The rough-edged cap spun in her fingers. “Do you remember that storm?”

He studied the screen. “Hm?”

“The crazy storm, two or three years ago? I think it was technically an F1 tornado.” She paused. Nothing. “Or maybe an F5. Hurled livestock all over town…”

Vigorous typing resumed.

“Our shed landed on a witch. I got a cool pair of shoes, though.” One more tappity-tap-tap and she might scream. She bounced the acorn cap off his shoulder. “Paging Dr. Bruce. Come in, Dr. Bruce.”

He jerked up his head. “Yes, the tornado. Sorry—hospital stuff. I’m listening.”

Would a relationship with Richard be a constant battle for his attention? If she took up arms, would she be bested by a device no bigger than a deck of cards? He lowered the phone into his pocket and patted it like he was putting it to bed.

“Tell me more,” he said.

Dark smudges shadowed his eyes. Life and death decisions were his daily stock and trade. He lived every moment under pressures she couldn’t imagine. She softened her tone. “Are you sure you have time?”

“Definitely.”

Spinning in place, she scanned the yard. “Well, that sycamore is pretty special.” She pointed to a towering, smooth-barked tree beyond a copse of spindly pines. Increasingly encroached upon by the upstart conifers, the sycamore had nonetheless grown straight and true, with an expansive canopy of leafy branches. Pushing through pine boughs, she stepped into the shade and laid a hand on the trunk. “My dad planted this tree the year I was born. When I turned ten, he carved all our initials in the bark.” She peeked over her shoulder.

Richard lingered among the pines, once again staring at his phone.

Phone—one; Meadows—zero. “I thought you were done.”

“Urgent text. One sec.” After a long minute pummeling the screen, he glanced up. “Sorry.”

She pinned him with an accusing glare. “You haven’t heard a word I said.”

“I was listening. Tell me more about the trees.”

With a huff, she dropped against the sycamore, crossing her arms. “Forget it. I might as well talk to myself.”

His shoulders sagged. “Look, I’m sorry about—” He waggled the phone and jammed it in his pocket. “Work is insane. Can you forgive me?”

Leaves stirred in the breeze, and wisps of damp hair tickled the back of her neck. “You mean my boring family stories about landscaping aren’t doing it for you?”

“Oh no. All this”—he gestured to the expanse of green—“it’s all doing it for me just fine.” He ambled closer. “I guess I’ve been distracted.”

In spite of herself, she lifted her cheeks. “Saving lives, huh?”

“I’d like to think so. You know what else I’d like?” Fixing his gaze firmly on her face, he placed one hand on the tree just above her shoulder. “I’d like to see you again.”