From the Start (7 page)

“Not gonna lie. I’m happy with how it turned it out.” Seth gestured across the room. “In here you wouldn’t even know a tornado hit.”

So this was what vision looked like. The kind born and nurtured through determination, effort . . . success.

Colton used to know what that felt like.

“How long did the place sit empty before you bought it?”

Seth skirted around black-topped tables now, moving toward the front door. “Six or seven years. The city was on the brink of tearing the place down. There were days over the past year when I thought it’d never come together, but somehow it did. And honestly, I think it’s the fact that it wasn’t a cakewalk getting to opening day that’s been helping me take the storm damage in stride.”

Colton reached around to rub the crick in his neck that had been hassling him ever since he woke up that morning. Probably the result of spending the night in a twin bed he barely fit into.

Which made the decision he’d come to last night just before finally drifting off to sleep all the more logical: He’d help out with whatever storm repairs he could today—which he now knew meant playing lumberjack—but then he’d catch a flight back to California. If not tonight, then tomorrow.

He didn’t belong in Maple Valley.

He’d felt it last night as the Walkers gathered in the kitchen, their laughter drifting upstairs to where he lay in Logan’s younger brother’s old bed. He’d felt it this morning as he watched Kate hug her father and joke around with her siblings and cousin as they trickled from their bedrooms one by one.

He felt it now . . . as he looked around Seth’s restaurant, wondering what it’d be like to know not even a tornado could topple his dream.

Seth pushed through the front door. “Be back in a minute with the axes.”

Half an hour later, sweat beaded on Colton’s forehead as he angled his arms behind him, then forward—the thwacking of the ax digging into wood vibrating up arms. On the other side of the massive tree trunk, Logan took his turn. Across the room, Seth paced, cell phone at his ear, smile spreading over his cheeks.

“Look at him,” Logan said, breathing heavy after his last
swing. “Flirting with his girlfriend while we chop a tree that’s already down.”

“How do you know that’s who he’s talking to?”

“See the smile on his face? If that doesn’t spell
lovesick puppy dog,
I don’t know what does. Word on the street is he’s had a girl stashed in that apartment upstairs all summer.”

“She wasn’t stashed and she wasn’t there all summer.” Seth’s shadow formed over the tree trunk. Must’ve gotten off the phone in time to hear Logan’s last comment. “Get your intel right. She stayed at your dad’s.”

Logan leaned his elbow on the end of his ax, wiping one palm across his forehead. “Raegan told me all about it. Turns out our boy Seth has been emailing a girl constantly—like multiple times a day—for a year. And then she showed up here on opening day. Hasn’t left since.”

Seth shook his head, red creeping into his cheeks. “Wrong. She went home to Michigan end of last week.”

“And then came running back as soon as she heard about the tornado. According to Raegan, the whole town’s been waiting for the two of you to admit you’re crazy about each other.”

Slithering heat snuck through the tarp and slapped against Colton.

“Now you see what I have to deal with living in Maple Valley, Colton.” Seth’s phone rang again. He checked the display but didn’t answer. “I don’t even know why this town bothers with a newspaper. Talk spreads like poison ivy. Trust me—you so much as walk down Main Ave with a girl, and the local busybodies will have you coupled up in no time. Dare to have dinner with her in public, and you might as well start ordering wedding invitations.”

Colton let out a laugh, then lifted his ax. “Don’t worry, don’t think I’ll be here long enough to give the gossip line any romantic fodder.”

Although he couldn’t help the dollop of a memory that dropped in just then—of Kate Walker standing next to him, fingers wrapped around that beater and cheeks rosy on either side of her smile. Morning sunlight had brushed gold streaks into her hair and dotted matching flecks in her eyes.

And there, just for a moment, all thought of ditching Iowa had thinned away into nothing.

But why? Because for a few minutes a pretty girl had made him forget about everything he’d lost in the past year? No, he wasn’t about to lose his focus.
Get back to LA. Choose
a writer. Get the book done. Figure out what’s
next.

Seth’s phone rang out again, and this time he lifted it. “Sorry, probably the insurance company. Gotta take it, but I promise I’ll take my turn with the chopping after.” He moved away.

Logan lifted his ax. “Actually, Colt, speaking of your not being here long . . .” The sound of splitting wood erupted.

“Yeah?”

“My dad seemed older today. Don’t you think?”

“Bruises and a sling could do that to anyone.” But Logan had a point. Back in college, Colton used to think his friend’s dad looked exactly like John Wayne from those old westerns one of his foster dads used to watch. Same height and bulky build. Same etched face that seemed more laugh lines than wrinkles.

But this morning, he’d appeared . . . tired.

Colton swung his ax.

“Did you see Dad’s backyard? The tarp covering the roof? And apparently the depot he works at received more damage than anyplace in town. Then there’s this restaurant. I think Seth has it in his head that he’ll be opening up next week. But he’s got to rebuild a wall. Fix plumbing. Have an inspection.” Logan stilled. “There’s so much. Too much. And with campaign season heating up . . .”

Colton read the frustration in his friend’s eyes.

“I can’t stay.” Logan leaned one elbow on his ax. “But you could.”

Whoa, wait
. “Logan—”

“My father needs help. Seth needs help. I’d stay if I could.”

But Colton couldn’t stay either. He had a book to write and a career to revive. He couldn’t put all that off to . . . what? Be a handyman in Nowhere, Iowa? Even if he did genuinely feel for Case and Seth and all the residents of this little town, he couldn’t. “Sorry, man. I don’t think . . . ” He fumbled for an excuse, settled for lifting his ax.

“Why not? What do you have in LA to go back to?”

The force of his ax burying itself into the tree shook through him, pain slamming up his bad shoulder.

And Logan’s words—stinging.

