Teacher Beware (A Grace Ellery Romantic Suspense Book 1) by Charlotte Raine

no corporations, subdivisions, or big box stores. In this rural area—just miles of woods and houses that you can't see your neighbors from—some of its residents are perpetually trying—and failing—to sell their acreage to the developers who have occupied most of Murray, while the majority grumble about the newcomers who have flooded into the area.
    When I end up in front of my house, I hit my kickstand with my foot and jump off my bike. Albert has owned the house since he was thirty-two years old. It's an American-style log house made of Douglas fir D-shaped logs. It's been my home since I was nine years old. Albert had already been taking care of me because my mom died after her car slid off an icy rural road and went through a hillside guardrail when I was four years old. My father was fighting in the Iraq War and couldn't take care of my brother, Tom, and me, so we lived with Albert. My father was killed when I was eight years old and Tom was twelve. I remember the soldier who came to Albert's door to tell us. Even though the soldier had to be about six feet tall, he seemed incredibly small in that moment while his words were heavier than boulders.
    Tom died while fighting in Afghanistan last year. Half my family died on the other side of the world, and I have no idea if someone was there to comfort them before they took their last breath.
    I push open the door.
    Albert is on the couch, watching some hunting TV show. He glances up at me. "How was school?" I take the remote and turn off the TV. "Hey! I was watchin' that."
    "Why aren't you working?" I ask. "It's Monday. You should have plenty of customers."
    "My knee was hurtin'," he says.
    I grind my teeth. He's been using this excuse more and more often. If it's not his knee, it's "nobody will come to the shop when it's raining" or pain in his back, but it won't stop him from going hunting or riding the four-wheeler through the woods.
    A couple of months ago, I talked Albert into trying advertising instead of relying on word of mouth from his current customer base. But results were discouraging. Getting better results was prohibitively expensive—and not guaranteed—so instead of trying to change his strategy, Albert went back to doing things the old way, while blaming his competitor's better prices on their relying on "foreign" labor instead of hiring "good Americans." Albert, who lost many of his childhood friends in Vietnam, and his only child and one of his grandsons in Middle Eastern military conflicts, was specifically bitter about the number of people of Asian and Middle Eastern descent who own and work in local auto mechanic franchises. He had once seen Lexi and her father at my middle school graduation. The words he used to describe them I wouldn't repeat anywhere, but I understand his rage.
    I tried to keep pushing him to increase his business, but I knew advertising was only a small part of the problem. Albert lost business continuously because he was always ignoring regular business hours and lacked the people skills to get customers to like him.
    "Albert," I say, as I sit down in the recliner and face him. "What are you going to do when I graduate?"
    He cocks his head. "What do you mean? You ain't going to college, are you? You know those places are just an extended party where they charge you an outrageous amount of money to drink and sleep with whores."
    "No, Albert," I say. "I'm not going to college…but I want to join the military."
    Albert stares at me. I can see his mind working—trying to figure out if I'm joking or if I have lost my mind.
    "Do you…know what branch yet?" he asks. I shrug. It doesn't especially matter to me. I just want to do something that will make my deceased family members proud. I just want to matter, to be remembered, to be worthy. "This ain't some suicidal wish, is it?"
    "No," I say, though, honestly it could be. Why not die in the same place as my family? Is there a better way to die than for your country? "It's just