But when she’d asked if she could take both, complaining all she and Maggie got for a weapon was a stick while Brody got to wield a sword, her papa had scooped her up with a laugh and plopped her on top of his tall, broad shoulders.
As he strode to the barn, he explained he was teaching his two beautiful daughters how to use anything that was straight and stout as a weapon, because in all likelihood they wouldn’t have a sword handy if they ever needed to defend themselves. He’d then promised Katy that, by her early teens, and wielding nothing more than a common broom, she would be able to trounce a grown man—including, he’d added with a tug on her leg, Brody.
Katy felt a fresh surge of tears at how much she missed those Saturday morning lessons, and her being so sure that by the time she left home, she could even trounce the world.
Except three weeks ago, the world had trounced her instead.
And in doing so, had turned her into a murderer.
Chapter Eight
Closing in on twenty minutes of searching upstairs and down and even the parking lot and fire pit area for his missing crew, Gunnar finally reached the end of his patience. None of the six squad members—one of whom was Katy, whom he hadn’t seen in three days—was responding to his texts or in-house pages. Even Welles was suspiciously absent.
By God, manually setting off the alarm should bring the delinquents running.
Gunnar reentered the station through an open bay door and strode down between the aerial and main engine, only to stop when he came to the empty slot where their rescue truck usually sat. He slowly turned in a circle. Both ambulances were here, as well as engines one and two, the aerial, and the on-duty captain’s pickup. Only 987 was out.
He couldn’t have missed an alarm. Christ, the few times it had sounded on his shift, every cell in his body had screamed in pain. And the one time it had gone off at night, he’d bolted out of bed ready to punch anything that moved, only to grab his pounding chest when he realized where he was, certain he was having a heart attack. How in hell did these people survive entire careers of constant adrenaline spikes? He’d been here barely three weeks and had already lost the ability to sleep through an entire night, even away from the station.
Hell, maybe Conroy was grouchy because she hadn’t slept in twenty-five years.
Gunnar cocked his head when he caught the muffled sound of snickering, then strode toward the utility room again. He stopped just short of the door and peeked around the corner to see his four missing firefighters and Conroy lined up along a large open window, their attention fixed on something outside.
Silently, he walked over and stood behind Gretchen because she was the shortest—calling herself five-foot-one was a bald-faced lie—and looked out the window to see what was so fascinating. But the only thing out there was their rescue truck, backed up at an odd angle against the thirty-foot wall of granite that had been cut out of the mountain to make room for the station. Then he heard voices coming from a fairly good height and leaned forward slightly to see the top of the cliff.
“The windshield,” Russo whispered from the side of his grinning mouth, keeping his eyes trained out the window while gesturing with his head.
Gunnar dropped his gaze to the truck’s windshield at the same time he heard a distinctly feminine snort, then stiffened when he saw the reflection of Katy hanging some twenty feet down from the top of their hose tower—leaving her another twenty feet above the ground—with Welles hanging from his own rope just off to her right.
“Listen,” Russo whispered.
“Well, I guess now we know,” Gunnar heard Katy mutter, “why they insisted on using the hose tower instead of the cliff.”
“Why?” Welles asked, frowning over his shoulder at the cliff some thirty feet away.
“Because they knew we could have found enough toeholds in the granite to climb up on our own.” She kicked the brick wall she was braced against, then started gently swaying. “No chance of that happening here.”
“Oh, wait, I have my phone!” Welles cried as he bumped into the wall while twisting to get past his harness to reach his pocket. “We can call someone to come get us down.”
Katy stopped swaying. “And just who are you going to call?”
Welles abandoned his pocket to grab the rope and brace his feet on the building again. Even from this distance, Gunnar could see the reflection of the kid’s scowl. “I don’t know about you, but this sure feels like an emergency to me. I say we show them by calling 911.”
Katy chuckled. “And who do you suppose dispatch will tone out?”
