Like Never Before (29 page)

“I bet not. I saw the library director talking to my dad at the Market. I think she might have a crush on him.”

Not hard to believe. Not if the old “like father, like son” adage had any truth to it. And for the hundredth time today, pure, unadulterated delight whisked through her—fluffy and as sweet as the cotton candy Logan had bought her at the Market. Poor man had cringed as she and Charlie had eaten the whole bag, rambled on about sugar and artificial flavoring.

And she'd stood there wondering how in the world she'd gone thirty years without knowing this man . . . and how Maple Valley was ever going to feel right again when he left.

Don't think about that now. Not tonight.

Somewhere down the line, it'd become her mantra.
Don't think too far ahead. Pretend he's not leaving. Enjoy this while you
can.
Not nearly as hard to do when his palm was glued to hers under the rhythm of rainfall.

Logan handed the umbrella to her when they reached the front entrance, unlocked the door, and let them inside.

“What if there's a security system?”

“Then we get arrested, and in one fell swoop get a great first-date story and something to put on the front page next week. Win-win.” He retrieved the umbrella, shook it off, and leaned it against the wall, then grasped her hand again. “Now, pizza is getting here in half an hour. I know it's not fancy—”

“I love pizza way more than I love fancy.”

“I know you do.” He nudged her toward the stairs leading down to the children's department. “And plus, I was busy getting some other things ready, so dinner wasn't the main priority for this date.”

Their footsteps rapped against the marble steps, the shadows
of bookshelves and tables rising from the basement, only the red of an
Exit
sign and impulsive darts of lightning through recessed windows bouncing against the dark.

She huddled closer to Logan, and he surprised her with a kiss on the cheek.

“What other things?” Her voice was breathless around the question, her curiosity about tonight and her fear of some vague tomorrow when, in one direction or the other, Logan would wind up half a country away, suddenly taking a backseat. “What other things did you have to get ready?”

“Again with the questions.”

“Just call me Barbara Walters.”

He wrinkled his nose. “I just kissed you, Amelia. And I'm pretty sure at some point tonight—possibly multiple points—I'd like to again. I'd rather not have the picture of you as an eighty-year-old in a pantsuit in my head when I do.”

“Fair enough. But what other things?”

He steered her toward the east end of the children's library, where the circulation desk and librarian's office were set up to look like a treehouse. “You'll know soon enough. But I have to show you something else first. I think Raegan said it was down here.”

“You're very mysterious tonight, Logan Walker.” They stopped at the desk. “I like it.”

He released her hand and rounded the desk, gaze skimming over the shelves lining the wall behind it.

“And just so you know, I'm totally holding back right now from asking what you're looking for. Because if I do, you'll make a twenty-questions crack or worse, start picturing me in polyester and then you might never kiss me again.”

“Found it.” He whipped around, a flat picture book in hand.

It took a second to sink in. The salmon-pink cover, plastic curling at the corners. The '70s-ish cartoon picture of a plane. The title written in clouds.
Amelia Takes Flight.

“My book?” The one about Amelia Earhart, the one she'd checked out so many times as a kid. The one she'd written about in that scholarship essay. “How . . . where . . . ?”

He circled the desk once more and handed it to her. “I called the library in Des Moines last week. I didn't think they'd have it anymore, but I thought they might at least be able to look up your name in the system and tell me the title. Which they could, and even better, they were able to tell me it was sold—along with a bunch of old books—to a library that was just getting started in a small town right on the border of Iowa and Nebraska. So I called that library, and lo and behold, they found it on the shelf.”

She flattened her palm on the cover. “Wait, this isn't just a copy of the book? This is
the
book?”

“Yeah. Chalk one up for interlibrary loan. Raegan called me yesterday to tell me it came in. Oh, and get this: I asked the librarian in Des Moines if their system tracked how many times you checked it out as a kid—and it does. Thirty-seven times. And here I thought you were exaggerating.”

