“Thought I’d show you the tree section.”
I cozied beside him and tucked our entwined hands into the pocket of my coat. “What’s the tree section?”
“It’s what locals in Casper call this older subdivision because the streets are lined with trees.”
A canopy of aspens arched their snow-covered limbs toward the sidewalk. Lacey patterns of frost covered the trunks. The white ice crystals, which scattered across the trunks, caught light from the city street lamps and made it look as though the trees had been dusted with diamonds.
“Hoarfrost,” he said.
“The tree trunks?” I asked, nodding toward the brilliant display.
“No, the limbs.”
“What?”
“Hoarfrost. It’s an awful name, but it refers to the frost that makes the trees look old and aged. If you stand back”—he stopped us—“and look at the frost on the tree limbs, it looks like white hair.”
Suddenly, the sidewalks looked as if they were guarded by a sentinel of old men.
“Ahhh … I love that.”
A satisfied smile crossed his face before we resumed walking.
“I bet you were a good reporter,” I said and my breath hung in the air.
“Why would you say that?”
“Because you’re a great storyteller.”
Our fingers unfurled and Joe gently pulled my gloved hand to his face and kissed the top of my mitten. “Thank you.”
His small gesture was romantic as hell. I had to lock my jaw to keep it from dropping open. When I did speak, my voice was soft. “You’re welcome, but my compliment is true. Your story about the woman with the stroller. I could visualize it, but more than that, I could feel the moment.”
Another sharp gust of wind blew through us. My scarf protected me, but Joe tucked his chin into the collar of his peacoat.
“Maybe if I had written with that level of emotion, I wouldn’t have been bumped to editor.”
“Bumped to editor?” My raised voice revealed my shock. “Editor is a promotion.”
“For some. But it keeps me stuck behind a desk.”
“Oh.” My voice dropped octaves. “I never thought of it like that.”
“It’s fine. I run the newsroom and the features department. I traded one beat for two new ones. So it’s not bad. The hours suck, but … ”
“That’s the life of a newspaperman?”
“Exactly.”
I shrugged. “There’s always some trade-off, isn’t there?”
He glanced at me. “How do you mean?”
“Well, to do the thing you love, usually something has to give.”
“What was the ‘give’ for you?”
“Besides my marriage?”
Joe took a startled step forward. “That’s not why your marriage ended, is it?”
I shook my head. “No, but it didn’t help that I was always on my laptop or when I wasn’t writing, I talked about writing.”
“How is that a bad thing? You’re a reporter.”
“I prefer ‘journalist,’” I said and elbowed him. “My degree is in journalism, not reporting.”
“Yeah, I can see why your marriage ended.”
This time I jabbed him a little harder with my elbow. “Ha, ha, ha.”
“You’re probably the type who corrects someone’s grammar, too.” Joe laughed.
“Maybe.” I kicked snow that had collected on the side of the pathway.
“Oh, no! You do!”
I could feel my cheeks tinge with heat. “Well, you correct people’s grammar for a living.”
“Sure, one’s a job, but the other is just … ”
“Annoying?” I asked.
Joe stopped and again reached for my hand. He placed it on the breast pocket of his jacket. “No, it’s cute.” He squeezed my hand. “So what if I told you I want you bad?”
I smiled tightly.
“Janey … ” His voice was playful. “I want you bad.”
I tried to pull my hand away, but his grip was strong. I teasingly thumped our hands against his chest. “If you said, ‘You want me bad,’” I exhaled through my nose, “I’d say, ‘Well, if you wanted me badly, you may have had me.” I burst out laughing. “Ha. Get it? Badly, had me. It rhymes! And it’s grammatically correct.”
With our hands sealed together, Joe used his other hand to reach around my waist and draw me even closer to him.
Each time, his sudden moves made my breath catch. He’s so manly.
“Nope, I want you bad,” he said.
My whole body stirred with excitement.
He leaned toward me and soft, warm, tender lips finally sealed around mine and held me in a tantalizing kiss. My chest fluttered and my knees weakened.
