But of course, Margaret, won’t hear of us changing a single thing, library, whether it’s one of her faded but ‘culturally relevant’ display cases, or those hollow antiquated private rooms on the second floor that go unused, unless one of the book groups meet in them.”

“This is how it all starts, you know.”

“What does?”

“Change. You have an idea, and you get excited and throw your weight behind it and before you know it, you’re in really deep and everyone else is wondering what the hell happened.”

“Is that what happened with you and your hotel?”

“Pretty much.”

“But isn’t that good? Look what you’ve given back to Marietta.”

“Not everyone here is happy about it. Not everyone likes change, even if it’s beneficial.”

“Why?”

“Because some people are afraid of change. They’re afraid it means they might have to grow and change, and that could be hard work.”

“Well, I’m not asking anyone to change. I just want to improve the library. I’d like to make the library a thriving community center. Why not let that gorgeous old building become the heart of the community? A library is more than books and quiet spaces. A library should inspire, enrich, and support both individual patrons and the community—” she broke off and bit into her lower lip. “Maybe I am asking for some change.”

He smiled, liking her more and more, as well as impressed by her spirit. Who would have thought that the pretty new librarian had such fire? “Good. And don’t ever apologize for wanting to do something here, or anywhere. We need people with passion and vision. I admire your enthusiasm. But can I offer you one piece of advice?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t fall in love with beautiful historic buildings in small towns.”

“No?”

“No. It’s a maddening love, and very expensive.”

She sat back in the booth, expression thoughtful. “I’ve wondered about that.”

“I’m sure everyone has.”

“So why did you do it?”

“The hotel is….” his voice drifted off and he stared off, picturing it as it was when he bought it—the boarded up windows, the ratty stained carpet covering the marble lobby, the holes in the walls and then that ballroom, the grand ballroom with its soaring ceiling and gilt trim, and the old reading room with its rich walnut paneling. He could feel the history in the abandoned building, set for demolition. He could picture the dances and the blushing brides and how stately even the old coatroom outside the ballroom must have been.

And he’d bought it on the spot.

For cash.

Because no one would loan him money for that eye sore. No one could see how it’d ever be restored and put back on the market without bleeding the investors dry.

And the hotel was bleeding him dry, but it was also beautiful now. A landmark. A Montana treasure. And he did feel good about that. He had done something right. Maybe not everyone would agree, or understand, but he remembered going to the Graff with his mother and brothers when he was young, just before it had closed, to see the Christmas tree in the big lobby, and have hot chocolate in the restaurant. They’d all dressed up, his mom and her four boys—Dillon wasn’t born yet—and Trey had been bored but Troy had been enthralled.

When he grew up, he’d live like this.

When he grew up, he’d give his mother a beautiful palace, just like this.

Troy suddenly became aware that Taylor was looking at him, and waiting, patiently for him to finish.

He looked into her face, and saw her eyes and her interest and she was interested in hearing what he had to say. Not because he was a Sheenan. Not because he was rich. But interested in what he thought, and felt.

What he knew.

Who he was.

Something inside him shifted. He felt some of the tension he’d been carrying around with him ease. He smiled wryly.