She cracked it open, the pages faded with age and stained with fingerprints—some probably her own. She knew each line on each page before she even turned to it. “I was so fascinated by this book.”

“Not going to lie, I'm a little fascinated at how fascinated you are.”

She looked up, met his eyes. “You interlibrary-loaned a book for me, Logan Walker.”

He shrugged. “Some guys buy flowers, some guys track down picture books.”

She hugged the book to her chest. “This is so much better than flowers.” And he was so much better than anything she'd imagined back when he was just a name and a legend.

He stepped closer to her, another flash of lightning giving
her a glimpse of the warmth in his brown eyes. His hands went to her bare arms, still clutching the book between them. “Hey.”

Goosebumps trailed over her skin. “Hey what?”

“You being worried I'd picture you in a polyester suit and never kiss you again?” His fingers slid down her arms to her waist. “Not gonna happen.”

“No?” She wriggled the book free, set it on the desk, then leaned into Logan, arms tucked under his.

“Not a chance.”

And then he proved it by kissing her. No quick peck on the cheek this time. This was the real thing—soft and slow and perfect. And when a growl of thunder interrupted, scared her into jerking away, he only pulled her closer, hold tightening and another kiss that turned into another . . . and another . . .

Her head spun. Or maybe that was her heart. Or everything.

She couldn't get enough of him. “Logan.” It was almost a gasp.

He barely pulled back, just as breathless as she was. “Too much?”

“No.” The opposite, really. Not nearly enough. “You're leaving.”

She felt his hands slide down her back. “Let's not talk about that. I haven't even bought a return ticket.”

She laid her head on his chest. “But it's happening. Los Angeles or D.C., doesn't even matter which. The point is . . .” She couldn't make herself ignore it anymore. Not when with every passing minute any possibility of
not
falling apart when he left became less and less likely.

“Amelia . . .”

When he didn't go on, she tipped her head. His gaze was a mix of intense and uncertain. As if he knew what he wanted to say but wasn't sure he should.

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up.”

He shook his head and stepped back. “I've been telling myself not to think about it.”

“Same here.”

“Let's make a pact: We'll talk about it tomorrow. Tonight, we'll do our best to forget. Deal?” He held out his hand.

“Deal.” She placed her palm in his.

“I can think of better ways to seal the deal than a handshake, but honestly, if I kiss you again, we might never get to the rest of the evening.”

“Right, the other things you apparently got ready.” She grabbed the Earhart picture book and let him lead her upstairs to the adult department. They walked through the center aisle. Lightning pulsed in flashes overhead through the domed ceiling. They wound up near the back, where a long glass window and an open cherrywood door peeked into a small study room.

“Here we are.”

She stepped into the cramped room—only space for a couple chairs and a table covered with . . . wait . . . her laptop? She hadn't even noticed it was missing when she was at the house. But that wasn't all. All her Kendall Wilkins notes were spread over the table's surface. Her folders. Photos. Newspaper clippings.

“How . . . when . . . ?”

“Raegan played errand girl for me this afternoon. She got your house key from Sunny Klassen.”

“You guys are sneaky.”

“I thought we'd make it a working date—at least for some of the night. You should've seen the way your face lit up at the bridge when you told me about Kendall and Harry's war experience.”

“It adds a whole new angle to the story.” She'd recited the email from Harry's granddaughter for him as he'd taught her how to cast the fishing rod.

“And I know you're a little disappointed that you still don't know what was in that safe-deposit box. But do you really need to know? You've pretty much proven your point—there was supposed to be something in there. He wasn't pranking the town.”

“Right.” True. She
could
write the story without solving the mystery of the box's missing contents.

“And you said you've never been more excited or more nervous about a single story, that you weren't sure how to even get started. I thought maybe I could help you do that. Get started, I mean. I know it's work, but the whole writing, wordsmithing thing—we both love it. Could be fun.” He lifted his eyebrows in question. “And there will be pizza.”

