But at the moment, he still needed them to see him as an authority figure. Rand stood up. “Forest fires are increasing all over our country, guys. Civil authorities don’t take these fires lightly anymore. Because more and more houses are being built close to forests, a fire can endanger homes and people. When a fire starts, it’s like a living being who is very mad. It wants to wreak havoc. Firefighters risk their lives to contain these fires.”
“Like you did for us,” Chris said.
“I did.”
Rand held Chris’s eyes for a long moment and Rand finally glimpsed what he’d hoped to establish with Chris when he’d asked the boy to fall into his arms: trust.
As imperious as Rand must have seemed to Chris, the boy still had faith in him. Rand would cling to that.
“So you know, Chris, Eli—I’m following orders with this interview. I have to obey my superiors and they report to the county commissioners. But I will promise you this. Because I know you love each other, and you didn’t mean any harm, I will do all I can to explain the circumstances to the city and the county. There may be restitution you will have to pay. Counseling or community service. But I’ll plead your case. I’ll do what I can. The rest is out of my hands.”
Chris had held his breath until he finally said, “Fine. Can we go?”
Rand waited for a long moment, thinking he would get an apology or even a thank-you, but he didn’t receive either. “I think that would be best,” Rand agreed.
Chris swooped out of his chair, grabbed Eli’s hand and urged him away from Beatrice. “C’mon. We’ll miss badminton.”
The boys left.
Beatrice watched them leave and then turned back toward Rand.
“You got what you came for.”
“I did.” He swallowed, wondering how she managed to do that—put Loctite under his boot soles so that he couldn’t move.
“Thank you for going to bat for the boys.” She paused. “What about me? What are the consequences of your report for me?”
He didn’t mean to frighten her, but she should be aware. Based on his report, she could be found negligent. The county could cut her funding for the foster kids. And there was no predicting what the very overloaded child protective department would do.
He knew she was running on a thin financial cord. The loss of the foster kids could break it.
He wanted to quell her fears, but he knew it was impossible. He was the messenger pulling the alarm. It was his job.
“I can’t say,” he responded finally. “But the report will mostly focus on Chris and Eli. Those boys need guidance. They have to understand that there are consequences to all behaviors.”
“They need love, Rand. Bushels and bushels of it. I don’t know if anyone has a heart big enough to give the kind of love that would fill the empty space that Chris has.”
“You do,” he said aloud. And he meant it.
Her blue eyes misted, her face softened and a radiance from some deep part of her soul shone through her face. Beatrice was all heart. Nothing but heart.
He’d never met anyone like her.
And something told him, he never would again.
CHAPTER NINE
“YOU WANT A cup of coffee?” Beatrice asked. She had to do something. Say something. Standing here with Rand’s eyes locked on her face didn’t make her nervous in the least. It was just the opposite. She felt comfortable and secure, and that was the most frightening feeling of all.
He was the guy who could close her camp down, send the boys to juvenile hall, cite her for negligence, cause her to lose everything. But there was something about Rand that encouraged her to trust him, and heaven help her, she wanted to know what it was.
She told herself that the fact that Rand was attractive had nothing to do with it.
She saw a dichotomy in him, and she wanted to discover who the real Rand was. The official who was just doing his job, or the near-fantasy hero who carried her through a flaming forest?
No. Rand was real. Heart-poundingly real.
“Yeah, sure,” he said.
Using the crutches, she managed to hop to the kitchen. He followed. At this time in the afternoon, the place was empty.
“Wow. Great kitchen. And an old Wolfe gas stove. I could go crazy in this place,” he said.
“You cook?”
“A hobby. Grill, roast, smoke and steam.” He grinned. “But I’m pretty good at it, so my family and friends tell me.”
“That’s great.”
She leaned the crutches on the counter and went to the pantry to withdraw coffee. “You want cream or sugar? Sweetener? Milk? I have everything.”
“I’m easy. Just black.”
As she put filtered water from a jug into a kettle to boil and pulled out a French press she said, “Do you really like it black or is that because you’re always in a hurry?”
She glanced over her shoulder for his reply and was glad she did. He grinned at her and cocked his head.
“How did you know?”
“I’m betting you really like it with frothed milk, cream maybe, and...hmm. Raw sugar is my guess. The big-granule, brown kind.”
“I do. What are you, psychic?”
“No. But since you like to cook, you couldn’t possibly be a splash-and-go kinda guy. You’re different.”
“I am? I mean, I am.” He chuckled. He pointed to her ankle and the air boot. “Hey, I should be doing all this. You should rest.”
“Don’t be silly. I know where everything is and you don’t.”
“I could learn,” he answered quickly.
Beatrice stopped midmotion. Did he mean that? Why would he want to learn about her kitchen?
He got up and went to the windowsill over the sink, where a long, narrow pharmacy box sat. “This for your burns?”
