Keep Holding On: A Contemporary Christian Romance (Walker Family Book 3)

by Melissa Tagg

  What Beckett wouldn’t give for the hot water of the shower to wipe away the past twenty-four hours as easily as it’d washed away the grime of yesterday—a day with too many confined spaces. The airplane, the rental car, the jail cell.

  A towel around his waist, Beckett shook the excess water from his hair, then leaned over the bathroom sink. Laughter drifted from below through the open vent, along with the smell of breakfast. He’d wanted to skip it, hide out from his family a while longer. They’d been gracious enough not ply him with a thousand questions when he’d finally been released last night. Or maybe not so much gracious as simply too busy.

  Because as soon as they’d all been together at Dad’s house—minus Seth and Ava, of course—Logan had announced his news, stunned them all first into silence and then into a celebratory uproar.

  Married. Logan had gone and eloped with his girlfriend of only a few months. Beckett still couldn’t wrap his head around it. Neat and orderly Logan, the guy who planned every move five steps in advance. And the girl in question—Amelia, the wife and second-newest Walker—had only left Logan’s side long enough to hug each member of her new family.

  Awkward, that. Hugging a woman he’d never met, realizing she’d probably witnessed his arrest along with the rest of them, wondering what she must think of her new brother-in-law.

  He’d never gotten around to sharing his own news, which didn’t so much feel like real news anymore. Not after Logan’s shocker. It wasn’t like he’d even been accepted into the JAG Corps yet. All he had was a very syrupy-sounding story of sitting on a beach near Boston, tired and restless, as his old dream came sputtering back to life. He’d wondered if it might actually be God stirring him up. He’d made the decision right then and there, felt a peace he didn’t understand.

  Now he had an interview scheduled. September 8, just a little over a month away. He was required to meet with a field screening officer, plus complete a lengthy and intense application by November. He figured he’d get the interview out of the way first, then focus on the written portion of the process.

  Last night had put a chink in his plan to handle the arrest warrant before his big day, but surely he could still get it taken care of in time. He had to. Because he was done letting his past keep him from the kind of future he hungered for. One in which he felt like he was actually doing something he was meant for, something worthwhile.

  Something that would make his family look at him the way they tended to look at Logan. Or even better, Dad.

  Anyway, much as he wanted to, he was smart enough to know there’d be no holing away for long this morning. Thus, the dragging himself from bed. The shower. The attempt at making himself presentable.

  But the image staring back at him now appeared ragged, frayed. The damp ends of his hair skimmed his ears and neck, and if he didn’t find a razor eventually, what had been a five-o’clock shadow yesterday would end up being the beginning of an actual beard. The circles under his eyes and the yellow glare of the lights over the mirror gave him a hollowed look.

  But at least he was clean.

  Beckett grabbed his toothbrush from the silver cup he’d stuck it in last night. His niece’s princess toothbrush and two others were propped in the holder, as well. He recognized Logan’s glasses folded on the counter and Raegan’s bright pink robe hanging on a hook on the back of the bathroom door.

  He made quick work of brushing his teeth, the voices from below growing louder. Get some coffee in him and a hearty Walker breakfast, and he might be halfway up to handling the questions he knew his siblings wouldn’t be able to hold back once he made an appearance downstairs.

  What was last night all about? Do you have to go to court? How long are you staying? How’s work? What’s Boston got that Maple Valley doesn’t?

  And Kit. They’d ask about Kit.

  Beckett slapped off the bathroom lights. He glanced into the hallway before crossing to his bedroom. Not that his sisters hadn’t seen him in solely a towel before, but they were adults now and there was Logan’s new wife to consider and—

  The shriek from across the room and his own shock nearly knocked his breath from him.

  “Beckett!”

  Kit? One hand flew to the knot in the towel at his waist as he stared. Definitely Kit. Definitely standing in his bedroom. Definitely staring right back at him.

  “What the heck, Kit?”

  The navy blue comforter from his bed lay in a pile near Kit’s feet where he’d kicked it off last night. “You’re not dressed.”

