Brandon's Bride

by Alicia Scott

  "What happened?" Victoria asked. Brandon was leaning forward. He had yet to take a sip of his chocolate soda.

  "Well, all three young men pursued her. Flowers, picnics, sunset sonnets. The town spent the whole summer spinning rumors and living vicariously. Word got around that she was keen on one of the young men, but none of the three had the fortune her daddy required. Ashley Jacobs was a fragile young thing. Beautiful in that delicate sort of way, very sweet and totally governed by her parents. Frankly, the townspeople would've loved it if she would've eloped with the man of her dreams, but no one really expected her to have the courage.

  "Then one night in August—I'd have to pull the paper to know the exact date—Ashley Jacobs disappeared. And so did all three young men. At sunset, they were around. By morning, all four of them were gone."

  "And Bud Irving was one of those men," Brandon said. He could already guess who the other two men were, and he felt his stomach slowly sinking, leaving him shaky and hollow.

  "Yes, he was," Tom replied. "The other two were buddies from high school. I forget their names."

  Brandon looked away. What were you doing here, Max? What did you get yourself into? Who did you hurt?

  "But Bud did return," Victoria said. "Didn't he tell people what happened that night?"

  "Well, the sheriff—Sheriff Mulhaney back then—questioned Bud, of course. Bud was already not quite right in the head even then, so his answers weren't exactly clear. He implied that he'd seen Ashley that last evening. She showed up at the cabin the three of them were renting for the summer and told him she'd made her choice and he wasn't it.

  "At that point, Bud packed up and left. He said he figured it had to be one of his buddies and he didn't want to stick around and find out. Ashley's decision had been made."

  "And the sheriff believed this?" Brandon asked sharply.

  Tom shrugged. "I can't tell you what a man does or doesn't believe. Bud was never arrested. John Jacobs personally paid him a visit and offered him cash, but Bud's story didn't change. He's always said he knows nothing, and it's never been proved otherwise. The other two young men were eventually tracked down. They each gave the exact same story. Ashley found them that night, told them she'd chosen another, so they packed their bags and left. You would think one of them is lying, but Ashley was never found with any of them. Most folks favor Bud Irving as the lead candidate. They think he did something to Ashley Jacobs, and that's why he's no longer right in the head."

  "What do you think?" Brandon challenged. "Tell me what you think."

  Tom was quiet, his face composed.

  "There are those," he said at last, "who offer a different theory. Those who think the reason all three men tell the same story is because they were in it together. Maybe Ashley Jacobs did come to their cabin that night. Maybe she announced she wouldn't marry any of them because they were all too poor. And maybe they punished her for that. There are people who think Ashley Jacobs is still in Beaverville. And sometime when the river floods or when a hunter goes into virgin woods, we'll finally find her body."

  Tom leaned forward. He looked Brandon in the eye. "And do you know what John Jacobs does every year after the vigil? He goes to Bud Irving's house at midnight. He stands in front of the security cameras with a picture of his daughter lit by lanterns, and as the dogs bark and Bud fires warning shots, John demands his daughter's return. Forty years later, he prays for his daughter's safe return."

  * * *

  Brandon remained silent on the drive home, his mind churning with visions of the summer of 1959 and all the things that could've happened. Three friends fell in love with the same woman—a story as old as time. She was a rich heiress needing a wealthy suitor, and they were just starting out. She could've chosen one or none of them.

  Had Maximillian the Chameleon loved her? Was that why he carried her picture for so many years? By the end of 1959, Max was in England dating Brandon's mother. They married a year later, and Brandon was born a year after that. If Max had loved Ashley, he certainly hadn't wasted any time replacing her.

  Or maybe he'd married Caroline for her money, thinking he would get a divorce and use his settlement to romance Ashley. Or maybe his interest in Ashley had been purely financial to begin with, and Ashley had avoided the trap Caroline fell into.

  Or maybe Ashley was still alive and Max was still alive. Maybe it had been Ashley he'd loved all along, Ashley he'd been seeing on all those business trips, and his wives and children were a lie. He'd been supporting Ashley, who lived in secret, stockpiling money for them both from his marriages, and then when he had enough saved, he faked his own death to live with her forever.

