Deep Haven [03] The Perfect Match

by Susan May Warren

  He wanted to smile but couldn’t push past the grief that squeezed his chest. He’d killed those boys. Not only had he failed Leo, he’d failed the man’s family.

  His throat burned, probably from the smoke he’d inhaled. Somehow he screwed his eyes open. Through a watery haze, he watched the inferno engulf the house, flames four stories high climbing into the night, frothing black smoke. Shingles exploded off the roof; red-hot cinders and ash fell like snow around him. He tried to raise himself on his elbows and earned a fresh burst of torture. His left arm felt like a noodle at his side, and the pain nearly turned him cross-eyed.

  Then he saw her, the woman who had dragged him from the house. She had turned to watch the fire, a frown on her fine-boned face. She wore two short, stubby braids and had flipped up the collar on her jean jacket, like he had on his fire coat. Almost absentmindedly, she had her hand curled around his lapel, the other pointing to some unknown sight in the flames.

  A short and spunky angel. He had to wonder from where she’d materialized. She seemed to be transfixed by the fire, and something about her profile, her clenched jaw, the way she stared at the blaze with a defined sorrow nearly broke his heart. She shouldn’t be here to see this. He had the sudden, overwhelming urge to cover her eyes and shield her from the horror.

  She looked at him. Eyes as blue as a northern Minnesota sky speared through him with the power to pin him to the ground. “I gotta get you away from the flames. Brace yourself. This is going to hurt.” She stood, clutched his coat around the collar, and tugged.

  Okay, she hid serious muscles somewhere inside that lean body. He nearly roared with pain as she propelled him back, away from the shower of ash, the mist of water and smoke. She didn’t even grunt.

  “Who are you?” he asked in a voice that sounded like he gargled with gravel.

  She knelt beside him again, pressed two fingers to his neck, feeling his pulse. “I’ll go get you a stretcher,” she said, not looking in his eyes.

  He reached up and grabbed her wrist. “Wait . . . are you a dream?”

  Ellie Karlson had seen men fly out of the sky before, but never had it wrenched her heart out from between her ribs. The way this fireman had looked at her left her feeling raw and way too tender, as if he’d hit a line drive straight to the soft tissue of her heart.

  She attributed it to the fact that she’d nearly lost her first firefighter—before her watch even began. At least she’d found out his name—Dan. She’d have to look up his file and figure out how many years he’d been fighting fire. He’d shown the courage of a veteran but the panic of a probie—a first-year rookie.

  Ellie stopped her pacing, leaned into the hospital wall, and touched her head to the cool paint. The quiet in the ER ward pressed against her, tinder to every cell in her body that wanted to howl in frustration. Fire she could face. The somber tones of sorrow . . . she could not. The smells of antiseptic and new carpet added to the simmer of the postfire adrenaline that never left her veins without a fight. She should go back to her hotel, do about a hundred sit-ups, or even hop on her bike for a very early morning ride.

  Or maybe she could find a piano and pound out a few rounds of Chopin’s Fifth. Something other than this mindless, useless pacing. She noticed a man and a woman sitting huddled against the wall across from the firefighter’s room. Maybe praying. Ellie was a woman of action, and praying only seemed to slow her down. Besides, God knew her thoughts, didn’t He?

  She shot another glance at the man and remembered seeing him at the fire, helping the less-than-brilliant victim in the next room. Fatigue etched into the lines on his sooty face, layered his burnished brown hair. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, fiddling with the buckle on his helmet. A woman, whom Ellie assumed was his wife, rested her head against his shoulder, her blonde hair flayed out, her eyes closed. He’d shed his turnout coat onto an adjacent vinyl chair, but even his flannel shirt looked dirty. He was probably some lumberjack down from the north woods.

  A nurse, blonde pigtails belying her starched appearance, charged down the hall in their direction, shot a sympathetic look at the couple on the chairs, then entered the man’s room. Ellie caught a glimpse of a white-coated doctor blocking her view before the door closed.

