A Town He Left. A Family That Needs Him. A Past He Can’t Ignore.
The sign for Cedarburg creaked on its hinges, swaying in the chilly January breeze. “Historical.” He let the words on the sign sink in. “Picturesque,” it boasted in bold white letters against a forest-green background. Quinten Carrington snorted as he rolled down his window, a gust of cold January wind almost cutting off his air supply. He welcomed the cold as a reminder he wasn’t landing in a made bed.
Picturesque, sure. But historic? That was just a polite way of saying “unchanged.”
The scent of wood smoke and pine trees hit him as he pulled off the highway onto Main Street. His truck’s tires crunched on the snow-plowed, salted road, and he scanned the familiar row of red-brick buildings, each one perfectly preserved, as if the whole town had been stuck in amber. The clocktower still stood tall at the center of it all, its face faintly illuminated, even in the daytime. He’d barely crossed into town, and already he could feel it—Cedarburg hadn’t released its grip on him, no matter how long he’d been away.
“Welcome home, superstar,” he muttered drily. Yeah, he was being sarcastic. From what his father told him, things weren’t looking good for the company. So, instead of signing a lucrative contract for another two years, Quinten had left Green Bay, packed his belongings into his Ford pickup truck, and had driven the one hundred twenty miles home to Cedarburg.
He slowed down as he passed Miller’s Hardware. A lopsided wreath still adorned the door, a remnant of Christmas no one had bothered to take down yet. Mrs. Miller herself stepped out onto the sidewalk, bundled in a coat that looked two sizes too large. She waved enthusiastically, her eyes bright with recognition. Quinten lifted a hand off the steering wheel in a half-hearted wave but slowed the truck to a stop at the curb outside Miller’s Hardware.
Mrs. Miller pressed a hand to her chest, her smile deepening as she stepped closer, gaze fixed on him like she hadn’t expected to see him again but was damn glad she had. “Quinten Carrington! Back in Cedarburg, are you?” she called, her breath visible in the cold air.
He forced a smile and stepped out, bracing against the wind. “Hey, Mrs. Miller. How’s business?”
“Oh, can’t complain.” She scanned him with sharp eyes. “Not as busy as it used to be, though. Say, did Carrington Construction put in a bid for that bridge expansion? You know, over on Route 33?”
Quinten hesitated, the question hitting like a punch. “Not yet. I’ll have to check on that.”
She frowned. “Well, you better hurry. Folks are saying it’s the biggest project this town’s seen in years. Would be a shame to miss it.”
“Thanks for the tip,” he said, his jaw tightening as he climbed back into the truck. His father should’ve been on top of that, but after breaking his back the previous year during a fall at a site, things had spiraled. Corbin had stepped in, but at twenty-five, he was drowning in responsibilities no one his age should carry alone.
As Quinten pulled back onto Main Street, a knot of guilt settled in his chest. He’d walked away from Cedarburg once, chasing fame and fortune. Now, with a few good years still left in his arm, he’d chosen to come home instead, back to a business teetering on the edge of collapse. Turning down a lucrative deal might be unheard of, but he had done it without having a second thought. For Corbin’s sake, and for their father’s, he couldn’t afford to let Carrington Construction fail. Not again. Surely, it was acceptable to retire from an active NFL career at thirty-five, especially when the family needed him.
The truck rumbled to a stop outside the Carrington Construction offices, housed in a squat, weathered building his father had laid brick by brick when the town still had dirt roads. The sign “Carrington Construction: Building the Heart of Cedarburg Since 1978” above the entrance was faded now and the paint chipped around the edges. Nearly fifty years of sweat, stubbornness, and sacrifice, and if he screwed this up, it could all come crashing down. Quinten killed the engine and stepped out, boots crunching in the snow.
The sharp and unforgiving cold hit him like a linebacker, and he shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and let his gaze linger on the faded sign. He’d always assumed the family business would go to his younger brother, Corbin. That had been the plan, but life had a way of intercepting the perfect pass.
The front door flew open before he could knock, and a blur of red flannel and wiry limbs barreled into him. “Quinny!” Corbin pulled him into a rib-crushing hug that nearly knocked him off his feet.
“Jesus, Corbin,” Quinten wheezed, laughing as he pulled back. “You trying to break my ribs before I even get inside?”
“Just making sure you’re real,” Corbin said, grinning. “You’ve been a ghost around here for too long.” Quinten ruffled his brother’s hair, the way he had when they were kids, and Corbin swatted away his hand with a grunt that was more amused than annoyed.
Gone was the lanky teenager Quinten remembered. This version of his brother was broader, stronger, with shoulders that looked like they carried too much weight these days.
The same boyish smile curved his lips but didn’t quite reach his eyes. Inside, the office was both comfortingly familiar and frustratingly chaotic. Blueprints covered the desks, sticky notes clung to every available surface, and a faint aroma of sawdust perfumed the air.
He remembered how their mother used to wage a losing battle against that smell. She scrubbed every surface and cracked the windows even in winter, but it never quite left. The woman in question appeared from behind a door marked private, wiping her hands on a paper towel. She looked smaller than he remembered, her once-iron-gray hair now almost completely white. But her eyes were the same—sharp and full of determination.
“About time you showed up,” she said, though her voice softened as she crossed the room to hug him. “I thought you might chicken out.”
“Not a chance,” he replied, though the truth was, he’d considered it more than once. “How’s Dad?”
Her face darkened, and she folded her arms across her chest. “Same as always. Stubborn. He’s at home resting. Doctor’s orders.” Quinten nodded, his jaw tightening. He hadn’t been back in years, and now here he was, expected to step in and save the day. The town’s golden boy returned, not as the former NFL wide receiver who’d helped win a championship ring, but as the reluctant heir to a struggling construction company.
Corbin grabbed a bundle of blueprints from the counter. “Please tell me you’ve got something in that truck we need to haul in—gifts, tools, anything—before Ma finds more chores for us.” As they stepped outside, he shot Quinten a sideways glance. “You are staying at the house tonight, right?”
“Yeah,” Quinten said, popping open the tailgate. “My place hasn’t been lived in for years. It’ll need a serious scrub-down before it’s even close to livable.”
Outside, the wind bit at Quinten’s face as they hauled gifts and an overnight bag from his truck. Corbin kept up a steady stream of chatter about the company, the town, and everyone who’d been asking about him.
“Beth stopped by yesterday,” Corbin said, smirking. “Asked if you were really coming back or if it was nothing more than a rumor.”
Quinten groaned. “Don’t start.”
“What? She’s single again, you know. Divorce number two just came through. Might be worth—”
“Not a chance,” Quinten said. The last thing he needed was to dredge up high school drama. As they finished unloading, Quinten looked out over Main Street again.
A woman bundled in a navy coat hurried across the street, her arms full of papers, and for a second, something about her was familiar to him. He shook his head. Probably nothing more than his imagination. Everyone looked familiar in a town this small. He sighed and turned back to the office. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to find here, but whatever it was, it sure as hell wasn’t closure.
“Welcome back,” he muttered to himself. The wind offered no comfort, just a cold whisper that seemed to echo his mood.