Easing open the door, she stepped inside, flicked on the light. The overhead fluorescence bathed the room, and she couldn’t escape a slight rush of clandestine adrenaline. She hung her coat over the edge of his desk chair, then sat down in it.
Dan sat here. The image of him bending over a Bible or with hands folded in prayer started a flow of warmth through her. Dangerous Dan the Preacher Man. What a paradox. A delightful, charming package that no woman in her right, sane mind would say no to.
And he loved her. No, cherished her.
Yes, she’d tell him she loved him and pray that God worked out their future.
Dan’s slightly open window allowed in a breeze. It chipped at Dan’s coat, piled on a stack of boxes, and suddenly the coat slid to the floor. Ellie rounded the desk to pick it up, set it on the stack, and froze.
The small box on top was open, and the warning label on its side screamed out like a siren. She peeked at the contents. Tiny boxes of Sterno canisters, and one was missing. Ellie stared at the empty space, a sickly acid welling in her throat. Sterno canisters. Filled with alcohol. Made of aluminum that, when burned in twelve-hundred-degree temperatures, would melt into tiny aluminum disks, the kind she’d found at the Simmons and Garden fires. Her chest tightened, nearly cutting off her air.
Surely there was an explanation.
She checked the pile of boxes. Paper napkins, tablecloths. Innocuous supplies. She picked up a box that held a canister and turned it in her hand. Dan would have an explan—
“Fire!”
The panicked voice came from the basement, along with a smattering of screams growing louder.
Ellie raced to the office door, and the stampede up the stairs nearly flattened her. “Stay calm! Walk!” she ordered. More people died from panic than from being trapped. She heard the church door open, more screams.
She pushed against the crowd, gripping the metal rail as she hurried down the stairs. “Let me through!”
She smelled the smoke before she saw it—the sickly sweet odor of burning plastic. Gray tufted the ceiling of the basement, thickening down one hall. As she shoved her way toward the source, she recognized Ernie and Craig herding people toward the back exit. “Where is it?” she yelled.
“The bathroom!” Joe grabbed her arm, pulled her out of the crowd. He and Guthrie were busy uncoiling an emergency hose from its place on the wall. Glass lay shattered at their feet. Guthrie glanced at her with a pained look.
“Where’s the fire extinguisher?”
Joe wrestled the hose toward the bathroom door. “Dan has it!”
Ellie’s gaze tracked to the door, where smoke huffed out in ugly, dragon breaths. “He’s in there?”
“He found it.”
Ellie stopped for a second, letting suspicion seize her around the throat. No. Dan could not be an arsonist.
Then simple and pure fear put her feet into action. Dan is in there.
She ducked into the bathroom, to Joe’s dismay. Dan was crouched by the door in the three-unit bathroom, battling the flames that fought to find fuel in the Styrofoam ceiling tiles. Ellie hit her knees, keeping low. Blue flame lashed out at her in greeting, heat instantly turning her face red. “We gotta get out of here.” In this compact space, the toxic fumes could sear their lungs quickly. Dan swept the base of the fire with bursts from the fire extinguisher, foam coughing out of the nearly empty can.
“I need water!” he hollered, turning. Tears dribbled out of his eyes from the smoke.
“Joe’s right behind us!” Ellie clutched his shirt, aware that it was soaking wet from perspiration, and tugged him toward the open door. A spray of water shot over their heads as they backpedaled out. They leaned against the wall, coughing, while Joe and Guthrie advanced into the room. Smoke, then steam billowed out, the dragon hissing and fighting its demise.
Craig Boberg braced his arm against the wall, breathing hard, a V of sweat on his dress shirt. Mitch stood behind him with a pale expression waxing his usual sneer.
“Is everyone out?” Ellie asked between coughs.
Craig nodded, watching Joe and Guthrie. Steam spiraled out now, along with a haze of moisture.
“Get me the axe,” Ellie ordered Craig. “We need to open the ceiling and make sure we stopped it.”
As Craig handed her the axe, she turned to Dan. He sat, sooty and exhausted, his arms dangling over his knees, looking like he’d wrestled a grizzly.
