Like Never Before (6 page)

The second he heard his own voice, Logan jerked. As did the woman in his arms. The woman who couldn't possibly be Emma.

She stumbled from his grasp, strands of hair toppling from her ponytail, shock written all over her face. Completely justifiable shock, given what had just happened.

You went off the deep end.

He closed his eyes, exhaustion from the two-day drive clawing at him. That had to be it. The fatigue. The dark room. The fact that as he'd sung Charlie back to sleep after carrying her into the house, memories of being here in this room with Emma had risen like fog and obviously confused him.

And for one longing-filled moment, he'd actually thought . . .

“I'm . . . you're not . . .” He willed his words to work, whispering lest he wake Charlie. “I'm sorry.”

“It's okay, Logan. I shouldn't have barged in here.”

She knew him? “Who . . . ?”

But then she stepped back, moonlight filtered through filmy curtains highlighting her profile—button nose, freckles. Even in the wan light, her eyes were familiar.

“Amelia,” she supplied. “Amelia Bentley. From the
News.
”

The editor who'd tried to coax him home in a one-day email exchange. The one with the camera at Colt's press conference.

But why was she here?

And could she see the warmth crawling over him? It was more
than embarrassment.
Try mortification.
Partially because of the hug, but mostly because of the stinging whiplash his mind and heart had just gone through.

And the stark reminder.
Emma. Gone. Two years.

“Sorry for walking in. I just heard you singing and, well . . .”

“You heard that?”

“It was sweet.” She nodded to the bed. “Your daughter? Rae's told me about her.”

She was friends with Raegan, then. That explained what she was doing here. Too, the laughter he'd heard from the kitchen when he'd first walked into the house. He'd purposely skirted past the main living area, intent on getting Charlie to bed before his family could get ahold of her. They'd rile her up and he'd never get her back to sleep.

He followed Amelia's gaze toward Charlie now. She sighed in her sleep, turning to her side, a stray curling drooping over her forehead.

“About that hug—”

“It's really okay.”

He met Amelia's eyes—hazel, flecked with amber. He remembered meeting her back in February. She'd rambled on about how she'd read all his old articles while he'd stood there thinking he'd never seen irises so shifty in color. Like sunlight through autumn leaves.

And the way she looked at him now . . . it was like she knew all about Emma.

“Logan?” Raegan's squeal bounded into the room. “What in the world?”

She barreled toward him. And it wasn't a minute until half his family barreled in. Seth, his cousin. Kate and Colton. And of course Charlie woke up. Laughter, rounds of hugs. Then Dad, too, wandered in.

Ten minutes and a drawn-out explanation later, they found
their way to the kitchen. The smell of cookies hovered in the air, voices all talking over one another. Charlie was already playing catch with Colton, a pair of rolled-up socks for a ball. Kate was pouring glasses of milk and handing out cookies.

“I'm making decaf.” Raegan held up a coffee pot.

He felt a palm on his shoulder. Dad.

“You sure know how to turn a house into an uproar, Logan.”

“Sorry to get here so late. I know the plan was tomorrow, but once we hit Nebraska, I got eager. You sure you're okay with us staying for a couple weeks?”

Dad grinned, eyes on Charlie. Colton had once said Dad reminded him of John Wayne—same height and broad build. Same etched face. But to Logan, Dad was just Dad. The man he most admired in the world. “Are you kidding me? You know I love having a full house.”

Which was exactly what he was about to have. Although surely Kate and Colton would end up married before long, and Kate would move out once more.

For the first time in a long time, Logan's heart hitched on the thought of, well, love, he guessed. The kind of romance that looked to be a lifelong thing.

Then again, he knew more than anyone that
lifelong
wasn't a guarantee.

No, not more than anyone.

He looked back to Dad, now sliding onto a seat at the island counter. The crinkles in the corners of his eyes when he smiled, the rumble of his laughter belying the heartache his father had been through—the slow-churning tragedy of losing Mom to cancer.

But Dad had healed, hadn't he? Settled into running Maple Valley's historic railroad and depot museum, carved out a new life for himself.

Unlike Logan, who mistook a random woman for his dead wife.

“Amelia.” Her name slipped out.

Raegan paused at the coffee pot. “Oh yeah, where'd she go?”

He had no idea. She'd come down to the kitchen with them and gathered up some papers on the counter while everyone else was a tornado of activity.

