And for a second, seeing the man with his hand on his son’s shoulders, the way he guarded the door as Tiger took care of business—it all dug a hole inside Conner that he couldn’t place.
An emptiness, an echo of something he’d once wanted long ago.
But, passion versus responsibility. Both had him in a chokehold.
Conner headed back outside and pulled out his cell phone. He took the letter from his pocket, dialed the number at the bottom, and listened to the ringing on the other end.
He stared at the blue of Lake Superior glinting through the pine and birch. A pretty little town, Deep Haven, tucked into the north woods. From his vantage point on the bluff overlooking the town, he made out a pebbled harbor, a few hotels along the rocky edge, a park in the center, a cafe, a tavern, and a coffee shop. And in the air, he smelled the fried crispiness of a donut shop.
The call slipped to voice mail.
“Hey, Grandpa. I thought I’d check in—I’m in Minnesota. Don’t know when I’ll be back—but when I am, I’ll stop by.” He ran a hand behind his neck, debating the last part. “I...got a letter from the NSA. Blankenship. They’re closing the case, putting it in the cold files.”
He swallowed, hated the way the words dug in, fisted his chest. “I’m so sorry. I know I promised—” And he couldn’t continue, not with the words turning to acid in his chest.
His promise. It had turned into a noose, cut off his breathing. His life.
“Anyway, I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”
No, that wasn’t what he wanted, but maybe he didn’t know what he wanted, really. Absolution? Forgiveness?
Anything to help him close the door on his failures.
“I’ll call you later.” Conner hung up and heard feet behind him. He turned and spied Tiger running out, still wearing his helmet.
Darek and Jed came out behind him, Jed carrying a map. He took it over to a truck, pulled down the tailgate. Gestured Conner over.
Conner noticed the logo on the side—Evergreen Outfitter and Cabin Rentals.
“Darek’s found us a place to set up fire camp,” Jed said, unrolling the map, and pointing to a clearing north of town. “And he’s offered the resort to house the Jude County crew. The rest of the teams will have to fend for themselves in town.”
Gravel crunched in the lot, and the three turned as a Jeep pulled in.
A woman got out and pulled out a white box with the words World’s Best Donuts imprinted in red on the side.
“Hey, Liza,” Darek said.
“Dare. I should have expected you to be hanging out with a group called the hotshots,” she said. “Whatever.”
Darek laughed.
Conner couldn’t take his eyes off her. Tall, shapely, with long, silky sable hair blowing in the wind off the lake., and when she smiled, warmth touched her deep brown eyes. She wore a pair of green fatigues and a pink T-shirt with speckles of lavender paint on the sleeve, hinting that she’d torn herself away from a project to buy them donuts, and flip-flops that showed off blue toenail polish. Sparkly, intriguing, indigo blue.
“I brought donut holes for our local heroes.” She opened the box, and inside was a mound of powdered sugar holes. “Especially for my favorite hero.”
She wasn’t talking about him—although for a crazy, split second, when she glanced at him, something caught his attention.
Her eyes. On closer look, they weren’t just brown, but the color of rich, freshly pulled espresso, and they had the same effect. A bracing, nourishing jolt that went straight to his bones.
For a second, it jerked him out of the dark funk he’d dragged with him from Montana.
Then she bent and held the box open to Tiger. “You’re going to save our little town, right Tig?”
He grinned and grabbed a powdered sugar hole, bit it. It left a ring of white powder around his mouth as the sugar puffed off the pastry. She laughed and handed him a napkin.
Only then did she look up and truly smile at Conner.
She had a sweetness in her smile that matched the donuts, dusting him with a sense of joy. However, not a hint of flirt in it, nothing that carried the hero worship, the adoration that usually accompanied a female welcome committee.
Huh. Finally, a woman he didn’t have to dodge.
Even better would be a woman who might share his faith.
Not that it mattered—he didn’t look beyond today, couldn’t promise anyone a future.
Conner reached for a powdered donut hole before Darek lifted the box away from Liza to carry inside.