If he thought the fire wore him out, just wait until they were alone, and she was able to vent the fury, the hurt that boiled through her chest. She saw the color of the flame, even smelled the alcohol as it burned. If this fire wasn’t started with the missing Sterno canister, she’d turn in her badge and start flipping burgers. She barely forced out the words through her clenched teeth. “You . . . don’t go anywhere. I want to talk to you. Better yet—” she faced John—“get Chief Sam on the horn—”
“I’m right here.” Sam stepped up behind John.
“Good. Take . . . Pastor Matthews into . . . custody. I’ll talk to him down at the station.”
She didn’t miss Dan’s or the rest of the crew’s openmouthed shock when she marched into the sodden, charred bathroom with the axe, knowing she’d have no problem sending it through the wall and probably into the next county.
As usual, Ellie drove Dan’s emotions to the edge, then nudged them over. “What?” Dan sprang to his feet, knowing in the back of his mind that he wouldn’t handle this well. “Custody?” He shot a look at Sam, who hadn’t moved but let shock suspend him into hesitation.
“Ellie!” He charged after her into the bathroom. The smoky, sooty moisture stung his eyes, the smell burning his nose. Through the mist he could make out her outline taking aim with an axe. He grabbed it on the backswing.
“Hey!”
He snaked his arm around her waist and picked her up. She slammed the heel of her shoe into his shin as he dragged her out of the room. “You stubborn . . .”
“What?” she hissed when he put her down in the hall. She rounded on him, and he kept a firm hand on the axe, just in case. The fire in her eyes told him something other than panic over another possible arson blaze had her spitting mad.
At him. He shot a look at the assembly of firemen, all rooted to the spot and obviously as eager as he to hear her explanation. He turned his back to them, lowered his voice. “Ellie, what is it?”
Joe stood in the door of the bathroom. “The fire’s out. Guthrie will open the ceiling.” He reached over and took the axe from Ellie. She glowered at him a second before she released it. Then, hiking her hands onto her hips, she gave Dan a jaw-jutted, melt-him-on-the-spot glare.
“I think you need to cool off,” he said, bracing one arm above her on the wall and hoping to keep this conversation semiprivate. Fat chance, with the crowd moving in to close the huddle.
Her hair hung in damp waves around her face, and she shook. Seeing her fight with some sort of emotional carnage made him feel weak. “Why, Dan? Why? You promised you’d stay out of my way.”
“What—?” He frowned at her.
“Oh, don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about. I caught you, Mr. Lies-all-lies. I saw the evidence upstairs, and I bet that after the smoke clears we’ll find the one missing Sterno canister smoldering under the sink.” Her eyes narrowed, but her voice lost its steam as if she were trying to stuff her horror back into her chest. “Won’t we?”
Dan shook his head, scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Sterno canister?” His memory tracked back up to his office, to the open box. “Hey, no. There’s an explanation—”
“I put it together. I read the interviews. You were at the Garden before the fire, and more than one person said you were in the house. Alone.”
“I was there to help.”
“And you yourself said that the Simmons fire was all your fault.” The look in her eyes—betrayal, disbelief, fury—swept the breath right from his open mouth. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember.” She lo
oked past him at the crowd of men. “At the hospital. You said to me, ‘It’s my fault.’ ”
He scrambled to dredge up the moment but came back empty. “I don’t remember.”
“I shouldn’t have believed you.” Moisture filled her eyes, and she blinked it back. “For a guy who was supposed to love me, you’ve got a pretty warped way of showing it.”
He flinched, feeling as if she’d kicked him in the teeth. “I do love you,” he said in a low tone.
“Yeah, right. So much that you’re trying to scare me away, or better yet, trying to destroy my reputation. Were you thinking that I’d chuck this wild fancy of mine, don a prairie skirt, and start leading the women’s Bible study?”
A chuckle from somewhere behind him didn’t help the situation. But the thought of Little Miss Fireball wearing petticoats, running around barefoot and pregnant did strike him as—he smiled against his will.
