From the Start (43 page)

“It’s not something I’ve talked about often because, frankly, it was a miserable time for me. But I realized something in recent months—in refusing to talk, I wasn’t only silencing my story. I was missing out on an opportunity to honor someone who made an incredible difference in my life—even if I had too big of a chip on my shoulder to recognize it at the time.”

He told them about Norah then. About her years of patience and persistence.

“The transition from high school to adulthood can be an iffy enough time for anyone. But for eighteen-year-olds aging out of foster care, it’s a complete upheaval. The statistics about post-foster-care homelessness, addiction, and incarceration are staggering.” He took a breath. “God used Norah Parker to keep me from becoming one of those statistics.”

How he wished Norah could’ve been here today. But with a three-month-old, she couldn’t travel. She’d sent a gift, though—a wall decoration made of old wood that spelled the word
Home.

“I
bought it at this shop where all the stuff is made of wood from old barns. Seemed fitting because you’re in Iowa. But also because you and I have
a history with barns.”

He’d smiled and hung the thing over the front entrance—the house’s first piece of décor.

“So that’s why I’ve decided to name this home Parker House. My hope is to make the kind of difference in young men’s lives that Norah made in mine. And if all goes according to plan, this home is the first of many just like it I hope to start across the country through the recently renamed Parker Foundation.”

He finished his remarks minutes later.
This is right.
It was good.

And when the question-and-answer portion of the casual press conference ended in clapping, it wasn’t the applause of those gathered in the room he heard . . . but the applause of his own heart.

He’d shaken at least a dozen hands before Laura Clancy wound her way through the crowd to reach him. “Colton Greene, I liked you when you were a football player. But now, I love you. And I can say that without it being awkward because I’m at least twenty years older than you.”

She pulled him into a hug, then lowered her voice. “And just so you know, we’re taking Webster out for dinner tonight. Asking him how he’d feel about adoption.”

He stepped back. “Seriously? That’s . . . that’s . . .” The lump in his throat stole his words.

“I think the word you’re looking for is
awesome
.” She patted his cheek and moved on.

Case Walker approached next. What started as a handshake turned into an embrace. “You found your eleven inches.”

And a peace he couldn’t begin to describe.

“Also,” Case stepped back. “I think there’s something you should see. Take a look out the window, why don’t ya.”

Just a house. Just a big, old house—but according to the article she’d read, Colton must have seen in it what she had.

Kate stood outside her Focus, car door still open, February breeze grazing over her cheeks. Her coat and scarf warded off whatever cold the tangle of nerves and jittery emotions heating through her didn’t. She reached inside to grab the newspaper on her dash, the one she’d found in her mailbox yesterday after she’d raced home from the Willis. If she’d needed any other nudge to pack a suitcase and hit the road, well, she’d gotten it.

“Be the
girl who takes the risk and goes after what she wants.”

It sounded so good in her head back in Chicago, but now that she was actually here . . . she was a craggy, bare tree—stripped of cover and resolve, ready to crack, like an ice-covered branch.

But this was right. The thought had rooted inside her. It fueled her drive to Maple Valley, pulled her from the car, and tugged her gaze to the house.

She closed her car door now. There were no skyscrapers or city horizons here. Only fresh snowfall frosting the trees and a gleaming winter sun. And hope—the kind she’d craved for so long.

The kind that’d been there from the start, really, just waiting for her to notice it.

She started across the street, snow crunching under the white boots she’d tucked her jeans into. She wore the scarf Raegan had crocheted for Colton for the train pull. Would he notice?

Of course he’d notice. Because the man noticed everything. He’d seen the hurt underneath Webster’s anger. The need underneath Dad’s strength. The heart underneath a quirky, storm-torn little town.

He’d seen
her
.

Shovel tracks led the way up the sidewalk to the stairs that led the way up to the porch. The floorboards creaked as her steps slowed, white front door staring her down. She took a breath and rang the doorbell.

Nothing. No sound. Shoot, must be broken.

She was just lifting her hand to knock, when the door swung open.

And her heart knotted. “C-Colton. Hi.”

“Katharine Rose Walker.” Surprise and maybe delight—oh, she hoped it was delight—mingled in his voice. He was semi-dressed up. Jeans and a black sweater that couldn’t hope to hide his football-player arms. Man, he had good arms.

Stop looking at his arms.

So she looked at his eyes instead—that same drenching, stunning blue as always, enough to sweep away her rehearsed words, leaving only quiet in its wake, hovering like the white of their breath.

Talk, Walker. Talk.

It’d help if he’d ask her why she was here. Or how she’d known where to find him. Something, anything, to tug from her the words she’d come to say. But he just stood there, watching her, his half grin tinged with uncertainty.

You know what you want to say. Now say it.

Just like she had with the book. Like Hailey said. Her heart on the page.

She held up the newspaper. “When were you going to tell me about this?” She blurted the words with all the grace of the clanging wind chime hitting against the porch corner.

Confusion flickered over his face. Oh man, he was cute when he was confused.

“You bought
my
house.”

He pointed behind him. “You know, we could go inside—”

“And you revived your foundation and you didn’t even ask for my help. You know I’ve wanted to write for a nonprofit. I could’ve helped. I haven’t even been busy. Except, I guess I did write a new book, but—”

“You wrote a new book?”

“Yeah and it’s good, too.”

“I’m sure it is.”

Why did he have to lean against the doorframe like that? All, amused and . . . and adorable with the wind fanning through his hair and leaving circles of red on his cheeks. Not to mention that faint scent of his cologne she’d gotten used to in weeks of living across the hall from the man.

