A Hotshot Christmas
M. L. Buchman
Buchman Bookworks, Inc.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
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Excerpt
About the Author
Also by M. L. Buchman
1
Sheila inspected the heavy dark beams and white plaster of the restaurant. A hostess—in a bad Bavarian costume of ruffled sleeves, low-cut above blousy, cotton-cupped breasts—smiled at her as she sashayed across the hardwood floor in incongruous heels.
“Table for one?” Just one notch too perky for her to swallow.
“No, thanks. Just looking in.” Sheila turned abruptly and nearly trampled a couple and their kids coming in the door. Civilians! Too close! She kept the epithet to herself and stepped around them and back out into the crisp darkness.
To her left was the snow sprinkled faux-Bavarian town of Leavenworth, Washington, so perfect it was like a goddamn life-sized snow globe. To her right was a McDonald’s with a wood and plaster Germanic facade. She’d promised herself that she’d do better than McD’s for a Thanksgiving Day dinner, but crowds were kind of a problem for her and the town was packed.
Saddle up, girl.
She didn’t even bother raising her camo jacket’s collar as she turned to tromp through the snow—even the damned falling snow was picturesque—and into the heart of the town. Somewhere there had to be a bar with a burger, a brew, and a minimum of Bavarian.
She’d been driving to…well, nowhere. She’d been driving away from the family Thanksgiving in Seattle. Five hours through packed city roads and over slick mountain ones.
Not a soul understood what it meant that she was out of the Army. No one got that a TBI diagnosis didn’t mean she was nuts. Traumatic Brain Injury meant that she’d been blown up one too many times for the Army to trust her at the wheel of her big transport truck. Didn’t meant she was crazy. Please let it not mean she was crazy.
Which totally explained why she was in a resort town, that looked about as inauthentic as most of the ones in the real Bavaria did, looking for a quiet place to get drunk on Thanksgiving night.
A polka band playing out on the town’s square made her wonder how the tuba player’s lips didn’t freeze to his mouthpiece. Children skidded around despite all the salt and sand laid down on the sidewalks. One ran into her legs hard enough to fall back on its butt.
She stopped, knelt down, and picked up the kid to put it back on its feet. See, acting perfectly normal. Helping out.
It took one look at her, burst out crying, and raced away.
Sheila closed her eyes for a moment…before standing and continuing through town. She crossed the street to get clear of the square.
Bavarian Bistro. Not a chance.
Soup Cellar. O Tannenbaum playing on the juke because Thanksgiving was over in another half dozen hours. She didn’t even make it halfway down the stairs.
She closed her eyes to get past the garish Christmas store and let the tourists bounce off her until she was clear.
King Ludwig’s. The Mad King. Not a freaking chance.
She jostled and was nudged along until she fell out the other end of the town. Four blocks. She’d survived four blocks. Sometimes the victories are small. She hated when the psychs were right, especially when it felt more like defeat.
At the far end of the tourist strip, the town collapsed back into small American town. Dimly lit, cold. She leaned against the concrete wall of a closed warehouse and did what she could to catch her breath.
“Been following you,” a deep male voice.
She really didn’t need this shit right now. She rested her hand on her sidearm, but the Glock 19 wasn’t on her hip where it should be. Where it used to be.
“No need for that,” the voice continued as she started a hand up to her concealed shoulder carry. Her back was turned, he shouldn’t have been able to spot her motion.
Sheila risked a glance.
Big guy. Ten feet back. Standing planted on the sidewalk. No one behind or to the sides. Alone. She recognized the stance.
“You got somewhere to be?” His voice was soft, steady. She could deal with that. “I can help you get there.”
Sheila could only shake her head. No, she had nowhere to be. Might never again.
He waited a while before continuing, like he was studying her and thinking.
“What?”
“Got a place you might like.”
“Shit! Not looking for a goddamn roll in the hay.”
“More like snow, this time of year,” he said it with barely a hint of smile. “Besides, it’s not that kinda place. And my wife would kick my ass.”
“Must be some tough wife to keep you on a short leash.”
He shrugged, “Works for me.”
Sheila stared at him, but he just waited. Military recognized military. She could do worse. She offered him a shrug. Didn’t really matter anyway.
He pointed past her.
She waved for him to lead the way.
Being a smart man, he also saw that he should circle wide out onto the empty street rather than try to come by her on the sidewalk.
2
Randall sat close beside Jess and Jill. They were about the funniest damn couple on the whole team and who better to sit with while Thanksgiving dinner was cooking. The two Js met on a wildfire in the middle of last season and Jess had somehow swept her up before she’d even hit the damned fire line. Or maybe she’d swept him up. Randall had long since learned that being five-four, blond, and cute as hell had nothing to do with Jill’s skills. The woman totally rocked it, offering her sunny smile the whole time.
“Sure you don’t have a twin sister?” He asked for the hundredth time.
“Nope! My moms only had the one kid.”
“Crap!” They shared a smile. He’d met her moms at the wedding, two of Seattle’s finest firefighters.