Wrong thing to do. He could see her unraveling, had glimpsed the same, desperate expression the day he’d chased after her in the ice arena, as if he’d inadvertently ran right into her secrets and opened all her wounds. Fighting the urge to put his hands on her shoulders and order her to take ten deep breaths or maybe a thousand, he doused his smile and looked her square in the eye. In his best calm-pastor tone he said, “You’re jumping to all the wrong conclusions here, El.”
“I told you love makes people do stupid things.” A tear slid down her cheek and she let it roll, a bad sign that said she didn’t care who saw her heartbroken. “But three strikes and you’re out, bub.” She closed her eyes. “It’s over. Save your explanations for the grand jury.”
“Ellie, listen to—”
“Dan, stop.” Chief Sam’s grip on his arm jerked him back to painful reality. “Let’s just go down to the station. Wait until . . . things cool down.”
Wincing, Dan looked at Sam. His friend wore a look of empathy, but Dan saw business in his eyes. “She’s wrong.”
The chief nodded. “C’mon.”
Dan looked at Ellie and knew desperation and heartbreak lined his face. He wanted to rip his arm out of Sam’s grip, scoop Ellie up, and run. She wasn’t thinking clearly, reacting in standard Jammie Girl–style with her emotions instead of her head. It was no surprise that her brother had died rescuing her from herself.
That thought stopped him still. She stared at him, eyes wide, tears edging them, and he knew she saw his realization. Ellie knew her faults. She knew she had caused her brother’s death. And knowing her guilt made her sacrifice her life trying to fill the gap.
“Oh, Ellie, please. I know you’re desperate to find the arsonist, to prove yourself here, but this isn’t the way. Stop trying so hard. You’ll find the arsonist, I promise.”
“I already did,” she said coldly.
“Please believe me. I didn’t do this.”
“I saw him in the bathroom earlier. Before the fire.” Guthrie Jones said it quietly but loud enough to ignite a hot murmur through the group.
If any doubt lingered in Ellie’s eyes, it vanished in a blink. Only a harsh glitter remained. “I’m not desperate. I’m just seeing the truth for the first time. You might have loved me, but it was on your terms. I can’t be the girl you want me to be.”
He touched her hair, and she recoiled. It felt like a dagger through his chest. “I love you just the way you are.”
“Yeah . . .” She nodded. “Right.”
Sam tugged on his arm. Dan pinned her with one last look, praying she’d see the truth in his eyes.
She folded her arms across her chest and looked away as Sam led him out of the church.
21
The rain had stopped. Only a heavy fog and the very present hover of winter tinged the air. The clouds emptied, and they hung deflated in the sky, tearing into the fabric of the starry heavens. Ellie stood in the back entrance of the church, arms around herself, embracing her now destroyed blouse, her filthy, probably ruined dress pants, holding back a chill that emanated from her bones.
She’d found her arsonist. The man she loved. She wanted to curl into a ball and howl.
“Chief, the smoke is nearly gone. Do you want me to load up the fans?” Guthrie asked from the doorway. He looked ragged around the edges, with soot smudging his face, and moisture and char tangled in his brown hair, but he had energy radiating from him like a hot ember. Guthrie had not only followed the fire into the joists between floors, killing it as it tried to attack the insulation, but he’d then set up fans and chased the smoke out of the building.
One by one she’d dismissed the fire crew to their homes. Only Guthrie and Mitch remained. Why the big man had stayed to help, she didn’t know, but she’d decided to be grateful, albeit wary. At least she had Guthrie nearby if Mitch decided to unveil some ulterior motives. “Yes, thank you, Guthrie.”
“No problem, ma’am,” he said and walked away.
“Guthrie?” she called, hoping to catch him.
He reappeared in the door. “Chief?”
She worked up a smile. “You did great today. I think you’re turning into quite the firefighter.”
His genuine grin seemed to balm the wounds Dan had inflicted.
“Thank you, Chief.” He hesitated, and a sheepish smile appeared. “Do you . . . uh . . . need a ride back to the firehouse?”
“No.” His concern touched her. Now here was a fellow who had real potential to be a gentleman, a stellar example of a Deep Haven firefighter. “Thank you, though.”
