by Alicia Scott
Doc Matthews turned his attention to his charts, his old face guileless. Coleton, however, looked pleased with himself. Because Brandon was going to be all right or because for the next few days, Brandon would be slowed? Brandon's thoughts were making him dizzy.
"Ever lead a team?" Coleton quizzed. "Ever made a decision under real fire, with life and death hanging in the balance?"
"No."
"Good." Coleton slapped him hard on the back. "You'll like it, rich Brit. Builds character."
* * *
Brandon didn't come home until seven o'clock, his limbs leaden and his temples pounding. He stood beneath the stinging needles of the hot shower hoping it would hammer the tension from his shoulders. His mind was full, trying to remember the structure of command center, the functional and regional chain of command, the different units and divisions that would all be deployed and coordinated to combat a major fire.
He was thinking of the proper strategies for determining fire lines and laying hoses, the things that could get his crew into trouble and the things that could save their bacon.
He was thinking that he had the phone number for the Jacobs family, straight from directory assistance.
He stepped out of the shower and toweled off. He pulled on his black sweats and a white turtleneck. He walked through the dark yard all by himself, wondering if he really felt eyes upon his back, or was it just his overactive imagination? He could see the kitchen light on in the main house. Victoria and Randy were sitting down for dinner.
He hadn't seen Victoria since Saturday night. She'd never brought him breakfast as she'd promised on Sunday. She'd had Randy do it, instead. He supposed he understood.
He wondered what they were having tonight, sitting together at the comfortable old table in the warm, cheery kitchen. More fried chicken and mashed potatoes? Would Randy eat his vegetables?
Brandon heated up split pea soup and ate it with dry crackers and baby carrots. He unburied the phone number from his duffel bag and stared at it. He should call. Say he knew Maximillian Ferringer. Wait for Ashley Jacobs's reaction. Bud Irving might be the town loony, but apparently the Jacobses were pillars of the community, an old rich family whose money had built the library and kept the 4-H Club and Little League teams afloat.
He rinsed his soup pan with a pitcher of water and put away the crackers. He'd gotten crumbs everywhere. He swept them up. The phone number still sat on his pillow.
He finally got out his cell phone, the cabin having no phone service of its own. Just call. Reach out and touch someone.
He sat on the bed, phone in his right hand, number in his left. He couldn't do it. He just couldn't do it.
He didn't want to know the answers, he thought suddenly, with a wave of panic that startled him. What if C.J. was right? What if Maggie was right? What if their father was a no-good smuggler? Ashley Jacobs might confirm everything. And then there would be no place to hide. The truth would be out, raw and irrefutable.
Maximillian the Chameleon had been a self-centered, money-hungry, materialistic, no-good con man.
And you're his son. You're his son.
The one he left as soon as the money was gone.
He stood too fast. The world spun, and he grabbed the wall. Then his head cleared, blood flow evened out, and he moved quickly. He shoved the phone into his duffel bag. He buried the locket beneath the mattress and shoved the phone number beneath his dirty laundry, where maybe he would forget it completely.
It wasn't enough. He didn't want to be alone in the damn cabin anymore with the walls closing in and the night too dark. He said to hell with it all and headed for the stables.
He wanted to see Victoria. For the last few days, all he wanted was Victoria.
* * *
"So let me get this straight. You get conked on the head by a tree you didn't even notice. You violate doctor's orders and make your head injury worse, and now you're in management?"
"Basically … yes."
"Sounds like the federal government to me."
Brandon allowed a wry smile. His gaze was latched upon her figure like a starving man, and though he'd been here for ten minutes, neither of them was exactly comfortable.
She'd stilled at first sight of him, the hyperawareness washing over them both. He'd remained twenty feet away, afraid that if he came closer she'd bolt. After another tense moment, her gaze had returned to the horse she was preparing to ride, and Brandon had pounced upon the first neutral subject he could find—work. So far, so good.
"What exactly does a crew boss do?" Victoria asked, stretching to better position the saddle on Doc's back. She wore gray riding sweats that fit her like a second skin. Every time she twisted, Brandon lost his train of thought.