  “Yeah, I usually don’t wear clothes when I take a shower.” He yanked the towel tighter around his waist.

  “I didn’t know—”

  “Clearly.”

  Embarrassment colored her cheeks and apparently kept her from being able to look him in the eye, because her gaze hadn’t moved from his torso. But he didn’t have the same trouble, his focus moving from her ponytail to her t-shirt and shorts to her pale legs—guess they didn’t get much sun in England—and bare feet. There were the flip-flops he remembered.

  A summer-scented breeze from the open window sent his bedroom door sailing shut, and Kit practically jumped. Awfully skittish considering she was the one to show up in a guy’s bedroom unannounced.

  “I need your help, Beck.” She blurted the words.

  “Morning to you, too.”

  She dropped into the chair at his old desk, pushed up to the wall beside the window. “Well, sorry, you don’t seem in the small talk mood.”

  “Maybe because I was sorta planning to, I don’t know, get dressed before entertaining callers.”

  The red in her cheeks deepened.

  “Did someone let you in?”

  She poked a thumb over her shoulder. “I . . . uh . . . I climbed in the window.”

  He ignored the niggle of familiarity that image induced. “Not a fan of knocking?”

  Finally, she lifted her gaze and met his eyes, a sudden streak of defiance brightening her ridiculously blue irises. “I’ve climbed in that window a hundred times, Beckett Walker, and you know it. We always climbed in each other’s windows. It was our thing.”

  “That was a long time ago—”

  “Yeah, well, I did it for old times’ sake.” She crossed her arms. “I thought it might be endearing.”

  “Try intrusive.”

  Before he could blink, she stood to snatch a pillow from his bed and chucked it at him. It hit him square in the chest.

  “Hey—”

  “Put. A. Shirt. On.” She punctuated each word with flung items—another pillow, the shirt he’d abandoned to the floor last night, a ball of socks. By the time she’d picked up the last pillow on his bed, he’d moved out of her line of fire, his surprise-turned-amusement finally spilling over into laughter.

  He reached for the hoodie over his closet doorknob and scrunched it into a ball before throwing it at her. “Don’t get mad at me, Kit. I’m not the one who—”

  “What in the world is going on here?”

  He froze. Kate stood in the doorway, the clatter of footsteps behind her telling him everyone else was on the way too.

  “Kit?” Raegan slipped past Kate. “How did you . . . ?” But her voice trailed as her attention flitted to the open window.

  And then Logan. “Let me guess. You took the screen off your window last night so you could sit on the roof and have a smoke before bed.”

  Beckett rolled his eyes. “I did that one time.” Smoke a cigarette, that is. Climbing onto the roof had been a nightly ritual growing up.

  And now Dad. “Really, Beck? You had to take the screen off? Tell me you didn’t leave it open all night while the A/C was running. And all the mosquitos—”

  “Why are you all looking at me?” He jabbed his finger toward Kit. “She’s the one who climbed in. Started throwing things at me.”

  “I did not.” Kit flounced her ponytail over her shoulder.

  His jaw dropped at her bold-faced lie. He spread his arms. “So every untethe
red item in this room just happened to scatter all over the floor?”

  “Hold onto your towel, please.” This from Kate.

  Dad barely stifled a chuckle. “I gotta get back downstairs before the mini-quiches burn. Everyone, let’s leave these two alone.” He herded the family into the hallway but stuck his head back in the room before retreating. “Feel free to stay for breakfast, Kit. That is, after you two . . .” He looked between them. “Talk. Or whatever.”

  And then he was gone, along with everyone else, their laughter trailing behind them.

  Kit hauled her gaze from the open door to him, puddles of red still coloring her cheeks, but now something other than embarrassment huddled in her eyes. Longing. He could see it plain as day. Always could read her easier than a picture book.

  “Mini-quiches. Your dad’s specialty.” Her voice had gone soft.

  How many Walker breakfasts had she been in on? It was a family tradition and she’d pretty much been family there for a while.

