by Jeannie Watt
Nothing happened.
Okay… Then it hit her. The kids must be home alone and had been told not to answer the door. It made perfect sense. Callie set the baseball on the weathered porch boards and headed back to her own house.
Maybe she could do a piece on latchkey kids….
NATHAN MOUNTED THE road bike and expertly locked his shoe cleats into the clipless pedals, then started down the road leading out of town. It had not been a good day, with deadlines stacking up like cordwood and a phone call from the big boss, Vince Michaels, insisting that Nathan put Vince’s high-school-aged son, Mitch, to work again. Mitch had worked as an intern the previous semester and had been about as useless as a screen door on a submarine. Then to complicate matters, Nathan found out Mitch had been harassing Katie, the part-time billing clerk, with sexual innuendos. Nathan had put a quick stop to that and had called Vince, who hadn’t taken the matter seriously until Nathan mentioned the potential for a harassment suit. Then he’d taken notice. Mitch had sulked and stayed away from Katie, but he’d continued to be as useless as ever.
Nathan didn’t need Mitch hanging around again, doing nothing and upsetting the people who were actually working, but he had him. Another Vince-related headache. Nathan had a lot of autonomy working at the Star, but there were areas where the boss needed to back off and keep his fingers out of the pie.
Nathan geared down as he approached the first big hill, and the tension on the pedals eased as revolutions per minute increased, allowing him to maintain speed as he climbed. The first time he’d ridden after getting out of the hospital, he’d gone all of a mile. His good leg had had to do the work; his injured leg had been along for the ride, the foot locked onto the pedal by the cleat mechanism in his shoe, the leg doing little more than bobbing up and down as the pedals turned. But as time passed, the remaining muscles in that leg started doing their job, and now he rode fifteen to twenty miles a night, sometimes thirty, depending on how late he left the office and how stressed he was. Despite the deadlines, he’d managed to get out relatively early tonight, before seven o’clock, anyway, because Chip had turned in two decent articles, proofread and well written for once.
It was twilight by the time Nathan had completed the loop around the edge of town, dipping down near the river, then back through the older section of town, where he lived. When he rounded the last corner before his house he saw his younger brother, Seth, backing out of the driveway. Seth caught sight of him and pulled the truck forward again.
“Good ride?” he asked, getting out. He had on his wilderness clothes—a light green microfiber shirt, khaki pants, hiking boots. His hat was jammed in his back pocket instead of on his close-cropped, dark blond hair. Out to commune with nature, no doubt. Or to rescue someone. He was driving the official beaten-to-death truck with the SAR—Search and Rescue—insignia on the door.
“Every ride’s a good ride,” Nathan answered, pulling off his helmet and shaking his sweaty hair. For a while he’d been afraid that he’d never ride again. “What’s up?”
“I’m on my way out of town and needed to borrow your GPS.” He held it up. “Mine’s on the fritz.”
“Help yourself to my stuff anytime,” Nathan said as he pushed the bike into the garage with one hand on the seat. “You know how much I like it.”
“Oh, I will,” Seth said with a laugh. “Has Garrett talked to you at all?”
“About?” Nathan hung the bike on a set of supports attached to the wall, hooked his helmet over the bar extender, then peeled off his gloves.
“He’s all ticked off about some fight he had with Dad. Don’t tell him I told you.” Seth started for his truck.
“Hey, he’s the one who wanted to live next door to Dad.” Nathan was surprised that his dad had fought with Garrett, though. Usually he saved his arguments for Nathan, the kid he didn’t understand.
“No. He’s the one who wanted to live rent free,” Seth corrected, and he had a point, since their father owned the house next door and didn’t charge Garrett rent in return for minor property upkeep. “Want anything from the city? I’m stopping in Elko on my way to Jarbidge.”
Nathan shook his head. “I’m good. What’s going on in Jarbidge?” The isolated mountain community boasted a population of less than a hundred.
“Probably a party, but we’re going up for specialized search and rescue training starting early tomorrow morning.” Seth got into the truck and was about to close the door when he said conversationally, “You aware that Callie’s still in town?”
“I am.” His brothers were the only people who knew the truth about what Callie had done to him. As far as everyone else knew, they’d parted by mutual agreement.
“Just wondering,” Seth said casually.
“No big deal.” Because it wasn’t—except that whenever he thought about her coming into his office, cool as could be, his blood pressure spiked. He was really looking forward to the day she put Wesley behind her. Then the coronary he was working on would result from deadlines alone.
As his brother swung out onto the sealed blacktop, Nathan lifted a hand, then went into the house through the side door, hitting the switch to close the garage as he went in. He’d barely peeled out of his sweaty shirt when the town fire siren blew. He grimaced and put the damp shirt back on again. He hated going to fires, but Chip was leaving town for two days, so he was the only one there to cover the story.
He really had to hire another reporter.
But it wouldn’t be Callie. He didn’t care if she stayed for a decade.
CHAPTER THREE
CALLIE WOKE to the smell of smoke. She pushed her hair back from her forehead as she sat up, disoriented until she realized that, despite the noise of the antique cooling system churning in the window beside her, she’d conked out on the sofa. That would teach her to wax floors at midnight.
