Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
The town hall smelled of the coffee someone had set up on a folding table near the back. The front doors were propped open, letting in a lazy breeze that carried the scent of sun-warmed asphalt and freshly mown grass.
Next to Willa, two kids in shorts and dusty sneakers fidgeted in their seats, and a woman fanned herself with the meeting agenda. Laughter erupted from the front of the room.
She’d never had a problem with public speaking—she’d been doing it since high school—but about thirty minutes into the meeting, she decided it was silly to bring up pianists and scones while half the town was there to discuss road repairs, water rights, and whether the county should approve another development on the north edge of town.
“Okay,” the mayor said. “Who’s next?” Behind him, four council members sat at a long table facing the room. One took notes, two murmured to each other. The fourth looked at his phone. A hand went up, and the mayor said, “Go ahead, Austin.”
A folding chair scraped across the floor as a rancher in a sun-bleached hat stood. “If they put that subdivision in, my cattle won’t have anywhere to graze come spring. We’ve been using that land for thirty years.”
A murmur of agreement rolled through the room.
Another voice chimed in. “And who’s paying for the road upgrades? Because I sure as hell don’t want my property taxes going up again.”
Heads nodded. Someone clapped loudly with approval. “That’s right.”
Willa’s stomach sank. These were real concerns. Livelihoods. Taxes. Water. Land.
And there she was, about to stand up and ask for someone who could make a yummy breakfast for her guests.
She stared down at her notes, wondering if there was a way to spin it, to make her issue seem important to the town—not just to her family—when a ripple of movement near the back caught her eye.
Decker.
With his ball cap tugged low, he stood just inside the door, leaning slightly against the wall, the black boot on his injured foot making his stance uneven.
His brothers clustered around him—big, broad-shouldered men who all carried the same McKenna confidence in different forms. Finlay stood with them, her arm looped through Jude’s, smiling at her.
The tension in Willa’s chest loosened.
He didn’t have to come. He wanted to lie low, not draw attention to himself or his injury. But there he was, balancing on one good leg, scanning the room like he was there on a mission.
Then he found her.
His gaze softened just a fraction, like there was a cost to exposing his affection, and she grinned at him to let them know there was only reward.
The lesson there was to pay attention to his actions and not the mask he hid behind.
Once the discussion at the front of the room wound down, the mayor—the man who’d owned the Sal’s Pizza for as long as she could remember—stepped back up to the podium. “Okay, folks. Anything else before we wrap up?”
And somehow, just knowing Decker, Finlay, and the other McKennas were there gave her the push she needed. The inn mattered, and it was worth saving.
Also, why not add something lighter to all the gravity? Why not give the people of this town a chance to help? It wasn’t like she had other resources.
Willa pushed herself to her feet. “I’d like to bring something up.”
A few heads turned. The mayor squinted, clearly trying to identify her. “Go ahead.”
“I’m Willa Holland. My dad runs the Wild Rose Inn and Saloon. I came home this week and realized it’s at a turning point. I’ve decided to stay in town to help restore it to its former glory.”
“Woo-hoo,” someone shouted.
“About time,” another person called.
“I was wondering what was going on,” the woman next to her said.
Empowered, Willa pressed on. “And I need your help.”
“You got it.”
“Name it.”
She hadn’t expected that quick of a response.
She’d thought she’d have to convince them.
“Okay, well, we’re looking for a few things.
” She could feel Decker’s gaze on her, steady as a hand at her back.
“First, a pianist. Someone who can play in the evenings—you know, those old saloon songs everyone loved so much? Remember when the servers would stop to dance and sing along? We need that back.”
A man in the second row chuckled. “That’s how I met my wife. She was singing ‘Sweet Betsy from Pike.’ Fell in love with her on the spot.”
Willa smiled. “There you go. Then you see how important it is to get that back. Next—”
“Hang on.” A cheerful woman in a bright red tank top waved. “My son’s heading back to Juilliard in September, and I’m sure he’d love to do something other than play video games all day.”
Laughter rippled through the room.
“I’ll pay him out of my own pocket if it gets him out of the house,” she added with a grin. “But truly, he’s very talented. Been playing since he was five. He’d be perfect for that job.”
Could it be that easy? “That would be amazing. Thank you.” She couldn't hold back her smile as she looked down at her list. “Next, we need a chef. Our current one is only stepping in until we find someone permanent, but people used to love our breakfasts, and we still get calls asking for our recipes.”