  He walked to the open suitcase on his bed and picked out a shirt. “What are you doing here, Kit?” He pulled a plain white tee over his head.

  She turned toward the window, obviously meaning to give him privacy to finish dressing. “It’s the orchard. I was just out there and I didn’t notice it at first but . . .”

  He pulled on a pair of tan shorts. “What?”

  “Fire blight.”

  She turned. The fear etched into her expression was enough to barrel past his reserve. “Are you sure?”

  Kit nodded.

  The half-dozen summers and falls he’d worked at the orchard as a teenager were enough for him to understand the danger of the infection. It could sneak up, infecting trees during humid spring or early summer days, but not show itself for weeks.

  “I don’t know how many trees are affected yet. I just saw it and panicked and did the first thing I could think to do. Which was come here.”

  She’d come through the ravine, hadn’t she? Just like when they were kids, so many trips back and forth across the creek that separated the properties.

  She tilted her head to look up at him. “You helped Grandpa that year in high school when it happened, right? I know I have no right to ask, but I have no idea where Lucas is and I know Willa will help but even so—”

  “Kit.”

  She stilled.

  And in the quiet, something shifted. Suddenly she wasn’t the woman who’d wordlessly pled for him to rescue her from a wedding she didn’t want, only to walk away from him, too, an hour later—hurled words from both of them in her wake.

  But just . . . Kit. The one person who knew him better than anyone. The only one who’d known exactly where to find him the day after Mom died, who’d witnessed his sobs and then had the grace not to say another word about it.

  “Beckett, I . . .”

  Whatever she was going to say dissolved into a strained silence filled only by his own conflicting thoughts.

  This is Kit. He’d never not helped her when she’d needed it.

  This is Kit. The woman whose words, so much more than that car accident and subsequent threat of arrest, had driven him from town.

  This is Kit. His best friend, once upon a time.

  Finally, a sigh. “We’ll need chainsaws.”

  He refused to let his attention linger on her grateful smile.

  “Kit, it’s almost ten.” Nigel called from the ground below. “Call it a day.”

  The groaning of every muscle in her body told her to listen to him. After twelve hours of inspecting trees one by one, mixing bucket after bucket of bleach solution, immersing her chainsaw blade in between every cut of every infected branch—she’d be lucky if she could move her arms tomorrow.

  But just enough filtered moonlight laced its way through tree branches to keep her from quitting. “You go on. I want to finish this row.” And maybe the next.

  “You’re exhausted, darling. You never even had dinner.”

  Because it was too hot to eat. And because every time she stopped for a break, the questions needled her again: Had Lucas known about the blight when he’d left? Did Dad know? And even if she managed to stave it off, keep it from spreading, and save any or all of this season’s crop, what did it matter if there was no one to run the place?

  Unless you stayed.

  That last one—not a question, not a needling. Instead—an inkling, a wondering. Maybe for the first time in a long time, some kind of divine nudge showing her the desire of her heart.

  Or she was simply overly tired, and like a parched soul in a dry desert, looking for a vision where there was none. After all, she had a life in London. A relationship. And if Dad had thought she was capable of managing the orchard, he would’ve asked her to do so in the first place.

  “Kit.” A thin layer of annoyance hedged Nigel’s voice. Could she blame him? He’d expected a leisurely weekend, getting to know her better as he observed her in her hometown. Instead, he’d gotten a day of physical labor under a pummeling sun.

  It was tedious work—scouring branches one at a time, lugging sloshing buckets and heavy chainsaws from tree to tree.

  “I promise I won’t be much longer, Nige.”

  If he meant to argue further, she didn’t hear it under the buzz of her chainsaw. Willa had gone home a couple hours ago when the sun still lazed in the west, Case and Logan Walker not long after. They’d worked in pairs most of the day—she and Nigel, Beckett and Willa, Case and Logan, three saws between them and as many ten-gallon buckets.

  Just as her arms were about to give out from the weight of the pulsing saw, the knotty bark of a limp limb finally gave way to her blade. One more fresh wound. One step closer to eradicating the fire blight before it spread any further. She felt the branch detach just as the ladder jostled under her feet.

