by Piper Stone
“Least I could do. I dragged you out. Sorry you had to be introduced to what I call paradise the way you did.”
“You mean sparring with a couple of cowboys?” Grinning, she hoped her words would lighten the mood. They didn’t.
Stoker exhaled, the sound exaggerated, and stopped the truck in front of the cottage. The brakes squealed as the tires slid across the last of the gravel dust. “I’m going to go look in on the horses, feed and water them. I might be by later to just take a look at what needs to be done at the place. I won’t bother you.”
“That’s fine and you’re not going to bother me. Not like I have anything to do. I think I’ll be holed up by the fireplace, a bottle or two of wine in hand.” She hesitated before opening the door. Did she think he was going to ask her on a date? Would she go if he did? Resigned, she jumped down from the truck and grabbed her things. She was half afraid she’d never see him again and half concerned what would happen if she did. “I need to rent a car. Do you have any idea where I can around here?”
He leaned down, peering out, his cerulean blue eyes mesmerizing in the light.
Why was he studying her so intently? Did he think she was some crazed idiot who just happened to find a cabin in the middle of nowhere to stay at? Self-conscience, she patted her hand down her jeans. She had to look a mess, covered in dirt and soot. “What? Let me guess. There’s nowhere in town to rent a car, buy groceries or liquor?”
Stoker remained expressionless with the exception of a single eyebrow lifting.
“Okay. Does that mean I need to learn how to shoot in order to have any food? Is this a kill or be killed kind of town?” Teasing him didn’t garner any heightened level of emotions. You bet the man was frustrating.
“Do you want to learn how to shoot?”
The question wasn’t what she’d expected. She inhaled and took a quick look at the sky. “Yes. No. Maybe.” Groaning, she shrugged. “Truth is, I don’t have much else to do. Might as well learn something new while I’m in self-imposed Purgatory.”
He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, his mouth taut. “You can borrow my car. I’ll drop it off later today.”
You mean the sexy hotrod? “I wouldn’t want to put you out.” Jessica wasn’t certain getting entangled with him in any manner would be the best decision. She was here for a couple of weeks. Tops. At this point, maybe less.
“No bother. You need a car to get around and I have several.”
“Several. Wow. Didn’t take you for a materialistic guy.”
Stoker’s eyes twinkled. “Didn’t take you for a city slicker, but you are.”
“Excuse me?”
“You are.”
“I’m not. Well, not by Florida standards anyway.” She rubbed her eyes. This wasn’t going well.
He grinned. “Why don’t you allow me to introduce you to Missoula my way? Or is that too much for you?”
“What, spending time with an arrogant cowboy?”
“Ouch,” he muttered.
Don’t be such a bitch. She brushed hair from her face as she thought about her answer. “Fine. Sure. That would be nice.”
“Nice? You sure you can trust yourself around me?”
Jessica was too tired to continue the sparring game. “Stoker, it would be a pleasure to have you show me around cowboy territory. Is that better?”
“Much. You do have some manners after all,” Stoker allowed the words to hang. “I’ll show you the highlights, we’ll grab a drink and if you’re so inclined, maybe even dinner.”
“As long as it isn’t bison,” she mumbled.
“Bison?” Stoker burst into laughter. “This isn’t the stone ages. I’ll drop the car off this afternoon then I’ll pick you up around seven tonight. Deal?”
She leaned against the edge of the door. Everything about Stoker was all wrong. “Okay. I think seeing something other than scarred landscape will be intriguing. I’d like that.”
“Good. Bison. Good God, girl, what have you been reading? You must think everyone in the western states is cut from the same cloth, wild and wooly, taking our women when we want them. Hunting off the land for food, forcing our women to forage for berries.”
For some reason, her thoughts drifted to his comment regarding a hard spanking – the cowboy way. She’d been spanked as a child, but the situation had been much different and far more damning. She envisioned being tossed across his knees, his calloused hand spanking her until she was in tears. She held her breath as the vision created heated sensations dancing down her legs.
