by Nora Roberts
It was big, he noted, and all open so one space sort of spilled casually into the next. He didn’t know much—or anything, really—about decorating, but it felt like it looked. Bright, happy, relaxed.
Then the kitchen made his eyes pop. It flowed into a dining area on one side and a big gathering space—another sofa, chairs, big flat-screen—on the other. But the hub was like a magazine shot with granite counters, a central island, shiny steel appliances, dark wood cabinets, many of them glass-fronted to display glass and dishware. A few complicated small appliances, in that same shiny steel, stood on the counters.
“This is a serious kitchen.”
“That and the view sold me on the place. I wanted it the minute I saw it.” She chose a bottle of red from a glass rack, set it and a corkscrew on the counter. “Why don’t you open this while I get a vase?”
She opened a door, scanned shelves and selected a tall, cobalt vase. He opened the wine while she trimmed the stems under running water in the central island’s sink.
“I’m glad you called. This is a much nicer way to spend the evening than working on my doctorate.”
“You’re working on your doctorate?”
“Nearly there.” She held up one hand, fingers crossed. “I put it off way too long, so I’m making up time. Red-wine glasses,” she told him, “second shelf in the cupboard to the right of the sink. Mmm, I love the way these roses look against the blue. How did work go today?”
“Fine. We had a big group down from Canada, another in from Arizona, along with some students. Crowded day. Yesterday even more. I barely had time to get over to the base and check after they had the trouble.”
“Trouble?” She looked up from her arranging.
“I guess you wouldn’t have heard. Somebody got into the ready room over there yesterday—or sometime during the night—tore the place up.”
“Who’d do such a stupid thing?”
“Well, odds are it was Dolly Brakeman. She’s a local girl who had a . . . a relationship with the jumper who was killed last summer. She had his baby back in the spring.”
“Oh, God, I know her mother. We’re friends. Irene works at the school. She’s one of our cooks.”
He’d known that, Lucas realized, known Irene worked in the school’s kitchen. “Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything about Dolly.”
“Irene’s one thing, Dolly’s another—and believe me, I know that very well.” Ella stabbed a trimmed stem into the vase. “That girl’s put Irene through hell. In any case, what happened to the father of Dolly’s baby—that’s tragic for her, but why would she want to vandalize the base?”
“You know Dolly used to be a cook there, and they hired her back on?”
“I knew she’d worked there. I haven’t talked to Irene since I went by to take a baby gift. I knew she and Leo went out to . . . Bozeman, I think it was—to bring her and the baby home—so I’ve been hanging back a little, giving them all time to settle in. I didn’t realize Dolly had gone back to work at the base.”
“They gave her a chance. You know? She went off after Jim’s accident. Before she did, she went after Rowan.”
“Your daughter? Irene never mentioned . . . Well, there’s a lot she doesn’t mention about Dolly. Why?”
“Ro was Jim’s partner on that jump. It doesn’t make any sense, but that’s how Dolly reacted. And she hadn’t been back at base but a handful of days when Ro walked in on her splashing pig’s blood all over Ro’s room.”
“For God’s sake.”
When she planted fisted hands on her hips, Lucas dubbed it her hardline principal look.
He liked it.
“I haven’t heard anything about this.” Those deep green eyes flashed as she poured wine. “I’ll have to call Irene tomorrow, see if she needs . . . anything. I know Dolly’s troublesome, to put it mildly, but Irene really believed the baby, getting Dolly to go to church, taking her back in the house, would settle her down. Obviously not.”
Full of sympathy now, and a touch of worry, her eyes met his. “How’s your daughter dealing with it?”
“Ro? She deals. They’ve been working on repairs and manufacturing since, and must’ve gotten enough done to take some calls. A four-man jump yesterday, basically an in-and-out.”
“That’s good. Maybe they’ll have time to catch their breath.”
“Not much chance of that. The siren went off about four-thirty today.”
“Rowan’s out on a fire? Now? I didn’t hear about that, either. I haven’t had the news on all day. Lucas, you must be worried.”
“No more than usual. It’s part of the deal.”
“Now I’m even more glad you called.”
“And got you upset and worried about Irene.”
“I’m glad I know what’s going on with her. I can’t help if I don’t know.” She reached out, laid a hand over his. “Why don’t you take your wine and the bottle out on the deck? I’ll be right out.”
He went out wide glass doors to the deck that offered views of the mountains, the endless sky—and her yard that struck him—again—like something out of a magazine.
A squared-off area covered by the colorful, springy mulch he’d seen in playgrounds held a play area for her grandkids. Swings, ladders, bars, seesaws, even a little playhouse with a pint-sized umbrella table and chairs.
He found it as cheerful as the house—and it told him she’d made a home here not just for herself, but for her family to enjoy.
And still, her flowers stole the show.
He recognized roses—he knew that much—but the rest, to his eyes, created fairyland rivers and pools of color and shape all linked together with narrow stone paths. Little nooks afforded space for benches, an arbor covered with a trailing vine, a small, bubbling copper fountain.
While he watched, a Western meadowlark darted to the wide bowl of a bird feeder to help himself to dinner.