Our mouths opened and gently explored each other as snow flittered through the air. Heat rose between us as our bodies responded, asking for more.
“Dad!”
The voice sounded far off, like in a dream, until Joe slowly pulled away. “I think that’s Sam.”
“Dad!”
I turned toward the sound. Sam was a few hundred yards behind us with his hands cupped around his mouth.
“He didn’t have any more divinity, did he?” I asked.
“Are you alright?” Joe yelled.
Sam nodded. “It’s the newspaper,” he shouted. “They called on the house phone. There’s a fire on the mountain.”
For a moment, our eyes connected. I had just been handed both a chance to slow this down and to grab what I wanted next for my career.
“I swear,” I said, knowing full well Joe recognized the irony of the situation despite our deadpan expressions. “I didn’t set the fire.”
Chapter 11
“What do you mean I can’t go?” I didn’t even try to temper my tone.
“Janey, there’s a fire on the mountain.” Joe opened a drawer in the kitchen and grabbed a reporter’s notebook and pencil. The elongated pad fit snugly in his hand. I wanted to snatch it from him and run to my car, but I honestly wasn’t sure which back road led to Casper Mountain. And in Wyoming, the locals always knew the way. It may not be a direct route, but it was always the better route.
“And Paul told me it’s highly unpredictable which way the fire will turn. The wind and weather conditions are wreaking havoc for the fire crews. He already sent Kelly and a photographer to the scene; I’m not sure we need more bodies up there.” He put the pencil behind his ear and tucked the notebook in the front pocket of his peacoat. “Where’s my beanie?” He headed toward the front room.
I quickly stole a glance at Sam and lowered my voice. “Who’s Paul?”
“Night editor.”
I nodded and found Joe pulling a wool cap over his head.
“I could help,” I said. “Kelly’s a good columnist, but I’m a reporter.”
A wry grin settled on his face. “And here I thought you were a journalist.”
“I am a journalist and that’s exactly what the paper needs right now at this fire.”
Joe’s lips flattened into a thin line. I didn’t know his facial expressions well enough to know his tell, but my gut signaled that he was somewhere between allowing me to go and sidelining me.
I held up my hands in a mock surrender. “While I’m grateful for the work I’ve been assigned, features are not what I’m trained to do. You’ve read my past clippings. I’m good in the field. I can handle it. I worked in L.A. before this. Putting out fires is what I’m used to. I’m the best reporter you’ve got under pressure.”
Joe slowly rubbed his stubbled chin. “You’ve got to promise you’ll stay with me,” he said.
My stomach stirred with excitement.
“You don’t know the mountain or the terrain.”
This was the career turning point I’d been waiting to seize.
“Janey?”
“Got it. Stay by you. Are my jeans dry?”
Joe’s blue eyes took on a skeptical stare.
“Look, I’m not
going up there in sweats. I realize this is Casper Mountain and not Rodeo Drive, but I want to look professional,” I said. “I’m representing the paper.”
“Understood.,” he said. The subtle shift in his voice made me stop and focus on what he was saying. “Janey, you can’t go rogue on me and get caught in a dangerous situation. You have to stay at the media access point and work from there.”
“Joe, I’ll follow your lead,” I said, my voice growing in strength. “But I’m not a novice at this.”
He offered a tentative nod. “Your jeans are in the guest room.” He then looked over my head toward his son. “Sam, I could call your mom or … ”
“Dad, I’m sixteen. I can stay home alone.”
As I rushed toward the back bedroom, I heard Joe’s parental side surface.
“Keep your cell phone by you and listen for the house phone. If they lose control of the fire, they may evacuate. The fire could knock down a cell tower, so make sure the landline is charged.”
I shut the bedroom door, slipped off Joe’s sweats, and slid on my jeans. They hugged my body in all the right places. I grabbed my other sweater, a long, wool, cream-colored cable-knit that could practically double as a dress. But its shape fell perfectly against my jeans and made me look taller than I was at five feet five inches. I pulled my hair into a messy ponytail, which didn’t require a lot of effort since my untamed mane had dried into a jumble of curls.
