Light My Fire_Christian romantic suspense

by Susan May Warren

  Nate scrambled up as fast as Tucker and, shooting a glare at Stevie, picked up his hat and marched out.

  A few flannels followed, a couple more returned to their booth.

  The team picked up the chairs, mumbled apologies to Vic.

  Riley headed back to the blonde still sitting on the bar stool. Tucker saw her face clearly now—Larke Kingston, their hostess out at Sky King ranch. Clearly Riley had just achieved hero status by the way she reached for a napkin and touched it to the corner of his mouth.

  Tucker picked up a chair and slid it back in place, then returned to the bar. Vic had grabbed a broom, heading for a broken glass.

  “You okay?” he said to Stevie, who just stood there and watched.

  Slowly, she turned to him. Pale green eyes, a petite mouth, her sable hair down and framing her face. She stood maybe five foot three, and some Shakespearean quote rose and filled his mind. And though she be but little, she is fierce. Her gaze settled on him, took him in, dragging up his body and landing on his eyes.

  She was silent as she considered her answer.

  Then, “This isn’t your fight, hotshot.”

  He just stared at her as she turned and walked out of the bar.

  See, his instincts always got him in trouble.

  Stevie hadn’t come back to town to stir up old fires.

  She shoved her gun back into the shoulder holster, her hands shaking. That hadn’t gone at all how she’d hoped.

  And now she’d probably have to sleep in her truck. Because Vic certainly wouldn’t rent her one of her rooms over the Midnight Sun Saloon. Which happened to be the only no-reservation hotel in town. And she hadn’t a hope of finding a place at one of the local resorts in mid-July, the height of tourist season.

  As Stevie pushed her way out of the bar, sweat slicked down her back despite the sixty-five-degree semi-warmth of the early evening. The sun still hung above the mountains to the north and would for the next four hours, sinking just enough to shroud the valley in gray for three-plus hours, then rising with a fury around 4:00 a.m. The massive amounts of vitamin D acted like a shot of adrenaline, lighting a fire under the inhabitants of the town of Copper Mountain. As if they were sixteen again, fueled on what-ifs and I-cans.

  She loved the summer of the burning sky in Alaska. It made up for six months of darkness, cold, and despair.

  Except, well, she hadn’t been able to climb out of that darkness for the better part of three years now.

  She shouldn’t have gone in…and probably deserved Nate’s words in her ear. If you’re looking for forgiveness, just keep driving.

  Maybe. Because tonight’s fiasco seemed plenty enough trouble for one night.

  Stevie leaned against her truck, arms folded, staring at the faraway Denali mountain. Smoke still hung low, bearding the white-capped peaks. She’d seen the remnants of the fire all the way from Wasilla as she trekked up the George Parks Highway.

  She should have guessed she’d find firefighters or—given the emblem on the shirt of her “protector”—smokejumpers invading her hometown. With RV parks and lodges and visitor centers under the shadow of Denali, the park couldn’t afford to let a fire take out tourism.

  The BLM had probably called in a team from the Lower 48 to add a little muscle to the recent firestorm west of Denali. With fire season already accelerating, she had no doubt that the in-state team, the Midnight Sun Jumpers out of Fairbanks, might have their hands full.

  Yeah, she should have kept driving because the mix of out-of-town tough guys with smoke under their skin and the local off-duty deputies that hung around Vic’s could be incendiary. Not that the deputies let themselves off their tightly tethered leashes—not after being trained by her father. But even the most disciplined of law enforcement officers came to the aid of their fellow cops. At least the ones still on the force.

  Of all the bad timing…to have pulled up right ahead of Nate.

  The screen door to the Midnight Sun Saloon squealed, and she spotted her “hero” emerging from the saloon. Perfect. She should have simply nodded that she was just fine, thanks, and walked away.

  But something about the way he looked at her as she walked away…

  She closed her eyes. She could still feel it, those brown eyes, a deeply resonant gaze that found her bones, settled her, if only for a moment.

