Rosalie hadn’t spoken to Bryce in over fifteen years. She’d only spotted him in town a couple times since he’d left for college, and she’d always turned the other way. But looking at him now, exuding a casual confidence that came with pedigree, adulation and just the right amount of sun-weathered texture to his skin, she felt the years melt away. She swallowed. For all her efforts to move on with her life, she could have been seventeen again.

She’d never dreamed Bryce would give up his career at Texas Tech. But here he was. For some inexplicable reason, he’d apparently chosen to abandon his upward climb at the university to come home and coach at little old Whistler Creek High. Bryce was the onetime all-state wide receiver of the Whistler Creek Wildcats, the future agribusiness magnate and, most important, devastating to Rosalie on so many levels, he was her son Danny’s biological father.

Shelby snickered. “What the hell is Canfield doing? Looks like he’s bringing his prize stallion into the show ring for all to admire.” She nudged Rosalie in her ribs. “And he definitely is a prize!”

Somehow Rosalie found her voice. “You don’t know Bryce, do you?”

Shelby, who’d come to Whistler Creek only three years before, grinned. “Not yet. Is he single?”

“Divorced.” Whistler Creek was a small town, and over the years the most important details of Bryce’s life had filtered down to Rosalie. Not that she’d asked to hear them.

She stared at the tabletop in front of her. She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t stand to watch that ruggedly handsome face turn smug with the praise of a public that had obviously forgotten all the details of Bryce’s background. Forgotten or forgiven.

Thinking back to when she was a gullible teenager, she felt a flush of shame heat her cheeks. She had once believed she was in love with Bryce Benton, the very same guy who’d just allowed himself to be paraded into the limelight of his expectant hometown crowd as if he were Dexter Canfield’s gift to the people of Whistler Creek.

Some mistakes could never be lived down. And some just hurt forever.

Standing in front of people he’d never met before as well as old friends he hadn’t seen in years, Bryce felt like a damn fool. Canfield had told him to wait in the wings until he’d made the announcement just so he could pique the interest of the crowd. Bryce had argued that such a plan was ridiculous, but in the end, he’d let Canfield have his way thinking maybe it was better that Dexter prepared the crowd for the return of a prodigal son. Bryce had only come home to Whistler Creek a couple dozen times in the last fifteen years. Now, with something like one hundred pairs of eyes drilling into him, he knew he’d been manipulated into being the featured sideshow event for Canfield’s three-ring circus.

He shook his head, raised his hands palms up in an effort to stop the flow of excited chatter that filled the room. When he’d been offered the job to replace Bucky, he’d jumped at the chance. Coaching at Whistler Creek was what he wanted. His goal since college had always been to mentor and guide high school kids on the verge of manhood and possible greatness. Despite the tragedy that would always haunt him, coming home to the town and school that had nurtured him through the years had been the fulfillment of a dream. Now he felt like a trick pony waiting to be led through his paces.

Beaming at Bryce, Canfield said, “I coaxed him away from Texas Tech, and I wanted all of you to share in this victory for the Whistler Creek High Athletic Department.”

Coaxed him away, Bryce thought. He’d taken a ten thousand a year pay cut to be here, and still signed on the bottom line without a moment’s hesitation. Most people would say he should have his head examined.

But Bryce gambled on possibilities. And the options for changing lives at the head coaching level at Whistler Creek far surpassed those as the assistant offensive coach at Texas Tech. And then there was his dad, who was sitting here tonight. His health had suffered a blow. He needed his son, wanted him to come home.

He looked into his dad’s eyes now, saw the pride there and took a deep breath. “Folks, you all have a seat. This isn’t so much a celebration as a chance to get acquainted. Or reacquainted as is the case with many of you.”

“Are you kidding, Bryce,” the president of the Georgia State Bank shouted from the side of the room. “This could be the best football season we’ve ever had.”

Bryce tried to smile and slanted a glance at Bucky Lowell who sat nearby. “I don’t know about that,” Bryce said, gesturing at Bucky. “Coach Lowell here has left me some pretty big shoes to fill, so let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We’ve all got a lot of work to do. The players, the coaching staff, most of all, me. I think we should save the celebrating until we get a few wins under our belts.”

Dexter Canfield continued to grin like the top salesman on a used car lot. “Now you see why I called you here today. We appreciate everything Bucky has done for this program, but today is the beginning of a new era for Whistler Creek athletics. We need to start now, preparing our boys, getting behind our new coach, redoubling our efforts as Wildcat parents and supporters.”

“I appreciate all the enthusiasm tonight and in the future,” Bryce said. “But let’s remember that the ones who need our support most are the young men who’ll soon sweat their guts out on the field once practice starts.” He paused before adding, “Football in Whistler Creek always has been, and will continue to be, a community effort. Thanks for coming today and for giving me this welcome. But as far as I’m concerned, you can all go on home now, knowing that my office in the athletic building is always open.”

He remembered the furor surrounding games in the past and doubted Bucky had kept that same open-door policy for his many years at Whistler. Bryce hoped he wouldn’t regret making that statement.

As the meeting wound down, he endured countless handshakes and pats on the back before the last of his well-wishers left the media center. Then he said goodbye to Canfield and walked with his father to the school parking lot. When they stepped into the humid July air of a South Georgia evening, Bryce took his dad’s elbow and held him back. “Let’s wait until everyone is in their cars,” he said.

Roland Benton smiled. “A little uncomfortable with all this excitement, are you, son?”

“Yeah. I didn’t anticipate this kind of welcome. I’ve been gone a long time.”

“True, but you’ve always wanted to come back.”

Bryce waved to a man who put down his car window and gave him a thumbs-up sign. “I didn’t think it would be like this. You know how it is, Dad. When expectations run too high, everyone can end up disappointed and disillusioned.”

“Just do your job, Bryce,” Roland said. “No one can ask more. And no one should expect more than your best effort.” He smiled. “That’s all you’ll ask of the players, right?”

“True enough.” Seeing the parking lot emptying out, Bryce stepped onto the pavement. He saw two women chatting between cars about a hundred feet down the lot. He stared for a moment before a familiar pang pierced his heart. Could it be? He recognized the lush curls of black hair that fell to one woman’s shoulders. “Dad, isn’t that Rosalie Campano?”

Roland squinted. “Sure is.”

“Is her mother still running her produce stand on Fox Hollow Road?”

“Yes, indeed. Claudia is one of our best local customers. Rosalie still lives with her. You know Rosalie teaches at the high school now?”

“Yeah. Mom told me that a few years back. I should have known she’d be here when I heard Canfield had called the faculty out for this show.” Bryce had thought a lot about Rosalie over the years. She’d been an important part of his life at one time—until the day he’d brought so much grief into hers.