  Or Al Simmons had disappeared to be with Ashley.

  Except why would rich, cultured Ashley Jacobs agree to be tucked away or hidden from her family? More likely Ashley Jacobs was dead.

  And Brandon's father might be the murderer.

  The muscle leapt in Brandon's jaw again. He wanted to run. Dammit, he needed to run, but he was afraid he'd reached a point where there was no place he could go to escape the demons. No speed fast enough to outrace the horrible thoughts searing into his brain.

  Hey, C.J., hey, Maggie. Guess what I learned about Dad?

  Victoria pulled into the driveway. Brandon jumped out of the truck.

  "I'm leaving," he announced. "I'll get a hotel room in town."

  "What?" Victoria slid down, completely bewildered.

  "You heard me." He stalked toward his cabin.

  "Oh, no, you don't, Ferringer! You don't announce something like that and then just walk away."

  "Don't worry, Victoria. I'll still pay rent."

  Her eyes flew open. Her breath hissed out in outrage, and she flew after him. "You stubborn SOB, if you think you can put me off that easily—"

  Brandon strode into his cabin, yanked out his duffel bag and ripped it open on the bed. "It's not open for discussion."

  He reached for the nearest shirt, and she slapped her hand around his wrist. He froze, looking at her clenched fingers for a long time. Then his gaze slowly lifted to her face. His blue eyes glittered dangerously. "My father might be a murderer."

  "That's his problem, not yours."

  "Let go of my hand."

  "Like hell! You just announced you were leaving, insulted me, then turned your back. No way, Ferringer. That doesn't work for me." She stepped closer.

  "I am doing what I think is best," he replied grimly. "Trust my judgment."

  "Ha! You're running, Ferringer. When things get intense, you bolt, plain and simple. Well, not this time."

  "I need to be closer to the hotshot base!"

  "Don't lie to me!" Her nose settled an inch from his. "I won't give up on you, Ferringer. I'm not going to turn away because of something your father did. And I won't let you do it, either. You are Brandon Ferringer and you are not responsible for your father or your mother or anyone else in this world. You are responsible for yourself, and you are a very fine man."

  "Dammit!" he said.

  She smiled, a slow, challenging smile, and pressed her body against his. "Tell me to go away," she murmured. "Tell me you don't care."

  The air heated up. He lost his train of thought. He felt her—solid, firm, loyal-to-the-core Victoria Meese. And she was right, he couldn't run from that, and maybe that's what scared him the most. He cared. He would fail, as his father had failed.

  "This is ridiculous," he muttered thickly.

  "Brandon Ferringer, you think too much."

  She kissed him, and the tension exploded. His arms went around her immediately. He crushed her against his body, tasting chocolate soda and need, fizzy cola and desire.

  Her fingers dug into his scalp, and her mouth opened greedily, devouring him. It was urgent and passionate and perfect—Victoria, Victoria, Victoria. Solid, real, capable Victoria.

  Victoria, who deserved so much more.

  "This is wrong," he muttered against her throat.

  "Shut up and kiss me."
>
  It wasn't enough. They grappled with clothing, ripped at buttons. With a single swipe, Brandon cleared the bed, sending his duffel bag toppling to the floor, then falling on the mattress. He shouldn't. He didn't care. He wanted her. He needed her. She grounded him, dammit. She made him whole.

  She climbed on top of him and grazed his chin with her teeth, her hands tugging at his button fly. He had his hands beneath her worn flannel shirt. He found the clasp of her bra, fumbled like an idiot and snapped it without grace. She gave up on his jeans, grabbed the hem of her shirt and pulled it over her head.

  Then his hands were on her bared breasts and she was sighing and he was sighing. She had beautiful breasts, high, firm with deep brown nipples. He touched them reverently, then fiercely, and she shifted on top of him.

  Her hands moved down. She found him through the denim, and they both gasped.

  He wanted to be inside her. He wanted to bury himself in her damp, female folds and watch her eyes darken into slate gray pools of desire.

