by Burton, Mary
He had taken three months off to spend time with his ten-year-old son, Kyle. The two had spent the time living in his grandfather Mac’s cabin, nestled in the Sapphire Mountain Range. Their days had been filled with fishing, hiking, and rebuilding the stone firepit on the property.
Gideon’s ex-wife, Helen, had died in the spring from cancer. Helen had reached out in January and told him what was happening. She was not the type to ask for help, even when their son had been hit by a passing car and suffered a broken arm. But she had sense enough to think of Kyle first and had contacted Gideon.
Gideon had immediately driven to Denver to see her and his son, whom he saw one weekend a month and two weeks during the summer.
Whatever animus he harbored toward his ex-wife vanished when he’d seen her. Helen had aged a decade in the last few months. Her once-full figure had been whittled down to a hundred pounds, her blond hair had thinned, and her skin had turned sallow. She could barely stand. Kyle refused to leave his mother, which meant Gideon traveled back and forth for several months, staying for longer and longer stretches until finally Helen had passed on in early May.
Gideon had packed up his grieving, sullen son and driven back to Missoula. After checking in with his chief, he’d taken leave, and he and Kyle had driven north. The lack of Wi-Fi had been a shock to both their systems. The quiet had created too many opportunities to talk. And the cabin’s confined space had offered few places to hide.
That left streams to fish, trails to hike, wood to chop, and a lot of anger and emotions to untangle. They had mended some fences and distance created by the divorce, and he was almost sorry they’d had to come back. But he had a job, and Kyle needed to catch up on the spring’s lost schooling.
The car’s radio squawked. “All vehicles in the downtown area, we have a structure fire.”
“Damn it,” he muttered as he reached for the radio. “This is Detective Gideon Bailey. I’m a mile away. I’ll respond.”
“Roger that. Fire crews have been dispatched and deputies en route.”
“Roger,” he said. He flipped on his lights, did a U-turn at the next intersection, and punched the accelerator. The wails of the fire trucks’ sirens quickly grew louder as he hurried through each successive intersection. As he rounded the final corner, his welcome came in the form of flames shooting up toward a dimming sky.
He was out of his vehicle as fire trucks parked and the firefighters scrambled to hook up their hoses to the hydrants. He grabbed his flashlight and raced toward the building, praying that if there were any survivors, he could help.
As Gideon stepped onto the sidewalk, the heat from the building forced him to shield his face with his hands. He angled his body, gripped the flashlight tighter, and edged closer to the front window of the beauty shop, once a favorite of Helen’s. Through the window, he saw that the blaze was shooting from the back of the store and heading toward a woman who lay on the floor.
The fingers on her left hand twitched. Shit. She was alive.
He rammed the butt of the flashlight into the glass display window. Glass shattered and fell into the shop and around his feet. The extra boost of oxygen energized the fire, making it crackle and wail louder as it dipped down from the ceiling. He thought for a split second that he could get into the building and save the woman. But before he could put the thought into action, all hell broke loose. There was an explosion inside the building, the roof bowed, and ceiling tiles dropped. Cinders danced as heat supercharged the air into a bellowing furnace.
Forced to retreat, he backed up to the vehicle, brushing the burning sparks and soot from his jacket. The firefighters raced toward the blaze, their hoses now shooting at full capacity.
Two patrolmen hurried toward him. The first was Stuart Hughes, who was in his midtwenties and the newest to the department. Tall and lanky with red hair, he still ran almost as fast as he had on the college track team.
Steps behind him was Detective Becca Sullivan, also in her twenties. She stood a few inches over five feet and had thick black hair that she secured in a neat bun. She was one of the department’s best shots.
The officers gathered beside Gideon, each staring at the raging flames with a mixture of awe and horror.
“What the hell happened?” Stuart asked, breathless.
“I saw a woman alive inside, lying on the floor.” Gideon shouted the words as he jogged over to the fire chief on scene, Clarke Mead.
