“Logan is not a man-child.” Paige’s voice was sharp. “He is just as smart as before.”
“Hmm. Then why does he talk so s-l-o-w?” she asked, drawing out the last word.
Paige knew exactly how smart she and Logan both were, with her breakup with Logan after she discovered he’d reenlisted and then sleeping with him again her senior year in college before he’d shipped out. Nobody in Hornbeck knew he’d been to see her at school. She’d been so angry at him and scared for him and it had just happened.
Nine months later Lori had happened. She’d picked the name to honor Logan. Hoped they’d have a chance at a second start after she finished her undergraduate schooling. His plan had not included being wounded and nearly dying. And hers didn’t include giving up on him. Their families had convinced her to stop telling Logan about Lori’s paternity when he couldn’t remember anything new past a few hours back then. She’d agreed, but she had continued to bring Lori for visits. Seeing their baby brightened Logan. Only she believed that Logan could handle the responsibility of caring for a daughter. As it turned out, she’d been wrong.
She’d ignored them and Lori now had a scar on her chin that served as a constant reminder that Paige was not always the best judge where Logan was concerned. Her emotions and hopes were too tied up in his being able to love her and their daughter to allow her to be unbiased. Now she feared trying and failing again with him. She’d given him time, years to recover. He didn’t forget things anymore. His speech had improved, and he was working now. It seemed dishonest not to again tell Logan about their relationship and his daughter. She’d have to tell them both eventually, especially when it seemed Logan no longer forgot things. She’d been waiting for Lori to be old enough to understand that her father had a TBI. Was an eight-year-old capable of comprehending this?
Maybe his father would agree with her that it was time.
“If you weren’t so stubborn, you’d…” Her mother’s words trailed off.
Paige tried to ignore the urge to ask her mother to finish her sentence, knowing that she wouldn’t like what she had to say, and failed.
“I’d what?”
“You would stop following Logan like a puppy and pay a little more attention to Logan’s older brother. Connor’s been sweet on you for ages and he’s asked you, I don’t know how many times, to go out with him. He’s got a thriving business and a political position. He has that big house that I’m sure he bought because he knows you love it.”
“That isn’t true.” But even as she said it, Paige suddenly feared it was true. “Logan is Lori’s father.”
Her mother sniffed. “Who can’t tell a baby from a remote control,” she muttered as she continued the rhythmic stirring.
Connor was the smart choice; any of the single, employed professional men at Rathburn-Bramley would be. She’d been asked. She’d said no.
Because she was an idiot. Because she didn’t love Connor. She loved the man who had left her behind. That man had not come back. As for Connor, fondness and guilt were poor foundations for a relationship.
Paige thumped her elbows on the table and cradled her forehead in her hands.
“Lori deserves a father, Paige. One qualified to care for her.”
She pressed her mouth closed to keep from lashing out. Her daughter did deserve a father and had one. It was Paige’s decision to keep them apart. And it was a decision she reconsidered daily as Logan improved.
“He’s not going to remember you, Paige. He’s just not and he never will. And even if he did, do you want to be married to a man who earns his living at the benevolence of others? He’s the village idiot.”
Paige pressed her hands flat on the table and rose to her feet.
“Mother, if you ever call him that again, I will take Lori and that job offer in South Carolina.”
“Might be better for you if you did. Better than seeing you mooning around after that boy.”
Paige gaped. She’d never expected her mother to call her bluff.
“Mom, is that what you want? For us to go?”
“I want what I’ve always wanted—what is best for you. And that boy never was and never will be.”
LOGAN FINISHED DIRECTING the rush of vehicles leaving the company lot and funneling up to Main to then head toward Mill Creek to the east or Ouleout to the west. After he stopped back in his office to lock up, he headed toward his blue 2004 Ford pickup. Then he made his way home. The temperature had dropped, and he worried that it might rain on Saturday. That would put a damper on the Harvest Festival. If this kept up, they could even have snow on their big day.
Instead of stopping at his home, he passed it and turned down Cemetery Road, crossing the West Branch of the Raquette River and then heading along River Street. Dr. Sullivan had lived in a Dutch Colonial home just outside the village. He had planned to only drive by but found cars and trucks parked in the drive and on the lawn. The porch was lit up and callers spilled across the porch and down the steps.
He parked across the road, off the shoulder, and headed over to the property. Logan tipped his hat and murmured hellos to the familiar faces and didn’t even try to focus on one speaker or another. With so many folks conversing at once, he just couldn’t identify who was talking. He passed Mr. Sinclair Park, who stood on the steps. He knew that Paige’s department reported to him, because she’d once pointed him out as her boss’s boss. He worked at the plant, something in production, and had moved to Hornbeck soon after being hired about the same time Logan started as a constable.
“Logan,” said Mr. Park. “Paying your respects?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s a good man.” Park slapped him on the upper arm as if he were a draft horse.
Logan stepped in from the cold and into the bright hallway. He removed his hat and gave it a spin before unzipping his constable jacket. He had intended to find Mrs. Sullivan, seeing her in deep conversation with her sister, Freda, in the living room, but then he spotted both Sullivan’s fourteen-year-old son, Steven, and eleven-year-old daughter, Valerie, sitting with their chins on their knees on the steps leading to the second floor. Instead of the familiar basketball shorts and sneakers, Steven wore gray slacks and a black shirt, and Valerie was wearing a forest-green skirt and white blouse. He’d never seen them in this sort of attire.
Steven’s chin lifted when he spotted Logan, assistant coach of his travel basketball team.
“Coach,” he said, his expression hopeful.
Logan changed direction and headed up the stairs, pausing to sit two steps below the kids. He placed his hat on the same step.
“I’m sorry about your dad, Steven, Valerie. He was a really good coach.”
Valerie didn’t make a sound, but tears sprang from her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.
“You going to be our coach now?” asked Steven.
“I don’t know. Probably.”
“Everyone keeps hugging me,” said Steven, his expression now cross. His lower lip and the break in his voice told Logan that Steven was on the verge of tears. A swipe of his sleeve across his eyes confirmed Logan’s guess.
“It’s okay to cry, Steven. When my mom died, I cried for months. Not all the time but a lot and sometimes when I didn’t expect it. I’d just start crying.”
“How’d she die?” asked Steven.
“It