Gunnar drained the remains of the scotch in his glass, dropped his feet to the floor, and stood up with a dog-tired groan. He figured he had two choices: he could drive twenty miles to the campground he was calling home and sleep on a thin pad, or he could walk twenty feet to the private quarters that came with his new title and collapse onto a comfortable bed. He just sure as hell wasn’t sauntering out to that campfire, wanting to think he was at least as smart as his crew when it came to staying out of reach of killer smiles. Especially when his head hadn’t touched a pillow in thirty-six hours.
The problem was if he slept at the station and the alarm went off, he couldn’t very well not respond, because, hell, in the two weeks he’d been here, he’d been on a sum total of five calls. And based on the records he now had access to, in the four months since its inception, SFF&R had averaged one structure fire, two false alarms, and eighteen medical runs a month. Vehicle accidents averaged 3.4 a week, most of the personal injuries too minor to transport. And up until last night, there had been zero actual rescues, because Michael Gilmore apparently felt that helping a man down off his camp roof didn’t count. They hadn’t even gotten to use any of their fancy equipment, as they’d simply reset the camp owner’s own fallen ladder.
Gunnar figured the only reason he’d even found an open position on the squad was because his predecessor had quit out of sheer boredom. In fact, it had been at supper during his second shift that he’d foolishly asked if anyone had checked to see if the alarm might be broken. Once all the men quit laughing, Russo said Gilmore kept assuring them calls would pick up once tourist season got into full swing. But despite it being the first week in June, apparently even hardcore backcountry hikers didn’t like sleeping under the stars when temperatures regularly dropped into the upper forties at night—that party of inexperienced hikers on Fraser Mountain obviously not getting that particular memo.
So it was little wonder the locals were disgruntled about paying for the upkeep of a multimillion-dollar facility crammed full of expensive equipment and staffed around the clock with three rotating crews of firefighters and medics, all of which they saw sitting idle the majority of the time. Hell, at last night’s hastily called council meeting, several rather vocal female citizens (he’d heard them referred to as the Grange ladies) suggested that instead of hiring any more people, they should fire the entire lot of them, sell all the equipment except for the big truck that had a bucket on its ladder (any logger or some guy named Grundy could probably figure out how to run it), and turn the station into a community rec center everyone could use.
That was when Officer Sheppard should have drawn his weapon. Who in their right mind turned a brand-new, state-of-the-art fire station into a rec center?
With what could only be described as amazing patience, Duncan MacKeage had quietly settled the matter by reminding the ladies that all the councilmen, backed up by a citizen vote last year, had promised the anonymous benefactor who had paid for the building and equipment that the town would keep the station maintained and fully staffed. They hadn’t, however, apparently agreed on a reasonable budget to back up that promise, thus precipitating an understandably worried fire chief’s search for a citizen liaison. And if that liaison happened to be a tall, beautiful Mainer with a killer smile . . . well, maybe the true genius was the person who’d hired Michael Gilmore in the first place.
Which reminded Gunnar that he should probably find out who in town was wealthy enough to be funding safety buildings and full scholarships to the tune of millions of dollars. Because one, he couldn’t resist a mystery; two, he didn’t like not knowing who indirectly signed his paychecks; and three, past experience had taught him that, if things suddenly turned nasty, it was damn hard to choose a side if he didn’t know all the players.
Not that he expected trouble, because how dangerous could chasing after angels be, anyway? It’s not like they ran around the woods carrying guns and shooting at—
Well, okay. Jane happened to have been holding a shotgun when Markov crashed his floatplane into a pond she’d been walking past, and she apparently hadn’t been the least bit shy about firing off several rounds at his assassins when they’d flown overhead again. And he recalled Markov mentioning something about a fist-sized hole getting blown in a lobster boat when Jane took offense to being dragged off to Shelkova against her will.
So maybe he’d just stick with his motto of better prepared than dead.
