Pick Your Moment (Heroes To The Core #7)

Spur Of The Moment

Wyatt Foisy loved Vermont’s crisp fall air. He’d grown up in San Antonio, but he’d never loved the extreme heat. In fact, he’d often thought Texas weather was out to kill him.

In the military, he’d been sent to one hotspot after another. Hotspot because of the terrorists and insurgents harming people, sure, but also hotspot as in hot as Hades with temperatures climbing to lava levels.

Wyatt wondered if the worst people he’d encountered had turned out that way in part because of the heat.

Which was obviously wrong, as most of the best people he’d known had also lived in the heat.

His folks had loved it, but he hadn’t inherited that gene.

Their love of plants and playing with new combinations, yep, he had that.

The only time he loved the heat was when he was in a greenhouse.

Splicing plants and watching new variations grow gave the heat a purpose other than frying his ass.

He also couldn’t blame the heat for Genn banging his former buddy Rob behind his back.

Wyatt shut down that line of thinking. He was being a jerk, and he knew it. His mom would have insisted he apologize to Mother Nature, as Lucia insisted nature knew best. All she needed was a helping hand, which they could provide.

His parents had loved helping nature mutate species to make a plant stronger, more weather-resistant, or able to grow more quickly. They’d spent years in botany labs and in their yard working with plants, helping them survive in an increasingly polluted world.

Wyatt knew they hadn’t planned on having a kid, especially in their mid-forties, but they’d been great parents anyway.

He’d grown up in greenhouses and had learned to love the plants, even though working in botany labs hadn’t been his thing.

After the action and physicality of the military, working in the quiet labs his parents had enjoyed sucked.

His dad had died while Wyatt was deployed. They hadn’t told him his dad’s cancer had advanced, and he regretted missing that time with him. He’d refused to do that with his mom.

When his tour finished, he’d taken an honorable discharge and worked in the lab with her, helping in every way he could.

Her death from cancer a few months before left him reeling. He’d quit his lab job in short order, left the state and its heat behind.

Now he was in Vermont, breathing air that hinted of autumn—no three-digit temperatures in sight.

Wyatt grinned as he drove his Ioniq onto the apple farm where he’d be spending the next few months or longer, depending on how things went.

Friends from the military owned the farm, and more military buddies lived here with them and in the nearby town of Phail.

The town’s name made him shake his head. Troy “Epic” Phail should hate his surname. Instead, he had fun with it, making jokes before anyone else could. Now, he was using the ridiculous name to promote the town built by his ancestors.

Even the apple farm’s inn used the name. The No Phailed Apples Inn was a happy yellow building that exuded warmth from the exterior.

Following instructions, Wyatt drove past it and into the parking lot in front of a red Texas-sized barn.

A farmhouse sat across the road from it, while gorgeous gardens separated the inn and the farmhouse. Gardens full of blooms, trees, and bushes. His buddy, Gray Santoro, had worked some serious magic to create this from what had once been an abandoned field of weeds.

Instead of heading to the farmhouse to announce his arrival, Wyatt headed to the garden that had to be close to a couple of acres.

He followed a pathway, enjoying the mix of flowers, succulents, and bushes. Blooms everywhere, but plenty of shades of green, too.

He ran his hands over the various textures, assuming Gray had intended the space to be a sensory extravaganza. He’d succeeded.

“Slinger, is that you?”

Wyatt turned at his callsign. Well, one of them, anyway. With his name being Wyatt, he tended to get a variety of names, all based around Wyatt Earp. High Noon, Earp, and Gunslinger were the most common. The final one was shortened to Slinger a lot. Weird, but those were military callsigns for you.

“Claus. Great to see you, man.”

And then he was engulfed in a back-slapping hug. Gray Santoro, a proud Italian, was never shy about showing emotion or affection.

“Couldn’t resist the plants, could you?”

Wyatt laughed. “Not a chance. This is incredible. You’ve touched all the senses.”

Gray nodded. “In honor of my sister.”

Wyatt knew Gray’s sister had lived with cerebral palsy, and she’d loved watching Gray and his mamma work in the yard with plants. She’d loved the textures, scents, colors, and shapes. The girl had passed in her teens, but Gray kept her memory alive. “Great job. She would love it.”

Gray nodded with a soft smile. “She would. It’s easy to imagine her enjoying hours out here. Mamma, too.”

