Like Never Before (3 page)

Theo's hand found his shoulder. “Come on. Let's start asking around. She's probably out here with the nanny somewhere.”

Logan nodded, blinked, tried to reach through the fog of alarm for something solid—common sense or courage or . . . something.

Nothing.

“Mr. Walker!”

He pivoted at the frantic call. Krista? The nanny.

Without Charlie.

She reached him, tears streaming down her face, head shaking before he could even ask the question. “I couldn't find her. I called and called and I couldn't find her. The alarm . . . and then this firefighter made me leave the apartment and . . .”

Beside him, Theo sprang into action, running after the fireman they'd just talked to. Krista kept talking, waving her hands.

But Logan couldn't hear over the roaring waves of his own panic.

L
ogan couldn't make himself let go of Charlie.

A chugging breeze, carrying the bitter odor of smoke, sent his daughter's reddish curls tickling against his jaw and cheek, her head buried in his neck. Her limbs hung loose around him, her breathing heavy. Amazing that she'd been able to fall asleep amid the clamor of angst-ridden residents and firefighters swarming the lawn.

It'd been forty-five minutes since the fireman had come jogging from the apartment building, Charlie in his arms, and Logan's pulse still hadn't steadied.

“I heard someone say it was a microwave fire.”

Theo was still here? Had he been standing next to Logan this whole time? The muscles in Logan's arms pinched. “Bad?”

“Not from the sound of it. I bet they'll let residents back in soon. I already called the committee for the fundraiser, let them know you won't be there.”

“Thanks.” His voice was flat even if his heart rate wasn't. Didn't matter if the fire hadn't amounted to any real damage. Didn't matter if he ever found that napkin scribbled with
whatever important wording about whatever important political issue.

Only thing that mattered was his little girl.

And those minutes of terror, when he'd instantly morphed into the same Logan Walker who'd stood by Charlie's crib the night of Emma's funeral, three days after the drunk driver had stolen his wife from him, suddenly so horribly abandoned, despite the relatives who still lingered in the living room.

Convinced he couldn't do this by himself.

Alone.

“She's okay, Walker.”

Theo. Theo with his wife waiting for him at home at night. Theo who couldn't possibly understand, despite his best intentions.

“Tell me you're going to fire that nanny, though.”

Logan shifted Charlie to his other shoulder. She barely stirred at the movement.

“He doesn't have to fire me. I quit.”

Both Logan and Theo pivoted at the voice. Krista stood with her hands on her waist, ponytail askew and frown glued in place. Gone were the tear streaks from earlier. In their place, a biting resentment hardened her eyes.

“You quit?” Logan's arms tightened.

“That's what I said.”

Theo visibly bristled. “You've got some nerve, kid—”

Logan cut Theo off with a glance, then pinned Krista with the kind of glare he used to give when his younger brother hustled him at basketball. “You left my daughter in a building on fire, and
you're
the angry one?”

She cocked her head. “Yeah, I'm angry. She wouldn't answer. Charlotte never answers.” She flung her hand toward Charlie. “I'm yelling for her, panicking, looking everywhere I can think of. Do you have any idea how freaked out I was?”

“
You
were freaked out? I'm her dad.”

“Then act like it.” The words burst from Krista, pummeling Logan with their force. “Get her some help. She's three. She should be talking by now. She should at least be able to answer when someone calls her name.”

Every defensive nerve in his body surged, anger throbbing through him. “You have no idea what you're talking about.” Their argument had begun to attract attention. He could feel the curious stares of neighbors he'd never had time to get to know.

“Keep telling yourself that if you want, but it doesn't take a child psychologist to know something's not right.” Krista swung her backpack over her shoulder. “And I can't handle just standing by and watching while you neglect—”

“That's enough.” Theo's firm voice severed Krista's tirade. “You obviously don't know the person you're working for. Neglect isn't even in Walker's vocabulary. You want to quit, quit. But no one needs to hear your lectures.”

Krista's frown deepened, and she looked from Theo back to Logan, then to Charlie's still-sleeping form draped over Logan's shoulder. For a fraction of a second, her expression softened. She met Logan's eyes. “If you need two weeks—”

“I don't.”

She nodded stiffly and turned as if to leave. But then she looked over her shoulder once more. “Did they say where she was hiding?”

“My walk-in.” The fireman hadn't needed to be any more specific. Logan had known. Emma's side of the closet, behind her dresses, wrapped in the tulle of her wedding gown.

A shudder ripped through him now, the ache pleading for release. And Krista saw it, didn't she? Saw the panic-induced pain threatening to undo him right here on the lawn, in front of everyone.

But she only turned, walked away.

Logan made himself blink. Swallow. One deep breath and then another. And the second he'd lured the grief back into its hiding place, a bevy of questions rocketed to the surface. What would he do without a nanny? Who would watch Charlie during tomorrow's press conference? Was their apartment still livable?

Charlie stirred in his arms, a tiny whimper feathering against his skin. He pressed a kiss to her head. He'd figure it out. He'd figure it all out. Because that's what he did. What he'd been doing for two years now.

“Listen, I should probably get back.”

He blinked for what felt like the hundredth time and turned to Theo. “Of course. Need to take my car?”

“Already called a cab.” Theo patted Charlie's back. “Glad she's okay.”

But . . . she wasn't okay, was she? Krista was right. Charlie would celebrate her fourth birthday this August, and she had yet to start really talking beyond a word or two here and there—no full sentences.