  He wanted to lose himself in her. No more thoughts of Max and the sins of the fathers. With Victoria, he could simply be a man. Her man.

  "Please," she murmured. "Oh, Ferringer, please."

  He reached for the waist of her jeans, and the sound of the beeper cut through the air.

  They stilled. They looked at each other like two teenagers caught in the act, then glanced guiltily around the room for the intruder. Belatedly, Brandon realized it was coming from his waist. His hotshot beeper was going off.

  Victoria closed her eyes and emitted an unladylike groan. She rolled to the side while Brandon unclipped the black box and glanced at the number.

  "I have to call," he said quietly. "It could be a fire."

  "There is a fire," she said tartly. "Right here. And I want you to extinguish it!"

  She peered at him from beneath heavy-lidded eyes, wearing only blue jeans that followed every firm curve of her lithe, compact legs. His body was so damn hard he ought to burst at the seams.

  "Damn, bloody damn," he muttered. He pawed viciously through the clothes on the floor for his cell phone, and she raised a brow as she reached for her shirt.

  "Why, Ferringer, what happened to your British reserve?"

  "Damn, bloody…"

  His fingers finally latched onto the phone. Maybe it was just a drill. He'd call in, that would be that, and there would still be a chance to salvage things. How many times could two red-blooded people be interrupted by fire?

  He wanted. Dammit, he needed…

  He turned off the cell phone a minute later. "Fire." He swore succinctly. "Idaho. I have twenty minutes."

  Victoria shut her eyes. "That just figures."

  She sighed, and her expression was miserable. Brandon took a deep breath. He hated to see her like this. He hated to think he'd hurt her, because God knows he'd hurt too many women in his life. And he really was trying to learn, to do better, to become something more.

  He crossed to her and stood quietly. Her shirt was on but unbuttoned. He touched her throat with his fingertips, feathering her collarbone.

  "Would it be too shameless to request a quickie?" She smiled tremulously.

  "I don't want it to be a quickie, Victoria. I want it to be special." He sat on the edge of the bed.

  "I know. I … I know."

  He pulled her against his chest. After a moment, she wrapped her arms around his waist. He rocked her, inhaling the scent of her apple shampoo.

  "This isn't over yet," she whispered, her voice thick. "You're not just moving out when you return, you know. You're not doing that to me."

  "We'll talk about it."

  "No, we won't," she said and held him closer.

  "Victoria," he whispered, "sweet Victoria," and rocked her against him.

  Finally, he had no choice but to untangle her embrace and start to pack. She watched quietly. He could be gone as little as a few days and as long as three weeks. They wouldn't know until the fire decided the matter by giving up.

  He was done packing in a matter of minutes—the single-duffel-bag man.

  "Please be careful while I'm gone," he said. "I'm not sure the fire in the stables was accidental—"

  "Damp hay combusts."

  "And chain saws malfunction and trees fall, but I don't know if all three happen to one person in two weeks."

  "What are you saying, Brandon?"

  "My father may have been involved in some illegal activities, and I've been asking questions about them. Maybe someone doesn't want the past dug up. And maybe those accidents aren't accidents."

  She didn't flinch. "And that's why you think you have to leave."

  "I won't put you or Randy in danger."

  "With all due respect, Brandon, that's my choice to make."

  "Mention it to your father, will you?"

  She scowled, but wasn't so stubborn she couldn't see his point. "Fine, fine, fine. Consider it done."

  He nodded, more relieved than he could tell her. And then the moment grew awkward. His bag was packed. There was nothing more to say. This was it.

  He brushed his lips over hers. Once. Twice. Three times. Then he suddenly wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. "I hate to leave you," he whispered fiercely. "I do, Victoria, I do."

  She kissed him passionately, and they both pretended they didn't see the tears staining her cheeks.

  * * *

  No one could predict how he or she would handle anticipation. As rugged outdoorsmen, trained hotshots, they were all intimately familiar with adrenaline. They were the kind of people who did, while others thought. But in the hours before deployment, they sat in the small charter plane, homing in on their first fire of the year with nothing to do but wait.

