Deep Haven [03] The Perfect Match

by Susan May Warren

  So she could break his heart every time the alarm bells chimed? Dan gave a wry nod, not sure if he wanted to see Ellie’s dreams come true or pray that they would change. “Good idea.”

  He set the plate in the sink and snatched his grimy baseball hat off the top of the fridge. Thankfully, he left his tools in the VW for just these types of occasions. Grabbing his work boots, he was wrestling them on as the telephone rang. He hopped over to it on one foot. “Hello?”

  He lowered his foot when the voice on the other end identified herself as the administrator from Duluth’s St. Margaret’s Hospital. Dan closed his eyes while he listened to the news, pain radiating through every nerve. He hung up slowly.

  “What is it?” Joe stood in the door, concern on his face.

  Dan took off his hat and tossed it on the table. “Cindy Simmons passed away last night.”

  This time the dream started with the fire. Ellie nearly felt the heat of it as she stood on the ridge, a yellow bandanna around her mouth, her Pulaski dangling in her hand. She watched the wall of flames, nearly half a mile away, devour the side of the mountain, barreling toward the gulley. Her lungs burned when she gulped air, her heart still racing with the fear that had driven her from the fire line she and the other Rocky Mountain Hotshots had been clearing. Now she stood mesmerized by the fury of the blaze. Mad for oxygen, the flames charged down the mountainside, jumping from one treetop to the next, shooting up fully grown trees like torches. Even from this distance she heard it rumble like a freight train, chewing up the tracks toward her.

  “Run, Ellie!” In her dream, it was again Fire Mike, her captain, although she knew he’d long ago run back to hustle the other hotshots up the mountain. Inside, a voice pulsed, sounding like Seth’s. “Get to the firebreak!” Only the cleared field and her fire shelter could save her now. Adrenaline poured into her limbs, but still she stood gripped by the wall of flames. Other hotshots ran by her; one caught her arm. She wrenched free.

  Always in the dream the screaming started the moment she took a step away from the flames, toward escape. On the back side of subconsciousness, she recognized the screaming as only the howl of her heart, but in her dreams it sounded guttural, desperate, afraid. In her dreams, as in history, she hesitated.

  It was in this hesitation she felt the invisible cord between her and her brother knot and pull taut.

  “C’mon, Ellie,” yelled Fire Mike, and then he appeared next to her to grab her arm, drag her along.

  Their fate crackled on Mike’s two-way as the smoke jumpers relayed a panicked request to the escaping hotshots. One of their own had run down the mountain. One of their own, desperate to save the hotshots blinded by the ravine. One of their own, searching for his sister. Had they seen him?

  Seth.

  Right then sanity lost its grip. She wrestled free from Fire Mike. He let her go, fear winning over valor. Turning, she raced toward the fire. Seth!

  Even in her sleep, she felt her breathing quicken, her heart tight, heavy. Her face burned; tears sizzled on her cheeks. The fire had reached the gully now. Spears of pure flame arrowed into the sky, sparks spiraling through a wall of smoke and ash. Her lungs burned from the heat. “Seth!”

  And then someone emerged from the smoke. His brown jumpsuit sooty, his eyes blinded with tears . . . he ran up the hill toward her.

  Seth.

  Even now she had a hard time blinking back her disbelief. Tears etched trails down his cheeks, and his blond hair had curled, as if burnt. Her big brother. Hero. Larger than her dreams. He grabbed her arm and motivated her up the hill with a speed that seemed superhuman. She screamed more than once at the wall of fire licking their heels. He didn’t slow even when she stumbled but nearly yanked her arm from its socket.

  The fire roared behind them, a firestorm that bent the trees in half and heated the air into a furnace. “Over here! We have no time!” Seth flung her onto a bald spot of earth, and the next moment he shook out her fire shelter and flung it over her. “Turn your face into the ground. Find cool air.” Then he went to deploy his own shelter.

  Cocooned inside the silver “shake and bake,” she stretched out and held down the cover with her hands and feet and dug her nose into the precious cool, breathable air found six inches into the ground. She didn’t have time to think as the fire roared over her. Fiery tongues lashed the shelter, the ferocious wind licking at its prey. Ellie shook, her nose in the dirt, her hands pressed against the edges of the shelter. Please, God!