  She might have to tackle the nurse when the woman exited. Ellie blinked back the sight, right behind her eyes, of fireman Dan flying off the roof, his arms flailing against the backdrop of flame and ash. It still caught her breath in her throat. He’d landed practically at her feet with a gut-tightening thwunk and an outcry of pain that echoed through the chambers of her soul.

  And then he’d looked at her like she was some sort of heavenly being—or at least an earthly dream come true. He must have jarred a few brain cells loose. She’d never been anyone’s dream. Ever. Their worst nightmare, however, oh yes. She’d been called that more times than she could count. This fireman definitely wasn’t the hottest spark in the fire. Fifteen years of scrabbling for respect in the very masculine world of firefighting told Ellie no one considered her a dream come true when she stepped over the firehouse threshold.

  But she didn’t care. She wasn’t in town to win the firemen’s affection. Respect, obedience, and loyalty, though, yes. And pacing outside this wounded firefighter’s hospital room seemed a good way to seed a reputation that said she cared about her men.

  Since when had she started lying to herself? The black, scuffed tread she’d worn on the floor wasn’t only about gaining a foothold of respect. Something about this firefighter tugged at the soft, hidden places in her heart. Setting aside his smoky gray eyes and his bravado in the face of tragedy told her he wasn’t an ordinary soul . . . then again, none of the rank-and-file firemen who deliberately threw themselves between life and death could be called ordinary. Still, something about this jakey’s gutsy determination told her he would be a man to count on in a fire.

  She had to meet him face-to-face, away from the raging adrenaline and confusion of a conflagration. And, truth be told, she did like hearing his crazy, pain-filled words. Even if they’d die the second she introduced herself.

  The door to his room opened. The nurse strode out.

  Ellie was hot on her tail. “Is he going to be okay?” Her voice sounded exactly like the person she’d become. Hard. Demanding. Blunt. She wanted to cringe, then decided that she might need to build her reputation in this town on those merits.

  The nurse stopped, turned. Her blue eyes considered Ellie with the slightest edging of sympathy. “Who are you?”

  “Concerned bystander.” Ellie offered a slight smile. It wasn’t exactly a lie, but dodging the truth always made her feel grimy.

  “The doctor will be out soon. But, yes, I think our pastor will be out in time to preach on Sunday.”

  Pastor? Ellie’s mouth opened, and she knew she looked like an idiot standing there, turning pale, as the nurse walked away. This wide-shouldered, face-death-with-a-roar fireman was a pastor?

  Of course. She should have guessed it.

  In a flash of memory, she saw another man—no, a boy—his ponytail flying, careening over the rutted dirt of a fire camp on a pair of roller skis while attached to the bumper of a convertible VW Bug by a water-ski line. His laughter still echoed in the canyons of her heart. Oh, Seth.

  Why was it that all the heart-stopping, real-life heroes in her life belonged to God? That realization doused the tiny flame of hope that had ignited deep inside.

  She resumed her pacing, meeting the gazes of the huddled couple as she stalked by. The hall clock ticked out the next ten minutes in merciless eternal seconds. Ellie nearly flattened the doctor when he emerged, tucking his pen into his jacket. He stopped in front of the couple and shook the lumberjack’s hand, a smile on his face.

  “He’s a lucky one, Joe,” the doc said. “Just a few minor burns and a dislocated shoulder.”

  Ellie nosed up to the group and didn’t flinch at the doctor’s hard look. “Just checking on him,” she said. “Can I see
him?”

  “Well, I guess—,” the doctor started.

  Ellie didn’t wait. She barged into Dan’s room.

  Even with his arm in a sling, his right cheek blistered and swollen, and shadows etched under his eyes, he still had the ability to stop her dead in her tracks. Maybe it was that tousled, dark brown hair or perhaps those lazy gray eyes that latched onto her with more than a little interest. Her disobedient heart did a tiny jig when he gave her a lopsided smile.

  “So,” he said, “are you a dream?”

  Oh, she could be in big, big trouble. For a second, she wanted to pull up a chair, dive into his friendship, and delay the inevitable. He seemed to have the unsettling ability to wheedle past her defenses and find her lonely places. She feared Dan the Pastor might have the power to make a girl chuck her life goals, unpack her suitcase, and paint her name on a mailbox. Solid, wise, and just a little bit of a rapscallion. A man who respected her, who thought she might be, indeed, a dream come true.

