Where There's Smoke

by Doreen Roberts

  Once more she pulled up at the end of the path to the cabin. She could at least clean up the place while she waited, she thought. Someone had to do it, and it was too big a task for the little girl to do on her own. Though no doubt she’d want to try.

  Arriving back at the cabin, Claire winced at the sight. Black smoke had streaked the walls, the ceiling was a dark gray and the whole place smelled of burned rags. It would take a thorough spring-cleaning to get the odor out of the house. Sighing, Claire hunted for a bucket and mop and got to work.

  * * *

  The minute she’d left the store, he was sorry. Once more he’d come on too strong. Not because of anything she’d said. He couldn’t blame her for any of that. Most of it was true, anyway. And he hadn’t felt like explaining to her that every time Harrie did the disappearing act his heart was in his mouth until she came back.

  Maybe he should have told Claire about his theory. That once Harrie thought he wasn’t concerned about her running off to hide, she’d quit doing it. It wasn’t easy to act as if he didn’t care when his daughter finally turned up after one her tantrums.

  Sometimes, when she’d been away longer than usual, he’d been at the point of calling in a search party. But she’d always returned, looking belligerent and defiant, melting his anger in a flood of relief and love.

  He had actually begun to think his strategy was working. This was the first time she’d run away since school had been out. Almost four weeks.

  And then Claire Spencer had come back into their lives and already Harrie was back on the hideaway kick again. That was what had made him angry.

  It was almost an hour later when he finally admitted that his anger was also due to the fact that his body wanted Claire, even though his mind told him it was out of the question. Throwing down the hammer he was using to put up new shelves, he tossed back his head and cursed them all.

  He cursed the Bridgemonts, who were determined to take Harrie away from him. Harrie, for causing him so much worry and anxiety. And Claire Spencer, for reminding him so potently that he was a man, with all the hot-blooded urges and needs that threatened to consume him every time he looked at her.

  He wasn’t going to get any more work done that day. He couldn’t concentrate on anything with the ache in his gut driving him crazy. He would have to go back to the cabin and pray that Harrie turned up before he went out of his mind with worry. And sooner or later, he would have to apologize to Claire for taking out his anxiety and frustration on her.

  His opportunity came sooner than he expected. He saw her car in the clearing and he felt the strong tug at his heart that had become all too familiar lately. She had to be at the cabin. Steeling himself, he strode down the path, rehearsing what he had to say.

  * * *

  Claire stood on a chair, cleaning the windows, when Turner appeared in the doorway. She hadn’t heard him coming and the sight of him sapped the strength from her knees and almost toppled her off the chair.

  “What are you doing?” he said, sounding as if he’d caught her doing something underhanded.

  She did her best to ignore her reaction to him and went on wiping down the glass. “I should think that’s fairly obvious,” she said calmly. She didn’t want another argument. Her heart was banging hard enough as it was. She’d had about all the excitement she could take in one day.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Turner said stiffly. “I shut the shop up early to come home and clean up. Is Harrie back yet?” He looked around, shaking his head. “Jeez, what a mess.” His gaze fell on the burned floor and his face blanched.

  Aware of what was going through his mind, Claire felt a stab of satisfaction. She hoped he’d have nightmares for a week. “I haven’t seen any sign of her. I hope she’s all right.”

  “She’ll be back. She never goes far away.”

  To her surprise, he added awkwardly, “Would you like a soda? Or I think there’s iced tea in the fridge.”

  “There is. I made some fresh a little while ago.” She paused and looked down at him. “But I could use another glass, please, if you’re having one.”

  He nodded and walked into the kitchen, returning a few moments later with two glasses. Thanking him, she climbed down from the chair and took one from him.

  Her pulse skipped when he said quietly, “Look I’m sorry for yelling back there. I know you care about Harrie, but you just don’t understand what this is all about. I think I know better than anyone what’s best for my daughter, and I can tell you right now, it’s not living with the Bridgemonts.”

