Like Never Before (28 page)

“We'll find her.” Dad eyed Rick as he spoke, tone even. “We'll start spreading the word. Get out your phone. Text your sisters.”

His knuckles stung as he dug into his pocket. Oh Lord, he'd
hit
his father-in-law, let his fear turn into anger and just completely lost it.

Concentrate on Charlie. Worry about Rick later.

“She was playing in the band shell. There were a couple parents . . .”
Names, like Rick had said.
All he could find were faces. “The p-pastor's wife, she was there. And that teenager Colton mentors—his foster mom was there, too.”

“Laura Clancy. I've got her number.” Dad pulled out his own phone. “Rick, you might want to get some ice.”

But no sooner had Dad lifted his phone to his ear than Raegan's voice carried above the wind and the crowd. He swung around, focus panning for the sight of her. And there, underneath the shelter of a jacket Bear held over their heads, was Raegan with Charlie in her arms.

Logan's feet carried him through the grass, relief like the wail of the wind, and it was all he could do not to wrench Charlie from Raegan's hold when he reached her.

“When the lightning started, Laura got worried, but she didn't see you.” Raegan's explanation tumbled out. “She took Charlie to The Red Door.”

“Thanks, Rae.” Lightning jagged through the sky. “Hey, sweetheart.”

Charlie reached for him, but nowhere were the tears he'd expected. She wrapped her arms around his neck as he ducked under a tent.

“You've been on a bit of an adventure, haven't you?”

“I'm wet, Daddy.”

The thrumming in his heart slowed. “What's that?”

She palmed his hair. “And you're wet.”

He hadn't imagined it. Six little words. Two little sentences. He could kiss the rain.

“We are wet. We should get home and change, yeah?” Her
hands slid from his hair to his cheeks. She always liked it when he didn't shave. “I love you, Charlie, you know that, yeah?”

Sometime in the past few seconds, Dad had joined them under the tent. He met his father's eyes. Read the delight there.

But Rick had followed them over, too. He stood at a distance now, watching. And even from where Logan stood, even through the rain, the red of his cheek smarted Logan's conscience. Dad followed his gaze.

“You'll apologize, Logan. He'll realize you were just worried.”

“I don't know,” Logan replied when Rick turned and walked away. “I have a feeling this could be bad.”

L
ogan assumed the footsteps swishing through wet grass belonged to Dad. After all, Dad was the one who'd stuck the fishing pole in his hand and sent him down here to the little bridge at the bottom of the ravine, where a wandering creek rustled against the quiet.

“Go on down to the creek, son. That bridge is
this whole family's thinking spot.”

If it could be called a bridge. More like a few boards nailed together that had somehow survived last year's tornado. Sturdier than they looked, he supposed.

But when the steps paused behind him, and he towed his gaze from where his rod's weighted hook bobbed in the murky water to the surface of the bridge, it wasn't Dad's Reeboks he saw.

“Hey.” Amelia's greeting was soft, landing just as he looked up.

She'd left her hair free today, and it billowed around her face, caught—like reeling leaves and grass and reedy branches—in the windy wake of this morning's storm. “Hey.”

She sat down beside him, folding her legs and wrinkling
her nose as she settled on wet wood. “Glad I'm not wearing white pants.”

The storm had left a tinge of cool air behind, and it sifted over him now. “Whatcha doing here, Amelia Bentley? I thought you hadn't missed a town event since the day you moved here?”

“There's a first for everything.”

“How are we doing on headlines for next week? You skipping the Market might belong on the front page.”

She drew her cloth bag onto her lap. “Wanted to bring you this.” She pulled out a bag of frozen peas. “Makeshift ice pack.”

He didn't know whether to laugh or sigh or just lean in to the concern in her eyes and spill every detail of this morning and every anxiety that'd choked him since.

Instead, he asked, “How'd you know?”

“It's Maple Valley, Logan. You can't pick a dandelion without someone seeing and finding a reason to spread the word. You go and throw a punch in the square and you're looking at five minutes—ten minutes, tops—until the news reaches the county line.” She held up the bag. “I know it's been a couple hours already, and this is barely even cold still, but . . .”