Words and poise and confidence were lost under the sudden crazy-strong desire to launch herself at him.

His hands dropped to his sides. “What am I doing? You wrote a book. You’ve been trying to write another book for years and . . . ”

He reached to pull her into a hug, lifting her feet from the ground and swinging her around just like a character in an old movie. Surprise stole her breath, and the newspaper in her hand dropped to the snow as she wrapped her arms around him.

“You wrote a book, Rosie.”

“And you decided on a purpose for your foundation.” She said the words against his shoulder, a giddy energy stealing away the last of her reserve. Why had she waited so long to come back? “I’m so ridiculously proud of you.”

He set her down but didn’t let go. “So proud that you came to scold me about not telling you?”

His arms were like a second coat, warm and perfect. “Yes. I mean no. I mean yes and no.” It was too hard to think when she was wrapped in his arms. She forced herself to step back from their embrace. “My friend Hailey told me once that I needed to let myself want something enough to fight for it. To take a risk and go after it. Well, this is me, taking a risk and going after what I want.”

“And you want . . . what?” he prodded her. “A job helping with my foundation?”

“Not a job.” She met his gaze.
It’s okay to admit what you want.
She swallowed, tasting the crisp cold in the air and the sweetness of honesty. “I want you.”

His slow smile could have melted every speck of snow whiting their surroundings. But instead of saying anything, he reached around to his back pocket and pulled out a folded manila folder. He handed it to her. “Take a peek.”

She opened it up, scanning the top page . . . then the next and the next. Lists of marketing materials—newsletters, appeals, brochures. What looked like a strategic plan—not just for the Parker House but for what he was now calling the Parker Foundation.

And the last page of the folder—a list of grant-makers and application deadlines. The word
Rosie
scribbled in the margin in Colton’s handwriting.

“If I want to grow this thing, I’m going to need to find some new revenue streams. Word on the street is, there’s some grant-writing history in the Walker family.”

She looked up from the folder, tears—the best kind—pooling faster than she could blink.

“You’re not the only one who knows what you want, Rosie.”

When he pulled her to him again, the paper fluttered from her hands. He kissed the tip of her nose, soft as the snowflakes drifting from the porch roof and landing on her cheeks, and then her lips, warmer than the pale sunlight that wove through the lattice.

She melted into the moment.
Better than any happy ending I could ever write.

Not an ending at all, really. And maybe that was the best part. The beautiful peace that came with living her own story, knowing every turn of the page and tug of the heart was a new beginning.

“Kate,” he whispered as he pulled away.

“I thought we’d moved past the talking part.”

“Yeah, but . . .” He looked over her shoulder.

She circled around, hands sliding down to connect with his, still hooked around her, and saw what he saw: a crowd gathered in the front door, some now spilling onto the porch. Cameras. Grins. One lone flash.

“You could’ve told me I was interrupting a party.”

“Press conference, actually. Hey guys, check it out, the foundation just got its first employee.” He pulled her to him and touched his forehead to hers. “Rosie Walker came home.”

“You better not welcome all your staff this way, Colton Greene.”

“Nope. Only the ones I’m crazy about.”

And then, to the tune of applause and cheers, the glitter of snowfall like a wink from above, Colton lifted her from her feet and kissed her once more.

Acknowledgments

T
rue story: I didn’t know much at all about football when I started writing
From the Start
. That fact and a few other circumstances made writing this book
slightly
reeeeally challenging. Let’s be honest: Previously, football was, to me, basically just a good excuse to eat inordinate amounts of snacks on Super Bowl Sunday. But guess what, I think I finally appreciate the game!

But I appreciate the family and friends who helped me through this book even more:

Mom and Dad, thank you for everything, but especially for those last couple weeks before both rounds of deadlines. Thank you for praying with me, feeding me, brainstorming with me, and putting up with the moodiest version of me ever.

Amy, Nathanael, and Nicole, thanks for unknowingly loaning some of your coolest traits to the Walker siblings. Grandma and Grandpa, as always, thank you for your constant encouragement and prayer.

My editor, Raela Schoenherr, and my agent, Amanda Luedeke—thank you both for being awesome. Raela, thank you for helping shape this story and in doing so, nudging me into being excited about it again. Amanda, thank you for being a voice of calm and direction and levity.

Editor Karen Schurrer, your feedback, editing, and advice are awesome. I can’t thank you enough for that. And everyone at Bethany House—I couldn’t ask for a more wonderful group of people to usher this story out the door.

Clay Morgan, thanks for being the best football source ever, for answering all my questions, and especially for that Raymond Berry story. By way of thanks, I will try to cheer for the Steelers now and then.

Beth Vogt and Rachel Hauck, your phone calls on that deadline day when I needed it most meant so much to me. Lisa Jordan, thank you for months of cheerleading texts and emails and cards. And Susan May Warren, your voice is so often in my head as I write—I don’t even have words for how thankful I am for that or how much I look up to you. Thank you for reading my opening scenes and pushing me to take them further.

Lindsay Harrel, Gabrielle Meyer, and Alena Tauriainen—you know how much I love you, right? Thanks for the brainstorming, prayer, and amazing friendship.

Thanks to Denise Hawks for loaning out your last name and coming up with Webster’s first name, and to Rachel McMillan for coming up with the cutest name ever for little Charlotte.

Readers, you add crazy amounts of wonderful to this writing journey. Bear hugs to those of you who’ve sent kind notes, been a part of my launch team, or taken the time to review my books. I’m truly beyond grateful.