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Natalie rolled her eyes. “Yeah, our crazy family.”
“Exactly, our family. Rebels, entrepreneurs, and mavericks. People not afraid to cross boundaries and veer away from the established path. Our family helped settle and build this town. Isn’t it about time we reminded folks of that and added to that legacy?” Miranda glanced at the brewery, a squat, nondescript building that could use a fresh coat of paint and a landscaper’s loving care. Still, the possibilities were there, hidden behind the bedraggled exterior, and she wasn’t ready to give up now. “It’s our brewery. We can make it into something to be proud of. We can make being a Sweet in Salvation a positive thing.”
“And just how are you going to do that?” Natalie asked.
Now that was the one million dollar question. “I have no idea, but we have a week until the county council meeting to figure it out.”
Caught up in the excitement of a shiny, new project, Miranda wanted to rush out of the sub-compact and dance in the parking lot. After a lifetime of watching her family’s out-there antics and feeling like she and her sisters must have been adopted, she finally understood the rush of standing on the metaphorical cliff, ready to dive off into the unknown. Her pulse clocked in at one-hundred miles per hour in a twenty-five-mile-per-hour zone, and she had never felt better.
“Where exactly does Logan Martin fit into all this?”
Just his name added a few watts to the giddy electricity buzzing through her veins. “Honestly? I’m not sure.”
“You know I’m always there for you, no matter what. If you think holding on to this place is for the best, I’ll back you on that with Olivia.” Natalie’s hand wrapped around hers and squeezed. “Just be careful.”
“Always.” But this time, being cautious meant betting on her future.
Like a condemned man after a pardon, the whole world looked brighter to Logan as he strolled inside the Heaven Sent Bakery for a donut and a coffee before a day at the bank. It would be a long day, not because his calendar was packed with meetings, but because he’d be constantly checking the clock, counting down the hours until he could see Miranda again. Just the idea of her lightened his footsteps as he approached the counter.
A pair of older men sat at one of the corner tables, talking in the kind of hushed tones only used when the gossip was really good. When one of the men spotted Logan, he dropped his gaze to the table and folded up a newspaper.
“Morning, Mrs. Franklin. How are you today?” Logan handed over a five-dollar bill to the bakery owner. Usually, his opener started a ten-minute chat about the weather, her grandkids, and the family’s pet pig that thought it was a person.
“Doing fine. Here’s your coffee and blueberry cake donut.” Mrs. Franklin practically shoved the steaming cup, donut, and his change at him. When he didn’t move right away, she leaned closer and her voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m real sorry about your dad. I knew he had been…unhealthy…a while back, but I didn’t realize he’d had a stroke. A real bit of yellow journalism it is. I have half a mind to write a letter to the editor about it.”
Logan’s appetite disappeared, and the donut crumbled in his hand. “What are you talking about?”
“The story. In the newspaper.” Her cheeks flushed scarlet. “Oh, God, you haven’t seen it yet.”
Mind a blank, he shook his head.
Mrs. Franklin rummaged around in the shelves under the counter for a minute before slapping The Salvation Gazette down on the counter. A story on the new water processing plant was the lead story with a picture of the local 4H group’s upcoming fundraiser taking up most of the top half of the front page. Below the fold, next to an article about an emergency county council meeting, a photo of his father holding up a glass filled with amber liquid caught his attention. Though undated, it had to be decades old. His father hadn’t had that much hair since Logan had been in high school. Maybe it was just because he was looking for it, but he couldn’t help noticing that the old man’s eyelids were droopy and his sloppy smile listed to one side.
Financial Troubles Plague Proposed Industrial Park read the headline. In the sentences that followed, certain phrases jumped out. Financial mismanagement. Lack of disclosure. Alcohol addiction treatment facility. Multiple stays.
Logan grasped the countertop with both hands, anchoring himself to its cold reality. Tyrell had promised he’d make Logan pay. It looked like the small town Napoleon had made good by hanging the Martin dirty laundry on the town square. The report made it look like the Martins were bumbling idiots attempting to fleece the community. Instead, they were fighting to bring more jobs as well as right their own family’s financial ship. His throat tightened, and each heartbeat pulsed through his body. He’d let this happen and opened up his father to public humiliation. The old man was a giant pain in his ass, but he was still his father, and that meant something.
“Has my father been in yet today?” The seven words scratched their way out of his raw throat.
Worry lines deepened Mrs. Franklin’s forehead. “About an hour ago.”
Not giving a shit about the way it must look, Logan tore out of the bakery, intent on finding his father before he found a bottle.
A Hamilton County deputy’s patrol car sat parked in front of the house when he pulled into the driveway. A deputy stood on the front porch, his hands clasped behind his back in military fashion. Logan didn’t see his father or an ambulance, and fear shook him like a rag doll. He was too late. His dad had gotten drunk and something had happened. Judging by the dark look on the deputy’s face, maybe the worst—a car accident that left his father’s car wrapped around a tree, a fall down the stairs while his father had been drunk, or even fatal alcohol poisoning. Every bone in Logan’s body ached with regret and grief. He’d always known this moment would come. He just hadn’t thought it would hurt this fucking bad.
Holding on to the last threads of Martin-bred propriety, Logan forced himself to get out of his truck and walk the stone path connecting the driveway to the house. Each step was closer to a place he didn’t want to go.
“Logan Martin?”
His gut contracted, and he climbed the steps to the front porch. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry to do this, but—”
The screen door flew open with such force it banged against the house, and his father burst out. Confusion and relief tugging at him, Logan sank down against the porch railing as his h
eart rate returned to normal. “You’re okay.”
“I most certainly am not.” Larry glared at the deputy with stone-cold sober eyes. “He’s here to arrest you.”