Clarke was married to his sister, Ann, and the two had recently separated. So far, Gideon had managed to stay out of their separation, which appeared friendly enough, if that was possible. His own divorce had been a nasty, tangled affair that he would not have wished on his worst enemy.
“There’s someone inside,” Gideon said. “I saw a woman on the floor, near the window. Her fingers moved.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
Clarke raised the radio to his lips and spoke to his crew through their headsets as they wrestled the hose. One team shifted toward the window and sprayed cold water onto the inferno. The flames hissed and spit, not wanting to yield any ground.
“The building is fully engulfed,” Clarke said. “I can’t send anyone in there now. It would be a death sentence.”
“Clarke, she was alive.”
Clarke rested his hands on Gideon’s shoulders. “If she was, she isn’t now. No one could have survived the toxic chemicals and heat.”
He stepped back, unable to shake the image of the woman lying unconscious on the floor. “It’s like the College Fire.”
Clarke stood several inches over six feet, with the broad shoulders of a linebacker. He had short, dark hair and an angled face weathered by the sun. “Don’t do that.”
Haunting memories, never far away, rushed him. His thoughts went first to his son and nephew, who had been spending the afternoon with Clarke. “Where are Kyle and Nate?”
“They’re safe. I dropped both boys off at their friend Tim’s house.”
Gideon said a word of thanks as he stared at the blaze and prayed the woman had died quickly.
Joan settled her backpack in the room assigned to her by Ann, accepted a glass of wine, and was sent to wander around the house as Ann finished dinner. Her gaze was drawn to a picture of Ann, Clarke, and Nate resting on a large raw-edge mantel above the fireplace. The picture looked as if it had been taken a year or two ago. Clarke and Ann both looked much the same, and the boy appeared to be a mix of the two.
The Baileys’ front door burst open. Joan automatically reached for the sidearm she’d left behind in Philadelphia as her gaze shifted to the door. Two boys, who appeared to be about ten, stood in the entryway.
“Mom! I’m home! And Kyle is here!”
The child’s voice echoed up the stone walls toward the vaulted ceiling, framed by rafters and the mounted stuffed heads of deer and antelope. Joan knew the ever-watching trophies had been placed there decades ago by Ann’s father, who had built the place in the midseventies.
As she approached the boys, they skidded to a stop and regarded her with suspicion. She recognized the lean boy as Nate, from the family photo. The high cheekbones and blond hair came from his mother. Clarke’s contribution was the dark eyes, though they radiated Ann’s intelligence.
The other boy had a similar look, but he was taller and his build sturdier. His relaxed body language suggested he had been here many times and was comfortable in the Bailey home. His dark eyes looked almost familiar.
“Who are you?” Nate demanded.
“I’m Joan. You are Nate, right?”
“Yeah, and this is Kyle.”
“Nice to meet you both. I’m a friend of Nate’s mother.”
“Where’s Mom?” Nate’s voice was breathless, and his thick hair swept haphazardly over his forehead.
“She’s in the kitchen. She’s cooking dinner.”
Nate’s eyes narrowed. This one was not a trusting soul. “Mom!”
“In the kitchen, Nate,” Ann calle
d. “You and Kyle wash your hands, and we’ll have supper.”
Both boys studied Joan just as she might a suspect. The look she shot back had made hardened criminals look away, but neither kid budged.
“How can you be a friend of Mom’s? I don’t remember you.”
“I knew your mother in college, before you were born.”
Doubt darkened Nate’s gaze. “She’s never talked about you.”
“How do you know?”
“I remember everything.”
“He does,” Kyle said. “Ask Aunt Ann.”
“Aunt Ann? You two are cousins?” Joan asked.
“Yeah.”
Ann had only one sibling, Gideon. And Gideon’s son had been born almost nine months to the day after Joan had broken up with him. She could not resent this kid. She had ended things with Gideon. He’d had a right to move on to a new woman.
