Page 83 of The Bitterroot Inn (Jamison Valley 5)
“I think so too. Prescott might not have a lot of kids, but the community is great about supporting the teams we have.”
It was one of the things I loved about this town. It was one of the many things I loved about Maisy. The pride she had in her town. The pride she had in The Bitterroot Inn. She’d worked hard to create a place that the citizens of Prescott cherished.
And they didn’t just love her motel. They loved her.
Over the last few days, word that Maisy and I were together had spread like wildfire. Oblivious to our fight, all of the patients I’d seen in the last four days had done nothing but sing her praises.
“You know, you’re a part of that,” I told her. “People take a lot of pride in what you’ve done at the motel.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she told her flip-flops. “I think people are still waiting for me to fail.”
I shook my head, wishing she knew just how special she was. “They’re proud of what you’ve built.”
She shrugged and waved to her parents, who were setting up camp chairs in the grassy rise behind home plate.
I dropped the motel conversation but silently vowed to make her see just how remarkable she was. Just like I’d been telling her over the last month how lucky Coby was to have her as his mom.
In time, I’d make her see it all.
“Hi, guys!” Marissa said as we reached their spot. She finished laying out a huge denim blanket on the grass, then came over to Coby for a kiss on his cheek. She hugged Maisy, then turned to me. “I’m so glad you’re here, Hunter.”
“Me too.”
Marissa gave me a hug, then looked over her shoulder to summon Maisy’s dad. “Brock! Get over here and meet Hunter.”
A large man, Beau’s size but with an unhealthy belly, came walking over with Michael at his side.
I held out my hand as he did the same. “Mr. Holt. Nice to meet you. I’m Hunter Faraday.”
He grabbed my hand and shook it back with two hard pumps. “Brock Holt. Glad you could make it.”
He let me go and I held out my hand to Michael. “Good to see you again.”
“You too. Glad you could make it.”
Both of the Holt men gave Maisy a hug, then doted on Coby.
“Remember,” Michael told his nephew, “you’ve got to hustle to first as soon as you hit the ball. Don’t stop. Run through the bag.”
Coby nodded. “I practiced with Un—Coach Holt.”
“And don’t forget, Grandson,” Brock said. “They might not be keeping score, but I am.”
“Dad,” Maisy scolded at the same time my eyes snapped to Brock.
“What?” I asked. “They’re not keeping score? Then who wins?”
“Exactly!” Brock boomed, throwing up his hands. “Who the hell knows? Why wouldn’t you keep score? Teach these kids about winning and losing. Nope, everyone here is a winner.”
“Now, Brock. Don’t get all worked up,” Marissa said.
“Too late,” Michael muttered as Brock completely ignored his wife and started telling me all about the problems with children’s sports in today’s society.
“Shoot,” Maisy muttered, standing as the teams on the field got ready to start the game. “I forgot the waters in the car. Keys?”
I dug them out of my pocket and dropped them in her outstretched hand.
“Be right back.”