“Woman, come here. You’ve gone and disobeyed me again,” Stoker said as he threw his cowboy hat onto the coffee table.
“No, I haven’t.” But she certainly knew she’d pushed every one of his buttons.
Exhaling, he placed his hands on his hips and paced back and forth. “I don’t know what else to do with you except teach you a lesson. Every day. Perhaps a whipping every morning will get through to that hard head of yours.”
“Every day?” Jessica gulped. “Are you kidding?”
He plopped down on the couch and patted his lap, giving her his commanding look. “You know I never kid about when you need my firm hand. Now take off your jeans and get over here. When we’re finished, I’m going to wash your mouth out with soap for back talking me. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Shuffling forward, she unfastened her button and unzipped as she kicked off her shoes. While she adored his demanding ways, requiring the utmost obedience, she hated being spanked like a little girl. She obeyed without question, removing her jeans and panties. When she stood directly in front of him, she lowered her head.
Stoker cupped her face with both hands, bringing her face down. He breathed across her face before he pressed his lips against hers.
The kiss was soft, sensuous and she fell into the moment of intimacy, savoring the flavor of the man she adored. He darted his tongue inside, the kiss becoming a roar of passion. She shivered and closed her eyes.
He eased her back. “You know you’re my little sunshine, but right now, you’re one bad girl.” Easing her over his lap, he tapped her buttocks. “Thirty tonight. Tomorrow morning we’ll begin again and every day until your behavior improves.”
“Yes, sir.”
Crack! Pop!
“Ow!”
Jessica jumped and blinked, her eyes watering, ugly memories destroying the playful ones. Determined not to allow her father’s legacy to interfere, she placed two fingers over her mouth and could swear the kiss lingered. Whew. She definitely needed some time off given she was losing her freaking mind.
“You okay? Looks like you’ve seen one of those nasty bison running around,” Stoker chortled.
He was also infuriating. She slammed the door and watched him drive toward the barn. She had a date with a deplorable man. How did that happen? Rugged. Dangerous. Despicable. A hard spanking.
Yeah, she was doomed.
After tending to the horses, Stoker spent almost an hour trying to find out exactly what had happened. No one was talking and Garcia was MIA. Huffing, he jerked to his feet, tossing his phone onto the couch. Anxiety had replaced the adrenaline rush and so he paced back and forth.
Mac swooshed his tail as he stared up at his master, his dark brown eyes imploring.
He glanced down and shook his head. “Don’t mind me, buddy, just a lot on my mind.”
Woof!
“Yeah, I hear you. Being unemployed isn’t good for me. You’ve seen me like this too many times. Too many.” Mac had been his first purchase after his return from duty, the suggestion made by his doctor. By your shrink. Crazy ass. He rubbed his eyes. Perhaps he was completely out of his mind. The nightmares had returned, crashing into every aspect of his life. He was on suspension from the only job he knew how to do. He had no real family and he could count his friends, true friends, on one hand, less two fingers.
Yeah, for all practical purposes, he was a freaking loser. However, if his intense training had taught him
anything, it was that self-pity didn’t do a damn thing but take away the rest of your life. He snorted and walked to the kitchen. “I need to get you some breakfast, buddy.”
Mac followed closely behind, his name and rabies tags smacking together.
Stoker grabbed the bag of dogfood out of the pantry, pouring a hefty amount into Mac’s bowl. The pup had been a godsend, a savior of sorts. He’d die for the furry golden one. His thoughts drifted to the horrific fire, the ugly memories remaining and nagging at his soul. “There you go, Mac. Eat up, big boy.” He patted the Golden on top of the head, shoved the bag back onto the shelf and walked to his refrigerator. After close examination, he groaned. Inside the wide-open space was a ketchup bottle, mayonnaise he wasn’t certain any human should eat, a rotting piece of fruit, bacon and a dozen or so bottles of beer.
Yeah, he lived the high life. He grabbed a beer and leaned back against the counter, crossing his legs. Breakfast of champions. “Oh, Mac, when did everything get so complicated?” Twisting the top, he tossed the cap into the sink and took a swig. After all, he was on vacation.