  Frankly, it scared her just a little. Enough for her to want to draw a line, give him a hard shove away from the tender soil of her heart. This isn’t your fight, hotshot.

  He hadn’t deserved that. Not at all.

  See, she was trouble, just like Vic had said. Trouble and heartache and frankly, she shouldn’t have volunteered to return to this backwoods town in hopes of…what? Redemption? Forgiveness?

  Restoration?

  No, it was too late for any of that. Where she went, destruction followed.

  The smokejumper wore his slightly curly dark brown hair cut short in back, long and tousled in front, as if he’d once sported a man bun and had cut it in rebellion. A grizzle of dark whiskers outlined his jaw, giving him just enough of a roughneck, dangerous-is-my-middle-name aura.

  Perfect. Just the type she should steer clear of.

  He carried a Styrofoam box in one grip, a sweatshirt jacket in the other. A tattoo banded his upper arm, what looked like a Celtic cross sneaked out from under his black T-shirt. He was lean and broad shouldered, his Gore-Tex pants were cinched at the hips with a webbing belt, and ash blackened his steel-toed boots. His easy gait suggested the kind of confidence that bespoke a man who knew how to handle himself.

  He’d certainly taken Nate down and kept him there without a blink.

  She’d expected him to walk past her, to one of the many trucks parked in the dirt lot.

  Instead, he walked right over to her, his gaze on her, as if pinning her there. And, for a second, it worked.

  “You didn’t get dinner,” he said and handed her the container.

  She stared at it.

  “Wings,” he said. “And Vic threw in a fresh container of blue cheese.”

  “You must not have told her it was for me.”

  “No, but it doesn’t matter. It is for you.”

  Really? How thick was this guy’s skin? “It’s your dinner.”

  “I’m not hungry anymore.” He offered a half-hitch smile. “Lost my appetite.”

  “Adrenaline rush. You will be later.”

  “Probably.” He shoved the container at her. Raised an eyebrow.

  “And the strings are—?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “Whatever you want them to be.”

  Oh. A piece of her past rose and for a second made her wonder just what her options were. Especially with the music twining out from the bar—someone had refired the juke box with the rambling tones of a country singer. Overhead, a blazing orange sun gilded the lush Denali mountainscape, and the fragrance of wildflowers, a hickory grill, and long summer nights hung in the air.

  She might not be that girl anymore, but she still didn’t have the fortitude to stop herself from taking the offering.

  From wanting this night to turn out better.

  She took the box around to the back of her pickup, pulled down the tailgate, and hopped on the back, setting the box on her lap.

  He stood there, hands shoved into his pockets.

  She gestured with her head to the empty place beside her, not sure just where she’d left her better sense. But maybe he deserved at least the tiniest of explanations.

  Even if she hadn’t needed his help. Really.

  Really.

  Her gaze deliberately stayed away from the corner of the parking lot where her lies lingered.

  The man slid onto the tailgate beside her.

  She turned to him. “So, what’s your name, hotshot?”

  He drew in a breath, but she chased the nickname with a smile.

  He returned it. “Tucker Newman.”

  “Nice to meet you, Tucker.” She opened the box of wings. “By the wa
y, thanks for whatever in there, but really, I had everything under control.”

  “Yep.”

  “Really.” She poked around and found the least messy piece. “Nate was just…”

  “Being a jerk. And the fight wasn’t about you, not really.”

  “Yeah, well, I have a little history here.” She took a bite. “Mmm, that’s good.” Sweet and biting, exactly how she remembered Vic’s wings. She might have emitted a tiny moan of delight, and a chuckle went through his body, a hum that pulled her gaze to him, almost involuntarily.

  He was grinning at her, something sweet in his expression. He had white teeth, a scar on his chin that dissected the layer of golden-brown whiskers, and if she read the other scars right, formerly gauged earlobes. A bad boy turned hero, then.

  Oh boy, she knew how to pick ’em.

  “Good shooting in there, by the way. It was starting to flash over.”

  She wanted to shrug, like no big deal, but frankly she hated guns. At least the kind that killed people. A necessary evil in her profession.