Welles went motionless. “Cripes,” he said, thumping his helmet against the bricks with a clearly audible groan. “Every last one of them knows I don’t like heights. ‘It’s only half as high as the aerial,’ they said. ‘MacBain won’t suspect a thing if you play the victim,’ they said. ‘It’ll be fun,’ they said.” He rolled his head to look at Katy. “They didn’t say they were pranking me, too,” he muttered as he rolled back. “I thought they were finally treating me like one of them.”
Gunnar saw several of the squad members shift uncomfortably, including Gretchen.
“They are,” Katy said as she crab-walked sideways and playfully punched his shoulder, making Welles lift his head. “They wouldn’t have involved you at all if they didn’t consider you a full member of the squad. They would have just come up with another prank.”
“If that’s true,” the kid said, his jaw cocked defensively, “then how come everyone always calls me Welles?”
“For the same reason we all call each other by our last names,” Katy said, letting herself swing away. “It’s a passive-aggressive sign of affection. Like another way of saying ‘I’ve got your back, buddy; just don’t ask to borrow my truck or date my daughter,’” she explained in a perfectly delivered male voice.
“Then why don’t they—and you—call me Ingersoll-Hoffenmyer?”
Yes, Miss Citizen Liaison, Gunnar silently drawled. Why?
Even though the reflection had grown distorted from the sun’s angle changing on the windshield, a blind man could have seen Katy’s surprise. In fact, it was a good thing she wore a helmet, because the chin strap was likely all that kept her jaw from hitting the ground.
“Welles is your first name?”
The kid nodded. “Welles Ingersoll-Hoffenmyer. My mom didn’t want to give up her maiden name when she got married, so they hyphenated,” he said as if by rote, apparently having had a lot of practice explaining why his name kept running into the address box on forms.
The entire team of eavesdroppers leaned forward as a single unit, trying to hear what Katy muttered, only to all flinch when the alarm suddenly sounded five freaking feet away.
“Attention Spellbound Falls Fire & Rescue. Spellbound Ambulance One is asked to respond to 624 Crabtree Lane for a fifty-two-year-old male, breathing but not responsive, with probable insulin reaction. Copy Spellbound Ambulance One: 624 Crabtree Lane, fifty-two-year-old male, probable insulin reaction. Piscataquis out, fourteen-twenty-three.”
“I’m on it!” Gretchen shouted—likely because she couldn’t hear her own voice—as she shot toward the door. She turned and gave everyone the once-over. “Higgins, it’s time you put all those pretty muscles to use,” she called out as she spun back to the door while gesturing for him to follow.
“Hey! Don’t leave without us!” Katy yelled from her lofty perch.
“Come on, guys!” Welles added frantically. “Don’t make me miss a call!”
“Dammit, you idiots,” Katy shouted, “get out here and untie these lines!”
Grinning, Russo slid open the screen, leaned out the window, and twisted to look up at the hose tower. “It’s only a forty-two-car pileup just north of East Podunk,” he called up to them. “Conroy and Higgins have it covered.” He pulled back inside, his grin widening at Katy’s colorful response, then l
eaned out the window again. “If you haven’t made it down by the time we’re done with supper, we’ll send up any leftovers,” he added, only to jerk back inside one second before a helmet bounced off the window jam. He’d been bluffing with the supper line, fully intending to help her if she struggled much longer, but if the woman was going to start chucking equipment at him, she could find her own way down.
Russo turned his grin on Gunnar. “You been looking for us?”
For the life of him, Gunnar couldn’t remember why. “Just wanted to know who’s fixing dinner tonight and what we’re having,” he said, striding off. He stopped at the door. “I assume you made sure it wasn’t MacBain’s turn before you set her up?”
Russo sighed. “Higgins was supposed to make his firehouse lasagna.” He grinned and gestured at the window. “The dashcam in the truck is on and Wi-Fi enabled, so we’ll intervene if it looks like they’re getting into trouble. If MacBain hasn’t figured it out by sunset, we’ll get them down in time to enjoy at least some of the campfire.”