“Yes,” she said, scooping espresso into the carafe. Then she took out organic milk from the refrigerator and placed it in front of him. He watched as she hobbled around the room using the island counter for support rather than the crutches.
“Have you treated your burns today?” he asked accusatorily.
“Not since dawn. I’ve been busy.” She reached for a box of raw sugar.
“Here, then. Let me,” he replied and walked over to her. He took out the tube and unscrewed the top. “Give me your arm.”
“I’m making your coffee,” she argued.
“Stop taking care of the world and let me do this for you.” He took the spoon from her fingers, and she felt that same warmth and comfort she’d felt before from him. He lingered over her fingers, as if inspecting them for more burns. Or was he still gathering information? Judging from the slight upward curve to his lips, he liked what he found.
“You admiring my hand?”
“You have a piano player’s hands—long and tapered. And they’re soft. I didn’t expect that, since you’re the camp’s, well, handyman and all-around fixer of things.” He chuckled.
“Well, you’re right about that. I’m the only one to do simple repairs, and there’s always something.”
He held her forearm in his large hand. “Do you scar easily?” he asked as he smeared the ointment on her arm, taking his time.
“Do you think the burns will scar?” She looked at her arm. It was peppered with blisters. The blond hairs on her arm were singed and some appeared to have melted away. She wondered if they would grow back. Maybe not. Another reminder of the change in her world since the fire.
“Hard to say. What about those on the back of your neck?”
“I couldn’t get to them.”
“Turn around,” he ordered.
Rather than argue, she turned and lifted the stray tendrils that had fallen out of her ponytail band. She’d worn cheap gold hoops in her ears. Her only concession to fashion during camp days.
His
fingers were large, but when he touched her, the pressure was no more than a feather against her skin. She shivered.
“You okay?”
Not really. No. “Yeah.”
“Not used to being touched, are you?”
“Not since I was a kid, really.”
“Why’s that?”
“My dad was the one in my family who was big on physical affection.”
“Lucky you. My dad was rigid. The opposite of my mom. But I loved him.”
“Yeah. I loved my Dad, too. When I was very little on cold winter nights we’d sit by the fireplace and he’d brush my hair dry after my bath.”
“Your mom didn’t do that?”
“No. She was too busy brushing her own hair. Or trying on clothes or practicing lines for another audition.”
“She’s an actress?”
“Yes. Fortunately, right now, she’s employed. She’s in LA. She’s got a soap.”
“That’s good, right?”
“Very good. She’s occupied. Not broke or calling me for a loan.”
“Hmm. I can see that would be difficult.”
He smoothed more ointment on yet another burn. This time, it smarted. “Ow!”
“I’m so sorry!” he said.
“It’s okay.”
She pressed her fingers near the edge of the burn and laughed. “I always tell the kids that a kiss makes things better. Maybe not in this case.”
“I can give it a try...”
The next thing she knew, his lips, which were full, soft and warm, were pressed against the back of her neck. It was a purposeful and reverent kiss. Her body relaxed, her boot slipped ever so slightly and she leaned against his rock-hard chest. His right arm slipped down to her waist to steady her, but it didn’t leave. His fingers gripped her as if holding her to the spot, keeping her close to him.
Through her back, she could feel his heart thrumming, then pounding as if he’d started to run, but he was as bolted to the floor as she was. She wouldn’t move if her life depended on it.
Beatrice didn’t dare question what was happening to her because she wanted it to happen. Not being attracted to Rand was almost out of the question. She didn’t know him, but through some sacred passage in her heart, she believed she knew just what kind of man he was.
He was a protector, a hero.
The same qualities that had gotten her father killed.
She started to pull away.
“Did that help? Is it better?”
“The doctor said this ointment would do the trick,” she answered, turning slowly around.
He didn’t move his hand from her waist. And when she gazed up into his brown eyes, she could see that he was shaken.
She’d expected lightheartedness. Flirting, maybe. But not this emotional questioning she saw in his eyes. He was looking at her as if she’d changed somehow.
“My mother said love heals all wounds.”
She sighed. “I wish that it did.”
He looked as if she’d slapped him. Maybe that had been her point.
“Well, you said you loved your father.”
“I did. But he was an adventurous man. He took a lot of risks in his career as a Chicago police detective. And that’s why he was shot and killed in the line of duty.”
“I see.”
Coffee aroma filled the kitchen. “Coffee’s done,” she said. She poured them each a huge mug of coffee and plenty of milk and foam.
“Let’s sit here,” Rand said, pointing to two garage-sale, mismatched stools at the counter. “Tell me more about him, won’t you?”
“Is this part of investigating me?”
“Yes, actually. The more I know, the better I can make my assessments.”
“I understand. I think.”
She sipped the strong coffee slowly, wondering if it was wise to tell him anything more about her background. Sure, her friends in Indian Lake knew it. Mrs. Beabots certainly knew about her father’s tragic death and why she bought the old camp. If Rand wanted to find out her life history, it wouldn’t take long. Why not tell him now? Besides, she was enjoying talking to him.
