passionate, relentless, and not afraid to challenge him. As sparks fly and old wounds resurface, they'll have to decide if the past will define them—or if they're ready to build something lasting, together.

A heartfelt story of second chances, small-town resilience, and the power of remembering.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MaHanna Media LLC
• Release date: Aug 25, 2025
• ISBN: 9798231711994

Book preview

Written in Stone

Cloverton Romance Book Ten

Haven Saunders with Marci Wilson

MaHanna Press

Copyright © 2025 by MaHanna Press

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Contents

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

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Also by Haven Saunders with Marci Wilson

Chapter One

The air clung to Evan Calloway like the ghost of an old regret—thick, familiar, and impossible to shake. The bus door hissed shut behind him, a final punctuation mark to the journey he’d been reluctant to begin. No matter where he went these days, his hometown called to him until he finally gave in to the urge to revisit the streets he used to roam.

Cloverton sprawled before him, both unchanged and yet impossibly different. The old town was the kind of place that seemed frozen in the past despite the updated paint and repaired cracks in the sidewalks.

He adjusted the strap of his duffel bag when the canvas edges started to dig into his shoulder. The bag was a relic from his service. Inside, he had stuffed clothes and a few toiletries along with a bundle of letters from old comrades and a worn photo of his squad. Things he hadn’t yet found the courage to throw away. The weight wasn’t just physical; it pressed against him like the years he couldn’t outrun. He told himself he should have traded the duffel for something smaller, less conspicuous. But part of him clung to it the way some men clung to dog tags—as if it were proof that what he carried had once mattered.

The town, too, was carrying its history, though not in the same hollow way it had years ago. Main Street, once hushed and shuttered, showed signs of breath again. Several storefronts still bore faded For Sale signs, but others had fresh coats of paint, striped awnings, or windows dressed with new displays.

According to what Evan had been told, the rhythm of industry had returned, carried on the back of Cleo’s Dog Food. The factory had moved into the old lumber mill on the edge of town. Its fleet of trucks and steady workforce had brought new life to Cloverton’s mornings. It had changed more than the job market—it had changed the town’s pulse. He supposed that was why he finally gave in and came home. He wanted to see the town’s revival for himself.

A young couple emerged from a bakery Evan didn’t remember. A toddler sat perched on the father’s hip and a paper bag of pastries hung securely in the mother’s hand. Across the street, a man swept the sidewalk in front of a hardware store. He moved as though he believed the work mattered. For the first time in years, Cloverton looked like it was trying again.

Evan’s boots struck the pavement in a steady rhythm, each step drumming up memories of a carefree childhood that seemed like a lifetime ago. The diner where he’d wasted too many evenings as a teen now gleamed with a polished sign and clean windows, though the outline of the old name still lingered in the brick, a shadow that refused to disappear. Down the block, Suzy’s Bar clung to its neon sign, flickering stubbornly—not just a relic this time, but an echo of resilience, as if it was determined to keep up with the town’s second chance.

By the time he reached Centennial Park, the pull of old memories was almost unbearable. The open green space had once been a sanctuary, the place where kids kicked soccer balls, where families picnicked, and where he’d nervously kissed his high school girlfriend under the gazebo. Now the area was marked by wooden stakes and bright orange tape, the bones of something new rising from the earth.

He paused at the edge of the park, his attention caught by the sight of construction equipment and signs staked in the ground. A flyer pinned to the gazebo fluttered in the breeze, its edges curled from the damp autumn air. Stepping closer, he read the bold headline: Cloverton Veterans Memorial: Community Meeting Tuesday at 6:00 p.m.

A wry smile tugged at his lips. The town was finally building a memorial for its veterans. He brushed his fingers across the words. The thought should have brought pride, but instead it carried something heavier, something bittersweet and tinged with guilt. Because he remembered the last salute he’d seen—nineteen years old, dirt on the kid’s face, pride in his eyes. That boy had died on what was supposed to be a peacetime mission.

That memory haunted Evan more than any battlefield wound.

’Bout time, a voice drawled behind him.

Evan turned to see an elderly man on a bench. A Navy cap shadowed his eyes and his weathered hands wrapped around a cane. He tilted his head, studying Evan. You a vet? the man asked, gruff but not unkind.

Evan nodded. The words stuck in his throat the way they did anytime someone asked about his service. He was proud of his time served, but he still didn’t like to talk about it. Talking about it made the sacrifices he and others made seem less important somehow. He didn’t understand why. Years of being taught to be humble, perhaps.

The man chuckled, though the sound was flat. Figures. You’ve got the look. Our boys always come back, one way or another. His gaze drifted toward the taped-off construction site. Shame it took so long. Too many names on that list already, you know?

Evan swallowed, his throat tight. Yeah.

The man squinted. You just passing through, or you sticking around?

I’m not sure yet, Evan admitted.

Fair enough. The man tapped his cane against the pavement, a rhythm that settled into Evan’s chest. Well, welcome back, soldier. Don’t let this place drag you down.

With a nod, Evan turned and walked away. The man’s words echoed in his head as he drifted toward the center of the park.

Nearby, two women spoke in low voices. Their words carried on the crisp autumn air.

It’s a waste of money if you ask me, one muttered.

They can’t even fix the potholes on Fifth Street, and now they want to build a statue? the other agreed.

Evan’s jaw tightened. His hand gripped the strap of his bag until his knuckles ached. The urge to argue, to defend what the memorial meant, burned through him but he stayed silent.

Then he saw the boy.

A child, no more than eight, stood before the old soldier’s statue already in the park, his hand raised in a solemn salute. His small frame was stiff with reverence, his wide eyes fixed upward. For an instant, the image split into two—the boy in Cloverton’s park and the boy he’d last seen overseas. Pride, grief, and guilt collided so hard in his chest that he had to steady himself.

He walked away before the weight crushed him, his boots crunching against the gravel path. The outlines of the memorial faded into the night, but the questions lingered.

What stories would they tell here? And what would they leave out?

For now, Evan had no answers. Only the unease curling inside him and the sense that Cloverton had called him home for a reason.

The dim office of The Cloverton News hummed softly with the outdated machinery that had been the heartbeat of the town for decades. The scent of ink and paper hung in the air, as familiar to Harper Lynn as childhood itself. She tucked a strand of auburn hair behind her ear and squared her shoulders, bracing for another round with her uncle, Herb Brown.

Stacks of yellowing newspapers leaned precariously across his desk, a fitting metaphor for the state of the paper. Herb shuffled through them with the same indifference he always had, more caretaker than editor. Though she knew he loved the paper, he seemed to love clinging to the past more. Her parents had always said he couldn’t let go of what was, even when what was had been trying to let him go.

She hadn’t fully understood what they’d meant until she’d returned to Cloverton to try to help him turn the paper around. If they were living in the 1970s, there wouldn’t be a thing to worry about, but they weren’t. And now there was plenty to worry about. Most especially, Uncle Herb’s unwillingness to embrace the present.

"Uncle Herb, this layout is