A cold gust of air crawled up his back.
“Close the goddamn door!” Randall shivered. He really should move, but this crew area of the Leavenworth fire station was maxed out. The volunteer firefighters and their families would have made it crowded enough. But Captain Cantrell had invited his daughter’s entire Interagency Hotshot Crew to his Thanksgiving Feed. No wildfires in the winter in the Cascade Mountains, but half of them had found ways to keep busy and keep local. Candace was the kind of superintendent who helped make good things like that happen.
“Happy Thanksgiving to you too, asshole,” Luke smacked him on top of the head as he came through the door and they both laughed.
Then a shadow slipped in behind him and did close the door. She was close to six feet, not gaunt, but not far from it. She had dark hair that fell in soft waves past her shoulders and narrowed her pale face even more. Her fists were jammed deep in the pockets of her unzipped hunting jacket. She wore a turtleneck and a thin white sweater that flowed down her slender frame, apparently oblivious to the biting cold.
She wasn’t exactly beautiful, but she was as dramatic as hell.
“What’s your problem?” Her voice was low, rough.
“Breathing around you,” was all Randall managed.
Somewhere in the background Jill laughed. He couldn’t tell whether or not it was at him, but he sure wasn’t going to risk looking away to find out. She might evaporate if he did, or stab him.
Her dark eyes studied him for
a long moment, then glanced aside to look out the door’s frosted window.
“Sorry. Rude. I know. Never think first. You’ll have to get used to that if you’re going to hang around me. I’m Randall. Randall Jones,” he held out a hand.
Again those piercing eyes studied him for a long moment. Then she cursed emphatically.
He started to draw back his hand, but she reached out and shook it once. Solidly. With a damned strong grip. And her fingers were cold as ice.
“Sorry. I’m having trouble around people at the moment.”
“Oh, then you’re fine here. No people at all. Only firefighters and a couple folks stupid enough to marry them.” And you’re babbling, dude. Rein it in.
“Okay,” and the ghost actually smiled—a thin one, but definitely there. It looked amazing on her. “As long as there aren’t any actual people.”
“Scout’s honor,” he did his best Boy Scout three-fingered salute.
She snapped upright and was most of the way to a hard salute before she froze, went momentarily wide-eyed, then rammed her fist back into her pocket hard enough that he was surprised she didn’t punch through the fabric.
“Sorry,” he didn’t know what else to say. “I’m…” Maybe it would be better if he just introduced her around or… “Are you hungry? We can go see if it’s done cooking.” Even though he could see by the long table that the turkeys weren’t out yet.
She studied him again, then glanced sideways at Luke.
Randall hadn’t even noticed that he was still there, watching them.
Luke gave a shrug to her as if to say, “Up to you.”
Sheila turned back to him. Again that long pause before she spoke, as if she had to practice it in her head first before speaking.
“Food would be okay,” she finally managed. “A beer sure wouldn’t hurt.”
Searching for a possible path through the crowd, and seeing the way his ghost was still hanging close to the door, he decided for expediency. He grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair.
“It’s quieter that way,” he pointed out the door.
Again, her first look went to Luke, who nodded that it would be okay.
He held the door for her and led her outside.
3
Randall’s grip had been strong, solid. What Sheila would expect from a firefighter.
“Were you a SEAL too? Like Luke.” He asked as he led her toward the back of the building. It was dark except for the distant lights of the town reflecting off the snow, but the path was shoveled. She could smell the thick pine of the trees growing close behind the station.
He didn’t move like a trained hand-to-hand fighter. She’d wager she could take him down if necessary, even without her sidearm.
Shoulder carry, not hip. She still needed to change that habit.
“He’s a SEAL?” That fit. The silence and the arrogant level of self-assuredness. An unarmed man who simply said, “No need for that,” as she’d prepared to draw on him. SEAL? Unarmed? Not likely. “No. Not like Luke. There aren’t any SEAL women. I was in the Army. A HEMTT driver.”
“A what?”
“Big trucks. A Heavy Expanded Mobility Tactical Truck. Also just called a ‘heavy.’ I carried anything lighter than an Abrams tank.” That shut up most men.
“Did you like it?”
Not Randall. He continued on cheerfully as if they were having an actual conversation and it was okay that she’d driven a massive Army transport for a living…until she couldn’t anymore.
He held open a door for her at the rear of the building and she saw that they were entering the back of an equipment bay. A line of shining fire trucks and a pair of polished ambulances were lined up in a neat row. At the far end, one of the doors was rolled halfway up and she could see some guys standing around a big closed-top grill nosed just outside the open door. No crowd pressure in the vast bay which was a good thing. By their feet was a cooler and most of them were nursing a beer. Target acquired.
“Yeah,” she looked at the beautiful rigs all lined up. “I liked it a lot.” Maybe too pretty for her taste. She preferred a machine built to get down and dirty, but the ladder truck could definitely tempt her.
He led her up to the group.