  “I don’t normally draw my weapon.”

  “Well, that’s good.”

  She liked him, the easy way he sat there, no judgment in his expression.

  “Actually, I hate fighting. Back in high school, I used to get into it, but…well, I learned that life is a little easier when you follow the rules.” He looked at her, then took a packet out of his pocket and handed it to her. A wet wipe. He winked. “You can wait until you’re finished.”

  He pointed to a tiny dribble of sauce on the side of her mouth.

  “I just… These are so amazingly good.” She licked the sauce from her mouth. “I used to eat wings with my dad every Friday night.” She didn’t know why she’d admitted that. Maybe because she could.

  After all, it wasn’t like he was sticking around, right? “So, where are you from?”

  “Northwestern Montana.” He leaned back on his hands, watching the horizon. “It’s pretty far north, but we still get night. I don’t think I could ever get used to the sun not going down. I think I get about four hours of sleep every night, at most. My body has this strange, sleep-deprived buzz, but I’m not tired.”

  “Sun sickness. You’ll get used to it, hotshot.”

  What? And now she was flirting with him? Had she not learned anything? Maybe Nate was right. She should have kept driving.

  He raised an eyebrow at the nickname. “Not a hotshot, by the way. I’m with the Jude County Smoke Jumpers. Hotshots are ground pounders. We jump out of the sky.”

  “Oh. I see, like Superman.”

  He grinned and waggled his eyebrows.

  She rolled her eyes.

  He laughed. “We got called in a few weeks ago to provide support for a fire west of here.”

  “Staying in town?”

  “No. We’re out at Sky King ranch. They have a landing strip for our jump plane, and Barry Kingston provided supply support for us.”

  “Nice spread,” she said. “They run adventure trips to Denali. Or used to. Kingston has three sons—triplets. But they all joined the military a few years ago. Followed in their sister’s footsteps. She joined the army right after high school.”

  “Larke. Yeah, she’s inside getting hit on by one of our smokejumpers.”

  Of course she was. Stevie knew Larke well…but good luck getting past those brothers of hers. She could almost feel sorry for his friend.

  Stevie finished off the wing, dropped it into the container. “Their mom died when Larke was a kid—cancer. She’s had to learn to survive in an all-male, frontier family. I sure hope your friend knows what he’s getting into. Lots of kindling for trouble there.”

  “Oh, Riley loves jumping into the middle of a fire. He’ll be fine.”

  “I’m sorry—I haven’t even introduced myself. Stevie Mills.” She held out her hand, then winced and pulled it back, reaching for the wipe packet.

  “Save it. Eat your wings.”

  He angled her a look, considered her. “Can I ask why Vic called you trouble?”

  She was wiping her fingers with the wet wipe. “It’s a long story.”

  He nodded then, and she had the bone-deep sense that it wasn’t just a platitude. “There are always two sides.”

  That made her reach deeper, take out a little more of the truth. “No one cares, really, about my side.”

  “I do,” he said softly.

  She really wanted to like him. Could see them becoming friends.

  Although, that’s what she’d said about Chad, too.

  “The story is short and not very sweet. I used to be a cop in this town. And I dated Nate’s brother, Chad.”

  Tucker had gone quiet, just his chest rising and falling.

  “One night, right here in this parking lot, Chad…” She swallowed. Found her voice. “Got out of line.”

  He glanced at her, and his jaw tightened.

  “There was a…an altercation with…someone who thought I might be in over my head.” She didn’t know how else to say it. Or rather, couldn’t put specifics to a night that had taken everything from her. “Chad was injured in the fight and, well, later…he died.”

  Now Tucker turned, his full gaze on her. “Oh my—”

  “Yeah, I know. I feel terrible—”

  “Wait.” He held up his hand. “Full stop, right there. A guy hears no, he stops. What happens if he doesn’t is on him, not you.” The growl in his voice, low and lethal, rumbled through her.

  Crazily, tears slicked her eyes. What? Then, “Yeah.” And she was horrified by the fracture in her voice.

  Get ahold of yourself, Stevie.

