by Dora Hiers
Blood pulsated through her veins, heavy and powerful, as her heart betrayed her brain. Her hand lifted. Stretched to run her fingers across the whiskers, to feel if they were as rough as they looked, to see if her touch produced a similar response in him—
A llama shrieked, shrill and piercing, breaking the moment. Then, a door slammed. Corbin had arrived.
Just in time. Before she made a fool of herself.
8
Like a train chugging through the sky, puffy gray clouds swirled and twisted in an angry motion.
Jillian hopped down from the engine and directed the driver backing into the station. When he was positioned properly, she held up her palms. “That’s good.”
She hit the button to lower the garage doors, just as rain pelted the glass, transitioning quickly into hail. Quarter size nuggets bounced off the pavement. “Phew! Made it just in time.”
“Yeah, yeah, don’t get all excited, Sutthill. You know we’re gonna get hammered tonight. Won’t be long and we’ll be heading back out in it.” The firefighter shrugged out of his bunker coat and hung it on the peg along with his helmet.
“You don’t know that, Crenshaw,” she fired back, hanging her gear next to his. She’d learned a long time ago to give as well as she got. Through determination and grit, battling fires and wearing the battle scars, she’d earned their respect. Teasing and practical jokes came with the territory.
Crenshaw nodded, weariness showing in the lines and hard angles of his face and the stoop of his middle-aged shoulders as he made his way to the dayroom. “You know I’m right. Now if only I can squeeze in time for a cup of coffee to warm my bones, I’ll be good to go.”
Her footsteps dragged against the tile behind him.
He was probably right, but after running from one call to the next all afternoon, she was looking forward to a quiet evening curled up in one of the recliners. Since the storm had been brewing for a few hours, maybe the residents of Harrison would stay inside tonight. She could only hope, anyway.
“Anybody else for some coffee?” Crenshaw looked over his shoulder as he ambled toward the coffee pot.
Ten ounces of sludge? She’d wait until after dinner and brew a fresh pot. If they were still here. “Nah. Not right now, thanks.”
“None for me, either. Thanks, though.” Captain Martin slapped some grocery bags on the kitchen counter and began unloading them. He wadded up the empty bags and set them in the recycling bin then washed his hands.
Crenshaw pulled a mug from the cabinet and filled it with what had to be cold liquid. Then, after setting the cup on a side table, he sank down on a recliner, kicking it all the way back with a moan, and promptly closed his eyes.
She snickered. So much for the coffee.
“Need any help, Captain?” Although it was his turn to make dinner, she didn’t mind helping. She washed her hands, ready to chop and prep, and reached for the towel. Never knew when the next call would go out, and her belly was growling.
“Nah. Go. Sit down and relax. This won’t take long.” Shooing her out of the kitchen, the captain picked up a knife and began chopping vegetables on a cutting board.
He didn’t have to tell her twice.
Her backside was halfway to the recliner, smiling at Crenshaw’s gaping mouth and slight snuffle, when her phone vibrated. Grimacing, she pushed back up and stepped away from the snoozing firefighter.
Remi’s face stared at her from the screen. That couldn’t be right. Her bestie was still on her honeymoon. Wait a minute. It was probably the landline. Carson?
She connected the call. “Hey.”
“Hey back.”
Something must be wrong with one of the animals. Why else would he be calling?
Had Corbin misdiagnosed Jumbo’s intestinal bug? Was the medicine not working? Alarm snaked up her spine. “What’s up?”
“There’s a pretty bad storm brewing.”
An unladylike snort shot out of her throat. “Yeah. Although it’s not brewing anymore. It’s already here. Hailing, actually. What about at Remi’s?”
“You’re working today?” The concern in his voice didn’t do anything to lessen the anxiety swirling around in her belly.
“Yes. Is everything all right at Remi’s?”
“Yeah. I just wanted to check on you.”
What? She blinked, letting his words register. He just wanted to check on her? Now?
Her chest expanded, contracted, and she bit her bottom lip to curb the angry retort. Anger burned, swallowing up the anxiety, and thirteen years of emotion threatened to boil over.
She tapped the dayroom door with her boot, slinging it against the wall, and marched into the hall, leaving behind the melding smells of stale coffee and sautéed onions and green peppers. She paced the length of the narrow hall, her boots slapping against the tile floor, and then swiveled, repeating the track.
“What, Carson? You don’t think I’m old enough to take care of myself?” Her voice came out low, ominous, even to her ears.
“Come on, Jillian. You know that’s not it.” His words were soft, meant to be caring and tender, but neither the words nor the tone diffused her anger.
“Then what, Carson?”
Silence was her response.
“Do you think I’m a helpless female? I have news for you, Lambright. I’m a firefighter. I know how to take care of myself, and I’ve done a pretty decent job of it the last few years. Just in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Her steam now depleted, she pressed her back against the wall. She should hang up now, but she couldn’t bring herself to punch the disconnect button.
“Oh, believe me, I’ve noticed.” Was that humor lacing his voice? Really?
She narrowed her eyebrows.
