by Melissa Tagg
“Look at you, you’re blushing right now.” Raegan’s smirk dared her to argue.
“Am not.”
“I could roast a marshmallow from the heat on your face. Don’t feel bad. Most girls who meet my brother who aren’t related to him fall for him. And some who are related to him. I have this third cousin who, I swear—”
Amelia fumbled off her bar stool, sweeping up her empty milk glass and plate. “I’m regretting coming over here.”
“I could set you guys up.”
“Rae—”
“Besides, you haven’t gone on a single date since I met you. So—”
“Shouldn’t you be at one of your forty jobs?” Her voice came out harsher than she’d intended, punctuated by the clatter of her dishes in the sink.
And Raegan’s silence.
She whipped around. “Rae, I didn’t . . . didn’t mean . . .”
But Rae was standing, wiping crumbs from her fingertips, refusing to meet Amelia’s eyes.
Why had she said that? Obviously Raegan’s lack of career direction bothered her more than she let on—and Amelia had gone and trampled on what was already a sore spot.
“Your next batch is burning.” Raegan thumbed toward the stove, then left the room.
With a sigh that was as much frustration as regret, Amelia flicked off the oven and pulled out the tray of overly brown cookies. She transferred them to a cooling rack, plated up the leftovers from her previous batch, and covered them with Saran wrap, then went looking for Raegan. Up the stairway leading to the second floor. Down the dim hallway.
She stopped at the soft lilt of a voice. A low whisper, singing a gentle melody she didn’t recognize, coming from one of the bedrooms she’d never been inside.
And she couldn’t help it. She slipped closer to the open door, allowed herself to peek inside. Her heart turned to liquid at the sight. Someone leaning over a bed, pulling the covers over a curled bundle, hushed song melting to an end.
Logan?
She peered in. Can’t be him. He’s in LA.
Whoever it was, she shouldn’t be intruding on this moment.
So why was she standing in the doorway? Watching the man arrange the covers? Holding her breath . . .
He leaned over to kiss the child in the bed, then stood. “Goodnight, Ladybug.”
And then Logan—yes, definitely Logan—turned. He started only for a moment when he saw her there. And before she realized what was happening, he’d crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her to a solid chest. Her face landed in the crook between his shoulder and a stubble-covered chin that brushed over her forehead. And oh, he smelled good—woodsy, masculine.
Did he think she was Raegan or Kate?
She could feel the muscles in his arms as they tightened around her.
Men don’t hug their sisters like this.
What was she thinking, leaning into the hug as if she belonged there? Words not fully formed climbed up her throat, but a stubborn, indulgent piece of her swallowed them down until—
“Emma.”
He rasped the name.
And icy realization darted through her.
Emma, his dead wife.
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 impres
sive 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.”
4
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.
He 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.”