  Except she couldn’t be that girl. Not with a bevy of promises pushing against her, keeping her on the run.

  Besides, once she told him the truth, the antagonism would begin. She knew too well—the shock, the disapproval, and finally the cold wall that would come with her announcement.

  If she hoped to etch a toehold of respect in this backwoods community, it would have to start at this hero’s bedside.

  “No. I’m a very real and slightly angry reality, fireman. What were you doing on that roof?” She crossed her arms, neatly shielding her heart, and watched his smile vanish.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You risked your life and the lives of your fellow firemen. Thankfully, no one was behind you, but by not waiting to vent that room, you could have killed my entire crew.”

  “Your what—wait . . . just who are you?” He frowned, and somehow it only added to the wounded-hero effect.

  She took a deep breath. “Ellie Karlson. Interim fire chief.”

  His mouth opened for the shock phase. She debated smiling, but she’d need all her stoic arsenal for phase two. . . .

  “No way. You can’t be—I mean, a firefighter has to be—”

  “A shapely version of a man? A knuckle dragger in high heels?” She arched one eyebrow. “Have hairy fists and dangling nose hair?”

  He looked properly chagrined, and she knew she’d hit the bull’s-eye. Why did men always think that a woman doing a job that required courage, strength, and stamina had to be built like a tank? Still, now that she’d doused him with the cleansing reality, she should add some painkiller to the wound. Perhaps it would ward off phase three—the big chill.

  “I’m not what many people expect. But I assure you, I know what I’m doing.” She sat in the chair beside the bed, reached out, and touched his slung arm. “And, for the record, I was impressed by your dedication. We’re about saving lives, and you risked your life for that family. Next time, take a partner and your axe and SCBA gear.”

  He stared at her with a potent mix of horror and disbelief. O-kay, so maybe he’d hit the ground harder than she thought. “It could have been much worse,” she offered. “Be thankful you lived through it.”

  “Too bad the little boys didn’t.” When he clenched his jaw, she thought she saw tears glaze his eyes.

  “But you saved them,” she said, confused.

  His gaze shot back to her.

  “Yes. When you vented the fire, flames ran to the oxygen. The fireball that knocked you off the ladder kept the fire from tracking to the other side of the house. They found the boys and their mother in an upstairs bedroom.”

  “Are they—?”

  She had the wild desire to run her hand along that whiskered jaw that seemed one shave away from his respectable position of town pastor.

  Suddenly, painfully, he reminded her of a man now dancing through heaven.

  Ellie clasped her hands firmly in her lap. “They’re in intensive care . . . but . . . well, it doesn’t look good.” She tried to soften the blow by gentling her voice. She never had adapted well to this aspect of her job.

  He nodded, as if he expected the news, and again looked away. “It’s all my fault, you know.”

  She frowned, not clear at his words, noticing how he’d bunched the covers in his right fist. “Yes. But it worked. Not a technique I’d employ, but hindsight is sometimes the best vision, especially in firefighting.”

  He met her words with his own frown, making her pulse race. Calm down, she thought. She’d been surrounded by burly hero types her entire life, starting with her father’s fire buddies to her brother’s chums to her own fire-crew cronies. This guy wasn’t any different than every other jakey. She would just have to get used to those mesmerizing eyes and intriguing smile. Besides, he was probably married . . . but where was his wife? Her gaze flickered down to his hand, now strapped to his chest. No ring.

  That could mean nothing. Plenty of firemen took off their rings before a fire. The metal attracted heat. Still, any wife in her right mind would be pacing the corridors with worry, if not standing at the foot of his bed, directing traffic.

  She would.

  “So, let me get this straight,” he said in a voice that sounded slightly . . . angry? “You’re Deep Haven’s new fire chief?”

  Perhaps he hadn’t jostled any brain cells in that fall—how could he with his brain packed in an outer case of granite? Hadn’t he heard a word she’d said?

  “As I live and breathe. I heard the fire on my scanner and hustled over, hoping I could help.” She refused to sound apologetic.