“Look. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I really just wanted to talk to you, but I didn’t realize you were at work. Stay safe, and I’ll catch you later.” The phone went silent.
Her jaw dropped. She jerked the phone away from her ear and stared at it. He’d just hung up on her. Shaking her head, she stuffed it back in her pocket.
He’d called her sweetheart. Was worried enough to call and check on her. A tiny part of her secretly welcomed his worry.
Leave it to Carson to toss her back into a raging ocean of emotion without a lifejacket.
She huffed and stalked back into the dayroom, the strong scent of onion and garlic smacking her in the face.
The crew hunched over the table, stuffing their mouths with a chicken dish and washing it down with guzzles of iced tea.
“We waited for you.” Crenshaw took a swig of tea then shoveled in a forkful.
“Looks like it,” she drawled. She stepped into the kitchen area and grabbed a plate.
“Hey, don’t blame me. Captain said to get started. We didn’t know how long you’d be talking to Lover Boy.”
She dished a piece of the chicken onto a plate and turned to glare at Crenshaw, mainly because she wouldn’t disrespect the captain. “That was not Lover Boy.”
“No? Sure got that impression from the way your voice got all low and that silly grin on your face.”
Did it? Was there? She shook her head, refusing to get sucked into his ploy. “That’s the way I look and talk with everybody except you guys. For the record—”
A shrill tone blared. Forks clattered, and chairs shoved back from the table.
“Save it for later, Sutthill.”
She dropped the plate on the table and bolted from the room, the two men right behind her. She snatched her bunker gear off the hook and tugged it over her uniform, watching the men do the same.
Yeah, she’d save it for later.
The anger had already dissipated, and in its wake, left a sweet, tender spot in her heart.
He cared enough to call and check on her.
****
Carson slid the phone back on the receiver conveniently located in the barn and wandered over to a stall.
“Did you hear that, Pocono? It didn’t sound like Jillian
appreciated my call.” He held out his palm for the horse to take the treat. Whiskers and a soft snuffle tickled his skin.
He smiled, but guilt and remorse squeezed his chest tighter than a vice. “That’s okay. We’ll get her to come around.”
Would he? Could he ever hope to repair the damage that his leaving had caused? Could he convince Jillian and Maria that they were beautiful despite the scars? Even more so because of them?
He scratched around the horse’s ears, listening to the sounds of hail pelting the ground outside the barn and pounding the roof. The wind howled, and the dim light flickered off then back on.
“No worries, Pocono. You’re safe in here. I’ll be back in the morning.” He patted the horse’s neck and moved to stand at the barn opening, staring at the leaves and limbs flying across the yard.
With fists perched on his hips, he surveyed the property. He didn’t like how close one tree nestled against the house. That would not be pretty if it ever chose to come down. And the towering maples swayed with the onslaught of wind and hail, bending almost in half. Would they survive the storm or snap under the pressure?
Much like he’d snapped under pressure thirteen years ago. When the stress of being the golfing legend’s son had proved to be a bit too much. When the anxiety that he’d turn out to be just like his father had overwhelmed him. When he could no longer look into Jillian’s eyes because love and dreams of happily ever after threatened to drown him with the vicious waves of worry.
Could they ever go back to being friends? Or did he long for something more meaningful? Was that why he’d started sinking roots before he ever left to come back?
Carson grabbed a piece of cardboard from a box he’d found in the barn and held it over his head as he hustled across the yard, shooting a glance over his shoulder to make sure the llamas were under their shelter. When he reached the front porch to the house, he stepped inside and bolted the door, shutting out the sounds of the storm.
He glanced at the sawhorses and lumber filling the room. Before he left, Mason had asked him if he’d be willing to do a little kitchen remodel, a gift from the groom to his bride.
Work, something he desperately needed right now, and noise. Distraction. Something to keep him from thinking about Jillian. About houses and settling down. About families and happily ever afters.
Something to keep him from thinking about the job offers that hadn’t come in yet. Because if he didn’t get a job, he wouldn’t be able to stay.
9
Carson reached into the car, dragged out his tool belt and buckled it around his hips. Good thing he’d thought to throw it in the car before leaving Remi’s. He’d need it today.
He nudged the door closed and turned around, surveying the storm damage to Jillian’s property.
Other than a few smaller trees that had come down and lots of debris littering the yard, the biggest issues appeared to be shingles missing from the roof and a broken window, a giant tree limb jutting out.
He paced to the window and got to work, tugging out the branch and hauling it next to her barn. After measuring the opening, he covered the gap with tarp. When he finished that task, he toted the ladder to the side of the house and climbed up to the roof, stepping cautiously across the surface. He preferred to use a harness but couldn’t track one down at Remi’s.
Buckle up, Lambright. It’s only a one-story house. At least, you won’t have far to fall.
Jillian wouldn’t be too happy to come home from a tough day and find him flat on his back from a fall off her roof. No, that wouldn’t be good.
Smiling, he dug a few nails from his pocket and slid them between his lips, then tugged the hammer from the tool belt dangling around his hips. He nailed down the loose shingles, mentally noting a list of supplies he’d need from town.