“I’m Conner Young,” he said. He popped the hole in his mouth then grabbed a napkin. “I’m with the Jude County Hotshots—actually, I’m a smokejumper, but we’re helping out the crew.”
“Liza Beaumont,” she responded. “I’m with the Deep Haven Donut Brigade—actually, I’m a local artist, but I’m helping out the volunteers. I’ve been sent on a peacekeeping mission by the chamber of commerce to make sure you feel appreciated.”
She said it in the most innocent of ways, nothing lurid in her tone. Yeah, he liked her. Felt his defenses lower just a little more.
“There are hotels in the area ready to put you up—”
“We’re staying up at the Evergreen Resort,” Conner said.
“Perfect. Ingrid and John will take good care of you,” Liza said. “And I know you’re here to fight the fire, but we’re having an art festival this weekend in town. There’s a street dance on one of the nights, and although the fireworks display has been canceled, there’s crafts and homemade ice cream and...well, if you want, you could stop by my booth. I’m giving demonstrations.”
Still nothing of a come-on in her voice.
She was safe and sweet, and something about her expression told him that he just might have found someone he could spend time with without stirring up expectations.
“What kind of booth?” he asked, aware that it didn’t really matter. She could be giving demonstrations on stacking rocks and he’d be mesmerized.
“I’m a potter.”
And she smiled again. For a crazy second, the coil of frustration tightening his chest since Ember loosened. He took a full, clean breath of the fresh lake air.
Maybe he didn’t have to jump into a flaming boreal forest to find a way to forget his failures.
#
Despite the orange haze along the horizon to the north, the hint of wood smoke in the breeze, Deep Haven managed to put together its annual art festival. The chamber of commerce blocked off Main Street, artisans erected flimsy booths, and the smell of cotton candy and kettle corn added a festive flair. Liza could almost convince herself that they weren’t going to burn to death in the near future.
Probably not with the cadre of firefighters in town—hotshots from Montana, a fresh crew from Arizona, another from Alaska, not to mention volunteers from Minnesota.
Even the local fire department had deployed to the firebase up the trail. Apparently, they’d set up a first-rate camp, including tents, a chow line, showers, and biffies.
Despite their camping accommodations, on their off days, hotshots roamed around town, hung out at the local VFW, and generally boosted the local economy. Everyone from Polly down at World’s Best Donuts to Kathy at the Java Cup thanked the heavens for the boon, despite the hover of danger in the air.
And the reports that the fire was only getting bigger.
Liza refused to think about the hotshots who put themselves between the blaze and their tiny town. Heroes, every last one of them.
And yeah, when she thought of heroes, Conner Young tiptoed to the top of her mind. She shouldn’t be thinking of him quite so much. Shouldn’t hope that he’d take her up on her suggestion to stop by her booth.
It wasn’t like he’d noticed her, well, not that way, and she’d tried not to flirt—not that she knew how, but the last thing she needed was him getting the wrong impression.
Single, happily so. Really. At thirty-five, she was too old for true love
. Besides, she was the kind of woman men saw as Just Friends. A listener, sometimes with good advice, and easy to walk away from.
And it was her fault, really. The last thing she wanted to do was try to make a man love her. She wasn’t desperate. She wasn’t even lonely.
She had God, after all. Which meant that she made it painfully easy for a man to enjoy her friendship and never see her as anything more. She simply refused to reach out, to hold on, figuratively, and especially literally.
Even if she wanted to. Like a few days ago, when Conner had looked like he could use a hug, with so much stress on his face. Her heart had gone out to him.
It had nothing at all to do with his painfully good looks, that dark golden hair tucked behind his ears, the bronze whiskers along his jaw, and his eyes—so devastatingly blue, the color of the lake, striated blue, with layers of secrets. She couldn’t breathe for a moment when he’d looked up, asked her what kind of booth she had.
She’d mumbled something hopefully coherent, and right about then, Darek came back out and wrapped them up in conversation.