  He gave her a look—sad, disgusted, horrified—that sucked her back in time and made her feel like the rebellious teenager who’d hitchhiked to Colorado to keep up with her big brother.

  It raised her ire like static electricity. Oh, please—they didn’t live in the dark ages. Women had been fighting fires on crews for over a hundred years starting with Molly Williams in 1818. Cro-Magnon man needed to enter the twenty-first century.

  “Help?” he said in a one-word, caveman grunt.

  Maybe she should simplify things, speak slowly, use small words . . . “Listen, bub, I’m here to fight fires and to keep you out of trouble.”

  Yes, he’d definitely just emerged from the big thaw, for Mr. Tall, Dark, and Neanderthal looked at her with a chauvinistic gleam in his eye and in a low growl tossed aside one hundred years of women’s rights.

  “Over my dead body.”

  2

  The words were out before he could snatch them back. Over his dead body? Where had that come from? Last time he’d spoken those words, he’d been staring down spunky Charlene Richardson, trying desperately to keep his world from crumbling.

  “Wait, I didn’t mean that,” Dan said. “I mean . . . I did . . . but, well . . . you’re the new fire chief?”

  “Do you need to see it in writing?” Her eyes flashed like lightning across a stormy sky.

  “Uh . . . maybe that would be helpful.”

  When she pounced to her feet, Dan felt his chest tighten. With her feet planted and her hands perched on her hips, Ellie suddenly reminded him of everything he’d lost one sunny spring day nearly fifteen years before. What was wrong with him? He was an emancipated male and was all for women working in positions of responsibility, even danger.

  Well, most women. It seemed particularly unfair that God would again send him someone who looked heartbreakingly cute with axle grease—or soot—on her chin.

  “Just gimme a second here to catch up,” he said, attempting to calm Ellie’s ire with a smile. “I banged my head pretty hard.”

  “You’ve got all the time in the world, Pastor.”

  He swallowed back a choking pain and told himself that Chief Ellie Karlson was not the love of his life, nor would she ever rip his heart into a thousand ugly pieces.

  “Okay . . . I admit that I’m not scoring many points here,” Dan said, trying to ignore the throb of old wounds. “But I’m on the town council and don’t remember
hiring anyone for that position.”

  “It’s an interim job. Your town manager called our district. I’m filling in until you find your permanent chief.”

  Oh, boy, wait until Mitch discovered this tidbit of news. There’d be sparks flying in town hall in the morning.

  “Pardon my shock, Miss Karlson, but I have this sick feeling that I’m the only one who knows this.”

  Her mouth opened slightly, and in that instant he saw the slightest flint of fear. It had the effect of a spark on the tinder on his protective urges, an impulse he thought he’d extinguished years ago.

  Then she sighed, as if fatigue had brushed over her. When she spoke, gone was the defense, the sarcasm. “Well, then I guess you’re the lucky first to find out.” Rubbing her forehead with a grimy hand, she sat in the chair again. She looked so utterly fragile in that moment, he again felt the wild impulse to take her hand or pull her into his arms.

  “Listen,” she said, her voice weary, “I know that having a woman fire chief rubs against the default masculine ego, but I have an MA in management, ten years of experience, and a degree in fire science. I don’t expect to fill the shoes of Chief Halstrom, but I promise I’ll do my best to make sure you have the latest training and equipment to do your job. You don’t have to like me, but I’d appreciate your support.”

  Not like her? Over an hour ago, as she’d brushed the hair back from his face and felt for his pulse, he’d experienced emotions that bordered on boyish, teenage infatuation. But perhaps she was dead-on—he didn’t like the idea of a woman at the helm of the fire station. Not that he doubted her abilities—her quick litany told him she knew more about fighting fire than Smokey Bear. But the thought of her wielding an axe or even facing heats that rose to twelve hundred degrees made him wince.

  When had it become a crime to want to protect a woman? After all, hadn’t God charged men with treating the fairer sex with gentleness? And this woman, with her high cheekbones, tawny brown hair in Pippi Longstocking braids, and small-yet-solid frame seemed indeed fair.