  Surprised and pleased by his apology, she said warmly, “I can understand how you feel, Turner.” She took a sip of the cold, refreshing tea. “Of course you want to keep your daughter with you. And it’s obviously what Harrie wants, too. All I’m saying is that you need some help.”

  “And I’m trying to get it. I’ll talk to her and explain why she has to have a housekeeper, if I have to frighten her to do it. Maybe if she understands she won’t be able to live here unless she does have someone to take care of her, she’ll accept the situation better.”

  Claire nodded. “I think that’s a good idea. Though even then, you might still have a fight on your hands. It will depend on whatever report the CSD caseworker will file.”

  “If there is a caseworker.”

  She’d forgotten he didn’t know yet. In all the excitement she’d forgotten the reason she was there. “Oh, there’ll be one,” she said, wishing she didn’t have to be the one to tell him. “Mrs. Bridgemont called me this morning, which is the reason I came out here. She filed the report and the caseworker should be here at any time.”

  “Oh, great.” Turner set his glass down on the table so hard the tea slopped over the sides.

  Watching him, Claire felt compelled to ask the question haunting her all day. “Turner, why does Mrs. Bridgemont blame you for Stacey’s death?”

  He looked up at her, shock stamped all over his face. “Blame me? Why the hell should she blame me? I wasn’t with Stacey the night she was killed.” His expression, the bitterness in his eyes, chilled her. “Of course her beloved daughter could do no wrong in her eyes. I shouldn’t be surprised that she blames me for everything that happened.”

  She wanted to ask him what did happen, what it was that caused that dreadful look on his face whenever Stacey’s name was mentioned. What had gone wrong with what had seemed to be the perfect marriage? But she couldn’t ask him any of those questions.

  Instead she said urgently, “Turner, I should warn you. Roger Bridgemont says he saw you coming out of a nightclub late one night. His wife intends to use that as evidence of neglect, saying you leave Harrie alone here at night. It’s a criminal offense in Oregon, Turner, to leave a seven-year-old alone.”

  “I’m well aware of that,” Turner said harshly. “And Roger Bridgemont needs his eyes examined. I haven’t been to a night-club since the early days of my marriage.”

  “Well, I guess he would have a hard time proving it,” she said, feeling relieved. “But I think you need to be aware that there’s a lot of hostility behind Mrs. Bridgemont’s concern for Harrie. You might have a tough fight on your hands.”

  “I don’t mind a tough fight,” Turner said grimly. “They can do their worst. They won’t get their hands on my daughter.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Why are you telling me all this, anyway?”

  She looked away and ran her finger down the side of her glass. “I’ve told you. I want what is best for Harrie.”

  “I thought you were convinced that meant the Bridgemonts.”

  “I never said that, Turner.” She looked back at him, her heart lifting at the softening of his expression. “If you can make a satisfactory arrangement with a housekeeper, I’m convinced Harrie will be better off with her father.”

  For a moment he seemed ready to smile, then he glanced down at his watch. “Well, Harrie should be coming out of her tantrum just about now. She should be back here any minute.”

  “I h
ope so. I can’t help worrying about her no matter what you say.” She eyed the pile of soiled fabric lying in the corner. “I’d better get those drapes in the wash, so you can hang them up again before it gets dark.”

  “I should warn you,” Turner said, “that Harrie won’t be too thrilled about you cleaning up. She likes to think it’s her responsibility to take care of the house. Makes her feel grown-up, I guess.”

  It was sad, Claire thought as she sorted out the grimy curtains, that a seven-year-old should care so much about household chores.

  By the time the curtains were ready to hang up again, Turner had cleaned all the walls and started work on the ceiling. Already the smell of smoke had almost gone, with the help of the afternoon breeze drifting through the open doorway.

  Claire had kept one eye on the pathway outside all afternoon, and finally she was rewarded when a movement caught her eye at the edge of the woods. “Here she is,” she called out to Turner, who was in the kitchen filling a bucket with clean water.

