Page 69 of Stuck with the Hero Next Door

We made small talk for a few more minutes—about the weather, about Everwood, about the differences between Montana and Nevada. David asked intelligent questions about the town’s economy and its growth prospects. But underneath the casual conversation, I sensed him cataloguing information, building a case for something.

When they left, Cassie touched my arm briefly. “Maybe we could all have dinner tomorrow? If you’re free?”

“Sure,” I said, though her voice didn’t carry the same cheer as it usually did.

That evening, I found myself walking past her building more often than usual on my way to check in with Janet and Mom. The lights were on in her house, and once I caught a glimpse of two figures at the kitchen table, heads bent over what might have been a photo album. Cassie was laughing and pointing at the book, while David shook his head at the obscurity of whatever they were looking at.

Monday’s dinner was at Will’s Steakhouse. A bold and perfect choice. It was neutral territory. Mr. Grant’s careful attention focused on everything around us. He took in Cluck Norris and laughed, the band was playing live tonight in practice for the Farrington wedding, and Mom and Janet were in the far corner, heads together, planning another event for one of the many committee seats they headed up and quite possibly spying. My bets were on the latter.

David started by asking good questions about the menu, complimented the décor, and chatted easily with Sherry about the town’s history.

But I could see him analyzing too—the way people interacted, the people that stopped by the table in typical small-town fashion to meet him and say hi to Cassie and me. He watched the rhythms of small-town life, deciding if this place offered enough opportunities for his daughter.

“It’s charming,” he said when Sherry brought our drinks. “Really charming. I can see why Cassie fell in love with it.”

The words should have been reassuring, but his tone suggested otherwise.

“Dad,” Cassie said quietly, and there was a warning in her voice.

“What? I mean it. It’s lovely here. Very peaceful.” He turned to me. “How long have you lived in Everwood, Levi?”

“My whole life, pretty much. Did a tour in the military, SEALs, but came back afterward. Took care of my mom and sister, took over the ranch, and did some logging in the summer. But this will always be home.”

“And you’ve never wanted to try somewhere else? Somewhere with more...possibilities?”

The question hung in the air like a challenge, politely phrased but pointed. I glanced at Cassie, who was staring at her salad with focused attention—she was uncomfortable with the way the conversation was headed.

“I like it here. It’s home. I did the military, but this is where I’m meant to be.”

David nodded thoughtfully. “Home is important. Though sometimes we outgrow the places we started, find ourselves needing different things as we change.”

“Dad.” This time Cassie’s voice carried more heat. “Can we not do this here?”

“Do what, sweetheart? I’m just having a conversation.”

But we all knew it was more than that. It was a gentle interrogation, a careful probing of whether her life here was sustainable, whether she’d be happy here in five or ten years.

The rest of dinner passed with strained politeness. Everyone was trying to avoid the real topic of conversation. David told stories about Cassie’s childhood—her determination to build the world’s most elaborate school projects, her habit of rescuing injured animals and nursing them back to health in cardboard boxes. Cassie laughed at the right moments, but I could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she kept glancing between us like she was waiting for something to explode. It was all so careful and practiced.

When we parted ways outside the restaurant, David shook my hand again with that same evaluating grip.

“It was good to see you again, Levi. Take care of yourself.”

“You too, sir.”

But as they walked away, I heard him say quietly to Cassie, “We should talk tomorrow. About your options.”

And I knew that conversation was going to be the one that mattered.

Tuesday evening, I was standing on my porch drinking my third cup of coffee. Restless energy coursing through me as I waited to hear from Cassie. I had already fed the horses, moved the hay, and done a fence run before Cassie parked at the edge of my property. Walking slowly, trying to gather her thoughts before she reached the porch.

“Hey,” she said when she got close enough for conversation.

“Hey, yourself. How’d the talk with your dad go?”

She settled on the bench beside me, her hands touching between us. “About like you’d expect.”

“Which means?”