Gunnar merely arched a brow, making Russo’s grin turn a bit sheepish. “My wife’s bringing our two sons and an outdoor popcorn popper she found at the Trading Post.” He shrugged. “She’s also bringing the elderly couple that lives next door.”
Gunnar slid his gaze to Bean and Mason.
“My landlord stopped by our house yesterday,” Bean said with an equally sheepish shrug, “and asked if it’s true that our campfires are open to the public. I told him that he and his wife should come hang out with us for a while tonight.”
“I met two hot little divorcées from New York City at the Bottoms Up night before last,” Mason said, his grin lecherous, “who used their divorce settlements to go halves on a vacation home right on Bottomless. And when they mentioned they’ve been trying to mingle with the locals, I invited them to swing by tonight.”
The poor unsuspecting bastards hadn’t even lasted a week. “And that, gentlemen,” Gunnar drawled, “is why Gilmore waited for someone with very specific skills to come along before making his final hire.” Fighting his own grin when all three of theirs disappeared, he headed for the door again. “You might want to ask around town if any loggers have butt ends they’d like to donate, because it appears we’re going to need more seating.”
And he intended to carve chief into the top of one of those stumps, so he’d be sure to have a front row seat from which to watch Miss MacBain charm the good citizens of Spellbound Falls out of their hard-earned tax dollars one beguiling smile at a time.
Hell, maybe he’d even pin his badge on his chest and toss out a few grins of his own.
* * *
* * *
Katy scowled down at the purring diesel engine using her leg for a scratching post. “Don’t think I didn’t see you napping on the chief’s windowsill earlier,” she scolded. “Even though I specifically told you to pretend you’re just a stray town cat who enjoys visiting the station,” she added, hoping no one noticed it only visited every third day. But she couldn’t very well leave Tux at the campground all by himself for twenty-four hours straight. Heck, she wasn’t even sure she was supposed to have a cat unless it was on a leash, and she really did not see that happening.
She dropped a piece of butter-soaked popcorn on the floor, then sighed when, instead of gobbling down the treat, Tux batted it around the station kitchen. “Everyone’s been feeding you all day, haven’t they?”
The morning she’d ridden Quantum to Inglenook, Katy returned to her truck in a far better frame of mind than when she’d left, thanks to Shiloh’s infectious joy when the kid spotted her cantering up the resort road and ran out his cottage driveway hollering and waving. Katy had stopped and dismounted, lifted Shiloh onto the saddle, and led him to the stables. She’d continued around the paddock a few times to cool Quantum down as the boy continued talking about how wonderful Inglenook was, then boasted how he’d boldly asked Mrs. Oceanus about the chickens when she’d greeted them in person when they’d arrived. But, he’d admitted with a sly grin, he’d asked after mentioning he was best friends with her friend Katy MacBain. Mrs. Oceanus had told him to send her an email explaining his business plan—which is what he’d been working on when he’d spotted Katy—and they would have an official meeting to discuss it in a few days.
Once Quantum was settled into her new quarters, Katy had kissed her horse on the nose, hugged Shiloh good-bye with the promise she’d be back the next day to give him his first official riding lesson, then hitched a ride to the station on one of the resort vans shuttling guests to town.
Honest to God, she’d completely forgotten she now owned a cat until she’d opened the door to her pickup and found a note propped on the steering wheel from Gunnar saying Tux (no tomcat worth his kibble was going to answer to Timmy, he’d explained) was locked in his office. He’d be out doing fire chief work most of the day, so Katy was free to retrieve her new pet.
She’d found Tux curled up on a fleece inside an open drawer of a file cabinet, sleeping off what appeared to be a cinnamon bun hangover, judging from the dried icing on his ears and the smell of cinnamon on his breath. Their first night together had been . . . interesting, as apparently any tomcat worth his kibble was nocturnal.
Tux wasn’t all that impressed being stuck inside their cabin, either, when there were wonderful sounds and smells and softly scurrying critters on the other side of the thin material. Oh yeah. Not only did her roof leak, it now also let in mosquitoes thanks to the hole he’d clawed in the door screen.