She’d made her escape.
Not that it mattered. Conner probably hadn’t given her another thought.
And she shouldn’t give him one, either.
Liza stared out across the park to where the sun turned the water platinum. A breeze off the lake lifted her long hair, held back in a ponytail. She wore a tank top and a broomstick skirt, but despite the shade in her booth, the pavement could bake through her sandals. However, even in the heat, the freshness of the lake cooled her skin.
She wondered about the breezes and how they might affect the firefighters.
She’d read stories about sudden winds trapping firefighters—
Stop.
From across the park, a flautist played from the stage, the music light, refreshing. A nearby tent hosted a rock-painting contest.
Liza was storing her clay in plastic bags when she spied Darek walking with Tiger and Ivy, the new county prosecutor in town and Liza’s tenant in her over-the-garage apartment. Ivy was cute, petite, smart and sweet, and maybe exactly who Darek needed to start over with.
Interesting. They stopped at her booth.
“Hello,” Liza said and leaned down to tousle Tiger’s hair. Such a tragedy, Darek losing his wife with their son so young.
Life was scary that way. It would be helpful if one could be assured of a happy ending.
“Hello, Miz B,” Tiger said.
Liza grinned at him, then at Darek, Ivy. “Tiger’s preschool class came to my studio last year and they all made bowls.”
“I painted it, too!”
Ivy was holding a bowl, looking at the bottom. Probably at the fish imprint. “I have a few of these in my apartment.”
True, because Liza had furnished it. “Let me know if you need any replacements.” She winked. “So, Tiger, they’re painting rocks down at the beach. You should head down to the booth.”
Darek looked like she’d suggested walking barefoot through live coals, his attempt at a smile wretched.
“Don’t look so ill, Darek. It’s just watercolors,” Liza said. “Maybe you should paint something. Could be good for you. Loosen you up.”
“I don’t—”
“C’mon, it’ll be fun,” Ivy said, enthusiasm in her voice.
Poor Ivy. Darek almost looked annoyed.
Liza had the crazy urge to tell the girl to run. Because if a guy wasn’t into you, you should cut him loose before he could do serious damage to your heart.
Wise Liza, the romantic guru. Oh, for crying out loud. Ivy would have a better chance at getting romantic advice from Deep Haven’s local Dear Abby, Miss Foolish Heart, who actually had found true love with the town football coach. Still, Liza had enough history to know that staying stubbornly single had its advantages.
Like never getting her heart broken…
Or…
She watched them walk over to the children’s booth, saw Darek lean down, heard Ivy laugh.
See, what did she know about love and happy endings?
Clearly nothing.
She finished packing up the clay, was starting to wrap the remaining pottery, trying to figure out if she had the energy to stick around for the street dance or if she should just go home.
Maybe write her stepbrother Charlie another letter, again offering a place for his daughter, Raina, to live if she needed it. Talk about needing a happy ending. Her poor niece deserved someone to love her, despite her list of mistakes.
Someone, hello, like Jesus. The one who’d put Liza back together.
He was enough. Hello and amen.
“So, can you teach me how to, what, make a bowl or something?”
Liza stilled, her back to her now-dismantled display. His voice was low and soft, a little rough perhaps with smoke and the trauma of the fire line, but strong enough to seep under her skin.
Add a little fire to her pulse.
She turned then, painfully aware of the line of sweat across her brow, the pinch of a sunburn on her face and shoulders, and the fact that she hadn’t had time this morning to put on makeup.
Not that it mattered. She was just the festival representative.
“Hey,” she said, maybe a little too much exuberance in her voice. “You showed up.”
And how. He had showered, it seemed, because his hair was wet but tied with a red bandanna, the golden ends curling out behind his ears. He hadn’t shaved, his whiskers were longer, bronzing as his beard thickened. He wore a black T-shirt, Gore-Tex pants, and a pair of hiking sandals, and had his hands in his pockets, like he might just be moseying by.
Shoot. She’d sort of hoped...
