Smolder
A Firefighters of Montana Romance
Tracy Solheim
Smolder
Copyright © 2016 Sun Home Productions, LLC
EPUB Edition
The Tule Publishing Group, LLC
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-944925-46-8
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Epilogue
The Firefighters of Montana
Excerpt from Scorch
About the Author
Chapter One
A chilly early morning breeze whispered off Flathead Lake, still icy in spots despite the calendar claiming it was springtime. Sam Gaskill cursed his stupidity for not buying a pair of gloves the minute he’d arrived in Glacier Creek. But the locals had all been walking around in shirtsleeves the day before, citing the “balmy” Montana weather. And Sam couldn’t afford to look weak. Not when he had so much to prove.
The lingering layer of snow crunched beneath his boots as he walked around the truck and opened the trailer door. Tabitha glanced over her shoulder, her big brown eyes seeming to plead with him.
“Yeah, I know, honey, we’re not in Texas anymore.” Sam blew on his hands and pulled his leather jacket more tightly around his neck. “But if you believe the weatherman, the snow should be gone in a day or two.”
The mare stomped her foot with a snort. Sam smiled as he reached for the lead rope and attached it to her halter. “Yeah, I don’t put much stock in the reliability of weather forecasters either.” He ran his hand over the palomino’s silky flank in order to sooth her. “But you’re gonna like it here, girl. The pastures all border the lake. And the barn looks warm and comfortable.”
Based upon his initial, quick inspection of the ranch, the state-of-the-art flagstone barn did look inviting—toasty and warm for both horses as well as humans. Despite the early morning hour, the twenty-stall stable was already bustling with activity. Sam heard the sounds of the horses grunting and nickering as their breakfast was being shoveled from a wheelbarrow into waiting feed buckets. A radio belted out a song in Spanish while a groom cheerfully whistled along with the tune. Sam breathed a sigh of relief, feeling better about his decision. If the condition of the facilities and the other horses were anything to go by, Tabitha would be well cared for at Whispering Breeze Ranch.
He unclipped the harness that secured her within the trailer stall. With a soft cluck and a gentle shove on her shoulder, Sam guided the horse backwards down the ramp. Her hooves were loud in the stable yard when they made contact with the metal. Once they’d reached the gravel drive, the good-natured mare lifted her nose in the air as if to assess her surroundings, her blonde mane lifting slightly with the breeze. She jerked her head suddenly at the sound of a low whistle.
“Well, I’ll be damned. She sure is a beauty. Even prettier than her pictures.” Clapping his hands together, Wayne Keenan, the rugged, middle-aged owner of Whispering Breeze, strode from the barn. “I still can’t believe my luck at having the only foal of the great Honey Bun and Honeysuckle boarding here. And she looks just like her mama.” He pulled off a work glove and reverently stroked his fingers down the white blaze on Tabitha’s face. The horse stood proudly, soaking in the attention. “You are a special girl, aren’t you,” Keenan murmured softly. “Bred to be a champion.”
“She looks cold to me,” a young voice said.
Sam turned toward the sliding barn doors where a young boy stood just inside. The child was dressed nearly identical to Keenan, wearing cowboy boots, jeans—baggy on his short, skinny legs—a shearling jacket, and a dark wool Sturgis Stetson that dipped low on his forehead. A black and white Boston terrier wiggled in his arms, yapping excitedly when Sam made eye-contact with it.
“You being the expert on animals that you are, Tyson, you’re probably right.” Keenan winked good-naturedly as he took the lead rope from Sam. “This pretty little filly can’t be used to the cool mountain air. I’ll take her inside and get her some breakfast, captain, while you settle up with the hauler.”
Reluctantly, Sam let the rope slide through his fingers. He was doing what was best for the horse—honoring his late wife’s dream. Still, he wondered if he was simply refusing to let go of the past.
Sam was starting over in a place far away from the plains of Texas and the mountains of Afghanistan. Hell, Montana might as well have been another planet. He didn’t know a soul in Glacier Creek, and he liked it that way. After eleven months, he wouldn’t be encountering pity in the eyes of everyone he met. He could take a breath of the cool mountain air and not taste guilt. But dragging the mare so far from home seemed both cruel and ridiculous. Yet leaving her behind had been unthinkable.
“Hey, mister.” The little boy interrupted his thoughts. “Does your horse like peppermints?”
The trouble with living in a place where no one knew his story—or his deepest secrets—was that people kept getting the facts mixed up. Tabitha was not Sam’s horse. She was, and always would be, Becky’s. The mare had been Sam’s gift to his wife weeks before his second deployment to the Middle East. In their first four years of marriage, he hadn’t been able to give Becky a child. Instead, he’d given her a young horse to keep her company during his long absences. Five years later, the mare was all Sam had left of his wife.
“Yeah, she likes mints.” Sam didn’t bother correcting the boy. It didn’t matter whose horse Tabitha was anymore. For all intents and purposes, she belonged to Wayne Keenan now. Sam was entrusting the renowned rancher with the care and training of his most precious possession. His heartbreaking albatross. “See that you don’t spoil her breakfast, though.”