She got to her feet, rubbing the crick in her neck as she went out on the front porch. The neighborhood was quiet, but the smell of smoke was strong. She walked out to the middle of the street, where she could see over the tops of the houses, and sure enough, a column of dark smoke rose into the rapidly darkening sky on the north edge of town, where housing developments encroached on the desert and Bureau of Land Management property. It was the season for wildfires, but black smoke meant a structure was burning.
Maybe she’d find something to write about.
Callie went back in the house, ran a comb through her sleep-flattened hair, then grabbed her car keys. By the time she’d followed the smoke to the outskirts of town, about a mile away from Grace’s house, several vehicles bearing volunteer firefighter license plates had sailed by her.
A crowd of onlookers gathered on the last street of the development, which had new tract houses on one side and vacant lots on the other. Maybe seventy yards away, on the undeveloped side of the street, firemen were dousing flames that had engulfed a derelict trailer parked in a weed-choked lot.
Ever conscious of not getting in the way of people who had a job to do, because that tended to get one banished from the scene, she parked her car several yards from the closest vehicle, hugging her wheels to the ditch to keep the roadway clear. She left the car and casually walked up to the knot of bystanders, wanting to blend in as she took in the scene.
“Any idea how it started?” she asked the teenager next to her, a sandy-haired kid with baggy pants. The sky was clear, so if the fire had been caused by lightning, it was a freak strike.
The teen shrugged without looking at her, but the middle-aged man standing slightly in front of her turned, frowning as if he was trying to place her. Probably not too many strangers showed up at neighborhood fires, so Callie couldn’t blame the guy for thinking she might be a firebug there to enjoy the results of her handiwork.
“I’m Callie McCarran,” she said, saving him the trouble of trying to memorize her face or get her license plate number.
“Doug Jones.” He turned back toward the action, but Callie caught him watching her ou
t of the corner of his eye.
Callie gave the teenager another shot. “Have you had many fires this summer?” Fire seasons varied. Some years would be fire-free and during others it would seem as if the entire state was ablaze.
“We’ve had a few,” the boy said without looking at her. His focus was on the firemen—or rather, on one particular fireman who looked as if he might be a she. The only she, as far as Callie could tell.
“Do you know the name of the female firefighter?”
The kid shrugged again and ignored her.
Oh, yeah. She was going to do well substitute teaching. Couldn’t get kids to answer the door. Couldn’t get kids to answer a question. And speaking of kids…Callie saw a distinctive white head at the edge of the crowd. Her across-the-lot neighbor. This little guy got around. Callie craned her neck to see who was with him, but the crowd shifted and she lost sight of him.
The breeze was light and it didn’t take long for the firefighters to get the blaze under control and stop it from spreading to the desert, where it could have taken off in the dry grass, sage and rabbit brush, causing major damage. The crowd started to disperse as the flames died, some people going to cars, others to nearby houses, and Callie once again caught sight of the boy as he tried to resist his sister’s efforts to pull him down the street. No adult was in sight and it was nearly nine o’clock. What would two kids that age be doing so far from home?
Unless they had sneaked out to see the action without their parents knowing. Kids did do things like that, or so she’d heard. She’d been too afraid of the wrath of Grace to have tried.
The girl finally got her brother to cooperate, even though she wasn’t much bigger than he was, and he began trudging down the street beside her. Every now and then he looked over his shoulder at the firefighters.
Callie wasn’t about to offer them a ride, being a stranger and all, and no one else seemed concerned by their presence, so she decided that Wesley was indeed a very small town and the rules were different than in a more urban area. She watched until they pulled their tired-looking bicycles out of the ditch near a streetlight and started riding off along the sidewalk. Okay. They had transportation home. But it still disturbed her to see kids out that late without an adult.
Doug Jones gave Callie one last suspicious look, then headed to a nearby house. Bye, Doug. Callie stayed where she was, hoping to get a chance to talk to the female firefighter, who was still dealing with embers near what was left of the trailer.
As she waited, a big Dodge truck and a panel wagon pulled out of the throng of vehicles belonging to the volunteers, giving Callie a better view of the fire engines. She also had a better view of Nathan and his older brother, Garrett, standing in the headlights of one of the engines, deep in conversation.
She hadn’t realized Nate was there, though it made perfect sense—his staff was probably so small that he had to report as well as edit—and she certainly hadn’t realized that the deputy she’d spotted a few times on the fringes of the crowd was Garrett Marcenek. Go figure.
She’d known Garrett for years, and had no idea he’d ever thought of pursuing a career in law enforcement. How ironic. Now instead of being arrested, he’d get to do the honors. So what might Seth Marcenek be doing? If the rule of opposites applied, he’d pretty much have to be a priest.
“Hey, Garrett,” someone behind her called. “I’m taking off.”
The brothers both looked up, catching Callie midstare.
Damn.
She instantly started walking toward them, as if that had been her objective in the first place. If she was going to stay in this town for a while, then she wasn’t going to try to avoid the Marcenek brothers.
