A Family for Thanksgiving. Patricia Davids

a familiar face flashed onto the screen. A second later another picture of a broken building replaced it.

      Clay gripped Tanner’s shoulder. “Stop. Go back.”

      Tanner did as he asked. Clay leaned closer to the monitor. Nicki stood in front of a pile of rubble with her arm around an old woman clinging to a broken umbrella. Nicki’s face glistened with tears.

      His heart ached for the look of loss in her eyes, but she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Time hadn’t changed that.

      He read the caption under the photo: “High Plains residents console each other near the ruins of their historic Old Town Hall.”

      Clay closed his eyes as a feeling of helplessness swallowed him whole. He should be there. Jesse, Maya, Nicki, the whole community had suffered a terrible loss, and he hadn’t done a thing to help.

      “Is that someone you know?” Tanner’s voice broke into Clay’s thoughts.

      “Yeah.” Someone he used to know. Someone he’d left behind a long time ago. What a stupid, stupid mistake that had been.

      Shame, anger and guilt had driven Clay out of town. His juvenile pride had kept him away. All this time. All this wasted time.

      The next page Tanner brought up was dated the previous month. It was a story about the rebuilding efforts in High Plains. According to the article, the first overwhelming response of volunteers had dwindled leaving much of the town still struggling to recover.

      With startling clarity Clay saw what he needed to do, saw for the first time in his life the path God wanted him to follow.

      He patted Tanner’s shoulder. “Thanks for showing me this.”

      Turing around, Clay strode out of the inner office and crossed the lobby to where his boss stood beside the wide stone fireplace visiting with Mr. and Mrs. Dewey.

      “Hollister, I’m leaving. Send my last paycheck to my sister. You’ve got her address.”

      The man’s craggy features settled into a scowl. “Leaving? Where’re you going?”

      Clay was already halfway out the door. He paused and looked over his shoulder. “Somewhere I should have gone a long time ago. Home.”

      One second Nicki was walking down the sidewalk across from the construction site at the Old Town Hall and the next second her world tipped sideways.

      Stumbling to a halt, she blinked and looked again. The mirage didn’t vanish. The heavy thud of her heart stole her breath, leaving her numb with shock.

      Clay Logan stood not fifty feet away, his hands shoved in the pockets of a brown sheepskin-lined jacket as he hunched against the cutting wind. It was only the second day of November, but the deep chill in the air was a reminder that winter wasn’t far away.

      What was Clay doing here? How long had he been back in town? How long was he staying?

      He hadn’t seen her. She was thankful for that small favor as she struggled to regain her composure. He was surveying a bare patch of earth ringed with old concrete footings. It was all that remained of the large gazebo that once stood in the middle of the town’s park.

      Was he as saddened by its loss as she had been?

      So much of the tornado-ravaged town was in the process of being rebuilt, homes, businesses, the historic Old Town Hall. Fixing the gazebo wasn’t even on the list of things the overwhelmed city council had planned.

      Besides, another gazebo would never be the same.

      As if aware that someone was watching him, Clay turned to look in her direction. His shoulders stiffened. For a long instant they stared at each other without moving. Then, he touched the brim of his black cowboy hat to acknowledge her.

      She wished she were closer, wished she could see the expression in his eyes.

      Was the love still there?

      Of course it wasn’t. What a foolish thing to wonder. They’d been starry-eyed teenagers the last time they’d seen each other.

      Don’t just stand here. Walk away. Pretend it doesn’t matter that he’s back, she told herself.

      She wouldn’t let it matter. She’d wasted enough years of her life hoping for his return. Forcing herself to take a step, she flinched when she realized he was already moving toward her, closing the distance.

      Turning around and running in the opposite direction suddenly seemed like a good idea. But running away was Clay’s specialty, not hers.

      The thought stiffened her spine. She shifted her large green-and-orange striped tote to her other shoulder and waited. As he approached, she saw that the years had changed his good looks from boyish charm into chiseled masculinity.

      Dark stubble covered his square chin and the planes of his cheeks. Crow’s-feet at the corners of his deep blue eyes added character to his face, but the soft grin that pulled at one corner of his mouth was still the same one she remembered.

      A swirl of butterflies filled her midsection. The sight of that slow smile aimed in her direction used to melt her heart like butter in a hot pan.

      Stop. What am I doing?

      Nicki gathered her scattered wits. Roguish grin or not, she wasn’t about to fall back into some bygone, teenage hero-worship mode. She had far too much sense for that.

      Time to start acting like it.

      “As I live and breathe, if it isn’t Clay Logan. I almost didn’t recognize you. What’s it been, five years?” She was proud that her tone carried just the right touch of indifference. If only he didn’t notice the white-knuckled grip she had on the strap of her bag.

      His smile disappeared. “It’s been seven years, Nicki.”

      “That long?” She tsked as she shook her head. “Time sure flies, doesn’t it?”

      She swept one hand toward the park indicating the broken trees and rubble piles that hadn’t yet been removed. “As you can see, things have changed a lot since you were here.”

      “I guess they have,” he replied, a sad quality in his voice. His gaze never left her.

      Tipping her head to one side, she narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t really expect things would be the same as when you left, did you?”

      He pulled off his hat and ran his fingers through his dark hair. “No, but I wasn’t prepared for exactly how different things would be.”

      At that moment, he looked lost and uncertain. Sympathy overrode her ire. She’d had four months to become accustomed to the scarred face of High Plains. He must be seeing it for the first time. It had to be painful.

      She said, “The tornado really made a mess of things. The downtown area was hit pretty hard. The General Store is gone, as are most of the homes south of Garrison Street between First and Second.”

      Still holding his hat, he used it to point toward the line of broken trees in the park that ran between the High Plains river and the town’s Main Street. “It’s hard to believe only one person was killed.”

      “Yes. God was with us. The carriage house beside the church and the Old Town Hall both took direct hits. Volunteers from the community are rebuilding the hall, as you can see. The hope is that it’ll be done in time to hold the Founders’ Day celebration on Christmas Day.”

      “Looks like they’re making good progress.”

      “With the outside, yes, but the inside is still bare studs.”

      “What about you? Did you lose much?”

      Waving a hand to dismiss her minor losses, she said, “A broken window. That was all.” And the photo of the two of them that she’d tossed in the trash that night.

      Hitching