The pint-sized cowboy continued to stare at him from beneath the brim of his hat until the dog scrambled out of his arms and began circling Sam’s feet.
“Oreo doesn’t like strangers,” the boy declared.
Right on cue, Oreo began growling and lunging at Sam’s boot. Reaching down, Sam grabbed the fifteen pounds of fur by the scruff of the neck and lifted the dog up so that they were nose to nose. Oreo’s big licorice eyes grew even rounder as he squirmed beneath Sam’s grip. Disciplining dogs wasn’t any different from disciplining soldiers—or smokejumpers as he was now paid to do. It was all in the look and the tone of his voice. Sam had mastered both at a very young age. Growing up with a general for a father, he’d had to.
Sam glared at Oreo for a long moment until the terrier settled down with a whimper. “Behave,” was all Sam said before handing the wee beastie off to its owner. Wrapping his arms around the dog, the boy turned on his heel and darted into the safety of the barn.
Great, now I’m scaring kids.
Sam shoved his fingers through his hair, longer today than it had been since he’d entered ROTC in college fourteen years earlier. Between his two sisters, he had five nieces and nephews, the younger two were likely close to the
age of the boy who’d just hightailed it away from him. Sam used to be good with kids; the favorite uncle. But that was before war and death had changed him.
He didn’t have time to worry about a child he’d likely rarely see, however. Once Tabitha was settled, Sam could focus on his new job overseeing the forest service station that served as a base to teams of smokejumpers and a search and rescue patrol. He’d be so busy keeping the fifty-some employees of the base in line that he wouldn’t have time to check on the mare too often. That was why he’d selected Whispering Breeze for Tabitha. Keenan had agreed to train her so she was fit to be sold. He hoped her new owners would take the mare to compete in the American Quarter Horse Championship, Becky’s dream for the horse. After that, Tabitha could happily live out her life with new owners as a brood mare. And Sam could move on. If that was even possible.
The driver of the horse trailer carried a hand-tooled, western saddle off the truck and placed it on top of the tack trunk he’d already unloaded. Sam pulled a check out of his wallet and handed it to the hauler. “Thanks for getting her here safely, Jimbo.”
Jimbo adjusted the baseball cap on his head. “Your father-in-law thinks I took that horse to the glue factory months ago.”
Sam felt his jaw grow tight. “It wasn’t the horse’s fault.” He left the words about it being his own fault unsaid because he was pretty sure Jimbo knew that part. Hell, everyone in Belton, Texas, probably thought the same thing. Shaking off the memory, he clapped Jimbo on the shoulder and walked him to the driver’s side of the truck. “I appreciate you keeping her for me.”
“I did it for Becky.” Jimbo’s loyalty was clearly with his late cousin who’d made the crazy decision to marry Sam when everyone else had told her not to. “You ever comin’ back to Texas?”
Glancing up at the range of mountains looming behind the lake, their caps still covered in snow, Sam cleared the boulder from his throat. “Not much to come back to now.”
Jimbo nodded mutely before climbing behind the wheel. His wife’s cousin was no doubt relieved to see the last of Sam. “She never did like the idea of you hurling yourself out of perfectly good airplanes. Not that it matters much now. Still, you take care of yourself, Gaskill.”
Sam shoved his cold hands into the pockets of his jeans as he watched Jimbo maneuver the horse trailer back onto the long drive leading to the highway. The guy was right—it didn’t matter much what happened to Sam now. And if ‘hurling himself out of perfectly good airplanes’ chased away some of the numbness he felt, that was what he’d do. The fact that there’d be fire involved only made the jumps more challenging. And Sam needed something to challenge him—to thrill him—again.
*
“Truman! No!” Laurel Keenan swatted at the kid goat trying to graze along the counter of her galley kitchen. She shoved Tyson’s lunch into his backpack before her son’s pet could destroy that, too. Grabbing Truman by his collar, she dragged him through the loft apartment she and Tyson shared.
Despite being housed above the stable, the space was cozy and modern thanks to her mother’s talent as an interior designer. High ceilings lined with cherry wood complemented the bleached wood floors and the white stucco walls. The large living/dining area featured an iron chandelier that her mom had scavenged from an old boarding house near Butte. Laurel’s airy bedroom was at one end of the nine-hundred-foot-space while Tyson’s western themed bunk room was at the other end. The apartment was originally intended to be a guest house for visiting riders who came to Whispering Breeze to have their horses trained by Laurel’s mother. But life had a way of messing up even the simplest of plans and now it was home to both Laurel and her son.
“Tyson Campbell Johnson,” she called out as she hauled the goat, her son’s backpack, and her coat down the stairs leading into the barn. “How many times have I told you that you have to keep the door closed so this damn nosy goat will keep his butt out of the loft?”
The familiar scent of leather, liniment, horse, and hay greeted her, along with a suspicious silence. Too bad for her son, the chilly morning air did nothing to cool off her annoyance. Aside from finding a goat nibbling at her breakfast, Tyson’s father had texted saying he needed to speak with Laurel as soon as she’d dropped their son off at kindergarten. Both needed to happen before a very important meeting with her boss in just over an hour.