I dug through my makeup bag and dabbed concealer under my eyes to erase mascara streaks and brushed powder across my face to tone down my reddened, wind-chafed cheeks. I was about to touch up my eyes when Joe hollered.
“Janey, let’s hit it!”
I took a quick glance in the full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door. Not bad. I grabbed a pen out of my purse and put my cell phone in my back jeans pocket. When I opened the door, Joe was waiting for me. He handed me a reporter’s notebook.
“What are you going to use?”
“I’ve got a drawer full of them. Do you have a pencil?”
I rolled my eyes. “No, but I have a pen.”
“You might want to rethink that and grab a pencil.”
For a moment I hesitated.
“The temperature on the mountain is ten to fifteen degrees lower than in town—and that all depends on where you’re standing,” he said without a hint of a joke to his voice. “Ink stops working, but lead will never fail you.”
“Oh.” The gravity of the unknown hit me squarely in the stomach. What am I getting into? “Do I have enough clothes on?”
A hearty laugh erupted from his throat. “Well, compared to your bath—yes. For the mountain, it’s hard to say. I’ve got bib overalls in the trunk that you can always pull on if you need an extra layer.”
“The fire’s gonna be out by the time you guys get there,” Sam said, with the television remote in one hand and a bowl of popcorn in the other.
Joe palmed my shoulder like a basketball. “Ready for your first big assignment?”
I grinned. “Can’t wait.”
Chapter 12
Heat bounced off pines and spiked the temperature on Casper Mountain. The media access point was a tight, blocked-off area we hiked to from the makeshift parking lot the fire crews set up on the mountain. Even from the safe distance of the cordoned media point, the fire seemed to burn up the air.
“It’s suffocating,” I said under my breath.
“Write that down. I want readers to get a feel of this fire,” Joe said and pointed toward the fire battalion chief. “Charlie Gambino. He’s a good guy but—”
“Don’t ask stupid questions.” Her blonde mane and raspy, Demi Moore-like voice made an appearance before her lanky frame came into view and saddled up beside Joe. “Hey, boss.”
Kelly Coulter. Her newspaper column picture didn’t do her justice. She was actually blonder, thinner, and her eyes a more radiant shade of blue. They focused with laser sharpness when she cocked her head toward me.
“Who’s the new girl?” she asked.
“I’m Janey. We share the features page,” I said in my best attempt at humor, only my throat was dry so my voice sounded flat and dull.
“Janey?” A quizzical look crossed her steely blue eyes. “Oh, you’re Janey Miller? You don’t look anything like your photo.”
That’s what every girl wants to hear. “Yeah, it’s five years old. And actually, it’s Turner now. Janey Turner.” I could’ve said I was Tina Turner for the response it elicited in Little Miss Sunshine, who clearly showed no interest. I get it. I’m on her beat; I’d be territorial, too.
“Uh-huh.” Her position next to Joe didn’t give either of them much space to move, let alone breathe. She situated herself so I couldn’t see his face or reaction. “What’s she doing here?” she asked. “I thought she lived in some Godforsaken place like Star Valley, or something.”
Does she actually think because she turned her back to me that I can’t hear her?
“She lives in Jackson Hole, and I invited Janey to join Sam and me for Thanksgiving.” Joe smiled toward me before Kelly quickly tilted her mane, again blocking my view.
What the hell?
“So did you think I’d need backup for this fire?” She wagged her finger back and forth like she was schooling Joe. She coyly looked at me over his shoulder and smiled. “Joey, you know I can handle the coverage—alone.” I felt my stomach drop. Please don’t play favorites, and if you do, pick me.
Joe took a step away from Goldilocks. “Team coverage is crucial to any fire. I’m grateful Janey was in town to join us.” He looked at me. “Her beat in Jackson gets pretty quiet, but her reporting skills are solid.”
