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later.
    She couldn’t make a tough loner like Cliff Forrester understand the complexities of a friendship with a sensitive, vulnerable guy like Julio, though.
    On another sigh, she said, “I just had to do it, that’s all.”
    â€œSo now you’ve got no apartment and no job.”
    â€œI’m not running home to my mother, if that’s what you’re thinking! I’ve been in scrapes before. I can get myself out of this one.”
    â€œSure,” said Forrester.
    â€œI’d never run to my mother for help, anyway. She’s got troubles of her own, in case you haven’t noticed.”
    â€œShe’s stronger than you think.”
    â€œ I’m stronger than everybody thinks!”
    Forrester didn’t say a word at that, and Liza pretended to be interested in the passing scenery. Things hadn’t changed much, she noticed sourly. People still treated her like a rambunctious child.
    Other things hadn’t changed, either. The same farms still stood along the road to Tyler, with even the same names painted on the mailboxes. German names and Swedish names, mostly. Old families that could trace their family trees back to the first settlers.
    The history of Tyler was much like the history of other small towns in Wisconsin. Founded 140 years ago by German immigrants who fled autocratic rulers in their native land, the original town was called Tilgher, after one of the founding families. Years later, the name was anglicized to Tyler by an impatient official from the land office who couldn’t pronounce the German word. Swedish immigrants followed the Germans, each family paying ten dollars to receive 160 acres of farmland.
    One such Swedish immigrant had been Gunther Ingalls, who took his family by wagon train to his parcel. On the rugged trail, he stopped to help an Irish immigrant mend a broken wagon wheel. Jackie Kelsey and Gunther Ingalls became friends over that wheel and proceeded to Tyler together, where they split Gunther’s acreage into two small farms. In the century that followed, the Kelsey family and the Ingalls family flourished side by side. And sometimes feuded, too.
    Now Liza’s grandfather, Judson Ingalls, was hailed as the town’s most prominent citizen. Known by most of the citizenry as the venerable, though sometimes crotchety owner of Ingalls Farm and Machinery Company, Judson Ingalls commanded respect in Tyler. As his granddaughter, Liza had felt watched all her life—like a bug under a microscope. Every twitch she made was news to the townspeople of Tyler.
    As the truck rumbled past the elementary school playground and inside the boundaries of Tyler, Liza found herself automatically watching the streets for her grandfather. Judson’s tall frame, his distinctive long-legged, slope-shouldered walk and shock of white hair—Liza expected to see him on the next street corner. He was as much a part of Tyler as the picturesque Victorian houses on Elm Street or the stately central square lined with the town hall, the old post office, the Fellowship Lutheran Church with its pretty facade and Gates Department Store. Even Marge’s Diner—tucked on a side street just off the town square—didn’t seem as much of a landmark as Judson Ingalls himself.
    Liza realized she was holding her breath as Cliff Forrester drove through the intersection of Main and Elm Streets. She couldn’t stop a cautious peek up the tree-lined boulevard where she had grown up. The huge Victorian home where she’d played as a child was obscured by a pair of giant elm trees, and Liza was glad she couldn’t see the house. It might be too painful. And she didn’t want to alert her mother that she’d come home. No use giving up her advantage.
    As if guessing what was on her mind, Cliff Forrester said, “Want me to drive by the old place?”
    â€œHeavens, no!” Liza collected herself, not wanting to reveal how stirred up she