“No problem,” he said, shrugging. But disappointment tinged his eyes, enough that she actually felt guilty. Had she somehow led Guthrie to believe she felt more for him than was appropriate? Then again, she hadn’t really put on the brakes with her relationship with Dan. The entire town probably knew by now that they’d been in love . . . no, that he’d been in love.
How could she love a man who would stop at nothing to derail her dreams?
She rubbed her arms, listening to the whir of the fans decelerate, the scrape of folding chairs being moved, grunts as Guthrie carried the fans up the stairs. She should be helping him, but frankly, she dreaded the next hour. Somehow standing here under the stars, wondering where her life had turned south, felt a thousand times simpler than filing charges against Dan for arson. Somewhere inside her she wanted to cling to the filament of hope that she was wrong.
Not that he’d ever forgive her.
She gulped a breath of sweet, rain-scented, autumn air, thankful they’d been able to contain the fire. She hated to think of Grace Church as a crisp scar on the hill.
But without their pastor, where would the congregation be?
Dan’s sins would leave a painful gash on the community. Not to mention her own heart. His words still throbbed. She wasn’t desperate. She simply put 200-percent effort into her job. Why not? How else was she supposed to make a difference, stand in the gap between life and death? She’d made promises to Deep Haven, to her firemen. To Seth. To God.
Seth’s life for hers. She wouldn’t have chosen it, but that’s the card she’d been dealt so she’d added it to her hand without even considering discarding it.
Even if she did feel exhausted and alone at the end of the day, at least she’d done her best, invested her life in trying. That should count for something when she finally hung up her helmet. She may not leave behind a family, children, even a legacy in the Sunday school department, but she will have saved lives. Protected Deep Haven from more deaths.
She should have listened to her instincts and realized love wouldn’t fit into her life.
Scraping up her courage, she entered the basement and pulled the door shut behind her, locking it. The fans had scattered the smell of smoke across the cinder-block hall. Moonlight pushed in through the windows, falling on the overturned chairs, the half-eaten plates of food, the cold beans on the buffet table. Maybe tomorrow she’d help the hospitality committee clean up and apologize to Bonnie for suspecting her. That was, after she finished meeting with the county attorney
and outlining her case against Dan.
Pushing hard against her writhing stomach, she started up the stairs. A bulky figure stood at the top, just outside the fan of moonlight. She paused. “Hello?”
“It’s me, Mitch.” He moved into the light. His eyes studied her outline, spurring a flare of panic.
“What is it?”
“Can I talk to you?” His voice sounded . . . sober. Not a hint of snarl. Then again, maybe fatigue had dulled her senses.
She braced herself and climbed the stairs slowly, hoping Guthrie still lingered in the parking lot. “What do you want?”
Mitch blew out a breath. “I wanted to apologize.” He stuck his hands in his pockets, a nonverbal I-won’t-touch-you communiqué that she read with relief.
“Apologize?”
“For . . . coming on to you at the firehouse.”
“Oh, that.” She swallowed, glanced at the door, at the safety beyond. She didn’t know how many times a woman had been attacked in the church vestibule, but she didn’t want to start any statistics.
“I . . . had been drinking. And I was angry. I promise, I wouldn’t have hurt you.” His face twisted, and the remorse in it almost touched her heart.
“I suppose you want to be let off probation?”
He shook his head. “I deserved it. I just . . . well, I thought you couldn’t do your job. I was wrong.”
She frowned. Was this the same man who’d sent her careening onto her backside at the General Store fire? “And now you think I can?”
He shrugged. “Let’s just say I admire your determination. You’ve stuck in there, and you deserve a shot at this job.” With chagrin on his face, his wolf demeanor turned into whipped puppy. “I guess a guy could learn a few things from you if he paid attention.”
“Thanks . . . ,” she said slowly. “What made you change your mind?”
He looked past her into the darkened sanctuary. “It was something Dan said to me a few days back.” His face twitched with the confession. “He called me up, told me to watch myself, that he’d been hearing rumors that I was trying to cause you trouble.”
Deep Haven [03] The Perfect Match Page 23