“I wasn’t always sentimental. After my father died, everything in my life changed. I thought we’d been such a close family, but then when he was gone, I realized it was a fantasy. My father and I had had each other. But my mother was, and is, very self-centered. I’m not sure she ever really loved my father. I think he knew it, too. That’s why I became so important to him. But—” she looked down into her coffee “—even that wasn’t real. I wasn’t as important as his police work. He chose that life-and-death life over his family—”
“That’s not fair,” Rand interrupted.
“Sure it is. When you’re a kid abandoned by your parents, it’s utterly fair,” she said caustically. “Jenny—that’s my mother—had to struggle to support us. She blamed my dad’s dangerous job for all our bad times and her bad breaks. I just blamed him for leaving me with someone who didn’t want to be a single parent. Or a parent at all.”
“Even when I was little, my mother often said she was afraid every time my father went to work. She was terrified he’d be killed. She obsessed about it. She warned me that loving a man who chooses danger over his family is a torturous way to live.”
Rand gripped his mug and drank. He peered at her over the rim. Watching. Assessing.
She knew he’d already drawn the conclusion, but she pressed on. She needed to make her point. “That’s why I vowed never to get involved with a man who worked in a dangerous job.”
“Like cops...and firemen?”
“Exactly like cops and firemen.” His handsome face was heartbreakingly compassionate at that moment, but she’d struck him down again.
“Listen, Beatrice. I’m a highly trained and skilled firefighter and smoke jumper. I’m certainly more careful going into a fire than you were. I know what I’m doing. Seriously.”
“It’s still dangerous. You’re not an accountant who sits in an office behind a computer all day. You risk your life for others!”
“I certainly do,” he replied proudly.
This had to stop. With each moment she spent with Rand, their attraction grew. No. It was more than that. Her heart was opening to him, and she couldn’t let that continue.
She had to make certain he got the message loud and clear.
“There’s one other part of my past you should know.”
“Do I want to know it?”
She lifted her chin, struggling to find strength. “I was engaged several years ago. He was a nice guy. Then he suddenly decided to switch from forensic work to become a police detective.”
“Just like good old dad.”
“Just like. Yeah.”
“And you broke off the engagement?”
“I did.”
Rand didn’t respond. His face was granite. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking; he must have learned long ago how to mask his emotions when necessary. But then, he was conducting an official interview.
That’s what he’d said. But that kiss hadn’t been part of his on-the-job duties. How much of this had been for the investigation? And how much was just for Rand?
Slowly, he put down his mug. His smile was faint and polite. “That was very good coffee,” he said politely. “Thank you. I should be going now.”
A part of Beatrice wanted him to know more of her past. To be convinced that as the daughter of a cop, she would never do anything illegal or jeopardize her camp or the kids in it. And she would also never consider a relationship with a man who’d chosen a dangerous career.
But another part of her grew queasy with uncertainty, as if warning her that she’d made the wrong decision.
He turned and walked out of the kitchen.
Beatrice didn’t say goodbye.
&nbs
p; He closed the door quietly, leaving the room filled with silence.
CHAPTER TEN
BEATRICE SLID HER palm down her flushed cheek and circled her fingers around to the place on her neck where Rand had pressed his lips. The moment had frozen into a memory she suspected she would revisit often.
She found herself spinning on a carousel of attraction and mistrust. Hesitation and excitement. Sure, she was injured and was dependent on others for help. But that would end. She would heal.
But the real jolt to her life had come from Rand. He was a conundrum to her. He dropped his gruff and bureaucratic attitude when he was with her.
At first she’d assumed he might not have been comfortable with kids. But when Eli broke down and told the truth, Rand’s face had softened. His dark eyes had shimmered as if Eli had uncovered something emotional in Rand’s past that connected him to little Eli.
Then again, it might have been her imagination.
What she was not imagining was the danger in his career. He’d certainly put his life on the line for her, Eli and Chris.
What was there about danger that drew men like Rand? Like her father? Was it an adrenaline high, similar to the kick an addict gets from his drugs? Was it a need to prove themselves mightier than the fire? Or the bullet?
Or did it come from their drive to protect? Rand was strong in body and will. He would persevere through just about any peril to fulfill his responsibilities. Perceived or real.
No, men like Rand were as lethal to her as poison. She’d done the right thing to step back. Way. Way. Back.
She hobbled to the window and looked out at the scorched forest and the skeletons of pine that had been full, lush and green only two days ago. Life was like that. One minute everything in one’s world was verdant and thriving. People were employed and children were cared for. Then, in the flash of a lightning strike, a twist of fate—she looked down at the boot on her foot—altered everything. Sometimes irrevocably changed someone’s life, like when her father had been shot and killed.
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