Joan cleared her throat. “I’m here for a few days.”
“Why?” Nate asked.
“You’re very inquisitive,” she said.
“My teacher says the same thing. She said there are never enough answers for me.”
“For you and me both, brother.”
“You don’t have enough answers?” Kyle asked.
“Never.”
“What are your questions?” Nate asked.
“The list is far too long, pal.”
Both regarded her for another beat and then moved past her toward the kitchen. Joan followed them into the large kitchen, dominated by a rustic center island trimmed with barnwood that, according to Ann’s tour, had come from one of the original structures on the property. Ann had said her parents had tackled a major home renovation last year and were currently in Texas on their first vacation in thirty-five years.
The boys ran toward Ann, and she kissed them both. “I made hot and spicy chili, just the way you like,” she said.
Ann was wearing a denim apron and had pulled her blond hair into a ponytail. Joan remembered Mrs. Bailey had worn that apron and had always pulled her hair up the same way. If not for the Baileys, Joan seriously doubted that she would have made it through college. Breaking up with Gideon had meant losing not only a boyfriend but also a family.
Nate reached around his mother and grabbed a freshly cooked biscuit.
“It’s hot. Be careful,” Ann warned.
Nate bounced the biscuit from hand to hand, then tossed it to Kyle before he grabbed another. “It’s not too bad.”
“Do me a favor and wash up first,” she said, plucking Kyle’s biscuit out of midair. “Nate, where is your dad? I thought he had you both this evening.”
Nate snatched a second biscuit. “He dropped us off at Tim’s. Said a call came in.”
“What kind of call?” Ann asked.
“I don’t know.” Nate bit into his biscuit. “Can we build a fire in the firepit tonight? We could make s’mores.”
Ann arched a brow. “Sure. But after dinner. Like I said, wash up.”
“Okay.”
The boys ran off, leaving Joan to wonder about Clarke’s call. “Clarke’s a . . .”
“Fire chief. And very good at what he does.”
“And Kyle is Gideon’s boy.”
“Yes.”
No sense delaying the inevitable. “How’s Gideon doing?”
Ann set out four place settings. “It’s been a rough year. You know his ex-wife, Helen, died.”
“I did not.” She had broken up with Gideon, but that very quick marriage still stung more than it should have.
Ann frowned, as if she had realized another something that she should have shared. “I should have called you.”
Joan finished off the wine, hoping it would settle her simmering energy. “How did she die?”
“Cancer. Very aggressive. She was gone within five months.”
“How’s Gideon taking it?”
“There was no love lost between the two of them after the divorce. But Kyle took it hard.”
“Sucks to lose your mother. I feel for the kid,” Joan said.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk about your mother.”
Joan glanced into her empty wineglass. “Not much to say. She left when I was two.”
“Didn’t she die when you were in high school?”
“Yes.”
“What about your dad?”
She sighed, realizing they had never talked much about her family because it was so damn depressing. “Dad drank a lot, but he did his best. When I was twelve, he fell asleep in his recliner with a lit cigarette in his hand. The place caught fire. We barely got out. He took off for good a couple of years later. I was raised by a friend of his who owns a bar.”
Ann studied her with a mixture of shock and pity. “I didn’t realize.”
“I never talked about my family because it’s a bleak story. I like to think the past doesn’t have any power over me.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“No.”
An understanding smile twisted Ann’s lips as she set the chili and the remaining biscuits on the table, along with salt and pepper shakers and pepper jack cheese. Nate and Kyle came hurrying into the room and took their seats across from Joan. Ann sat at the head of the table. Once each had been served a healthy portion, Joan realized how hungry she was.
Joan took her first bite and almost moaned with pleasure. “This is amazing. I can’t remember the last time I ate real food.”
“They don’t have real food where you live?” Nate asked.
“They do. I’m just not good at finding it. I live on Chinese takeout, street pizza, and hot dogs.”