The coffee pot moaned, and Raegan pushed it under the counter. “I hope she didn't think she needed to leave because this suddenly turned into a family night. I'll go see—”

“Let me,” Logan interrupted and pivoted from the room before anyone could question him. He toed on his shoes in the entryway. Sharp cold pricked his cheeks as soon as he stepped outside. The light over the garage hummed against the still of the night.

He scanned the driveway before his attention hooked on footprints leading to the side yard. And there she was . . . building a snowman?

The porch swing—the one where Mom and Dad used to sit at night, their muted voices drifting up to his screened bedroom window—creaked in the breeze. He followed the footsteps. “Amelia?”

She turned at the sound of his voice, his snow-packed steps. “Oh . . . hi.”

He stopped in front of her, breath visible in front of his face. “What are you doing?”

A gust of wind sent a cloud of snow curling off the roof and into her hair. “I coerced Raegan into building a snowman with me earlier this evening. When I came out to leave, I noticed his head had fallen off.” She shrugged. “Decided to help Frosty out.”

“Do you often play in the snow at ten o'clock at night?”

“I love snow. I'd play in it any time of day. I think I'm the only person in all of Iowa who mourns the end of winter.”

How could he have possibly—even for a hazy, yearning second—mistaken her for Emma? The hair should've been a
giveaway. Or the frame. Emma was slighter. Even with a coat, he could see Amelia had . . .

He cleared his throat. “You didn't have to leave.”

Although now he kind of wished he'd let her. He was cold—should've grabbed a jacket on his way out—and he was embarrassed all over again, uncomfortably cognizant of her probing study.

“I figured you Walkers could use some family time. So, what are you doing home? Did your family know you were coming?” Her grin turned playful. “Decided to take up my job offer?” Moonlight brushed streaks of gold in her hair and eyes.

“You ask a lot of questions.”

She shrugged. “I'm a reporter.”

Yes, at the paper he now owned. The paper he planned to sell. Because it made sense. Because his life was back in LA. Because he had a presidential candidate waiting on him, and because he'd promised Theo.

And because for all the good times he'd had working with Freddie at the
News
, one lousy story had been enough to sour him. Local politician. Big secret. Scandal and a wrecked career.

And Logan's name in the byline.

This many years later, he shouldn't still feel guilty. But it made the desire to sell even stronger.

Amelia dotted two eyes into the snowman's face with her finger. He should tell her.

Instead, he found himself reaching down for a handful of snow, patting it into the side of the snowman. “You know, if you'd made the base bigger, the head might not have fallen off.”

“Way to critique my snowman-building skills instead of answering any of my questions.”

He laughed. An honest-to-goodness, unadulterated laugh. Possibly his first since leaving California. “How's the newspaper biz?”

“Fine. Could be better, I guess. There's a strong chance we're going to get sold off. And I was offered a job at the paper that's likely going to buy us out. I have to make a decision by tomorrow. A logical person would take it, but I happen to love the
News,
this town. First place that's felt like home since forever, and I keep thinking if I can just come up with the right plan, maybe I can save the
News
and—” She broke off. “I don't know why I'm telling you this.”

Cold burrowed through his thin coat. “And I don't know why I hugged you earlier, thinking you were . . .” He coughed, breath forming clouds of white. “Anyway, again, sorry about that.”

“Again, it's really okay.” Her voice was soft. She drew a smile onto the snowman with a stick. “I guess I'd better get going. I still have cookies to deliver, after all.”

“You made the cookies?” He trailed her from the yard to the driveway.

“My one and only specialty.” She stopped at the tiny two-door that must be hers. “Raegan told me you're a health nut.”

“Not a health nut. Just a believer in the food pyramid.”

“Well, try one of my chocolate chip cookies and you might be tempted to give them a spot on the pyramid. I burned the last batch, but if you snag one of the early ones, you'll see.”

“You're modest.”

“Or just honest.” He reached for her car door, but before he could grab it, she stopped with a questioning look. “Hey, Logan, how would you do it? Save a dying newspaper, I mean.”

Tell her.
“Amelia—”

“Just hypothetically. If a newspaper you loved was about to go under, how would you turn the tide? Impress a new owner?”

He sighed. “Hypothetically? I'd work my tail off enticing advertisers. Shave off a couple spreads to lower print costs and make sure the space I have is filled with good material.” He shrugged. “And I'd go hunt for a riveting front-page story.
Something I'm passionate about. Because passion shows, and a good story can't hurt.”