He thought about the recent fires. Whoever was setting them knew their way around combustibles and accelerants. They also seemed to be familiar with aspects of controlling a fire, methods used to keep the blaze exactly where they wanted it until inflicting maximum harm. What was the guy after? Revenge? Retaliation for losing a job? Time to have a chat with the local Sheriff’s Department. Maybe they would take him and his instinct seriously.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
Eyeing the front door, he grumbled under his breath. He was in no mood for company, no matter who was behind threshold. When he threw open the door, the sight of Garcia was both unsettling and welcoming. “You look like hell.”
“Yeah? You ain’t so pretty yourself.” Garcia raised a single eyebrow as he lumbered inside. “Drinking this early in the morning?”
“I’m on forced vacation so I’m allowed. You want one?” Stoker left the door open as he sauntered back toward the kitchen, hearing the door close. “I see that leg of yours is perfectly fine.”
“What the hell and I ran into a tree. That it is.”
“Goddamn, you’re a terrible liar.”
Garcia rolled his eyes.
Stoker tossed him a beer then walked toward him. “Who was hurt last night from the team?”
“Don’t think you ever met the guy. Tom Masters?”
“Never heard of him. Local guy?”
“Nah. He was trained about six years ago. Then he had some job offer back East. Came back a little over a year ago. Nice guy, albeit a bit green. Hot dogging type, something you certainly understand,” Garcia said absently as he looked out the window.
“Hurt bad?” The jab wasn’t lost on him. Sure, he’d pushed hard, raging against a non-existent machine.
“Don’t know yet. From what I could tell, Tom is pretty badly burned. He was trapped under some fallen debris for several minutes before we got to him. If you ask me, the guy’s not going to be jumping anytime soon.”
“Shame. The investigator on the scene?” Stoker asked.
“Good old, Fred. He’s there. Creepy dude. Doesn’t say much. Kinda like you.” Grinning, Garcia nodded in Stoker’s direction.
“Funny. So funny. What about the victim?”
Shrugging, Garcia walked toward the front window, placing his hand on the wall. “I have no idea. I heard he was some hotshot movie director here on vacation, but you know the rumor mill around here. Could be a homeless guy for all I know.”
Stoker moved toward him. “Thanks for the report. I appreciate you coming by.”
“Anytime.” He continued staring out the window, absently taking sips of his beer.
“Why are you really here?”
“I knew you’d want to know.”
“You could have called.”
Garcia looked over his shoulder. “Yeah. I could have.”
Stoker inhaled and shoved his hand into his pocket.
“Do you love what you do?” Garcia asked.
“Do I love? You mean fighting fires?” He opened his eyes wide. “You’re serious?”
“I am. All of it. The fires. Saving lives. Losing lives.”
“You’re philosophical today. To answer your question. I love what I do. All I ever wanted to be was a fireman.”
Garcia had a far-away look on his face. “Funny. The moment daddy introduced me to a smokejumper when I was a little kid, I was hooked. I wanted to be that man. In my eyes, he was a true hero, larger than life. Big dude, broad shoulders. Hell, he even drove a Harley.” He shook his head. “God. I hadn’t thought about the guy for years. I had everything about him that had ever been printed on my wall. He even signed a poster for me. Boy, I lived and breathed fires. Started a few of my own, just to be able to put them out. I tell you what. My daddy never spanked me so hard.”
“What happened to him?”
“What happened to Larken?” Garcia asked as he tipped his head.
Stoker nodded.
“Died in the line of duty. He’s a true hero. He saved something like fifty lives during the course of his career. His picture is on the wall at the hanger.”
“Sad.”
“Happens.”
Turning to face his friend, Stoker remained unblinking. “Again, why are you really here?”
Garcia picked at the label on the bottle and took two gulps before wiping his mouth and shifting from foot to foot. “We need you, man. We’re already down one jumper who transferred out of state two months ago. If Tom is on the injured list, we can’t do our jobs. We need a full team, especially with the season so damn busy. Do you understand?”