“Why?” Kyle asked.
“I’m busy. I don’t slow down much.”
“What do you do?” he asked.
“I’m a homicide detective.” Fingers crossed she would remain one after the suspension.
Kyle’s interest was piqued, and she sensed she had gained a few points with him. “My dad’s a detective, too,” he said.
“Really?” In college, whenever Joan and Gideon had spoken of potential professions, he had always talked about working on his father’s ranch. Law enforcement had never crossed either of their minds. It was ironic that both Gideon and she were now cops.
“Yep, he’s one of the best in the state,” the boy said with pride.
That was not a surprise. Gideon always gave whatever he did 100 percent. “What grade are you two in?”
“Fifth,” Kyle said.
“But I’m also going to audit a class at the college,” Nate said.
“It’s an experiment we’re trying,” Ann said.
“That’s saying something for a ten-year-old,” Joan said. At ten, school and reading had been her safe place. Though she’d made A’s, she’d never had a desire to hurry through the grade levels.
“I want to skip middle school and high school and go to college full-time next year, but Mom won’t let me,” Nate said.
Ann sipped her wine. “There’s plenty of time for that. But you also need to be a kid.”
“I want to be a neurosurgeon,” Nate said.
Of course he did. “Was rocket scientist too tame?”
That coaxed a faint smile from the boys. “Humans are more interesting than machines. More complex.”
“I’ve often said the same.” Joan was tempted to refill her glass, but if she kept up this pace, tomorrow would be rough. She reached for her water glass instead. “Your mom wanted to be a medical doctor. She was accepted at several places.”
His brow furrowing, Nate looked at his mother as he processed what appeared to be a new piece of information. “Why didn’t you go?”
“Because I decided to stay here,” Ann said. “I like being close to Grandma and Grandpa.”
“Is it because you got pregnant with me?” Nate asked.
It did not take a math genius to backdate his conception to his parents’ wedding. “That was part of the reason. And for the record, I made the right choice.”
“Finish your chili and then put your plates in the sink,” Ann said.
The boys quickly finished their meals and hurried their dishes into the kitchen. Seconds later, the back door opened and then slammed closed.
“You let them build the fire alone?” Joan asked.
“Yes. But I’m there when they light it.”
“In my neighborhood, fires are contained to grills,” Joan said. “And even then, I keep my distance.”
She glanced out the window and watched as the boys rushed toward the stone firepit with armloads of wood. Both worked together to place kindling in the bottom and build a tripod of wood over it.
“My father says any self-respecting cowboy knows how to handle a fire.”
Shifting away from the subject, she asked, “Is Nate really ready for high school, let alone college?”
“Intellectually,” she said. “He’s still a kid, and I’m trying to give him as normal a life as possible. But he needs the academic stimulation, so he’s auditing a class this fall to keep him engaged.”
“Clarke on board with this?”
“He’s for whatever is good for Nate.” Ann set her napkin down by her half-empty bowl. “It’s nice outside tonight. Let’s have another glass outside.”
Joan ate the last of her buttered biscuit. “I shouldn’t, but I will.”
Ten minutes later, they were on the porch, and she was sitting in a wooden rocker. Nate and Kyle’s logs would have made any Boy Scout proud. Ann handed a flint lighter to each boy and took a step back, watching closely as they lit the kindling tucked in the center. The blaze caught quickly among the carefully placed logs.
Joan eased back in her chair and firmly planted her feet on the ground. Tension rippled up her body as the heat from the flames warmed her.
Ann took the chair beside her. “You okay?”
“Sure, I’m fine.”
“Joan, I’m a psychologist,” she said softly so Nate couldn’t hear. “You’re uncomfortable.”
“I’m tired. Been burning the candle at both ends, no pun intended.”
“Can I get more wood?” Nate asked.
“Sure,” Ann said. “But we won’t be out here more than an hour. It’s been a long day.”