He could practically hear her latching on to hope at his advice. He could kick himself. “Amelia,” he began, fully intent on finally being honest as he opened her car door. But the second the door opened, a sheaf of papers came fluttering out. They slapped against each other, and he rushed to catch them before the wind stole them away.

Amelia managed to catch one of the rustling pages. He snagged the other two and started to hand them to her but stopped when his gaze landed on familiar words. Wait a sec.

“My education speech?” His gaze whipped to Amelia. “What are you doing with this?”

“I . . . Rae . . .”

Either her winter coat and scarf weren't nearly warm enough or that was a blush, plain as day, painting her cheeks. “Amelia?”

“I read your speeches sometimes, okay? I think they're great. Raegan gets you to send them, and she passes them on to me, and I just like reading them, all right?” Her words released in bullets. “I bribed her with cookies for this one. Go ahead and laugh.”

“I'm not laughing.” Though he couldn't have stopped the tease from infusing his voice if he'd tried. “I am, however, entirely flattered.”

She snatched away the papers he held. “Don't get smug. It'll ruin my image of you.”

“You have an image of me? And tell me, how do my speeches match up to your cookies? Am I as at the top of my game with my skillset as you are at yours? Allegedly, anyway.”

She thrust the papers inside the car and turned back to not-entirely-convincingly glower at him. “There's no
allegedly
about it. Go inside and eat a cookie, Logan Walker.” She dropped into her car.

One hand on her door handle, he leaned over. “Happy speech-
reading.” He closed her door, and her engine sputtered. He turned back to the house to see Dad waiting on the porch.

But before Logan made it up the stairs, he heard a car door closing again and pivoted to see Amelia outside once more.

“
His Girl Friday.
”

Even from across the driveway, in the dark, he could see her eyes light, realization dancing through them.

“Hildy. From the classic movie
His Girl Friday
. Cary Grant. Rosalind Russell. Cary's the editor who keeps trying to get Rosalind's character, Hildy, to come back to the paper.”

Oh right, from that email exchange. He'd called her Hildy and told her to figure it out. “Well done,” he called back at her.

Behind him, Dad whistled. “Flora would be proud.”

Mom had loved old movies. So much so that he'd wound up with an impressive storehouse of trivia.

Except Amelia looked more impish than impressed. She shrugged as she leaned against her car. “I got the movie right even if you got the characters wrong.”

“Say again?”

“In our scenario, I'm Cary Grant's Walter Burns, trying to lure you back to the paper.
You're
Hildy.” She straightened, one eyebrow lifted. “If you're going to whip out a classic, Walker, don't botch the reference.”

And then she dropped back into her car and backed out of the driveway.

Dad's chuckles, then his footsteps, sounded in the snow beside Logan. Gawking stars blinked overhead.

“She doesn't have any idea you're her new boss, does she?” Dad said.

Logan folded his arms, the heaviness he'd felt ever since receiving that certified letter finally whisked away, at least for now, by a yawning wind. He grinned. “Nope.”

July 24, 2008

Dear Logan,

If you're reading this, it means I've passed away and you've just discovered you now own a newspaper. Surprise! I'm sure you're wondering why I'd leave a paper to you that you've only just recently walked away from. I'm happy to explain.

But first of all, you need to know, you're the closest thing I've ever had to a son.

H
e couldn't read this now.

Logan folded Freddie's letter along its creases, slow and deliberate, giving himself time to swallow the emotion pooling inside him. Why hadn't he realized how important he was to Freddie?

How important Freddie was to him.

“You read that quickly.” Hugh Banner, the lawyer who'd sent
the certified letter that had pulled Logan home, folded his fingers atop the expansive mahogany desk in his office. The man's wiry frame was dwarfed by his high-back leather chair. Thin, white hair and eyes that might've been labeled beady if they didn't contain such compassion. He probably knew perfectly well Logan hadn't finished the letter.

Maybe, depending on how much Freddie had told him, he even knew why.

“I wouldn't have a career today if it weren't for Freddie.”

Hugh leaned back in his chair. “Oh, I doubt that. You're a Walker, son. You were destined for a big life.”