"Um … directs the efforts. When our team is called out, we'll be put in charge of a section of a fire line, building it, maintaining it. The crew boss helps plan the best area for the line, keeps an eye out for trouble and coordinates his team's efforts with everyone else's. If things get dicey, he'll make the call to evacuate. Then he makes sure everyone gets out."
"Uh-huh. Aren't you the guy who let his team burn last week?" She adjusted the stirrups.
"Yes. And thanks for pointing that out."
She looked him in the eye, and the tension ratcheted up another notch.
She snapped the stirrup in silence, and they both flinched while the horse pranced.
She said, "I just wondered how you felt about it. Last week, you were struggling to be part of a team, today you're leading it. That's a big jump for a man who considers himself a lone wolf."
"It's a big jump."
She waited, and when he didn't elaborate, she shook her head. "Fine, forget I brought it up, it's none of my business." She resumed tightening the saddle, her hand yanking the leather strap through the buckle with unnecessary force.
"A leader should be selfless," Brandon said, abruptly taking a step forward. "I don't think I'm selfless."
"What do you think you are?" She took a step back.
"Self-centered," he told her. "Remote. Someone more comfortable with thinking of himself than others." He was close to the horse now. She circled to the other side, but his gaze was locked on her bent head. The horse danced nervously.
"Ferringer, you are not selfish. I don't know who saddled you with that rap, but they shouldn't have. So there." She yanked on the saddle buckle, grunting as she cinched it tight. "These days, you got some allies."
She made the mistake of looking him in the eye, and the saddle almost burst into flame.
Their breathing accelerated. The stable was suddenly hot and musty and damp.
"It was the tree," he murmured in the hushed stillness. "Surviving a falling tree seems to garner a man some respect."
"Ha!" she said, but her voice was breathless.
"Don't knock it until you try it."
"What about the woman who nurses you back to health and sends her son to strap you into bed, huh?"
"She served beyond the call of duty. She deserves a reward."
"A reward? Us starving ranch owners and single moms have unbelievably refined tastes, you know. I can't be bought off with just any old trinket."
"What about a kiss?"
The question hung in the air. Her gaze fell to his lips helplessly, and even as her body shifted, wary and edgy, the tip of her tongue moistened her lips. "Damn," she muttered. "Damn, damn, I'm not going to do this! I am not eighteen!"
She whirled abruptly, stalked two steps, then whirled again. "I'm gonna ride my horse, Brandon Ferringer. That's what I came out here to do, and that's what I'm gonna do. So get out of my way. I need to saddle up."
She stormed to his side, as he was standing on the left. She moved like a tornado, grabbing the saddle and fumbling to get her foot in the stirrup. At the last minute, she pinned him with a look.
"Help me up," she growled. It was not a request.
Wordlessly, Brandon knit his hands into a step and offered it. She planted her foot and
swung up, her hip against his cheek, her leg pressed against his chest. He could smell laundry detergent and apple shampoo. He could smell a light, wafting fragrance of musk.
And though he knew he shouldn't, he curved his fingers around her calf, feeling the warm, firm flesh. Slowly, his fingers crept up.
"I'm going to ride," she said in a strained voice.
"Uh-huh." He explored the shape of her knee, charting it as he would a detailed map. He found a spot behind her kneecap, pressed it and heard her gasp. He wanted to plant his lips there. He wanted to traverse every inch of her well-curved legs with his lips, his tongue, his teeth.
"Step … step back."
"Uh-huh." His fingers arrived at her thigh, feeling her quiver. Her legs were strong, well-toned and beautifully shaped. He dug his fingers in slightly, and she sighed helplessly.
"You're tense, Victoria." He caressed her leg.
"Just a little."
"Hard time sleeping?" He curved his fingers toward the inside of her thigh.
"Just a little."
"Me, too."
"That's because you beat yourself over the head with a tree." Her back was arching. Her eyes had fluttered shut. His fingers crept up.