Oreo let out a little yip at the sight of the goat, but everyone else in the barn stood reverently admiring a gorgeous palomino horse munching on hay in one of the stalls—a palomino that had not been in that stall when Laurel had done the barn’s night check eight hours earlier. Laurel none-too-gently shoved the goat toward the open barn door. “Where did that horse come from?”
Her father fiddled with the piece of straw in his mouth. “Isn’t she a beauty?”
Apprehension fueled Laurel’s annoyance. At twenty-eight, she could read her dad pretty accurately, and her father’s words and demeanor told her he was up to something. “Yes, she is, but that wasn’t the question I asked, Dad. Where did she come from?”
“She came from Texas,” Tyson piped up.
“At seven-thirty in the morning? Did she walk here, then?” It was possible Laurel had missed the sound of a hauler while she was in the shower, but surely her father would have mentioned that he was expecting a horse to board with them; especially one as fine as the doe-eyed mare enjoying breakfast while an audience of worshipful men watched her every move like high school boys at a strip show. Laurel pulled on her puffy jacket to ward off the shivers brought on by both the morning chill and her premonition of trouble.
They hadn’t kept many extra horses since her mother’s health began failing nearly eight years ago. Before then, the ranch had been home to many champion quarter horses her mother had trained and Laurel had competed on. Today, their stock consisted of hearty hacks her father used for guided mountain tours and seasonal trail rides.
“She belongs to him.” Tyson’s mouth took on the familiar mulish look he got when she told the five-year-old he couldn’t buy candy at the grocery store checkout. Her sweet-natured son was usually too friendly with strangers, so his uncharacteristic animosity instantly put Laurel on guard.
She turned in the direction Tyson pointed. Her breath caught in her lungs momentarily at the sight of the tall, well-built man exiting the tack room. Amber eyes locked with hers as he prowled toward the palomino, his boots deceptively silent on the stone floor for a man of his build.
His swagger identified him to Laurel instantly, however. Her cousin’s description of the new captain of Glacier Creek’s forest service station was dead on—broad shoulders, wavy dark hair, perpetual five o’clock shadow, and an arrogant chin. Miranda had left out one crucial detail, though. The guy had a most exceptional ass. Laurel swallowed roughly when he walked past her to pat the horse on its withers.
The new station captain was definitely perpetuating the tough guy persona he’d ridden into town with a week ago. His light leather bomber jacket and well-worn Levis weren’t much of a defense against the crisp morning air in the flatlands. But if he wasn’t complaining, she’d just enjoy the view.
“Laurel, this is Captain Gaskill,” her father said. “An actual captain, as a matter of fact. He just left the army. Those boys over at the forest service base won’t know how to act with a real soldier commanding them.”
She grimaced at her father’s uncharacteristic tactlessness. Russ Edwards, the station’s previous captain, died tragically seven months ago when his parachute clipped a tree during a fire jump. The smokejumpers—as well as most of the town—had taken Russ’s death hard. Laurel’s uncle, Hugh Ferguson, had stepped back into his old job of station captain while the forest service recruited a new commander for the base, but most of the young smokejumpers only knew Hugh as the bartender from their favorite watering hole, The Drop Zone.
Needless to say, discipline and morale had been lacking during the off-season. Two of Laurel’s cousins worked at the station, so she knew t
he crews all deeply resented the forest service hiring someone from the outside. From what she’d heard, the army captain had his work cut out for him. Laurel almost felt sorry for him.
“And this here”—her father gestured to the mare—“is Tupelo Honey, the foal of Honey Bun and Honeysuckle. She goes by Tabitha in the barn. The captain is going to keep her at the ranch while he’s in Glacier Creek. Aren’t we lucky?”
Laurel didn’t see anything lucky about the arrangement. Her spidey-sense was still telling her there was more to the story.
She let her gaze wander back to the sexy ex-soldier. “So, you ride, captain?”
Sam Gaskill’s chin never moved while his arresting eyes slowly checked out Laurel from head to toe. Pulling her coat more tightly around her, she tried not to let the sensation of being given the once over by a lion scouting out his prey unnerve her. Instead she squared her chin and met the captain’s assessing gaze head on. So much for feeling sorry for the guy.
His lips barely moved. “I don’t.”
“Yet, you own a champion-bred quarter horse?”
“She belonged to my wife.” This time his mouth grew harder, if that was even possible.
“Oh, well, there’s your first mistake. You should have bought her some jewelry or a car so when you split it up you wouldn’t be stuck with something so difficult to pawn.”
He stiffened at her flippant remark and her father let out a beleaguered groan.
“My late wife.” The three words crackled through the frosty air and Laurel felt each one like a slap to the face.
She didn’t bother looking at her dad, who was likely wearing that pained look he always did when she spoke without thinking. Would she never learn? Her mother claimed Laurel had been born without the essential filter that ran from her brain to her mouth. Needless to say, impulsiveness had been Laurel’s downfall on more than one occasion.
Her cheeks were hot and her palms sweaty as she pushed the words out of her mouth. “Forgive me. That was beyond rude.”
Smolder (Firefighters of Montana Book 1) Page 1