A pediatrician had momentarily quelled Logan's concerns last summer. Explained that without an older sibling to mimic, it might simply take her longer.
“Bring her back in six months if she
still isn't talking. But I bet she'll be
jabbering your ear off in no time.”

The beating sun heated him now. Six months. It'd been eight. And he hadn't even called to schedule an appointment.

“Oh, before I go . . . we should probably get back to Hadley ASAP.” Theo had his phone out as he moved toward the taxi that'd somehow wound its way through the crowded street. “You okay with me taking the lead?”

Had it only been a couple of hours ago that he and Theo had gushed about the senator? Dreamt about futures that looked
like something off
The West Wing
? “Sure, go for it.” His voice came out dull, croaky, as if he'd been the one to enter the smoke-filled building.

But he hadn't.
Someone else
had been watching his daughter before the fire.
Someone else
had rescued her during it.

He was just the guy who clung helplessly to her in the aftermath.

Just like so many evenings, when he arrived home hours after dark, only minutes before Charlie drifted off to sleep for the night. He'd rock her long after she nodded off, trying to convince himself this was working, this single parent thing.

But it was getting harder and harder to believe his own assurances.

A male voice speaking through a megaphone blasted in. “Attention, please.”

Theo paused, leaning over the open taxi door. “Don't do it to yourself, Walker.”

Logan glanced at his friend. Was he that see-through?

“Don't beat yourself up for not being there earlier or think you're a horrible dad. Anybody would admire the way you've raised Charlie since Emma . . .”

The fireman's voice droned in the background, letting the crowd know there'd been only structural damage to a couple apartments. Most residents could reenter the building in a few minutes. A couple units on the sixth floor, though—Logan's floor—had suffered heavy smoke damage.

“I'll tell you what Roberta S. Hadley says after I talk to her, okay?”

Logan grasped for the interest he knew he should be able to muster.
Roberta S. Hadley. Presidential campaign. She wants us.

Minutes later, he watched the taxi cut a path through the maze of vehicles and fire engines blocking the street. He felt the softness of Charlie's palm on his cheek and looked down
at her. She'd awakened, emerald eyes grinning at him, whatever fear had driven her into his bedroom closet now gone. Did she even remember being carried from the building?

“How's my Charlie?” He touched his forehead to hers, and she giggled. “Daddy's home early. Sounds like we might need to camp out in a hotel for the night. Maybe one with a pool.”

Her lips rounded into a surprised and happy
O
, and for an elastic moment that stretched with hope, he thought she might actually verbally reply.
Come on, honey, let me hear your voice.
But instead, she only clapped her hands, kissed his cheek.

He'd take it. For now, he'd take it.

Charlie wriggled then and tapped his back. She may not talk all that much, but she didn't have any trouble communicating. He bent over to slide her around his body, piggyback style, and started for the apartment building.

“Logan Walker?”

He paused and turned, squinting against the evening sun, and saw the silhouette moving toward him. A mailman?

“Yes?” Charlie's feet bumped against his sides.

“Got a piece of certified mail for you. You'll need to sign.”

Hard to do with Charlie on his back, but he managed. “Surprised you could find me in this mess of people.”

“Someone pointed you out. Most of the rest of the building will have to wait for their mail 'til tomorrow. Fire truck's blocking the mailboxes.”

Logan glanced at the manila envelope. Maple Valley address. A law firm?

“Glad I could at least deliver this, though.
Certified
usually means important.” The mailman winked at Charlie and moved away.

Afternoon warmth tinged with coastal humidity curled around Logan as he tore open the envelope and pulled out the packet of papers. Skimmed what looked like a cover letter
crowded with legalese until his attention hooked on Freddie Fitzsimmons's name—the old owner of his hometown paper, his one-time mentor.

And the words
last will and testament
.

“Want to tell me why we're sitting out here in the cold? Is there a reason we couldn't talk at your office?”

Amelia winced at the impatience huddled in C.J. Cranford's voice. The woman rubbed her hands together, breath forming clouds of white and heels tapping against the shoveled sidewalk underneath the park bench.

“Just wait.” Amelia dipped her chin into her scarf. “You'll see.”

“Will I? Or will my eyeballs get frostbite first?”

So maybe this hadn't been the best plan ever—the short trek around the block toward downtown. Wasn't it enough Amelia had already blown any chance at a good first impression with the woman who might be her new boss?

But if C.J.'s presence in Maple Valley meant what it had to—that Freddie had indeed signed all the documents before he'd died, gone and sold the
News
—then there was only one thing to do: Convince Cranford the paper was worth salvaging.

Forget the flood-damaged equipment. Forget the paltry advertising numbers. Forget all the reasons print publications in small towns were folding around the country. The
News
could be the exception.

Because it wasn't just any old newspaper. And Maple Valley wasn't any old town. In about five minutes, C.J. would see for herself.

The downtown fanned in front of them like a quiet audience—quaint storefronts brushed with the peachy-pink hues of an
ambling dusk. The shadows of bony trees and globe-topped lampposts patterned the blanket of white covering the town square.

C.J. glanced over. “You do know eventually we're going to have to talk business?”

“I thought that's what we did back at the office.” After begging Owen to cover her scheduled photo, Amelia had given C.J. a quick tour of the
News's
domain. She'd recited recent headlines and rattled off newspaper history—like the fact that this summer the
News
would celebrate its 100th year. An effort at damage control that may or may not have done any good. Because all C.J. had done after Amelia ran out of words was tilt her head and say, “Coffee?”