  He lifted his hand, as if to touch her, then must have thought better because he put it back in his lap. “I am right.”

  “Maybe. Except not everyone thinks like you do, and I got blamed. And…well, it only got worse from there.” And nope, she couldn’t tell him the rest.

  Still could hardly believe it herself.

  “So I left town and joined the Anchorage police department and became a federal marshal.”

  “You’re a US marshal?”

  She nodded at the hint of surprise in his voice. “I’m here to pick up a fugitive sitting in the Copper County Correctional Facility.”

  Tucker raised an eyebrow. “Okay, maybe you didn’t need my help.”

  She grinned. “But I was hungry.”

  He laughed and oh, if…well, what-ifs wouldn’t erase her regrets. Wouldn’t help her crawl out of her shame.

  Wouldn’t free her father from prison for involuntary manslaughter.

  Voices spilled out as a cadre of men emerged from the saloon. Tucker glanced over his shoulder. “Shoot. Those are my guys. And I’m their ride.” He pulled out a key and nodded to the passenger van adorned with the Sky King logo.

  He eased off the end of the tailgate. Stood in front of her, and for an unbridled moment, she had the strangest urge to reach out and pull him to herself. To sink into his arms…

  And that would be a hard No. Because yeah, he had a devastating smile. Eyes that unraveled her. And an aura about him that made her want to trust him.

  And oh, how she needed someone she could trust.

  But she didn’t have any room for more disaster in her life. And falling for a short-term hero only meant trouble and heartache for both of them.

  So maybe Vic was right.

  “Thanks, Tucker. Nice to meet you.” She held out her hand.

  He took it, his grip warm and strong and roughened by callouses and chips. But he clasped his other hand over hers. “You going to be okay?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Don’t worry about me.” He couldn’t fix anything, not really.

  “Okay. Stay out of trouble, Stevie.” He winked, then walked away, swinging his keys around his finger.

  She watched the team load up, all guys except for one gal, who glanced at Stevie. Interesting.

  Then the van pulled out and headed west, into the lingering sunset. And Stevie clo
sed her tailgate and climbed into her truck.

  She still needed to find someplace to sleep tonight.

  Two

  “The scout base is located here. About three miles south of the fire.”

  Tucker leaned over the massive terrain map spread out across the long, roughhewn table in the kitchen of Sky King ranch, listening as Barry Kingston drew an area on the map that encompassed the fire. Don Trotter from the BLM worked the same map on the other end of the phone set on speaker in the middle of the table.

  A massive window looked out toward Denali National Park, the glorious infamous peak rising into the clouds in the distant horizon. All blue sky, save for the tiniest chimney of new, black smoke in the distance, something so faint it could hardly be called a threat.

  Except, of course, to the handful of lodges and private homes along the outskirts of the park, not to mention, well, the Boy Scout camp.

  A bush pilot from a local wilderness guide service had caught the smoke early this morning. Tucker had no doubt, with the wind off the mountain and today’s low humidity, the fire was growing. But they still had time to get in and stomp it out before it grew into something inter-agency.

  He and his team could handle it.

  Tucker reached for his travel mug. A few other team members had trickled in to the makeshift headquarters. Not a bad place to convene, with the massive great room, overstuffed leather sofas, a log-top table brightly shined, a massive two-story river rock fireplace. Hand built in the 1950s from local Sitka spruce and Alaska pine, the place was a fortress carved out of the untamed wilderness surrounding it. A tiny lake edged the ranch to the west, surrounded beyond that by more mountains.

  A few cabins for guests hugged the eastern shore of the lake. To the west, a tiny homestead cabin sat in the shadow of a ridge that cordoned off the land to the south. A road wound along the property to the cabin, clearly an outbuilding that belonged to the ranch.

  The entire setup was remote, rugged, and quiet. So quiet that when Tucker got back last night, while the rest of the team hung out on the Kingston’s deck recounting the past few days, he’d retreated to the porch of his tiny rental cabin and simply listened to the wind in the trees, watched the moon struggle for presence in the tepid gray sky.