Joe kept looking at me until I smiled.
“Okay,” he said. “Janey, Chief Gambino is going to hold a press conference at the top of the hour, which isn’t far from now.”
I pulled out my notepad and started taking notes.
“I’d like you to cover the press conference and then talk to the chief. Find out what he’s not telling the other news outlets.” Joe turned toward his conjoined twin. “Kelly, I’d like you to talk to the locals. Find out which families were affected. If there’s an investigator on the scene, locate him or her and—”
I cut him off. “Investigator? Joe, shouldn’t I be covering that along with Chief Gambino?” I rapidly tapped my pencil on my pad. “I’m sure he’ll be making an announcement in his press conference. I could follow up, and that would leave Kelly more time to canvas the neighborhoods.”
“That’s kind of you to offer, but while you’re scribbling down what the chief says, I’ll be working the backstory,” Kelly said with a flip of her hair and a wave of her smartphone. “You don’t know this mountain or the locals the way I do.”
Joe slowly nodded. “I’ve got to go with Kelly on this one. She has a local connection to how this fire is impacting the community and who it involves. She’ll spot the investigator before the chief even points him or her out, by the mere fact that Kelly was born and raised in Casper.”
“No problem,” I said through a clenched jaw. “I’ll work the front line and let Kelly work behind me.” I flashed a grin her way. Two can play this game.
She may have been a triple threat—tall, blonde, and blue-eyed—but she was one threat I wasn’t willing to let steal my byline.
Suddenly, a crack made me look up. We all did. Fire stretched high into the night sky from the tips of pines ablaze in flame. If the fire didn’t consume the mountain, the melting snowpack would. The forest was in danger, and it was closing in on the mountain community.
My petty emotions paled to what these families were experiencing. It was Thanksgiving—a time to be grateful, the season of giving. I saw families evacuating their homes with nothing more than the clothes on their backs and frightened looks on their faces.
“Joe, I’ll go wait for the chief’s press conference and report back to you. Where will that be?” The sincerity in my voice was palpable.
&nb
sp; “Go to my truck. I’ll have my laptop ready for you to start filing copy. We may not have an Internet connection, but you can begin writing,” he said.
“Got it.” I headed toward the top of the media access area.
“Janey.”
I turned.
Joe’s sky-blue eyes framed his face and held me. “Be careful.”
Chapter 13
In Wyoming, the period of time between seasons is often referred to as a “tweener.” As I witnessed the ease between Joe and Kelly as they worked together and their conversation, which was a shorthand all its own, I, too, felt somewhere in between. Do we have that kind of connection? I was in a tweener of emotions that was absolutely awful.
I stood behind the flashing orange and white barricade that was about twenty feet away from them. The barrier had been set up to keep reporters at a safe distance from the fire. The fire had less chance of burning me than their interaction. It ignited a feeling I hadn’t expected: envy. It wasn’t just that she was getting time with him, it was that she seemed to get him. She spoke Joe’s language, and I wasn’t fluent.
I turned my attention to the pending press conference. I wasn’t about to leave my post to go sidle up beside Joe and stake my claim, though the thought had crossed my mind. I had a coveted spot at the front of the crowd with a growing sea of reporters behind me. I rubbed my forearm, but it didn’t stop the penetrating heat that radiated from the fire and felt as though it were burning through my sweater. My heavy wool coat was in Joe’s truck, and I was beginning to wish I had left my sweater there, too.
Charlie Gambino was a stout man with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. With the fire as his backlight, his dark brown eyes and hardened stare cast a foreboding that I couldn’t even begin to craft into words.
Pine trees looked like lit matchsticks against the hazy western sky. Combined with the silhouette of the chief against the flaming backdrop, it had a real Gone with the Wind, Atlanta-burning-to-the-ground feel. I knew I was looking at the lead to my story. I leaned toward Alan, the photographer Joe had assigned to me, and whispered, “I think that’s our cover shot.”
He nodded and moved into position.
Tidings of Love Page 27