  She ran outside and started down the path, just as Harrie emerged from the woods and walked slowly toward the cabin, her eyes downcast. She carried a thick stick and whacked at the dandelions that sprouted from the gravel. She seemed absorbed in her task, and reached Claire without speaking or even looking up.

  “Hi, Harrie,” Claire said, keeping her voice neutral. “You’re just in time to help us finish cleaning the house.”

  Harrie’s face lifted at once. “‘Us’? Who else is cleaning it?”

  “Your dad. He’s in there scrubbing the walls. Why don’t you go and help him?”

  Harrie’s morose expression vanished and she flew toward the cabin. There was no doubt about her love for her father, Claire thought, watching her vanish inside. She hoped fervently that Turner would be able to resolve the problem of finding a housekeeper. Whatever Turner’s problems were, they were not due to indifference or willful neglect on his part. He deserved a break.

  A little surprised at her own conviction, Claire went back to the cabin to say goodbye. It was time to leave father and daughter alone.

  Harrie seemed disappointed that she was going, and to Claire’s intense pleasure, Turner thanked her for all the hard work she’d done on the house. They could handle the rest of it themselves, he assured her as she left. Feeling much more positive about the situation, she walked lightly down the path to her car.

  She had pulled out onto the road before she saw the black compact turn into the clearing at the head of the path. Uneasily she wondered if it was the caseworker for the CSD. She was tempted to go back, but telling herself she had no good reason to do so other than to know what was going on, she decided it would be better if she left well enough alone. No doubt she would find out soon enough what had happened.

  Chapter 4

  Turner stood in the middle of the living room, facing his daughter, who fidgeted in front of him, drawing circles with her foot.

  “I don’t think I have to tell you what would have happened if Claire had not been here to help you put the fire out,” Turner said, irritated by Harrie’s apparent unconcern.

  The little girl shrugged, her gaze on her blackened sneaker as it arced slowly in front of her.

  “Well, perhaps I should tell you at that,” Turner said, crossing his arms. “First of all, the flames would have eaten up everything in this house. All your clothes, all our food, the furniture, every single one of your bears, the television, all your books...” He paused, then added deliberately, “And the pictures of your mommy.”

  At that, Harrie’s foot came to a halt.

  “After that,” Turner went on, watching her face, “the flames would have shot up through the roof and set fire to the trees right above it. Then the wind would have caught the flames and started spreading them through the trees, one by one, faster and faster, until hundreds of them were burning to the ground.”

  For a moment, Harrie’s expression wavered, then the stubborn look returned. Hating himself, Turner pressed on. “Do you have any idea what would have happened to all the birds’ nests in the trees? All the baby birds who can’t fly yet? And what about the squirrels, the chipmunks, the field mice, the raccoons and the deer in the forest?”

  Harrie’s face turned pink. “They’d run away,” she said, sounding very uncertain.

  Turner sighed. “No, Harrie, they wouldn’t have time to run away. A forest fire is a terrible thing. It runs faster than the fastest animal on Earth. It jumps from tree to tree and back again and sometimes makes whole circles of fire, so that anything in the middle is burned—”

  Harrie’s wail cut off his words. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I won’t do it again. I promise.”

  Stooping, he gathered her up in his arms, stroking her hair as she sobbed against his shoulder. He hated upsetting her that way, but he had to get through to her the terrible danger of wildfire. Already the Forest Service was worried about the fire hazard after three long years of drought.

  The rains that usually kept the Oregon forests green and moist had stayed stubbornly north, creating long, dry months of hot sun and fierce, burning winds from the Gorge. Thousands of acres of old-growth timber were bone-dry and vulnerable.

  One smoldering log from a campfire, one burning cigarette, one streak of lightning in the wrong place could set off an inferno of devastation such as had never been seen before in the area. And Harrie had to realize the consequences of making such a mistake.

  After a moment or two her tears disappeared, and Turner set his daughter back on her feet. “Now,” he said, squatting in front of her so that his face was level with hers, “there’s something else I have to talk to you about.”