And there would be him. Which was so, so clearly the best part.

“If you'd rather not—”

“Are you kidding? Write a story with
the
Logan Walker?” She leaned up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Best.” His other cheek. “Date.” His nose. “Ever.”

He backed her into the room with a kiss of his own. “I think we might be lucky if we get a single word written.”

The clang of a door closing wrenched Logan from a hazy sleep. One arm numb, the other spread out beside him on . . . the floor? He was on a floor? And not alone, either.

It registered at a turtle's pace—the library, the date, Amelia. They'd worked for a couple hours on her story, eating slices of pizza while they took turns typing. They'd taken a break around nine, roamed around the dark library, wound up down in the children's department again in the storytime room, where plastic glow-in-the-dark stars were stuck all over the ceiling.

He'd coaxed Amelia to the floor, made up stories about made-up constellations to make her laugh.

And now . . .

She curled against him, her head tucked against his chin, her arm over his chest.

“Logan?”

He blinked, tried to focus. The clatter of footsteps sounded in the distance, and was that Raegan's voice?

“I saw your car, so I know you're still here.”

Oh man . . .

He wrenched free from his sleepy daze and jerked upright. Amelia tumbled over, her head hitting the floor as she gasped awake.

“Sorry, sorry.” He leaned over her, an apologetic laugh toppling out. “Your poor head.”

She dragged her eyes open. “What . . . where . . . ?”

“Logan!” Raegan's voice again.

Now Amelia's eyes were open . . . and wide. “We fell asleep? What time is it?”

He combed his fingers through his hair. “No idea.”

Raegan flew into the room. “There you are. Logan—” She cut off, glancing at Amelia, then back to him, thinking who knows what about how she'd found them. But she only shook her head. “You need to come, Logan. Charlie's on her way to the hospital—”

“What?”

“And the police need to talk to you.”

O
kay, what we're looking at here is an incomplete fracture. That's good news.”

Logan was sitting in a hospital room, holding Charlie's hand—the one not propped on a pillow and ice pack—while a police officer waited outside the room to question him.

About an assault charge.

Filed by his father-in-law.

Sorry if
good news
felt like a stretch.

“What's that mean exactly, an incomplete fracture?”

The doctor turned off the light on the X-ray viewer. “It means the bone didn't break completely. Children have softer, more flexible bones than adults—sometimes they bend and crack instead of breaking. She'll still need a cast, but probably only for four or five weeks.”

Charlie whimpered, and he lifted his other hand to smooth her curls.
Oh, baby. . . .
Her My Little Pony nightgown had still been wet from her own tears when he'd arrived.

“In other words,” Dr. Lewis continued, “if you have to fall out of a bunk bed and break an arm, this is the best-case scenario.”

Best-case scenario—no. Best-case scenario would've been
Logan being the one to comfort her on the way to the hospital and sit with her through the first round of X-rays instead of showing up just five minutes ago.

Even better, Logan being the one to put her to bed so he could line up the wall of pillows and stuffed animals he usually did to make sure she didn't roll out.

Neither of those two scenarios included Logan on the other side of town being woken up to find out his daughter was at the hospital. Or arguing with a police officer in the ER parking lot.

“Assault? You'
ve got to be kidding me.”

“We just need
to talk, Logan. Get your side of the story. Make
sure we've got our facts straight.”

He'd thrust his arm toward the hospital's fluorescent lights.
“The
facts are going to have to wait. My girl is
in there.”

Dr. Lewis wrote something in a file, then closed the folder. “Typically with children this young, we sedate them for the realigning and casting. And we'll want to take another X-ray once it's casted to make sure everything's lined up. We should have you out of here by midnight.”

Midnight on a day that felt like it'd begun a month ago. Such an awesome high sandwiched between such incredible lows.

The next twenty minutes passed in a blur as they transferred Charlie to a different room, sedated her, and started the casting process while Logan waited in another hallway. Sans cop, at least. His reflection stared back at him from the glass window looking into the room. The bright light of the corridor highlighted the ragged pull of his fatigue, the beginning of a beard, the rumpled shirt.