He set his fishing pole on the bridge and accepted the limp bag, settling it over his fist.

A leftover drop of rain from a bending tree landed on her cheek, and she brushed it away. “Now I feel like I did something helpful.”

Didn't she know just finding him here was helpful? Hadn't she felt the same blah-ness as he had in the past day of barely seeing each other? “I was freaking out because we couldn't find Charlie. Rick said things. And really, this has probably been building a long time. But I've never just . . . hit someone like that.” Except Beckett when they were kids and playing superheroes.

And it wasn't just Rick that had set him off, if he was honest.
It was realizing the full cost of his D.C. dream. Having exactly zero clue what to do. Knowing how many people were waiting on him—Cranford and Hadley and Theo.

It was wanting so desperately to do the right thing for Charlie but not knowing what the right thing was.

It was Amelia. Even now, with bruised knuckles and the clock ticking on his time in Maple Valley, he couldn't deny his desire any longer.

“Confession,” she said. “I tried to conjure the image of you punching someone on my way over. Couldn't exactly picture it.”

He mustered a half-smile. “If I thought things were bad with Emma's parents before . . .” The perspiration from the bag of peas seeped through his fingers and onto his jeans.

Emma. Did it bother Amelia when he brought her up? If so, she didn't show it. Only tipped her head toward his pole. “You were fishing?”

“Uh, kind of. The creek's pretty shallow, so there's not much to fish for. Crappies are the best bet, a stray bluegill here and there. Mostly the pole's just an excuse to come down here and . . . I don't now, fish away my frustration, I guess. Kate always came down with a book. Raegan with her iPod.”

“And your brother?”

Now he did grin. “Beckett always brought a girl.” A twinge accompanied the memory. Man, he missed his brother. Didn't always realize how fully, but it grabbed hold of him now. “Mom and Dad came here more than anyone, though. This is where they had their first date, where Dad proposed. And when we moved back to Iowa, they jumped at the chance to buy the land.”

“I forget sometimes you guys lived out East.”

“Yep, 'til I was eight. Feels like a different life sometimes.” Sorta like LA felt now. Had it really only been a couple months since he'd been there?

“I've never been fishing before. Can you believe that?”

“Never? Didn't you grow up in Iowa? What'd you do in the summer?”

She shook her head. “I'd say, but you'd never let it go.”

“Now you have to tell me.” He leaned closer to her. “Tell me, and I'll teach you to fish.”

“Fine, but only because some Huck Finn piece of me thinks fishing could be fun.” She reached around him for his pole. “History camp. Grades three through nine, I went to history camp every summer.”

His laugh cut through the trees, his first since walking away from the square today, Charlie in his arms, wondering how he could've messed things up so badly. “Only you, Hildy.”

“No, not only me. There were always at least five other kids there.” She jiggled the line dangling from his rod. “So I just drop this in the water? Don't I need a worm?”

He caught the hook midair. “Nope, I'm just using synthetic bait. If we were really doing this right, I'd teach you to thread the end of the line through your hook, make a clinch knot, and dig for a worm to impale. But you're gonna get off easy since I already did the prep work. As for casting, this is a push-button spinner reel, so it's easy.” He pointed out the pieces of the reel. “Pushing this releases the line, letting go stops it.”

“Push to release, let go to stop. Got it. I wish I had a fishing vest. And one of those hats.” She waved the pole as she talked. “And waders, because how cool are waders?”

He closed his hand around hers to still the pole, his smile traveling through him. “For never having gone fishing, you've got a handle on the style.”

“I'm well-read, Logan.”

“Hey?”

She inspected the reel. “Hmm?”

“I've hardly seen you the past couple days. You sorta dis
appeared after D.C. You didn't show up at the Market this morning. I thought maybe . . .” Well, he didn't know what he'd thought.

Only that he'd missed her.

She met his eyes. “I guess I . . . let go of something today.”

It was all she said, but the release—maybe even peace—in her voice made it enough for now. Hand still covering hers, he guided her thumb to the button. “Okay, when you cock the rod back, push the button. When you point, release.”