Wyatt sighed. “My folks, too.”

Gray hugged him again. “So sorry to hear about your mom. I’m glad you were able to spend the last few years with her. I know she loved having you there to help her after your dad passed.”

Wyatt swallowed the lump in his throat with a nod.

Gray slapped his back. “Come and meet my Amber and Boomer. Then we’ll head to the farmhouse and get you a room. We’re all glad you’re here.”

The words settled somewhere deep inside Wyatt. He’d spoken with the Malssum men before deciding to head north. The three men and their two sisters, one being Gray’s Amber, had inherited the farm from a great-uncle they hadn’t known existed.

For the past year, they’d implemented regenerative farming practices to rejuvenate the earth and the apple trees that filled the landscape. He couldn’t wait to explore the entire orchard and check out their improvements, figure out how to add some of his own.

A woman and a large German shepherd waited for them on the pathway, the dog alert, his eyes and attention trained on Wyatt.

Gray’s smile was automatic, and Wyatt could almost see the love radiating from him. When they reached the pair, Gray leaned down to kiss Amber softly. He whispered something in her ear that made her cheeks flush as she smiled.

Then Claus looped his arm around her. “Amber, I’d like you to meet Wyatt Foisy, aka Slinger. Wyatt, this is Amber, and our friend Boomer.” He patted a barely visible baby bump. “And this is our Sprout.”

Amber smiled but looked at her dog first. “Boomer. Friend. Wyatt is a friend.”

Then she shook his hand as the dog relaxed its stance. A protection dog? The command and tone were similar to those he’d heard with K-9 officers overseas. He knew there’d been an incident at a hotel where Amber had worked, and then the thugs had followed her here to Vermont.

The dog was probably related to those incidents. Wyatt offered his hand for the dog to sniff. If he were right, the dog would put Wyatt’s scent into his memory bank. Most dogs were smart about sensing motives, but he figured Boomer was better than most.

After the dog checked him out, Amber confirmed his suspicions when she told the shepherd he was free. Another command that proved he was more than a pet. Wyatt would have to hear the rest of the story one day.

As they headed to the farmhouse, Wyatt got a better view of the front section of the orchard. Instead of following his buddy up the porch, he detoured to the closest apple tree. He ran his hand over the bark and checked out the lower branches. Happy and healthy.

Gray’s voice held a smile. “The apples are ready if you want to taste them. We’ve got some of last year’s crop in the kitchen, too.”

That had him turning. “Almost a year old. How are they?”

Gray grinned. “The cold room at the back of the apple barn keeps them in incredible shape. Come and see for yourself.”

Wyatt followed his friend into the house. In the mudroom, an entire wall was covered in shelves filled with shoes, boots, and moccasins. Name tags indicated each person’s slot. It slammed into his heart when he saw his own name there.

A long bench covered another wall. Amber sat and pointed at a basket.

“Those are for visitors and new arrivals. I hope you can find a pair that fits, and then you can leave them on your shelf so no one else uses them. We prefer to leave the mud outside, and these keep our feet warm and the floors clean.”

Grinning, he sorted through the basket, learning they were handmade by Nimii, a local friend. He chose a charcoal-gray pair, put his boots in his slot, and felt like part of the family.

His heart ached for the loss of his parents. They’d loved each other, but their family had been a quiet one. Not demonstrative with words or actions.

This would be a new type of family for him, and he was looking forward to finding out if it was a good fit.

He hoped like hell it was.

Esme Garcia studied the map posted beside the rest stop building, looking for the next town to visit. She was done with big cities and the high-paced, high-pressure life that went with them. She’d left the runways and designer clothes behind her.

Her Nans would be breathing a sigh of relief for her. Nans had allowed her to take a modeling contract back in high school as a way to help Esme support herself in case the cancer Nans battled took her quickly. She’d always looked for ways to take care of Esme in the present and the future.

Nans had become Esme’s entire world after her mother, if that term even applied, had dumped her at her grandmother’s cottage in the middle of the night when Esme had been about seven.

The cottage had been on the outskirts of a town named Giblet in California.

Esme had never seen so much dark or so many trees. It had appeared wild and scary.

Ramona told Esme to get out of the car. As soon as Esme had closed the door, her mother had shrieked, “Freedom!” and driven her rattletrap rust-mobile down the bumpy lane and away from the cottage. High as a kite, and thrilled to be minus a daughter.