“Logan?”

Dad. He walked toward him, Styrofoam cup in each hand. “It's basically water and some grounds. Probably been sitting on the burner all day. But it's something.”

Logan accepted the cup but didn't take a drink.

“Amelia's still out in the waiting room. Raegan, too.”

Oh right. Amelia had ridden to the hospital with them. Tried to encourage him from the backseat. Offered to come with him to the room where Charlie waited.

He didn't know why he'd said no.

“Raegan should take Amelia home. It's going to be a while longer. You should go, too, Dad.”

“Then who would take you and Charlie home?”

“Oh yeah.” He finally forced down a drink of stale coffee. “Not thinking so clearly.”

Through the window, he could see the doctor and nurse at work, wrapping strips of white around Charlie's arm. Her curls hung over the edge of the table, and one of her shoes dangled halfway off her foot.

“Well, this is number six.”

Logan turned. “Huh?”

“Six broken bones in the family. Beck broke his leg when he was eight and then his wrist when he was twelve. Rae fractured her collarbone that time she fell on the ice. And just last fall, Kate broke an arm and a leg at the same time. Charlie makes six. Although come to think of it, I think Kate had some fractured ribs last fall, too.”

That had been one the scariest phone calls of his life—the one about Kate and Colton's backroad scare last year. Considering how Emma had died, the words
car accident
were enough to churn his stomach into losing its contents.

But Kate had recovered. And Charlie would, too.

He wasn't so sure about himself.

“This isn't me, Dad.” He slumped against the wall. “This reckless, impulsive person. It isn't me. I don't leave my job for two months. I don't put off important decisions. I don't hit people.”

And he sure as anything didn't go around falling for women
whose livelihood he was one sale away from ruining. Not when it distracted him from his daughter, his obligations, his future. If it wasn't for his feelings for Amelia, he might've sold the paper weeks ago. Told Hadley
yes
on the spot last week. Returned to LA already to prepare himself and Charlie for their new life.

Not fair and not true.

Because hadn't he also stayed in Maple Valley for Charlie? Been hesitant to take the Hadley job because of Charlie?

“She fell out of her bunk bed, Logan. Nothing you did—reckless or otherwise, today or any other day—caused that.” Dad's hand rested on his shoulder. “She's going to be just fine, son. And so are you.”

“Even if I get arrested for assaulting Rick O'Hare?” He wished he were joking. But the footsteps sounding down the hall belonged to the cop—he knew without even looking up.

“I don't know what Rick was thinking.”

“He was thinking,
here's another notch in the O'Hare column when it comes to custody of Charlie
.” Logan's anger pitched. “I don't understand. He's not the same man who welcomed me into the family like the son he never had when Emma and I got married.”

The police officer approached.

“One daughter has died, Logan. The other is in a halfway house four hundred miles away.”

The reminder stung.

“Logan?” The officer stopped in front of him. “Can we talk now?”

He recognized the policeman. Stan Whitmore. Used to lead the drug and alcohol prevention program at the junior high. He'd grown around the middle, lost most of his hair. But he had the same calm voice, the one that'd made Logan wonder as a teen how someone so placid had gone into law enforcement.

But all the kind tones in the world weren't enough now to still his nerves. “Do we have to?”

“I'm afraid so. Normally I'd ask you to come down to the station, but under the circumstances . . .” He glimpsed past Logan into the hospital room. “If it were something else, I'd wait until morning. But with assault, it's policy to follow up immediately.”

Dad stiffened. “Don't you think
assault
might be overstating things? He threw one punch. It de-escalated in less time than it took to escalate.”

“And that's why I'm here. I need to hear Logan's take on what happened. As for assault, that's simply the verbiage of the charge brought forward.”

“So I am being charged? Are you going to arrest me?”