“I understand but I can’t do it. I just can’t.” Stoker’s throat tightened. He cupped his mouth and concentrated on his breathing.
“Why? Why can’t you just let this go? You did nothing wrong. Nothing. You did your job. Shit happens.”
“Shit happens? Are you fucking kidding me?” Stoker snarled as he closed the distance, glaring down at his buddy. “Not doing my job cost innocent lives.”
“You were following orders,” Garcia insisted.
“Yeah? Tell that to Cooper.” Stoker walked away, hissing under his breath. Throwing open the front door, he took a long stride and slammed his fist against the wooden column. “Damn it!” He grabbed the railing, digging his nails into the worn wood. When he heard Garcia’s boots on the porch, he bristled. “Don’t. Just leave it alone.”
“I can’t and I won’t because I’m your friend. You need to do this. Somewhere in that pigheaded brain of yours, you know I’m right.”
“You have no idea what I went through, how difficult it was even getting back to fighting fires at all. You have no concept of what it’s like!”
Garcia sighed and moved closer. He gazed out at the yard, several seconds passing. “You’re right. I wasn’t in a war. I didn’t fight for my country. I wasn’t labeled a hero. You were. Why don’t you start acting like one?”
Fury rushed into his system. “Shut the fuck up!” The words rang loudly. An awkward silence settled in. He inhaled, reining in his anger. He’d taken out his horrors on anyone who crossed him. He had to stop or he’d lose everyone he cared about. The thought gave him a cold chill. He’d already accomplished exactly what he was terrified of.
“Look, I’m not trying to hurt you or force you into anything, but I am enough of a friend that I’m going to tell you when you’re wrong.” He inched closer, daring to invade Stoker’s space. “Come meet the team. Just meet them. Okay? You have nothing to lose.”
“Except the rest of my sanity.” He guzzled the beer, gulping the liquid as if dying of thirst. What did he actually have to lose?
“Stoker, listen to me just once. You’re a born smokejumper and you have an opportunity to rid those demons strangling the man I knew years ago.”
Stoker chuckled, the tone more of a growl. “He’s gone, obliterated in a dirty and uncivilized terrain.”
; “No, I refuse to accept that. Refuse. Do you hear me?”
“Why the hell do you care so much?”
Bumping against him, Garcia shifted so he could look at his friend. “Because I don’t want you to wallow up and die. That’s why.”
“You’re too late.”
“Am I?”
Stoker could tell by the odd expression on Garcia’s face that he was holding something back. “What? Just say whatever you’re here to say. Chastise me. Condemn me. I really don’t care and I’ve already done that to myself more times than I can count.”
“I know you have. I’ve been here the entire time, watching you shrivel into a man I don’t know any longer. However, I can do something about your pity party if you’ll take a chance.”
Pity party. Jesus Christ. Falling into deep thought, he knew his buddy was right, but for all the wrong reasons. “I’ll think about a visit. Don’t push. Okay?”
Garcia shifted the beer from hand to hand. “Fair enough.” He set the beer down on the deck and walked down the stairs. Just before reaching his truck he stopped and tilted his head. “Just so you know. I had a call this morning.”
“From?”
He cleared his throat before he spoke. “Cooper. Don’t give me any shit. He just wanted to know how you were doing.” As if knowing what Stoker would say, he didn’t wait for the comment and walked to his truck, climbing in and turning over the engine.
A chill swept down Stoker’s spine. Cooper? There was no way he’d made a call out of the blue. The man had disappeared, not as if Stoker could blame him. He’d forsaken his best friend, falling into his personal trap, allowing the fires of Hell to consume what was left of his humanity. He closed his eyes, pressing his fist against his forehead.
He began to shake as a flood of visions and ugly memories crowded into his cognizant mind. “Cooper.” After Garcia drove away, he threw the bottle, smiling when he heard the crunch of glass.
Then he dropped his head into his hands. He’d never be free of his ugly demons.