But her focus had landed on his bruising knuckles—faint reddish-blue, the hint of swelling—and before he could make any move to help her cast, she looked up at him. “Does it hurt?”

Not his hand so much as the reminder of Rick's words.
“She deserves more than a dad who'd lose her
in a storm.”

Instead of waiting for him to answer, Amelia lowered the pole, set it on the bridge beside her, and reached for his hand. She held it in hers—her touch light, her thumb brushing over its ridges—and in a move that made him catch his breath, she lifted it to her lips. One by one, she kissed each knuckle—
one, two, three, four
. Lips feather-soft and delicate, and together with the coconut scent of her hair and the care in her every movement, it was enough to hush every harried voice inside him.

She turned his hand over, pressed a kiss to his palm.
Five.
And everything stilled.

When she lifted her head, he moved his hand to her cheek.

“I let go of
something today.”

Maybe that was what he was doing now, as his fingers grazed her cheek, her hair tickling over his skin. He could lose himself in the copper warmth of her eyes.

Except, no, this wasn't losing himself.

This was finding something precious.

And so he kissed her. Not like last time, as if he was desperate and it was his only chance. But soft. Slow. Once, twice, and
then—when she leaned in—again. No counting, no sense at all of time or anything beyond her lips and his fingers in her hair and now her palm on his chest.

And only when he was breathless did he pull back, just barely, to whisper, “I'd have gone and started punching people a lot earlier if I knew it came with this kind of consequence.”

He could feel her smile.

“And if I'd known kissing you was like this, I'd have gone and done it that first night you came home, even if you did criticize my snowman.”

He touched his forehead to hers, laughing. “Although if you'd kissed me when I thought you were Emma . . .”

“Good point.” The wind brushed through her hair again. “Now, are you going to teach me to fish or what?”

“One condition: Go on a date with me tonight?”

Maybe Eleanor hadn't been the right person to ask for fashion advice, after all. Amelia glanced down at the burnt-orange, beige, and cornflower-blue pattern of her summer dress—then at the spot Logan had apparently picked for their date. The Kendall Wilkins Library.

“Logan, it's after five on a Saturday. The library's closed. What are we doing here?”

“Patience, Curious George.” He patted her bare knee. “Wait here.”

Rain fell in sheets from a blanket of clouds so thick it made the evening seem later than it was. But at least the sky had cleared out long enough this afternoon for the Market to continue. Spring had finally settled in and, for once, she didn't mourn the end of winter.

They'd had lunch with Case and Charlie at the house before
heading downtown, where big-band music piped through the band shell speakers and the smell of popcorn and sweets hovered over the square. Logan had held her hand as they'd wandered through squishy grass and a maze of booths and tables and then stood outside the bouncy castle while Charlie jumped around inside. He'd bought Amelia a handmade necklace at one table. She'd watched him ogle an antique typewriter at another.

And then, about ninety minutes ago, he'd dropped her off at her house. Told her he'd be back for her at six.

She'd spent the next hour on a video chat with Eleanor, trying on one outfit after another.
“You can'
t go wrong with a sun dress, Amelia. Dress it
up with some jewelry. Wear sandals and bring along a
jean jacket in case you end up somewhere more casual.”

It'd sounded like good advice at the time, but the library? She could've stuck with cargo shorts and a tank top.

Logan was coming around the car now, opening an umbrella and then her door, that Walker grin of his just oozing charm as she slid out. The tips of his hair were still wet from a shower, and the smell of whatever rustic cologne he wore was downright intoxicating.

“Won't the library be locked?” Did her voice seriously just squeak? She reached down to grab her purse, and when she rose, Logan and the still-open car door blocked her from going any farther.

“You underestimate me, Miss Bentley.” He dug into the pocket of his khakis and came up with a key.

“How'd you get that?”

“So many questions.”

“I'm a reporter. That's what we do.” Although he was standing so close, she couldn't have eked out another question if she'd tried. Rain pattered over the umbrella like music.

Logan's fingers curled around hers. “Well then, if you'll recall,
my little sister happens to work here.” He tugged her away from the car, careful to keep the umbrella over her.

“Raegan gave you a key? I bet she could get fired for that.”