Unable to stifle a yawn, Gunnar lifted his arms over his head, only to stop in mid-stretch when he caught a glimpse of movement down on the sidewalk. He stepped to the edge of the window just as a man walked up the station driveway, dressed like a tourist and carrying what appeared to be two cardboard restaurant cups.
Jake Sheppard.
Coming fully awake when he recognized the bastard, Gunnar strode to the door leading to his private quarters. He’d anticipated having to drive off a few rival males. He just hadn’t expected to find himself dealing with a world-class Lothario who thought stealing other men’s girlfriends and wives should be an Olympic sport.
Why some enraged husband hadn’t killed the idiot by now was anyone’s guess.
Gunnar walked into the bathroom and splashed water on his face, ran his wet fingers through his hair, then grabbed a towel and dried off as he strode back to the bedroom. He pulled off his T-shirt, tossed it and the towel on the bed, then rummaged through his duffel bag for something non-duty to wear. He’d stopped into the L.L. Bean outlet in Bangor to buy camping equipment because he hadn’t been able to find a decent rental online, and figuring he should dress like a local, he’d also grabbed a couple of fleece vests, several chamois shirts, and a pair of the store’s famous hunting boots. He pulled out a deep green flannel shirt and slipped it on, then tucked it inside his station pants as he walked back in the bathroom and eyed himself in the mirror—because, dammit, the bastard was a world-class womanizer.
Deciding he should hunt down a barber tomorrow, Gunnar walked back in the bedroom and over to the mini fridge serving as a nightstand, pulled out two of the domestic beers he’d inherited from his predecessor, studied them a moment, then put them back and grabbed one of the energy drinks. Giving a resigned sigh as he glanced at the bed, he strode through the station, exited through one of the open bay doors no one had bothered to close, and casually sauntered down to Spellbound Falls’ first community campfire.
He just barely stifled a snort when he saw that, instead of taking a seat next to Katy, the smooth bastard had chosen a stump at a diagonal, so he could look her directly in the eyes. “I hope you’re not sneaking my crew alcohol in coffee cups, Officer Sheppard,” Gunnar said, choosing a stump right beside her.
“No, it’s hot cocoa,” Katy rushed out with a soft laugh. She pulled off the plastic cover and tilted the cup to show him its steaming contents. “Jake said he was almost to the campfire when he saw I was the only one here and decided to run back to the Drunken Moose and get us both hot cocoas. Wasn’t that sweet of him?”
“As sweet as apple pie,” Gunnar said, returning the bastard’s smirk while popping the tab on his energy drink. “So, Shep, how’s your jaywalking conspiracy coming along?”
Katy leaned closer and nudged Gunnar just as he was taking a drink, making him spill some on his shirt. She smelled of campfire, sea, and vanilla. Intoxicating. “Shep is the dog,” she whispered. “This is Jake.” She used her cup to gesture at the now grinning bastard. “He was about to tell me how those children ended up in the water this morning.”
Three-to-one Jake had pushed them in out of sheer boredom. “Do tell,” Gunnar drawled.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Jake drawled back. “It’s a rather long story, and you look a bit . . . haggard. Why don’t you turn in, Chief, and I’ll catch up with you tomorrow?”
“Oh no, Jake,” Katy injected brightly. “We don’t use titles here. Just first or last names or both, depending on your mood.
”
Okay, he needed to tone it down, because either Katy understood the male ego far better than she let on and had caught the undertone in both their voices, or—
Or else she was a completely oblivious airhead. He really couldn’t believe it was the latter.
“And I’m sure Gunnar,” she continued to Jake, “is used to functioning on very little sleep, considering his former line of work.”
Gunnar stilled with his drink halfway to his mouth, even as he saw Jake nearly choke on the sip of cocoa he’d just taken. “My former line of work?”
The firelight reflected off a sudden gleam in Katy’s eyes, which Gunnar began to realize meant—hell, he was fairly certain it meant he didn’t have a clue what was about to come out of that lovely mouth.
She glanced in Jake’s direction, then leaned closer again. “What you did during all your world travels,” she whispered, “back when you lived in—on the island.”
