21. Hank

21

HANK

T he day started out all right. I stopped by the diner to chat with JC, ordered a latte with wonky art from Ivan, and said hi to Annie at the bakery.

I'd come here hoping to hoodwink the locals into liking me well enough to give the mill some positive press, but I was the one who'd fallen under a spell. And now…I loved this town.

Elmwood was beautiful and safe and welcoming.

Wood Hollow was…not.

It was lovely on the surface, but the town seriously needed improvements. The roads needed to be widened, and potholes needed to be filled. The trees on Belvedere Street were horribly overgrown and though the houses had character, most needed a face-lift.

According to Bryson, Smitty's husband and the premiere real estate agent to the Four Forest area, Wood Hollow was like the ugly stepsister who showed up to every party and sat in a corner giving everyone the stink eye.

"It's hard to sell houses there because there's no real commerce. Their market is tiny, the gas station has two pumps, and if you want a cup of coffee, you better make it at home," Bryson said.

Cooper had a similar take. "I live in Fallbrook 'cause of my kids. The school is better, the park is nicer, and it's easier to get around. If you get stuck in Wood Hollow behind a logging truck hauling a load on icy roads, you'd better have the patience of a saint."

"Why haven't they made any improvements?" I'd asked.

"Money. They don't have it."

Every day I made the trek up that hill, I pondered ways they could raise money. But then my day would go sideways with the usual bullshit of dealing with unreasonable assholes, and all I wanted was to get back to Elmwood. Wood Hollow could be someone else's problem.

But today was Monday and a weekend away from the grind made me feel optimistic. I couldn't help admiring the stately walnut trees, some with hollow openings lining the main drag. The town had character…sort of.

I pulled into the lot at the mill, adjusting my sunglasses as I headed for the entrance, my mind swirling with fundraising ideas.

The mayor would have to get involved and he was kind of a dick. And town council would?—

A swath of red spray paint in my periphery stopped me in my tracks.

My heart hammered in my chest as I studied the side of the mill, covered in hundreds of blown-up shots of that fucking Denver billboard pic with a spray-painted message,

Go home, Cunningham! No corporate mill!

I stared at the crude lettering in shock.

Adolescent-style graffiti a la penises had greeted me when I'd first arrived. The offensive artwork had been painted over immediately, and we hadn't seen anything like it since.

Definitely nothing like this.

It was seven a.m. and the lot was nearly empty. A few employees were probably in and had seen this and…

Fuck …

Just…fuck.

I took a couple of pictures, called the local police, and thought about calling my dad. It was five o'clock in Denver, though, and what the fuck would he do about this? Close the mill? Not likely.

This was my responsibility. I'd signed up for this. And like it or not, I had to see it through.

Within the hour, the town was buzzing with the news. You learn a lot about people in the midst of crisis—who you could trust, who was good under pressure, and who was a douchebag.

Emily was an unexpected ally. She gasped in dismay, then made a beeline to Rise and Grind in Elmwood for more coffee, and returned to diligently watch the phones.

And Cooper was a rock star. He blew a fuse, irate at whoever had dared to deface private property and fuck with production. See, the culprits had covered a portion of a rolling door with their handiwork and when the door was opened, the paper rolled into the grooves of the pulley.

Cooper called a meeting, ranted and raved about our no-BS policy, and demanded to know who was responsible. No one fessed up, and the video footage had been tampered with, so…no leads.

He didn't think it was necessary for me to speak at the meeting, but I disagreed. That was my name on the building. I was the Cunningham they wanted out. I sincerely doubted anyone would have dared pulled a prank like this on my dad. He wasn't the kind of guy you wanted to piss off. He was intense and scary with it.

I was…the peacekeeper, the temporary Band-Aid. I was a pawn who'd taken a paycheck to oversee a project I hadn't given a fuck about.

But that wasn't true anymore. I cared more than I wanted to admit.

I hated the general malaise and mistrust. I hated that the locals railed that they had no voice but did nothing to invite change. I hated that I was everything that they thought I was—a grifter, an opportunist with an agenda. A phony cowboy.

At least, that was how it had started. I wasn't that guy anymore. I didn't want to take without giving, I didn't want to be a corporate figurehead, an out-of-touch cowboy. I wanted to make a difference. And somehow, I had to get my point across to my employees and the entire Four Forest area.

So I addressed a warehouse full of operators, machinists, and mechanics with Cooper's microphone.

"I'll keep this quick and to the point. Change is hard, and new ownership makes people nervous. I get it. Rocky Mountain is a corporation, but that's not a bad thing. Hear me out. We have the ability to pay good wages with benefits, which immediately affects your wallet. In the long term, we can help rebuild this town and fix what's broken. And don't tell me nothing is broken—I've driven by the burned-out neon sign for Wood Hollow Elementary, the busted swing set in the park, and the rusted trash bin in front of the post office a hundred times. Those are simple fixes, but they aren't getting done. I'm not here to ruin the town. I want to make it better. That's going to take change and planning."

The rumble of dissent frustrated me. Before I could tackle it, someone yelled, "What does a cowboy know about building houses anyway?"

"Nothing. I run a mill," I shot back. "I know about forestry. I know how to drive a tractor, run the kiln, and how to load a twenty-six-thousand-pound capacity truck. You need me to prove it, I'm all in. But you need someone to run this place too. The job orders to build homes were initiated years ago. We're here because we know how to do the job better than anyone else without ruining the forest. You don't believe me…let me prove it. Nothing happens overnight—except maybe photocopying a hundred ancient photos of me and taping them to the warehouse door. Trust me, no one hates that picture more than me, but it doesn't change anything. We have a business to run and important things to do for this town. I need everyone here on board. If you're not interested, you know where the door is."

The warehouse was quiet for a long moment. And it stayed quiet.

A few people moved to the exit, while one or two clapped. It reminded me of the time I'd signed up to play the guitar for the school talent show. I'd taken a handful of lessons and thought I was ready for prime time. My fifth grade classmates hadn't agreed. It was cringeworthy and embarrassing. Needless to say, I never touched the guitar again.

The desire to join the few folks walking out the door was strong, but the desire to help was stronger.

However, I had a sinking feeling that no matter how much I wanted to do the right thing, I was already in over my head.