Perhaps. With a dad who'd fought in Vietnam and gone on to work as an ambassador and diplomat and a mom who'd helped start an international foundation, maybe being a Walker came part and parcel with lofty career goals. And maybe he would've ended up where he was now with or without Freddie's influence. But he certainly wouldn't have made it through Mom's sickness and eventual death without Freddie's intervention. Not that Logan hadn't had his family, but they'd all been grieving, too. Even Emma had seemed somehow . . . too close.

Freddie had stepped in right when Logan had needed him most. Given him an internship and later a job, a distraction.

And now he'd given him his legacy.

“As you should know from the papers I sent, Freddie was looking at selling the
News.
The flood last fall put him in a pretty bad financial hole. His insurance policy was a joke.”

Logan forced himself to pay attention. He shouldn't have stayed up so late last night with his siblings. Definitely shouldn't have let Charlie stay up so late.

But even when he'd finally dropped into bed—in the bedroom in the house he'd grown up in—he hadn't been able to drift off to sleep. Not with so many racing thoughts about Charlie, the spontaneity of this trip, the newspaper, Roberta S. Hadley . . .

And that editor, Amelia, with the freckles and the tease in her voice. Somehow he needed to find a way to let her know
he
was now the owner of the paper she loved so much . . . and probably not for long.

“Freddie actually had a buyer lined up?”

“Cranford Communications. Tri-state media company.”

“I'm familiar with them. They own the
Communicator.
Thing I don't get is why they were interested in buying the
News
if it's in such bad shape financially.”

Hugh shrugged. “Because a bigger regional reach is a good long-term investment. The
Communicator
already covers three other towns in our county. Why not Maple Valley, too? They'd get our advertising, our subscribers, and our news without any of the overhead costs. They can sell off the building and the equipment.”

Oh.
Now Amelia's worry made sense. She wasn't just out to save the paper—she was out to save jobs.

“I've had a ridiculous number of calls from the Cranford people, by the way, since Freddie passed. They're still interested in moving forward with the sale. In fact, I've got a whole packet of paperwork I can give to you. Should've brought it in with me.” Hugh rose. “I'll be back in a minute.”

Logan stood, too, turning a circle in the office as he waited for Hugh to return. The room wasn't so much an office as a library—one with shelves that reached all the way to a ceiling supported by cedar planks and embellished with dark crown molding, its blunt angles matching the room's masculine feel—all browns and blacks and tans. A fringed rug with swirls of burgundy and blue provided the only splash of brightness.

Quite the contrast from his sparse office back in LA. Or Freddie's closet of an office at the
News
building.

“You were destined to live a big life.”

Who knew what that even meant? But it couldn't mean hold
ing on to a newspaper that was bleeding money. The sooner Logan got this whole thing off his plate, the sooner he could focus on earning that spot on Hadley's campaign.

He just hated the thought of hurting Amelia in the process. She seemed . . . well, nice. And she liked his speeches.

“I heard you were here.”

He spun at the sound of the voice behind him. Not Hugh.

Jenessa?
Of all the people to run in to in his first twenty-four hours home . . .

She stood in the doorway with her posture as rigid as a cement statue, lips pressed together.

“Uh, hi.”

“Really? ‘Uh, hi'? I thought you were a speechwriter.” She pushed a sheet of coal-black hair over her shoulder and stepped into the room. “If that's the best you can do, I'm going to petition Maple Valley High to rescind that valedictorian title they gave you.”

“If I remember correctly, you already tried that. Sixteen years ago, week or two before graduation. Didn't go over so well.”

She brushed past him, tight black sweater emphasizing curves every guy in high school had noticed—Logan included. Until Emma had come along.

“You missed half the first semester of our senior year.” She leaned against the desk that dominated the room's floor space.

“Yeah, because my mom was sick and—” He cut himself off. It was an old, pointless argument, and it wasn't what bothered Jenessa anyway. He knew that much. “Jenessa, about your dad—”

“Don't. There's not a thing you can say that could in any way make up for what you did.” Her fingers tapped against the gilded antique globe propped on a stand next to the desk.

He dropped back into his chair, eyes on the globe spinning underneath Jenessa's red fingernails. “Why are you here anyway?”

“The firm's called Banner & Associates. I'm one of the associates.”

“But I thought . . . didn't you and . . . ?” He sorted through high school faces, searching for the name.

“Gage Fellows.”

Right. Baseball star in high school. Played in the minor leagues now. “Doesn't he play for some team out East?”