“Garrett, good to see you,” Callie said before either man could speak. She firmly believed that whoever spoke first had a psychological advantage. “Nathan.”
“Callie.” He revealed no emotion. No coldness, no warmth. Nothing.
“Welcome back,” Garrett said, shifting his weight to his heels. Callie wondered if he was resting his hand on his holster on purpose, or if it was just a habit.
“Thank you.”
“I need to check something out,” Nathan said to his brother, his eyes focused behind Callie. He left without another word, brushing past a burly volunteer firefighter carrying a Pulaski ax. Nate favored one leg slightly, making Callie wonder just how many miles he was putting on the bike. Five to ten a day had been the norm when they’d been in high school, but he’d ride as many as twenty when he was stressed. She had gone with him on the short rides, but when he needed to put his head down and pedal, she’d found other things to do.
The man she’d seen unloading equipment from the minivan in the parking lot that morning was there, taking notes as he talked to one of the firefighters. He lowered his pad as Nathan approached, and the two fell into conversation. An old memory jarred loose. Chip Elroy. From her sophomore geometry class.
“So how long have you been a deputy?” Callie asked, turning back to Garrett.
“Since about a year after you dumped Nathan.” He held her gaze, his expression cool and coplike.
“Eleven years then.” She wasn’t surprised by Garrett’s response. The brothers had wildly different temperaments, with Garrett looking for trouble, Nathan trying to keep him out of it, but they were tight.
“Give or take a few months.” He shifted his weight again. “What’re you doing here?”
“You mean at the fire?” Obviously, since he had to know why she was back in Wesley. She glanced over at the trailer’s smoldering metal ribs. “Just seeing if there’s a story.” She cocked her head. “Who’s the female firefighter?”
“Denise Logan.”
Ah, from high school. She would have been in Seth’s graduating class.
“Was this arson?” When Garrett didn’t respond, Callie added, “Pretty clear night. No lightning.”
“How long are you staying in town?”
“Awhile.”
“And then?”
She shrugged.
“Must be nice,” Garrett replied, “having no ties. Going where you want, when you want.”
“It’s great,” she agreed, refusing to rise to the bait. “You should try it.”
“Can’t. I prefer to be there for the people who matter to me.”
“Oh, do you have some of those? People who matter to you? Because I remember you dumping girls right and left, without much regard for hurt feelings.”
“At least I told them it was over, instead of taking the coward’s way out and running away without a word.”
She wasn’t touching that one, and Garrett knew it. He smiled without humor, then muttered, “I have some things I need to take care of.” Nodding in dismissal, he strode past her toward two older men checking gauges on a truck.
Callie turned away and headed for the Neon. She got in without looking back, slamming the stubborn old door shut.
She fought the urge to rest her forehead on the steering wheel in defeat, and instead turned the key in the ignition, carefully pulling back out onto the road and then executing a three-point turn. She followed the route the kids had taken, to make sure they’d gotten home.
A few minutes later she turned down Grace’s street and cruised by the house where the neighbor kids lived. It was dark inside, except for the distinctive glow of a television set, but the old bikes were propped against the porch. They were home. She debated stopping, but it was late, almost ten now. Maybe she’d try to catch the parents at home tomorrow and mention that the children had been at the fire. Parents who cared simply did not let kids ride across town—even a small town—after dark.
“SO WHAT’S THE DEAL HERE?” Nathan asked, indicating the burned-out trailer with a jerk of his head. He’d rejoined his brother after he’d made certain that Chip, who’d thankfully put off his trip when he saw the smoke, would get his photos in before he left the next day. “Two fires in a week, no lightning.”
Nathan hated fires. He hadn’t
had a problem until the explosion, when the world around him had erupted into a fireball. That was after the shock wave had thrown him back against a brick wall and driven shrapnel into his leg and torso. His partner, Suzanne Galliano, had also been injured, but her wounds had been superficial, which was why she was still reporting in Seattle, while he was back here in good old Wesley, Nevada.
“What do you think the deal is?” Garrett asked. He was careful what he said around Nathan in an official capacity, having been quoted as an “unnamed source” enough times to get him in trouble with the brass, who had no trouble figuring out the identity of the unnamed source.
Nathan rubbed a hand over his head, loosening his matted hair. “If it turns out this fire was man-made like the last one, then someone could be setting fires.”
“That’s a big leap, junior,” Garrett said, careful not to be quotable. “A field and a structure.”
“Or the fires may not be related and this one came about because old man Anderson wanted to get rid of his rusty trailer without paying to have it torn down and hauled away.”
“Talk to Dad,” Garrett said, jerking his head to where their father was conferring with another man near the front of an engine.
“Oh, I will. Later.” Not that it would do a lot of good. Fifteen years of being sheriff prior to taking over command of the fire department had made John Marcenek a master at avoiding a direct answer.
“My gut reaction is that the two incidents aren’t connected, and you’re probably right about Anderson,” Garrett finally said, before giving Nathan a fierce look. “Do not quote me.”