Good God. He definitely hadn’t been expecting that. How in hell could she possibly know where he was from? Unless she’d spent those two missing weeks on some library computer in freaking Idaho researching the idiot her best friend was trying to hook her up with.
Even though Jane had sworn she’d never mentioned his name?
Katy fired off one of her smiles at Jake, who’d obviously heard the whole exchange and seemed as confused as Gunnar. “So, Jake, how did those children end up in the water this morning?”
“Children?” Jake repeated, his eyes appearing to be locked on her mouth.
Oh yeah. The woman definitely knew what was going on.
Which meant Miss MacBain was likely the only person at this campfire in full possession of their faculties at the moment. Which also told Gunnar that apparently the only weapon an angel or enchantress—he was pretty sure there was a difference—needed to take down a world-class Lothario was a killer smile, which was why he was sitting beside her. Hell, the way the firelight danced in those beguiling eyes, there was a good chance even Grouchy Gretchen would crack.
“I assume the girl fell in,” Gunnar said, “and the older boy jumped in after her.” Let’s keep this moving, he thought. The sooner Jake got the story out, the sooner the man could be on his way.
“That’s mostly what happened.” Jake frowned. “Except Evan kept insisting they’d seen a large bird. From his description, I’d say it was a bald eagle.”
“Evan?” Gunnar repeated.
“He’s the older boy.”
Katy had gone as still as a stone, not a smile or gleam in sight. What was that about? “Did Evan say the eagle was responsible for his sister falling in the water?” she whispered, clearly disturbed by the notion.
Jake shook his head. “No. Evan said he and his little brother were over by the park trail leading up to the viewing platform when he heard a loud screech and a large bird swooped down out of nowhere at him. He didn’t get that welt on his shoulder from scraping a rock in the water; he got it when one of the bird’s talons snagged his shirt.” Jake’s gaze slid to Gunnar, then back to Katy, and he shook his head again. “Evan said he thinks that, instead of attacking him, the eagle had been trying to get his attention. He told me the bird continued flying toward the pool, then dove into the water and latched on to something just below the surface.”
“Ohmigod, it was the girl,” Katy murmured, the firelight illuminating her distress.
Jake nodded. “If she screamed when she fell in, Evan wouldn’t have heard it because of the noise of the falls. He said the bird flapped its wings, trying to fly off with what he finally realized was his sister, but she was too heavy. Evan started running, calling back to his little brother to get help, and jumped in the water.” Jake took a sip from his cup, his expression sobering. “Evan told me the bird looked like it was trying to drag Clara—that’s his sister; she’s seven—toward him, but the current kept pulling the three of them toward Bottomless.”
Gunnar couldn’t quite stifle a snort. “Really?” he said. “Either Evan or you are aspiring fiction writers. That eagle was dragging its meal to shore.”
Katy turned startled eyes on him. “Are you saying that, with all you’ve seen and done in your lifetime, you don’t believe the eagle was trying to save Clara?”
“Yes, do tell us, Wolfe,” Jake drawled, “just some of what you’ve seen and done.”
Gunnar shot the bastard a glare, finally remembering why he never was the bigger man. “So, did Evan have to fight off the eagle when he reached his sister?”
Jake eyed him for several seconds then shrugged. “He said the bird let go of Clara the moment he got to her and then flew up to a nearby tree.”
Katy gasped. “That’s why he kept looking toward the falls. I thought he was embarrassed by all the people watching on the bridge, but he was looking for the eagle. I wonder if it stayed around long enough to see that Clara regained consciousness.”
Okay, Gunnar was back to worrying he’d just spent the last four months obsessing over a dunce. Katy might not be all that naive about men, but anyone with half a brain knew better than to believe a wild bird of prey would try to save a drowning child.
And what was up with all that talk about his former life, anyway? Exactly what did she think he’d seen and done in it?
“Oh, the popcorn!” she said, pivoting on her stump. “We can’t have a campfire without snacks.”
Jake blatantly ogled her, watching Katy’s backside dancing in the firelight as she bent over a large canvas bag.