The tiniest chink marred her stern bearing as she slapped her palm over the globe. “We're still together. But during spring training and the rest of the season, he's barely around. He lives here during the off-season, much to my parents' chagrin. They've never been big fans of Gage. Not like with . . .”

You.
She didn't have to finish it. He and Jenessa hadn't dated more than five months their junior year of high school, but he'd never shaken the feeling that he'd let down her parents as much as Jenessa when he'd broken things off. And that'd been just the beginning of his tumultuous relationship with the family.

“It's not only your shoddy reporting that lost you points around here, Walker.”

He swallowed, sour memories stinging him. The article he'd never wanted to write.

“He could've been governor. He'll never get those years back, Logan.”

He should stand. Look her in the eyes. Counter the attack. But how did a person argue when the opponent was the one with truth on her side?

“You ruined his career all for a stupid headline.”

“That's not why—”

“And what really makes me sick is you're
still
the town golden boy while my dad's in and out of the hospital, forced into a retirement that's killing him as much as his disease you couldn't wait to publicize in a splashy front-page article.”

No, that's where she was wrong. He'd cared. He'd hated
writing that story. Didn't matter that it was the truth, that Freddie had backed him, that voters deserved honesty. “He had a serious, congenital disease, Jen. A degenerative disease, and he purposely misled voters. He lied about hospital stays.”

Why was he even trying to defend himself? Jen and her whole family had made it plenty clear years ago there wouldn't be any reconciliation. He'd written the story exposing her father's illness. Basically ruined the man's campaign . . . his entire career.

Interestingly, as much as he'd hated the experience, it'd shaped his future in ways he couldn't have imagined at the time. While covering that campaign, he'd gotten his first real taste of the political world. Had found himself reading press releases and listening to speeches and mentally rewriting them in his head.

And when his story about Jenessa's dad made national news, he ended up with connections that led to covering the Iowa caucuses for a couple national media outlets. By the end of that summer, he'd reconnected with Theo, an old friend from college—a California kid who'd never seemed to fit his poli-sci major.

But apparently he'd taken his studies seriously enough.

“Just stay away from my dad, okay?” Jenessa's voice jutted in. “Don't visit him while you're here. His health is getting worse, and the last thing he needs is to see you.”

“Jenessa.” This time it was Hugh's voice behind him, censure in his tone and pace swift as he entered the room. He strode past Jenessa and rounded his desk.

“Sorry, Hugh.” Jenessa straightened the globe atop its stand, refusing to look at Logan as she marched toward the door, heels clicking as the rug gave way to hard flooring.

Logan rose to his feet. “Jen?”

Her footsteps paused.

“I'm only here a couple weeks.”

She didn't face him.

“Last thing I'd want is to make anything worse with your dad. I'll . . . keep away.”

No acknowledgement. Only the latch of the door.

Maybe—probably—she was a hundred kinds of crazy. But tonight crazy felt good.

Especially with the whole
News
staff gathered around the oblong table, their laughter mingling with the live music and buzzing chatter filling The Red Door, Maple Valley's newest and nicest restaurant. Outside its gaping front windows, another round of spring snow glistened under the light of lampposts that wrapped like a line of sentries around the town square.

Amelia set her last folder in front of Owen and returned to her own chair, her puffy winter coat slung over the back.

“Wait, you brought us all here to work?” Kat Chin, the ad manager, flipped open her folder. “I thought this was, like, staff party time. A morale boost or something.”

Across the table, Owen fiddled with his straw wrapper, tearing the paper into tiny bits and letting them sprinkle to the tabletop. “You're not the only one who got blindsided.”

Poor Owen. He'd been the one to suggest dinner at The Red Door before calling it a day. Hadn't known until everyone else showed up that Amelia had gone and invited the rest of the team—and decided to present her plan for saving the
News
.

A plan that just might work. And she had Logan Walker to thank.

His hypothetical answer to her not-at-all hypothetical question had crawled into her brain and stayed there, lulling her into her first good night's sleep since C.J. Cranford's visit. And this morning, she'd woken up with the idea in her head.

She might not know who owned the paper. But she knew how she'd save it.

Her gaze flitted around the table now. Kat and Mikaela and Abby from the ad department. Mae, who was whipping through the pages in her folder. Ledge, the quiet giant of a man who ran the press. Taylor, their subscription and delivery manager. And Owen, half scowling as he swept up the bits of his wrapper into a pile.