But despite nearly dying in a moving vehicle, the cat apparently loved riding in her pickup, sprawled on top of the back seat with his nose only inches from the side window she’d opened a crack. He also liked riding in boats, Katy had discovered when she’d met up with Peg MacKeage at the marina. Tux had sat on the pontoon’s raised back deck with his nose in the air and his eyes half closed in pleasure as they’d cruised up the fjord to Peg and Duncan’s house, where he’d then found a virtual army of kids to play with and a barn full of new cat buddies.
Katy had actually thought about leaving Tux at Peg’s, but the little imp had already purred his way into her heart. And really, he acted more like a dog than a cat. She didn’t even have to mess with litter boxes, because apparently no tomcat worth his kibble would even think about doing his business in a silly plastic box filled with fake dirt.
Seeing Tux had decided the popcorn was finally dead enough to eat, Katy tossed down another piece, then snapped the cover over the large tub and set it inside the canvas bag she’d brought for carrying snacks out to the campfires. Lord, she hoped someone showed up tonight, having made a point to tell everyone she knew in town to tell everyone they knew that the firehouse campfires were open to the public. Heck, she’d even told people at the campground.
She’d felt so foolish sitting all by herself for nearly an hour at the first one and could have hugged Jake when he’d walked up and handed her a cup of cocoa—that is, until she’d realized why he was there and that she hadn’t had a clue what to do about it. And then she’d nearly jumped up and hugged Gunnar when he’d come out and sat down beside her—that is, until she’d realized why he was there and turned into a giddy schoolgirl. In fact, the real reason she’d gone to her truck was to take off the turtleneck she’d had on under her flannel shirt, she’d been so hot and bothered.
“I hope you know those campfires are going to bite us all in the ass.”
Katy turned with an armful of snacks she’d purchased at the Trading Post to see Gretchen standing beside the table peering into the canvas bag. Sighing, she said, “Yeah? And why is that?”
“Every Tom, Dick, and jag-off in this community already feels free to butt in on what we do. But don’t let our jobs interfere with your coffee klatch.”
“I’m sorry,” Katy said, deciding to get to the bottom of the lady’s problem. “Have I said or done something to offend you?”
“Yeah, you got hired.”
“And that offends you because . . . ?”
Gretchen scooped up Tux when he started twining around her legs, then cuddled him to her chest and slowly smoothed his fur—the woman’s gentleness in stark contrast to her obvious disdain for his owner. Or maybe occasional roommate and meal ticket was a more accurate take on their relationship.
“I started in public and private stations over twenty-six years ago,” Gretchen said in an acidic tone, “in what was then a male-dominated profession. I’ve been kicked, spit on, punched, and even stabbed, and it’s cost me backaches, heartaches, an untold number of friends, and two husbands to finally get on a squad of this caliber in a station this well-equipped. And you come bouncing in here with your long legs and perky boobs and big, bright smile, some volunteer experience and a piece of paper from a four-week rescue course, and not a clue what the women who came before you had to endure just to be considered competent.” Gretchen walked to the window and stared outside. “You bet I’m offended.” Her voice thickened. “Because right now, there’s an overworked, underpaid, highly skilled female medic out there still having to prove every damn day that she’s just as capable as any man, because Gilmore passed over her application to give the final slot to you.”
Ouch. Definitely hadn’t seen that coming. “I wasn’t aware,” Katy murmured, “that states have different training and licensing for volunteers as opposed to full-time paramedics.”
Gretchen turned in surprise. “They don’t,” she snapped. “Schooling doesn’t make a good medic, experience does. So,” she added in a sneer, dropping her gaze to the snacks Katy was still holding, “tell me, bright eyes, just how these campfires are going to help us be better firefighters and medics.”
Katy started to snap back an equally derisive response but stopped when she saw Gretchen rub her chin in Tux’s fur and realized the woman wasn’t nearly as angry as she was threatened. Katy suspected Gretchen had been defending her position to younger, quicker, stronger men and women for so long that she didn’t know how to stop.
Call It Magic Page 11