"You don't want me at all?" he whispered.
"Not at all," she gasped.
"Then I don't want you just as much."
"What are you doing?" Her voice grew definitely strangled as his fingers finally reached the apex of her thighs and he cupped her with his palm and pressed lightly.
"I've missed you," he said softly, surprising himself. "I didn't mean to miss you. I didn't mean…"
He shifted closer, his voice suddenly too raw, and her hand snapped around his wrist.
"Enough!"
Her breathing was ragged. So was his. The horse pranced away nervously, and the contact was finally broken.
"Damn you, Ferringer," Victoria said. Her eyes were squeezed shut. He could see the longing etched clearly in every aching line of her face. Then her eyes flew open, and she shook her head vehemently. "You're making this too hard on both of us. I can't … I won't!"
Abruptly, Victoria clicked her tongue and Doc shot forward into a trot, churning up plumes of dirt as he bounded by. Victoria leaned over the big beast's neck, muttered a few words of encouragement, and they went flying, her golden hair mingling with gray mane, her expression saying she had no intention of stopping. She rode as if she was pursued by the devil himself, and once again, Brandon understood.
She was right. Absolutely right. And dammit, he wanted her anyway. He burned.
Not until Brandon left the stables did Victoria slow her mount. Moisture stained her cheeks. She felt as if she'd been through a wringer, as if her bones had been crushed.
"What doesn't break us makes us stronger," she muttered thickly. "Oh, bloody hell."
* * *
She was fighting a losing battle and she knew it. Friday night, she stood in front of her closet contemplating her lone dress and trying to be strong. They were going out for a celebration dinner. Brandon, Charlie, her whole family. Fourteen people, only one of whom she wasn't related to. She didn't need to wear her dress.
Her brothers would tease her if she wore the dress.
She fingered the red cotton material anyway, remembered Ferringer's hand kneading her thigh and snatched back her arm as if she'd been singed.
Jeans. Definitely jeans. Loose jeans. And some old ratty T-shirt so he'd know once and for all that she wasn't staying up late mooning over him. Not Vic. She was much too strong for that kind of prattle.
Dammit, she was staring at the dress again and scowling so hard her face should be permanently wrinkled. Men were evil.
She sat on the edge of her bed. Her shoulders were tight, her whole body knotted with tension. She hadn't seen Brandon Ferringer since Monday night, but that didn't seem to affect things. She was unbearably conscious of every move he made. What time he came home—late—what time he turned off the light in his cabin—later—how long she swore she could feel his gaze across the fifty yards—a long time.
She knew from Charlie that he'd gotten a clean bill of health on Wednesday and was doing better. He was paying more attention to his crew members and Tuesday had stayed late to help Barbara become more comfortable operating the chain saw. Barbara was married, Charlie added casually. Her husband was there the whole time.
Then Randy had asked permission to seek help on his homework, not returning until almost nine and announcing straight off that they should have Brandon over for dinner more—the man only got to eat soup by himself. Randy thought canned soup was worse than even Brussels sprouts.
Victoria had sent her son to bed after informing him that Brandon was a big boy—he could take care of himself.
He'd pulled in the driveway Thursday night just as she and Randy were sitting down to a hot, hearty meal of beef Stroganoff. She'd stuck to her guns. Randy had given her reproachful glances all evening. No one could deliver guilt like an eight-year-old.
Now it was Friday, and she couldn't avoid Brandon anymore. Today, the hotshot crew would complete the required classroom training and then have the fit test. Assuming that everyone passed, the team would be posted up. They would officially be on call.
Charlie had assured her that they would all pass the fit test. You just had to run a mile and a half in under eleven minutes, then pass the step test—step up and down for thirty seconds without elevating your heart rate beyond the target zone. No big whoop for lean, mean hotshots. Charlie's real goal was running the mile and a half in six minutes. Brandon thought he could do it in seven. No doubt they were egging each other on as much as possible.
Men.