  “Keep your breathing shallow; don’t suck in too much air.” She heard Seth’s voice in her head and wondered how far away he’d deployed. His voice sounded pained, a scream against the thunder. She closed her eyes, concentrated on breathing, not daring to think what might have become of her had her brother not found her.

  Sweat trickled down her face. “I’m sorry, Seth. I’m so sorry.” Even in sleep, Ellie felt as if she might be burning up, turning black. Her fingers ached, and her muscles cramped. She heard herself sobbing. Then, suddenly, all went quiet, as if the tornado had spent its energy. Even in the grip of sleep, her textbook classes took over, and she reminded herself to stay in her shelter until the toxic smoke had cleared, the air cooled to a breathable temperature.

  This time, however, it wasn’t Fire Mike who found her. The dream morphed, and as she stared, blinking against the lingering smoke, Dan pulled back her shelter, knelt beside her, and delivered the news.

  Seth was dead.

  Ellie blinked. Daylight flooded into her hotel room. She lay on her stomach, breathing into a small moist well she’d dug into the center of her pillow. Drenched in sweat, she trembled from head to toe.

  They told her later that they’d found her curled in a ball under her shake and bake, sleeping like a child. What they never knew is that she’d climbed out of the shelter and found the other silver tent . . . the one that held the burned corpse of her brother. He’d gone in the fire after her, to save the hotshot crew he knew she was on, and hadn’t had time to deploy his shelter after saving her life.

  She unlocked her fingers from their death grip on the pillow and eased herself off the bed. Her heart beat like she might still be running, and in her thoughts, she was. Running from the memories. Running from the grief. Running with only her promise to fill in the gap Seth’s sacrifice had left in the fabric of the world.

  And standing on the rim of the blackened horizon, watching her flee, stood Dan.

  The image faded as Ellie pushed her fists into her eyes. The memory felt achingly real each time, and yet this time panic rushed in its wake. She’d spent half the night fighting reality, wondering if she could simply unload her burdens and settle down with a man who embodied everything she ever wanted. Gentle. Kind. Protective.

  Yes, protective. The fact that he’d tried to save her life not once but twice had found fertile soil in her heart and seeded all sorts of warm, feminine feelings. Feelings she’d buried for fifteen years.

  She wanted to cling to his promise that he’d support her and fight the innate masculine impulse to throw himself between her and danger. Believe that yes, they could carve out a niche here. Dan and Ellie. The man had a way of making her feel like only she could unlock the sunshine and bring warmth to the day.

  Maybe, just maybe, they had a future. If she landed the position as full-time fire chief, if she managed to untangle the mysteries behind the Deep Haven blazes, and if Dan could stand in the shadows and let her do her job . . . yes, they might survive this.

  But her promises came first. As she’d stood on that blackened hillside, watching them bag her brother’s body, she’d made a vow. And not even her Benedict Arnold heart, the one that wanted to run after whimsy and true love, could keep her from fulfilling it. She would be the son, the next generation firefighter her parents lost. Seth wouldn’t die in vain.

  Some things were simply more important than true love.

  So, she’d have to pray she got the Deep Haven job. Full-time. Permanent.

  Sh
e touched her lips once, remembering Dan’s kiss, his arms around her, and stumbled to the bathroom to get a shower.

  19

  Ellie had finally arranged her galley-style office to her contentment. Three pictures—two of historical firehouses and one of her dog—hung on the wall. She’d commandeered an armchair from the living room, found a standing lamp in the storage shed out back and replaced the shade, and thrown down a homemade rag carpet she’d found in Liza’s shop. Small changes, but they softened the morgue effect inherent in the warehouse office and made her not hate spending hours attached to her computer, reading reports.