  “Really, Nige, I can finish by myself.”

  “What? You’re going to climb down to bleach your blade in between every cut and then back up again?”

  Her gaze swung from the tree to the face looking at her over the ladder top. Not Nigel. Beckett held out her bucket, and even in the dim of twilight, the day’s toll was displayed all over him—sweat-dampened shirt clinging to his chest, cheeks and nose reddened by the sun, and fatigue written into the shadows under his eyes.

  “That’s what you’ve been doing since Willa went home, isn’t it? Working solo?”

  “Yeah, and it’s been slow-going.” Propping the bucket between his waist and the ladder, he reached around for the chainsaw. She didn’t argue but did relieve him of the bucket, then glanced behind her in time to see Nigel’s weaving retreat through the web of trees. “I told him to head back. Said I’d help you finish off this tree, then drag you home.”

  “But I want to at least get through the rest of this row and—”

  “Too dark to be using a chainsaw, Kit.”

  And yet that didn’t stop him from dipping the blade into her bucket and lifting it to a gray, diseased branch. The droning motor kept her from any kind of sarcastic retort.

  That and the gratefulness coming off her in waves. Twenty-four hours ago, she’d been convinced Beckett would be happy never to talk to her again. But he’d spent an entire day helping her, wrangled his dad and brother into giving up their Saturday, too.

  He’d hardly said a word to her all day, just worked as vigorously as if this was his orchard, as if it mattered as much to him as it did to her.

  As if there weren’t years of distance and hurt and abandoned memories between them.

  He continued on for several more minutes, scanning the underpinnings of the tree for gnarled branches, running his fingers along fresh cuts, while she held the bucket of liquid for him. Did his arms feel as brick-heavy as her own?

  Finally, he choked off the saw’s whir, scrutinizing the half-stripped tree and then nodding. “This one’s good.”

  She met his gaze over the ladder. “You know, if I go get one of the other saws—”

  He shook his head, the first
hint of a smile she’d seen all day teasing the corner of his mouth. “Too dark,” he said again. “Injury follows you around. You’d end up accidentally sawing off a finger.”

  “Untrue.”

  “Broken collarbone from a fall on the ice in fifth grade. Stitches from a shop class project gone wrong in seventh grade. Sophomore year, sprained ankle during a basketball game.” His forehead creased as if he was scouring his memory.

  “You done?”

  “Split lip, sledding accident. Now I’m done.”

  “Interesting how you were around for every single one of those.”

  He shrugged. “Pure coincidence.” He stepped one rung down, but then stopped when she didn’t follow, now eye level over the ladder’s top.

  “Beck . . . thank you. For today. Willa thinks we might’ve gotten the worst of it. We’ve lost a chunk of the crop, but not a devastating amount. But without you . . . you dropped everything to help.”

  “Wasn’t much to drop.” His dark-eyed gaze roamed the landscape around her. “You’ll need to monitor it closely.”

  “I know.”

  “Not just the infected trees, but all the ones around them.”

  “I know.”

  Beckett simply peered at her then, quiet and waiting. So not the vocal, boisterous Beckett she remembered.

  And that wasn’t the only thing different about him. Oh, he still had the dark Walker eyes, the hair, the height. Unlike his older brother’s twin dimples, Beckett had only one—barely noticeable unless he smiled just right.

  But there was a new depth to his gaze now, a lingering . . . something. Yearning, perhaps, or an ache that hadn’t been there before. Or if it had, she hadn’t noticed it underneath his usual buoyancy.

  “Kit.”

  He said her name and she blinked—caught staring. She should laugh right now, say something about returning to their roots, reminisce about so many summer nights in the orchard as teens. But the same tightness in her muscles extended to her voice, squashing whatever words might have plucked the tension from the wending air. And instead, in the clammy quiet, realization skimmed over her.

  The Beckett Walker she’d known as a kid had gone and grown up—completely and entirely. Become a man. One with broader shoulders and firmer angles and . . .