Of course I have things to go back to.
His condo. What was left of his career.

Which is what?

The book project.

Which you could do from anywhere.

He looked at Logan again, took in the desperation clinging to his features. He was just trying to help his family. Which was so . . . Logan. How had the guy held on to his good streak after all he’d been through? Losing his mom and then just a few years later, so suddenly, his wife. Thrust into single parenthood while juggling his speechwriting career.

And it wasn’t just his family Logan reached out to. How many times over the years had he come through for Colton? Especially this past year, after the injuries. And he’d never once asked Colton to return a favor.

Until now.

The pain in Colton’s shoulder pulsed now. It’d be weeping
for ice by tonight. Nevertheless, he lifted his ax once more. And realized he didn’t have a choice.

“How could you not tell me, Rae?” Kate whisper-shouted the question as her sister slid into a seat next to her at a table in Seth’s restaurant.

Somehow her cousin’s place had become the gathering spot for tonight’s impromptu town meeting—during which the residents of Maple Valley would decide whether or not to move forward with the end-of-summer festival they always held on Labor Day. Two days from now.

Hilarious, really, that there was even a choice to be made here, considering the torn-apart state of the town. But that was Maple Valley. Resilient, even after a tornado took a bite out of it.

Resilient or maybe just crazy.
Then again, this was the town that’d once moved forward with its live Nativity at Christmas, even after one of the teenage wise men had accidentally burned down the makeshift stable. The town that nabbed any and every excuse to hold a fair or fundraiser or put on a fireworks display.

“Not tell you what?” Her sister tucked a strand of hot pink hair behind her ear. Raegan had always had a style all her own—pierced eyebrow, at least a dozen thin bracelets crammed onto one wrist, bright hues streaked into her hair. She was the only one of the siblings to inherit Mom’s lighter coloring—blond hair and blue eyes—instead of Dad’s darker features.

“About Dad getting crushed by a beam at the depot.” Chatter buzzed through the room—snippets of conversation about wrecked garages and missing lawn furniture—and the bell of the restaurant’s entrance jingled in a steady rhythm of arrivals.

“He wasn’t crushed.” Raegan shook her bangs out of her eyes. “And he didn’t want me to say anything. You know how Dad is.”

No, she knew how Dad
was.
Former military man turned international diplomat. Ambassador who’d served at the foreign office in London and later—after marrying Mom—in New York City at the UN building. Sometimes still seemed like a different life—those early years on the East Coast.

They’d moved to Iowa when Kate was only seven—the first time Mom got sick. But even then and through all the years that followed, Dad had retained his solid nature and soldier-like stature. And yes, of course
that
Dad would’ve refused to tell her about his injuries.

This morning, though, he’d looked like a different man. Exhausted. Weakened. The sight had sliced through her, even as she grinned and barreled in for a hug, careful to avoid the sling.

“You should’ve told me.”

“You were already planning to come later in the weekend. He didn’t want you changing your plans.”

Up front, Milton Briggs, longtime mayor, pounded a gavel on the brass cash register that sat on a counter.

“Hey, careful, that thing’s an antique,” Seth called from across the room.

Amazing to think her cousin—the one who’d job-hopped his way through his twenties, restless and discontent—had created this space. It had the class and ambiance of a downtown Chicago restaurant with the comfortable feel of a small-town diner.

“All right, folks, let’s get this meeting started.” The mayor stood on a chair—probably a good call since he barely reached over five feet. What he lacked in height, though, the man made up for in personality. Ruddy cheeks, bushy eyebrows, always a story or joke for the prompting. In addition to serving as mayor, he also ran the town bakery, nearly as much a fixture in Maple Valley as the bustling Blaine River that ran through it.

“I think everybody knows why I called this meet—”

“Can’t hear you from the back,” a voice called.

Milt tried again, barely a notch louder. “I think everybody knows why—”

“He needs a microphone,” a woman from two tables over said.

“Folks—”

Milt was interrupted again, this time by someone claiming she had a megaphone in her car.

“Who keeps a megaphone in their car?”

Oh, Kate recognized that voice. Lenny from the woodshop, right?

“If you had seven kids, you’d keep a megaphone within reach at all times, too.”

“All right, all right.” Milt lifted his arms to quiet the crowd. Nothing doing. “Five-minute intermission while Mrs. Carrington retrieves her megaphone.”

Kate turned to Rae. “We didn’t make it thirty seconds into the meeting before a break.”

Raegan grinned. “It’s times like this I just love this town.”

“It’s quirky.”

“It’s home.”

True. And yet, Kate hadn’t lived here since college. And now she was contemplating leaving Iowa even further in the rearview mirror.
Africa.

How many times had Mom talked over the years about taking a trip across the Atlantic, seeing the fruit of all the work she’d put in back when she’d helped start the James Foundation?

Taking that trip felt a hundred kinds of right.

But the money.
It had become a nagging refrain she couldn’t shake. She needed to sell a script. A book. Something.

Now that she was home, though, it was more than finances yanking at her. There was also the wreckage in Dad’s yard. All the work to be done to clean up from the tornado. The depot . . .

“How bad is it really, Rae? Dad’s depot, I mean.”

Dad’s depot.
It’s what they’d been calling the Maple Valley Scenic Railway and Museum ever since Dad took it over. One of Iowa’s only heritage railroads, it was a huge part of what made Maple Valley the charming tri-county tourist stop it was, its fourteen-mile passenger ride a picturesque nod to simpler days gone by.

“Pretty bad. The roof was completely ripped off. Boardwalk’s gone. And it runs on a skeletal budget as it is, so I’m not sure he’s going to get much help from the city on repairs. There’s talk . . .” Raegan’s shoulders slumped. “Well, there’s talk that, if it can’t get fixed and reopened in time for the fall season, it might not reopen at all.”