Hell, Gunnar figured he also might as well enjoy the view. And he did until he saw Katy surreptitiously pour her entire cup of cocoa onto the ground behind the stump. Odd. So the woman didn’t care for . . . what? Chocolate in general or just hot cocoa?
Or maybe she’d taken a sip and discovered the idiot really had brought her a hot toddy.
She stood, suddenly. “Even better, I just remembered I have some candy I bought in Ida—in Colorado in my truck.”
“It’s getting late,” Gunnar said. “Why don’t you save it for your next campfire?” He shot her his most killer grin. “With more advanced notice, I’m sure you’ll get a bigger crowd.”
“If that candy’s still in my truck in the morning,” she said with a laugh, heading around the pit, “there won’t be any left for the next campfire.” She stopped at the edge of the parking lot and looked back. “Jake? Did you tell Niall what Evan told you about the eagle?”
“Just as soon as I returned from the hospital,” Jake said with a nod.
“And what was his reaction?” she asked with a sidelong glance at Gunnar.
Jake also glanced at Gunnar, then cocked his head at Katy and grinned. “Niall’s finally getting the hang of cussing in French without slaughtering the language with his heavy brogue.” Jake sobered when she didn’t return his grin. “We both went to the park and looked around for Evan’s eagle, but if it existed, it was long gone.”
“And is little Clara going to be okay?”
“The doctor said she didn’t seem to have any ill effects from her swim, but he wanted to keep her overnight to make sure.” Jake grinned again. “The family’s staying in one of Sam and Ezra’s rental cabins, and I’m betting that’ll be the last time those kids sneak out while their parents are sleeping to do a little sightseeing on their own.”
“Thank you for telling me.” Katy lifted the empty cup she was still holding and pretended to take a sip, tilting it as if it were still half full, then licked her lips as she used the cup to gesture at Jake. “And thanks again for the cocoa. Better drink yours before it gets cold. I’ll only be a minute,” she ended as she turned and disappeared into the darkness of the parking lot.
Gunnar couldn’t tell if Katy was encouraging Sheppard’s attention or if she simply didn’t want to hurt his feelings. “Get lost, you horny bastard,” he quietly growled.
Jake spit out his mouthfu
l of cocoa. “What?”
“And don’t come to any more campfires. In fact, I catch you even talking to Katy in passing, I will take out ads in every newspaper in Europe saying Jayme Sheppard can be found in Spellbound Falls, Maine.”
“Are you insane?”
“Katy,” Gunnar said, nodding toward the parking lot while holding eye contact with the bastard, “is off-limits to you and Wyatt.”
Jake looked down and casually brushed at the cocoa he’d spit on his pants. When he looked up again, the idiot was grinning. “Why would I want to get lost after risking life and limb asking for permission to date Miss MacBain?” He arched a brow. “Or maybe the better question is whether you got permission?”
“How many of those hot toddies did you drink while lurking in the bushes before making your move? Permission from whom?”
“Niall MacKeage, my boss and her cousin.”
“Christ, you are drunk. Nobody asks anyone if they can date a twenty-eight-year-old woman except the woman herself. And I’m pretty sure you’ve never asked permission to do anything in your life.”
Jake shrugged. “It’s your funeral.” He eyed Gunnar for several seconds, then suddenly sighed. “Okay, look. I’ve heard you referred to as a Renaissance man more than once over the years, so I assume you probably know a little something about Scots. How come you don’t know how protective they are of their women?”
“Because I live in the twenty-first century,” Gunnar said, dryly.
“But the MacKeages and MacBains,” Jake said, using his cup to gesture at the parking lot, “don’t.” He shook his head with a grin. “I’m not sure what century Niall and Duncan and Alec MacKeage believe they’re living in, but they act and talk and think like Highland warriors from a thousand years ago. Nobody messes with them, or their wives, or their children. And if they happen to have a pretty cousin living in town, nobody better mess with her, either, if they value their lives.”
Call It Magic Page 8