  She held a cup of cocoa between her hands, relishing the sunlight that streamed through the wide window and fell across her new desk—an old kitchen table she’d seen for sale in Deep Haven’s Hidden Treasures store. Even if her employment in this town didn’t take, she’d drag the oak table back to Duluth or wherever she landed. It would be a memento—

  Oh, who was she kidding? She had enough mementos etched in her brain—Dan cooking omelettes for her, Dan going one-on-one with her in hockey, Dan tackling her in front of the entire town, Dan wrapping her in an embrace that made her forget time and grief.

  Those memories embedded themselves in her heart in a way she knew she’d never break free. Lord, please let me keep this job.

  She’d been flinging one-line prayers heavenward in alarming frequency these days. And somehow, cracking open her soul in hope had her glimpsing God in unfamiliar places. For example, in a friend like Liza who popped into her office this morning to bring her a muffin, tell her that she was rooting for her, and to inform her that Dan was busy planning the funeral of a victim of the Simmons fire. Ellie tried not to be interested, but the fact that she hadn’t seen him since the ice-arena escapade two days ago nagged her. It helped ease her pain that he’d left three messages on her voice mail while she’d been at the General Trading Store doing her walk-through.

  She and Craig managed to narrow the source of the fire to a utility room in the General Store. The melted gas meter suggested a leak—the intensity of the heat would have warped the metal—and with the smokehouse ovens neatly butted up to the outside wall, Ellie didn’t have a difficult time making the leap to the heat source. Heat + fuel + oxygen = chemical reaction. The fire tetrahedron.

  She had high hopes that this fire had been accidental. Not arson.

  Except she couldn’t shake the image of Bonnie standing in the parking lot, the wind blowing her dark hair into tangles, her gaze glued to the blaze. Didn’t Dan say that she’d recently separated and that she and her estranged husband owned the store together?

  It bothered Ellie enough to place a phone call to Sam the police chief to discuss her suspicions.

  What she’d discovered had Ellie sipping her cocoa now in deep contemplation. Bonnie and her husband, Matt Williams, owned not one but two Deep Haven businesses. The General Trading Store and Smoky Joe’s BBQ.

  Ellie’s heart went out to Bonnie. Matt sported a new woman on his arm these days, an act that surely cut into Bonnie’s emotions. Even if no love remained in a marriage, seeing her not-yet-ex-husband happy in another woman’s arms could curdle a wife’s judgment. Maybe push her into a crime of passion.

  But arson wasn’t usually a crime of passion. Arsonists set fire to disguise a crime, to recover insurance money, or occasionally just to watch the action. These criminals set fire only to watch it live, breathe, then die. They had a fascination with fire and firefighters that made their crime a game. They set fire to woo the flames and admire those who faced them.

  She stacked the reports from the three fires in piles across the top of her desk and began a list of similarities.

  Footsteps, then a knock at the door, drew her away from her thoughts.

  Her pulse jumped when Dan entered, a smile on his groomed face. “Hi.” He’d cleaned up well since the last time she’d seen him—not that she’d minded the faded jeans and tousled hair package, but this version, with the burgundy shirt, tweed jacket, tie, and suit pants turned him into Mr. GQ Pastor. Except for the twinkle in his eyes, she wouldn’t suspect he was the same man who had kissed her breathless just two nights ago.

  He looked too . . . clean.

  She had that weird sensation of dating a monk and tried to shrug it away. “Hi, there.”

  “You busy?” He sauntered in, his hands in his pants pockets, a look of vulnerability on his face.

  “No. Yes, well, not too busy for you.” Oh, brother, she wanted to bang her head on her desk. But he smiled at her words, and she decided that the blush pressing her skin told him she’d let her mouth run ahead of her brain.

  “What are you working on?” He sat down in the armchair, put his hands on the arms, gripping them loosely.

  “The fire reports. I’m trying to find a link between them.”

  He nodded like this was riveting information. “So, what do you have?”

  She eyed him, not quite sure if she should divulge the information now that he wasn’t a firefighter. But she could use another head. “I’ve got two that started in the bathroom, with an alcohol accelerant. In the debris of the Simmons fire and the Garden fire I found small, round aluminum disks. And my list of onlookers and interviewees places Bonnie Williams at both the Garden fire and the General Trading Store fire. I looked up her address on her interview form and discovered that Bonnie rents a house only a block away from the Simmonses’. Do you know—did she know Cindy?”

