“Instead of Lavender Bliss Farm, I should have called it Money Pit Ranch,” she muttered, but surveying her twenty-five-acre domain from the rooftop, she reminded herself how far she’d come. She inhaled a deep breath of rain, earth, pine, and lavender. The fragrance of hope. Her once impossible dream had become a possible reality.
She’d closed escrow a couple of months ago. Most of the parcel was treed with pines and cedars, but five acres had been cleared, some areas planted with lavender. The most recent former owners, an elderly couple, had allowed the field to fallow, but she’d recognized the potential.
Kevanne always had loved lavender and for years had purchased the flowers from nurseries for potpourri, wreaths, and jellies. Now she had her freedom and a chance to become a successful business owner. While the latter was not assured, she vowed no one would ever steal the former from her again.
If only the damn rain would let up so she could till and plant the fields. Once the farm got squared away, she planned to open a gift shop in time for the summer tourist season. The outbuilding at the edge of her property fronting the main highway had been used for that purpose before. However, like everything else, it had fallen into disrepair.
Over her bedroom, near the peak, she found the problem. A swath of shingles was missing. She noted other shingles that curled, some that were loose. One good wind, and they’d be gone. She spread the tarp over the problem area, draping it on both sides of the peak so the rain would hit the plastic and roll off, rather than seep underneath. Belatedly, she realized she needed weight to hold it in place or the slightest breeze would send it sailing.
She crept back to the ladder, climbed down, and tromped to the barn where she gathered a couple of two-by-fours and a half dozen bricks. It took a few trips up the ladder to haul it all onto the roof, but she got the tarp weighted down.
“That ought to do it.” She dusted her cold hands on her jeans. She’d have one more cup of coffee and then run into town. Argent, population: not enough, boasted of little except a diner, an antique store, two tiny churches, one bar, and a bait-and-tackle shop doubling as a hardware store. The latter had a bulletin board where locals could post ads. She’d seen Handyman for Hire flyers in the past—maybe she’d get lucky and see one today.
Besides fixing the roof, a good handyman could make a dent in the long list of needed repairs.
She was stepping toward the ladder when a meteorite burst through the cloud-break and streaked across the sky like a huge flaming bullet. A shooting star! Quick. Make a wish. Kevanne squeezed her eyes shut. Send me my dream man—a handyman. She opened her eyes in time to see the meteorite slow before dropping out of sight behind the tree line. It’s going to hit the ground! She braced for an explosion, but none came.
“What the heck?” She’d never seen a falling star do that before. The meteorite had moved like it was guided. So, missile maybe? Except, unless somebody punched a wrong button in a major snafu, she doubted the government would send a test missile over Argent, Idaho.
Maybe it’s a UFO! She chuckled.
Then sobered.
UFOs were possible. She’d read how an Intergalactic Dating Agency arranged meet-and-greets between humans and aliens. But the IDA district offices were located in major cities, not in towns too small to have a grocery store. No one around for hundreds of miles had ever seen a real, live extraterrestrial. No alien would ever want to settle in Argent.
Tourists—winter snowboarders and summer boaters and water skiers—would make a pit stop in town, but Argent was the kind of no man’s land that high school kids fled the day after graduation and where everybody knew everybody, but there was nobody to date. Which was fine by her because at the ripe old age of thirty-six, she had sworn off men. She’d rather become a crazy lavender lady than marry or even date.
Become? She was already there! She’d fancied she’d spotted a UFO. It was a meteorite!
Still, she should check out the impact site. She hadn’t heard or seen an explosion, but it could have started a fire. Although the ground was a mucky mess from all the rain, anything could burn if it got hot enough. A meteorite screaming through the atmosphere produced a lot of heat. It would be her bad luck to lose the farm to a forest fire caused by a meteorite strike. If a fire had started, and it was still small, she could put it out herself. If it had spread, she’d call the fire department.
The meteorite’s arc seemed to have landed it in the national forest on the other side of the Ditterman place, currently vacant while the snowbirds soaked up sun in Florida.
She stowed the ladder in the barn then raced to the house to grab a coffee-to-go and the keys to the quad. She’d bought the vehicle used after seeing a flyer on the bait store bulletin board. She’d needed a work vehicle for the property and had gotten a good deal.
She stuck her coffee in the handlebar cup holder, bungeed a shovel to the back grille, hopped on, fired up the four-wheeler, and zoomed toward the national forest.
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