“I remember those cinnamon rolls.”
“And the huckleberry pancakes.”
A woman near the aisle lifted her hand. “Best hash browns in the state, too.”
A few people called out in agreement.
Warmth spread through Willa’s chest. “Right? I mean, we have to find the right chef.”
“I hate to offer him up.” A woman against the far wall stood. “But my ex just lost his job in Denver. He’s looking to come back here. He’s an incredible chef, trained in Chicago. He worked at one of those farm-to-table places where everything costs too much and comes in tiny portions.”
More laughter.
“But he makes a mean breakfast,” she added. “And he still owes me for the truck he borrowed in ’09, so I’d be happy to point him your way.”
Willa let out a small, stunned laugh. “I’ll take a mean breakfast over fancy, tiny portions any day.”
“Texting him right now,” the woman said, chin lowered as she tapped on her phone.
“Third, we need a general manager. Someone who can help run day-to-day operations and oversee the other managers. So, yeah, that’s all I have.
I’ll be at the inn every day, so stop by if you have any candidates or leads, or you just want a freshly baked cookie.
” She started to sit down when she figured her dad was right.
She ought to just go for it. “Actually, there is one more thing. This one might sound a little crazy.”
“Oh, we like crazy,” someone called.
She grinned. “This year, for the first time, the inn wasn’t planning on participating in Wild West Days.
And I understand people aren’t as excited about sarsaparilla as they are about fancy coffees, so we have to come up with something new.
But if we can pull it together in time, we’re going to sell hand pies.
Apple, cherry, huckleberry, peach, and”—she cut a look to Decker, who beamed with pride at her, and warmth climbed into her cheeks—“strawberry-rhubarb. But we don’t have a chef, let alone the counter space, to knock out hundreds of pies a day.
So, if anyone wants to help us bake, we’ll provide the ingredients and the recipes. ”
A woman raised her hand. “I’m the PTA president, and I can send the word out through the phone tree.”
One after another, the offers came in.
“My bakery’s closed on Mondays—we can use the ovens for a pie marathon.”
“My daughter’s in the high school culinary club. I bet they’d love to help.”
“Oh, the church ladies have been waiting for a reason to pull out their rolling pins.”
Willa couldn’t believe it. Voices overlapped, and people leaned across aisles, already planning shifts and recipes and oven schedules.
Warm, generous, ridiculous chaos.
And for the first time since she’d arrived back in Calamity, time collapsed, and it felt like she’d never left. All the years of studying and fighting and outmaneuvering and positioning herself dropped away, replaced by the beautiful memory of living here.
How had she ever fallen for her mom’s version of Calamity Falls?
“I can’t believe you came tonight.” On their way back to the inn, they stopped for ice cream. The night air was cool and crisp—so unlike New York’s stifling humidity.
His boot clumped on the sidewalk. “If I can’t see you in the courtroom, I can at least see you give the town what-for.”
“And again, I’m not a trial attorney.”
“Do you wear really short skirts, though? And super high heels? ‘Cause that would get my attention. I’d bang that gavel so hard.”
“Okay, frat boy.” She laughed. “You must be the clown of the locker room.”
“I wasn’t in a frat.”
“Too busy winning the Heisman?”
“Yep.”
“Good thing you have that trophy to warm your bed.”
“The quarterback of a college football team pulls way more chicks than a frat boy.” He shrugged. “Just saying.”
“It’s funny because even in college, I always thought men who try to ‘pull chicks’ had small penises. Getting validation from a stranger? That’s just sad.”
“You know what’s funny?” Decker licked the edge of the dripping cone. “Your face when old man Gallagher wagged his finger at you and gave you a lecture on maintaining the integrity of the inn’s history.”
“I know, right? Like I’d failed the town. I haven’t even lived here since high school.” She pointed her cone at him. “You know what’s even funnier? The way everyone flocked to me instead of the famous quarterback. Did it hurt your feelings?”
He chuckled. “We’ve been over this. I don't have feelings.”
“Yeah, you said that, but when you give me those puppy dog eyes, like you're desperate for my attention, I get confused.” She tracked the swipe of his tongue, imagining it between her legs. She shivered.
“You cold?” He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close.
“Not at all. But why don’t you use a spoon like a normal grown-up?”
“Why? Does my licking make you uncomfortable?”
“Yes.” She wouldn’t look at him.