“Of course,” Conner said. “Well, I mean—I wanted to, but I wasn’t sure I’d get the night off. But we’ve been on four days straight, and Jed said we could take twenty-four hours off. The Arizona crew is holding the line.”
“You can do that—take time off?”
“In a big fire, yes. We rotate in and out. You get too worn out, people get hurt. We work with axes and chain saws, eyes watering, barely able to breathe, and sleep in the dirt most of the time. So, occasionally we surrender to clean sheets and a shower.” He winked at her.
And wow, really, she had clearly been trapped in Deep Haven, the land of No Eligible Men for way too long, because her entire body heated.
Probably it was just the warm summer evening.
“It looks like I got here too late for the demonstration,” he said. “You’re all packed up.”
“No—I could—”
“Liza, it’s okay.”
“But I promised.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Actually, no, you didn’t. And that’s good—promises are usually broken.”
She frowned, and he held up his hand. “Because I usually can’t stick around for them.”
Oh. Right.
“But if it makes you feel better, the rate the fire is going, we’ll be here for a while. So maybe I can come back.”
Really? And oh, really?
She just stood there like an idiot, smiling at him. “Sure.”
“Perfect.” He smiled back. He had such a nice smile, white teeth, and a genuine warmth in his eyes, like he had stopped by just to see her booth. To see her.
She heard shouting across the park and looked past him to see—seriously? Darek and Jensen Atwood—Darek’s former best friend—tangled in a brawl. Right here in the middle of the festival.
Sheesh—she knew Darek blamed the guy for his wife’s death, but—
Conner, however, had stiffened. Something crossed his face, his smile dimming, a hard look flashing in his eyes. Almost as if he were debating diving in, pulling the two apart.
And then, “Daddy!”
Even from here, she could hear Tiger’s voice shrilling.
It was as if the entire festival crowd froze on Tiger’s cry. Darek certainly did.
Not Conner, however. He took a step toward the brawl.
And
then Caleb, the football coach, intervened, pulling Darek away from Jensen, who got up and pushed through the crowd, cute Claire Gibson on his heels.
Ivy wasn’t faring much better with Darek, and again Liza went back to her previous supposition.
Run.
“What was that about?” Conner asked.
“It’s a long story,” Liza said. “I don’t know most of it, but the short version is that Darek’s wife was hit while she was jogging, and Jensen was at the wheel.”
“Oh my.”
“I know. The entire town took sides, and poor Jensen has been doing community service for the past three years, working off his sentence.”
“That’s all he got—community service?”
“It was clearly an accident. Some thought he should have been found not guilty.”
A muscle pulled in Conner’s jaw, and for a second, she saw a story there.
“You okay?” she asked.
When he turned to her, however, nothing remained of his guarded expression. “Starved. If I don’t eat soon, I’ll probably need hospitalization.”
“Clearly you need a pizza from Pierre’s then.”
“I like how you think. Can I help you pack up? Because I probably also need a tour guide.”
And the way he said it, she couldn’t agree more.
Oh, Liza. She could hear her own voice in her head. Run.
But he wasn’t asking her out. He just needed a friend. A tour guide from the Deep Haven Donut Brigade.
He helped her pack up her pottery, taking care to wrap the pieces in Bubble Wrap, secure them in boxes. He had strong, scarred, even wounded hands, blistered, bruised, and reddened from his work in the forest. She noticed burns on the tops, evidence of his profession.
The band on stage had switched to bluegrass by the time they closed the booth and headed to Pierre’s pizza stand. Conner bought himself a slice of pepperoni and insisted on buying one for her, too. They wandered the half block down to the park, sat on a bench listening to the band, shooing away the greedy seagulls.
“How long have you lived here?” He folded his pizza in half, like a sandwich.
“About ten years. I moved here with my best friend. I opened my studio, and she started a bookstore and coffee shop and met the man of her dreams, author Joe Michaels.”
Playing With Fire: inspirational romantic suspense (Montana Fire Book 2) Page 2