Her gaze was back on the red dress. It was simple, belted at the waist with a flared skirt that whirled around her legs, perfect for dancing. And there would be dancing. Her parents didn't take their children anyplace that didn't offer a good Western band. Did Ferringer like to dance? She could imagine his hand spread on the small of her back, guiding her through the elaborate steps.
"They're here, they're here!" Randy yelled from the foyer. He was already decked out in his red-checkered cowboy shirt and freshly polished Sunday boots. "Mom, Mom!"
"Coming!" she called, and without giving herself another chance to think, grabbed her lavender blouse and a fresh pair of jeans.
* * *
"It was incredible, you should've seen it!" Charlie was exclaiming in a rush as Victoria stepped into the yard. Twilight was falling, the assembled group of her parents and assorted siblings cast in shadows. Even then Brandon stood out, freshly showered, his dark blue Oxford-cloth shirt rolled up to his elbows.
"At the quarter-mile mark, Barbara twists her ankle on the track and goes down. She gets right back up, but she's limping. She can't run. Still, eleven minutes for a mile and a half isn't bad, and Barbara's in good shape. It won't be graceful, but she figures she'll half-walk, half-trot it. But her ankle's worse than she thought. It starts to swell—she can't walk. In fact, she's more or less hopping along, trying not to stare at Coleton, but hell, we know what's going on. She's not going to make it. Now she's trying not to cry.
"Then all of a sudden, who goes sprinting onto the track but Ferringer. He comes up right behind Barbara, swings her into his arms and runs with her to the finish line, where he politely sets her down and she hops over all by herself. Ten minutes fifty-five seconds. 'Teamwork,' Ferringer chirps. 'My crew is done.'
"And Coleton, Coleton's so floored he gives it to them. 'What the hell,' he says, 'at least someone has been listening to me.' It was unbelievable. Barbara will most likely give Ferringer her firstborn child. You know—" Charlie's gaze slid toward Victoria "—unless he gets any better offers."
Her parents laughed, and there was a general murmur of appreciation while Victoria scowled at her youngest brother. Charlie and Brandon showed off the new pagers clipped to the waistbands of their jeans. Now that they were posted up, they were required to be within one hour of deploymen
t and five minutes of call back. They were hotshots.
Her father slapped Brandon on the back. "Not bad for the man who yiffed all over my patrol car. Still can't get the smell out."
"Sorry about that."
"Ah, well, glad to see that you're feeling better. Sounds like Beaverville's lucky to have you. Now let's go eat. My treat."
"I get to ride with Brandon!" Randy whooped, and the divvying of cars began.
Victoria stayed over to the side, trying to pretend she didn't notice who went where. But when Brandon calmly climbed into her truck, she wasn't surprised.
"I like playing with fire," he said conversationally.
"Bah, humbug," she replied.
* * *
"Mind if I interrupt?"
Sarah and Victoria both looked up. Sarah was Victoria's sister-in-law and currently eight months pregnant with her and John's second child. With her round face, chocolate brown eyes and rich mahogany hair, the half Native American was a startlingly beautiful woman. She was also sick of being pregnant and was telling Victoria all about it in no uncertain terms.
"I miss sex," she'd just got done announcing. "I know I'm as big as a house and I'm supposed to be feeling all nurturing and maternal, but dammit, I miss sex."
So far the conversation wasn't helping Victoria's state of mind.
"I was wondering if you would like to dance, Victoria," Brandon murmured when both women remained staring at him wordlessly. "I thought I would give this Western two-step a try, but I imagine I'll need some help."
"We're talking," Victoria said rather rudely. The plate in front of her was piled high with stripped rib bones. She loved barbecued ribs and could eat them by the dozens. Of course, that kind of shamelessness was easier when it was only her brothers who noticed.
"Oh, no, go ahead," Sarah said quickly. She flashed Brandon a winning smile. "I'm done moaning about my lack of a sex life now." Her brown eyes twinkled. Brandon's cheeks flushed red. No one in Victoria's family was very bashful. So far, Brandon was holding up surprisingly well.
"Mmm, uh, well, yes, then. Victoria, shall we dance?"