  “What?” She sniffed and rubbed her nose with the back of her hand.

  Turner dug into the pocket of his jeans and came up with a creased handkerchief. “Here,” he said gently, “blow your nose.”

  She took the handkerchief from him and buried her face in it. After a moment or two she handed it back to him, her eyes still bright from unshed tears.

  Carefully Turner took the corner of the handkerchief, touched his tongue to it and wiped off some of the grime that the tears hadn’t reached. “It’s about this housekeeper business,” he said, tucking the square of cotton back into his pocket.

  Harrie’s lower lip pouted, but she said nothing.

  “Look, kitten, I know how you feel about having a strange woman in the house, but I can’t be here to watch over you all day and—”

  “You don’t need to,” Harrie muttered. “I promised I wouldn’t light any more fires.”

  “It’s not just that.” Turner put his finger under her chin and lifted her face so that she’d look at him. “I love you very much, kitten. I don’t want you to have to leave and go live with your grandparents. I want you here with me.”

  “I’ll never leave you, Daddy,” Harrie said fiercely. “Never.”

  “I know you don’t want to, honey, but if I can’t find someone to take care of you, you might have to go. There’s a person coming—”

  Harrie’s eyes widened. “What person?”

  “From the place that takes care of children who are in trouble. They’re not going to take you away,” Turner said, patting her shoulder. “But if they think you’re not being looked after properly, they will tell the courts and they’ll make you go to your grandparents to live.”

  “I won’t go.” Harrie crossed her arms in a fair imitation of her father. “They can’t make me go.”

  Turner sighed. “I’m afraid they can, honey. That’s why it’s so important that we get someone in to look after you while I’m not here.”

  Harrie’s face puckered again. “But I don’t want anyone here. They make me do dumb things and won’t let me bring snakes and things in the house, and I can’t go play in the woods by myself....”

  “Harrie,” Turner said quietly, “you wouldn’t be able to play in the woods, anyway, if you went to live with your grandparents.”

  The stubborn look returne
d. “I’d just run away,” she mumbled. “And hide in the woods forever.”

  Turner felt a prickle of apprehension on the back of his neck. “No, Harrie,” he said, his voice firm, “if you do that everyone would be very angry with you and with me. They might say I could never see you again.”

  She looked about ready to cry again.

  “Look, I’ve got three ladies coming tonight to talk to us,” Turner said. “How about if I let you decide which one we have to stay with you? You are sure to like at least one of them.” He could always persuade her to go with his choice afterward, he told himself.

  “I know who I want to stay with me,” Harrie said suddenly, her face lighting up with hope.

  Turner frowned. “Who’s that, honey?”

  “Aunt Claire! It would be just perfect. She could show me how to sew clothes for my dolls—”

  Turner stood with an abrupt movement, shaken by the sudden excitement surging through his veins at the thought. “No,” he said sharply. “Aunt Claire has things to do. She won’t have time to stay with you.”

  “Why not? She likes me. She used to be Mommy’s best friend. She’s my godmother. It would be almost as good as having Mommy back—”

  “I said no!”

  “Er...excuse me,” said a man’s voice behind him, “would this be the Mitchells’ cabin?”

  Swinging around, Turner saw a younger man standing in the doorway, one hand on the smoke-blackened frame. He had on light-colored slacks and a striped shirt and carried a clipboard under one arm. The sun highlighted his fair hair, which he wore long enough for it to curl on the back of his neck.

  “Who are you?” Turner demanded, forgetting his manners.

  The man smiled, his teeth gleaming beneath his dark blond mustache. “My name is Chet Warren,” he said, removing his hand from the doorframe and holding it out to Turner. “I’m from the Children’s Services Division.”

  His gaze dropped to his hand and his eyebrows jerked up. “Boy,” he exclaimed, turning his palm up to examine the smoke smudge plastered across it, “what happened? You have a fire here or something?”