Edging his way across the roof to the ladder, he paused and glanced out over Jillian’s land. Her property jutted up to Remi and Mason’s, but even so, they were still a good distance apart. Since the trees were filled out with leaves, he couldn’t even see Remi’s house from here. Winter, when the trees were stripped, was likely a much clearer view.
A cool breeze ruffled his cheeks, a remnant of last night’s storm. Although he’d gotten up early this morning to check on and feed the animals, he wasn’t tired. Quite the opposite. He felt invigorated, refreshed, comfortable.
Home.
As if he was finally at a place in his life where he belonged.
He scoffed. In Harrison, North Carolina? Back where he started. Who’d have thought? He scrubbed a hand across his jaws. Was this feeling because he was back home? Or because of Jillian?
His foot landed on the first rung of the ladder, and his fingers gripped the hard metal as he made his way down to the ground.
What if he couldn’t land a job? He’d be forced to move on down the road, just like every other time. A man had to work. Had to feel good about putting in a day’s labor for a paycheck. He wasn’t going to mooch off his mother or his brother.
Lord, if You want me to stay here, I trust You to help me with a job.
****
Jillian eased out of the hospital parking lot, merging onto the crowded six lane highway, still stunned over Maria’s remarkable progress.
But she hated to admit she was more dazed by what Maria said, rather than how much the swelling and redness had dissipated in the few short days since she’d last been to visit.
Carson had visited Maria in the hospital every day.
Guilt, and something else, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on yet, fluttered in her belly. He’d been by to visit Maria more times than she had.
She flipped the blinker, heading down the curvy, hilly road that meandered to her house.
The man had a full plate, what with taking care of Remi’s brood of animals and furiously working on the kitchen remodel so that it would be finished by the time the honeymooners returned, driving all over Charlotte to apply for jobs, and yet he’d still found time to visit Maria? Someone he barely even knew.
And here she’d made him feel bad for calling to check on her last night. He’d probably meant it as a nice, friendly gesture, just like his visits to Maria.
But, she’d gone off on him. Gotten all bent out of shape over a silly phone call.
She sighed. She’d have to apologize.
After she stood under a long, hot shower and then had a chance to rest. She was physically drained after being out in the storm all night, speeding from one emergency call to the next without a chance to take off the heavy bunker coat, chasing away the “what could have been’s” and the “why’s”. She wouldn’t have been able to sleep last night even if her head had connected with a pillow.
She pulled into her driveway and moaned. Tree limbs and debris littered the yard.
Later. She’d deal with them later. Much later.
Heaving herself down from the truck, she forced her weary legs to slog across the wet grass. Heavy footsteps clomped up the porch, but then her weary legs faltered, hesitated, as her brain caught up with them. She blinked, trying to process what was wrong.
She stepped back off the porch, swinging her gaze around the front yard and then to the house.
The window!
Plastic covered a window on the side of the house. Who would have done that?
An engine chugged up her driveway, cutting into the shrill calls of the birds and the distant sound of a dog barking.
Her jaw dropped as the engine sputtered to a stop behind her truck. She couldn’t mistake the dark head of hair behind the steering wheel.
Carson?
After his long legs unfolded from the tiny car, he opened the trunk and pulled out a window.
Carson had already been by this morning to check on her house and tape up a broken window? What else had he done? And why was she so surprised?
“Morning.” His smile hiked up on one end of his lips. His jaws sported heavy whiskers.
But what shredded every last ounce of
her resistance was the way his arm muscles flexed as he carted the window to the side of the house.
She scurried after him, her steps amazingly light and quick to keep pace. She didn’t dwell on the sudden difference in her body, how her tummy fluttered, and her heart thudded so loudly the neighbors could probably hear. “What are you doing?”
“Fixing your window.”
“I can see that, but why?”
His eyebrows arched over glorious green eyes. His lips still curved in that sweet, lopsided smile. With the glass hiked over his left shoulder, he angled his head sideways. “Because I didn’t think you’d appreciate the giant limb as the centerpiece for your family room.”
“Really? That was going to be my coffee table.” Grinning, she glanced around the yard for the offending remnant.
“I chopped it up and stowed it against the barn for now.” Halting in front of the opening, he set the glass on the ground, gingerly leaning it against the house, and speared her with a gaze over his shoulder.
She skidded to a stop, but not soon—or far—enough. Coffee colored flecks glittered from his eyes. His dimple winked from a crevice, hidden among the heavy whiskers lining his cheeks. A breeze drifted by, bringing a whiff of hard work, soap, and the sweet smells of horses and outdoors.
Her heart beat a frantic rhythm. She took a step back, her hand splaying against her chest.
“Is your fireplace wood-burning?”
Huh? She slid her gaze back to his lips, processing his words. Another mistake, but she avoided the embarrassment of drooling in front of him when he pressed a few nails between his lips and turned around. “Yeah.”
He mumbled something that sounded like, “Perfect, then.”
No. Perfect was his finely sculpted back. The way his muscles rippled, straining against his cotton shirt, as he hoisted the window into place and tugged the hammer from the tool belt casually draped around his lean hips.
How did this man continually throw her off balance?