  He’d gone slightly pale at her summary. “They were friends, but only because Guthrie worked for Smoky Joe’s and Bonnie owns the catering company.”

  “Guthrie? I don’t see the connection.”

  “Guthrie is Cindy Simmons’s brother. Occasionally Cindy would fill in for him if he had to care for their mother or even help out at the fire station.”

  “Did he spend a lot of time at the station before he passed his exams?”

  Dan’s color had returned, thankfully—it couldn’t be easy to hear about the involvement of a parishioner in a murder case. “I hadn’t really thought about it. Yes, maybe. He seemed to get on well with Chief Halstrom. And a few times he helped out on the volunteer crews when we had a forest-fire issue. I think he was even given an award once for citizen involvement.”

  Ellie reached into her personnel files to dig up Guthrie’s file. How had she missed that?

  Dan crossed his arms, and his expression darkened. “Ellie, I have to ask you—do you have any reason to suspect Mitch?”

  Ellie searched his face and slowly nodded. “He threatened me the night I . . . I . . .”

  “What did he do to you?” Dan asked in a dangerously low tone. He hadn’t moved from his relaxed position, but his hands had tightened on the arms of the chair.

  Fear rippled through Ellie at the intensity in his gray eyes. “He, uh—” her mouth dried, and she looked away—“propositioned me.”

  “That’s a polite way of saying he was his rude and vulgar self and forced himself on you.”

  “I got away. Nothing happened,” she said quietly.

  But Dan had his eyes closed, his jaw clenched. It rattled her to see him struggle for control. I love you, he’d said. Did he love her so much he’d toss out his pastoral reputation to defend her honor?

  “I’m fine, Dan, really.”

  When he opened his eyes, she saw the pain in them. “I’m sorry, Ellie—”

  “That some men are swine?” She smiled, hoping to unravel his anger.

  “Yeah, I guess,” he said but didn’t return the smile. “Mitch may be more than a farm animal, honey. He’s going around town saying that someone is out to get you. That the fires are personal.”

  She leaned back, crossed her arms, and scowled. “Hardly. The Simmons fire happened before I got here, and since then only the Garden fire is suspected of arson. I doubt someone is trying to drive me . . . out . . . of . . . town.” She leaned forward. “You don’t really think someone would do that, do you?”

  Dan s
wallowed, looked out the window where the wind tumbled leaves down the street. “I hope not.”

  That vulnerable look had returned. It made her ache. Something about this man made her feel cherished, and the realization made her tremble.

  She’d never felt cherished in her life. Appreciated, yes. Occasionally. Thanked, more than once.

  But cherished? The feelings she’d been trying to douse for three days—no, nearly three months—burst to life in full flame inside her. She loved this man. Desperately. Completely. She turned away from him before he could see her feelings written on her face and gathered in her composure.

  Love wasn’t going to solve their problems. It wasn’t going to keep her in Deep Haven.

  She took another sip of her cocoa. “I heard that Cindy Simmons died,” she said, as if she didn’t want to leap the desk and get lost in his arms.

  “Yes. I heard yesterday morning. I spent the day working out the funeral arrangements.” Suddenly he looked drawn, like he mantled some unseen load. “Her kids are orphans, and I’m not sure what to do.”

  “Don’t you have a social-services department in Deep Haven?”

  “We’ve been working together. Problem is, the daughter has Down syndrome and the boys need ongoing medical care. Pretty tough to place.”

  “There’s no one in Deep Haven who would take them? Someone who has a heart and an understanding for those with Down syndrome? I have a hard time believing that there isn’t a solution after I saw the outpouring of community support for the Garden.” She took another sip of her cocoa.

  Dan stared at her, his eyes wide.

  She stilled, wondering what he saw with those beautiful eyes of his.

  “That’s it! Of course. You’re a genius.” He stood, his hands clenched as if in victory. Then he leaned over, ringed her face with his fingers, and kissed her. She closed her eyes, loving the touch of his lips on hers, relishing this moment—

  “Hello?”