  Woody, the veteran member of the crew, sat calmly, chewing gum and shuffling a deck of cards over and over again. Charlie Meese cracked jokes—lots of them, loudly. It was easy to believe he was the relaxed, confident thrill seeker until you looked at his hands. They were shaking.

  Beside Charlie, Barbara sat tightly, her knees pressed together, her shoulders hunched and her hands balled together on her lap. Her eyes had a tendency to dart back and forth. She was the only member of the crew who wouldn't be sent into the field—her ankle needed more time to heal, so she would observe from the command post—and it obviously bothered her.

  Hank, Allison and Jerry played dominoes and made small talk. This was their third year as hotshots. They didn't seem concerned.

  Brandon sat alone. His jaw was tight. Every now and then he would think to relax his muscles, and his ears would pop. This wasn't his first fire. He shouldn't be nervous.

  But he would gaze at his seventeen crewmates, feel the enormity of that responsibility and start grinding his teeth again. He wished Victoria was here.

  Four years ago, he hadn't been thinking when a bolt of lightning had struck a tree on the dry, brittle slope of Mount Washington and started a fire. He'd been hiking when the alarm had sounded, crews were deployed and volunteers requested. He'd been among the first to shuck his pack, pick up a Pulaski and listen to the crew boss's instructions. He'd worked a fire line with trained forestry personnel who managed the volunteers' efforts.

  It had been hot, he remembered. Well over a hundred degrees, and the sweat had cut tracks through the soot staining his cheeks. Black, powdery smoke rose up in mushroom plumes that obscured the sun.

  Then word had come down that Crew D couldn't be contacted by radio. They had been positioned to halt the fire by a natural stream, and the fire appeared to be picking up. Decisions were made. Fighting the fire took a back seat. Rescue of Crew D became the order of the day. Boss Hoggins rounded up his team, and they descended into the thick of it, fast and furious.

  Brandon and the other volunteers were left behind to continue their efforts. And then another call came in. A pair of hikers was still unaccounted for, last seen in the vicinity of the fire.

  Brandon hadn't thought. He'd picked up a hard hat, two water cant
eens and a first-aid kit, and he'd gone.

  The landscape had been surreal. He remembered rocky slopes so hot they steamed as the water dripped from his canteens. The ground was painted black, shrubs and grass annihilated, hundred-year-old trees reduced to macabre, blackened scarecrows that seemed to howl as he passed. A deer bounded by him, running from flames that had already caught him. Later, Brandon saw the deer standing by a sooty stream, drinking ravenously, the condition that preceded death. The hair had been seared from its body. In places, flaps of skin curled back, charred.

  The deer suffered, and Brandon had no gun to shoot it. He kept moving toward the fire as the air grew louder with the sounds of crackling twigs and roaring flames. He went into the fire, feeling his flesh beginning to bubble, and all he could think of was Julia and goddamn Max Ferringer, and how could anyone have taken his wife from him?

  And then he'd been so angry, he hadn't noticed the flames or the heat or the acrid smoke that stung his throat. He'd plunged ahead like a madman, sparks flying, burning branches falling, and he'd run, run through the furnace, looking for the hikers. He would find the hikers. He would take on Mother Nature and snatch the hikers from her grasp. He would save two anonymous hikers because he'd failed the woman he'd loved.

  He'd done it. He'd found the two hikers in the bewildering inferno and led them to camp. He'd tended their burns and given them water before passing out from smoke inhalation and exhaustion. It had taken three weeks to get his voice back. He'd assumed it was damage from the fumes. Later, Kyle, one of the teenagers, told him he'd come bursting out of the flames screaming Julia's name like a madman. That's how the teenagers had found him through the smoke. His rage had roared above the flames.

  The plane began to descend. For the first time, the hotshots could see the thick, black haze of the wildfire moving across southern Idaho.

  "Slow-moving creeper," Woody said, having been briefed. "Good warm-up fire."

  Everyone exchanged glances.

  Brandon was thinking of that deer again, that poor burned deer so desperately thirsty.