The officer took a small notepad from his pocket. “Not at the moment. As for charges, that's what this conversation will help decide. But that's not up to me. I just need to know what happened.”

Logan folded his arms. “Half the town saw what happened. Can't you talk to any of them?” Maybe someone who didn't have a daughter's arm being wrapped in a cast?

“Half the town doesn't have a police report in process. Do I need to ask you to come down to the station, after all?” The first hint of irritation tinged Stan's voice.

Frustration twisted so thick it threatened to clog Logan's throat. “No. No, I can . . . talk.”

He relayed the story in fits and spurts. Couldn't find Charlie. Panicked. Exchanged words with Rick. Lost his temper.

“Where'd you hit him?”

“His cheek, I think. I wasn't really aiming for anything in particular.”

Amelia appeared at the end of the hall, saw him talking to the officer. He could read her concern all the way from here.

“One punch?”

“Just one. Uh, my dad intervened. Brought me to my senses.” He nudged Dad. “Hey, could you tell Amelia she can go home? Tell her I'm sorry about how tonight ended.”

Stan lifted his pencil. “We're almost done here, if you want to tell her yourself.”

No, it was better this way. She'd ask questions he couldn't answer. Like how he was doing and if there was anything she could do to help. She'd turn those warm eyes on him and reel him in until he honestly believed everything was going to be okay. Just like Dad said.

But it wouldn't be. Not until he found his way back to solid footing. Tonight was a wakeup call.
You could lose your daughter if you don't pull yourself together.

He'd lost focus—but no longer. “Go ahead, Dad. Please.” He lifted one hand in a limp wave, then turned back to Stan. “Any other questions?”

Why didn't he call back? Or at least text?

Amelia sat in her car in the parking lot of the Maple Valley Community Church just like she did most Sundays. Refusing to be on time. Muted voices drifted from outside, where sunlight tunneled through yesterday's leftover clouds. She'd called Logan last night after Raegan had driven her home. And then again this morning after a wilted night of little sleep.

She'd almost driven out to the Walkers' house instead of coming here. But the same stalwart murmur that coaxed her here week after week, even when she was sure her days of steadfast faith were behind her, had beckoned again. So here she was.

But if her conscience could be stubborn, so could she. She'd
walk in her usual five minutes late. Sit in her usual seat in the back. Stay invisible.

Amelia nearly jumped at the knock on her window.

Jonas Clancy? The loan officer had ducked down to look inside. He wore clip-on visors over his glasses and a gray suit.

So much for being inconspicuous. She glanced at her phone one more time, as if she somehow might have missed a ring or buzz or something—anything—from Logan. Then sighed and got out of her car. “Hi, Mr. Clancy.”

The banker waved a teenager on toward the church—Webster, the high schooler Jonas and his wife had adopted after he'd come to live with them as a foster kid. The one who hung around with Colton Greene all the time.

“We're not in the office, Amelia. Call me Jonas.”

Music drifted from the church, and a car's tires sputtered over gravel behind him. “All right. Jonas.”

“I know it's Sunday, and if we don't get inside soon we'll miss the best donuts, but when I saw you in your car, well . . .” He straightened his tie, then flipped up the visors from his glasses. “Figured maybe I could save you a trip to the bank. It's about your loan application.”

Oh.
He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his regret so clear that the nice thing to do would be to save him from saying the rest. Tell him she understood and insist they go in for those donuts.

But something in her needed to hear the words. So she simply waited, her greenish-blue skirt ruffling around her ankles.

“We have a pretty firm threshold for financial risk. If ever I wanted to ignore the threshold and take a risk on someone, it's you.” Beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead despite the cool morning. “I really mean that. I read the
News
each week. Love seeing photos of Webster in the Sports section.”

She should feel something more right now than vague
disappointment. But hadn't she sensed this was coming? She'd known what a long shot the loan truly was.

And perhaps, too, Owen's words yesterday had burrowed farther into her heart than she'd realized.