“Captain Cantrell,” he began introducing her around. “And Candace is the super on our IHC team.”
Father-daughter. Obvious right down to how they stood—sure of themselves but without any real ego display.
“You met her husband Luke.”
Which explained just who could keep a SEAL on that short leash.
“And this is Patsy, one of our two foremen. Her husband’s the town baker and is around somewhere.”
Again, a solid grip and a questioning eye. IHC. Interagency Hotshot Crew. That meant that Randall wasn’t just some firefighter. He walked into the wilderness to fight wildfires with a chainsaw and an axe—a very real form of hand-to-hand combat. She suspected it took some serious balls despite his easygoing manner. It also meant “team,” which explained the outsider looks she was getting. They were being nice about it though, so she tamped down any need to get out. Especially when “out” would mean going back among the flocks of happy tourists. Families. Candace handed her a beer from the cooler so she’d definitely stick for a bit.
“And I still don’t know your name. Sorry.” Firefighter Randall Jones was a guy who couldn’t stop apologizing. Very strange.
“Sheila Williams.”
“And this is Sheila,” he introduced her to everyone else.
He didn’t mention the Army, which she appreciated. But he did mouth her name a few times to himself to make sure he had it down. Which was kind of cute.
4
Randall shadowed her the whole evening. At first because he wanted to, but later she seemed to appreciate it. She didn’t exactly open up, but she did appear to relax. When a plate was offered piled high with grilled turkey and all the fixings, she took it. When he pointed to the fire station donation box and told her they were all kicking in a ten, she slipped in a twenty.
Luke floated by on occasion, but made no big deal of it. He’d expected to lose her to Luke, some form of ex-military bonding, but Sheila didn’t seem inclined to leave his side which worked fine for him. Even if it was just for the evening, it was nice to have a date. Of sorts. Eventually she told him the story of the Seattle family dinner she’d bugged out of. He couldn’t get her to laugh, but he raised that soft smile a couple of times and called it good.
Sheila hung around right through the cleanup chores, earning her a round of thanks that she did her best to shrug off.
“Where are you staying? I’ll walk you there.”
She shrugged, “Gotta find a room. And I know how to walk myself just fine.”
“Won’t find one on a Thanksgiving in Leavenworth.” Randall glanced at Luke who seemed to be making a point of not watching them. “I’ve got a couch. Not much of a place, but you’re welcome to it.”
She didn’t do that sideways check-in with Luke that had punctuated so much of the evening. Instead she looked at him carefully. “Just the couch.”
His nod of agreement settled it, at least until they were headed to his place through the cold night air. It was late enough that all of the tourists had gone to bed. He liked the town at these times—still all bedazzled up, but only the occasional local walking by with a friendly nod and a “Hey.”
“No luggage?”
She swung open her still unzipped coat, fists again in pockets. “Left in a bit of a hurry.” By the sound of her family dinner, he would have too.
“I can lend you a t-shirt, maybe scrounge some shorts,” he unlocked the door to his apartment and led her up the stairs. And did his best not to picture how she’d look in them.
5
The result was far more incredible than he’d imagined. Her narrow shoulders made his “Firefighters Bring the Heat” ride low and expose a lot of neck and collar. Even though it was his longest one, it rode barely past her
hips. A pair of gym shorts revealed long, powerful legs.
He did his best to hide his astonishment with a cough and knew he’d completely failed. He enjoyed strong competent women…if he didn’t, he was on the wrong crew. Candace had drawn more than the standard share of women to her team—one or two women was still the exception on a twenty-person IHC, and they had five. But not a one was like the dark-haired soldier standing in the middle of his small living room.
“You want to do it, I don’t mind.”
“Want to?” He gasped it out on a half laugh. How could a man not want to; she was stunning. Randall didn’t know what self control had him walking up to her, placing his hands on her shoulders, and looking her right in the eyes. “Let me know when you want to. Then we’ll talk.”
He waited for that odd processing lag that she had. Finally she just nodded and turned for the couch. He got out of there before she bent over to adjust the blanket and made the t-shirt ride up higher than it already did. Besides, he’d seen the size of the handgun she’d slipped under her pillow.
6
Sheila stayed on the couch that first night and puzzled at Randall’s comment. What did she want? There was the thousand-dollar question.
The door to what she wanted had been closed. The Army offered to let her stay in if she would drive domestic, but no foreign action. She’d told them just how far out of the daylight they could ram it. Their ever-so knowing and tolerant smiles—they’d all read her psych profile after all—almost earned them a personal demonstration. The black ops contractors didn’t need drivers, they needed operators—she’d checked. As far as “want” went, she hadn’t looked any further than that.
Three more days and nights with Randall didn’t add a lot of clarity. During the days they went on long cold hikes through the crisp mountain air. In the evenings, they’d sometimes meet up with a few of the others in a locals’ bar—the kind of place she’d been trying to find that first night—or they’d end up back at his apartment playing backgammon or watching some action flick.
A Hotshot Christmas Page 1