Lucas turned when she came out with a tray.
“Ella, this is amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it outside the movies.”
Her dimples winked in cheeks pinked up with pleasure. “My pride and joy, and maybe just a little bit of an obsession. The people who owned the house before were keen gardeners, so I had a wonderful foundation. With some changes, some additions and a whole lot of work, I’ve made it my own.”
She set the tray on a table between two bright blue deck chairs.
“I thought you said no fuss.” He looked at the fancy appetizers arranged on the tray.
“I’ll have to confess my secret vice. I love to fuss.” She picked up her wine. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“My mother didn’t raise a fool.”
She sat, angling toward him while her wind chimes picked up the tune of the summer breeze. The meadowlark sang for his supper.
“I love sitting out here, especially this time of day, or early in the morning.”
“Your grandkids must love playing out here.”
They drank wine, ate her fancy appetizers, talked of her grandchildren, which boosted him to relate anecdotes from Rowan’s childhood.
He wondered why he’d had those moments of panic. Being with her was so comfortable once he got off the starting blocks. And every time she smiled something stirred inside him. After a while it—almost—didn’t seem strange to find himself enjoying a pretty summer evening, drinking soft wine, admiring the view while talking easily with a beautiful woman.
It—almost—blocked out memories of how he’d spent so many other summer evenings. How his daughter was spending hers now.
“You’re thinking of her. Your Ro.”
“I guess it stays in the back of my mind. She’s good, and she’s with a solid unit. They’ll get the job done.”
“What would she be doing now?”
“Oh, it depends.” So many things, he thought, and all of them hard, dangerous, necessary. “She might be on a saw line. They’d plot out a position, factor in how the fire’s reacting, the wind and so on, an
d take down trees, cut out brush.”
“Because those are fuel.”
“Yeah. They’ve got a couple water sources, so she might be on the hose. I know they dropped mud on her earlier.”
“Why would they drop mud on Rowan?”
His laugh broke out, long, delighted. “Sorry. I meant the fire. Mud’s what we call the retardant the tanker drops. Believe me, no smoke jumper wants to be under that.”
“And you call the fire her because men always refer to dangerous or annoying things they have to deal with as female.”
“Ah . . .”
“I’m teasing you. More or less. Come inside while I start dinner. You can keep me company and tell me about mud.”
“You don’t want to hear about mud.”
“You’re wrong,” she told him as they gathered up the tray, the glasses, the wine. “I’m interested.”
“It’s thick pink goo, and burns if it hits your skin.”
“Why pink? It’s kind of girlie.”
He grinned as she got out a skillet. “They add ferric oxide to make it red, but it looks like pink rain when it’s coming down. The color marks the drop area.”
She drizzled oil into the skillet from a spouted container, diced up garlic, some plump oval-shaped tomatoes, all the while asking him questions, making comments.
She certainly seemed interested, he thought, but he was having a hard time concentrating. The way she moved, the way her hands looked when she chopped and diced, the way she smiled and smelled, the way his name sounded when it came from her lips.
Her lips.
He didn’t mean to do it. That’s what happened when he acted before he thought. But he was a little in her way when she turned away from the work island, and their bodies bumped and brushed. She tipped her face up, smiled, maybe she started to speak, but then . . .
A question in her eyes, or an invitation? He didn’t know, didn’t think. Just acted. His hands slid onto her shoulders, and he laid his lips over hers.
So soft. So sweet. Yielding under his even as her hands ran up his back, linked there to hold them together. She rose onto her toes, and the sensation of her body sliding up his simmered heat under the soft.
He wanted to burrow into her as he would a blanket at the end of a cold winter’s night.
He gave up her lips, rested his forehead to hers.
“It’s your smile,” he murmured. “It makes it hard for me to think straight.”
She framed his face, lifted his head until she could look in his eyes. Sweet man, she thought. Sweet, sweet man.
“I think dinner can wait.” She eased away, turned the heat off under the oil, then leaned back to look at him again. “Do you want to go upstairs with me, Lucas?”
“I—”
“We’re not kids. We’ve both got more years behind us than ahead. When we have a chance for something good, we ought to take it. So . . .” She held out a hand. “Come upstairs with me.”
He took her hand, let out a shaky breath as she led him through the house. “You don’t just feel sorry for me, do you?”
“Why would I?”
“Because I so obviously want . . . this.”
“Lucas, if you didn’t, I’d feel sorry for me.” Humor sparkled over her face when she tipped it up to his. “I’ve wondered since you called if we’d take each other to bed tonight, then I had to do thirty minutes of yoga to stop being nervous.”
“Nervous? You?”
“I’m not a kid,” she reminded him as she drew him into her bedroom, where the light through the windows glowed soft. “Men your age often look at thirty-somethings, not fifty-somethings. That’s twenty years of gravity against me.”
“What would I want with someone young enough to be my kid?”
When she laughed at that, he grinned. “Hell. It’d just make me feel old. I’m already worried I’ll mess this up. I’m out of practice, Ella.”
“I’m pretty rusty myself. I guess we’ll see if we tune up as we go. You could start by kissing me again. We both seemed to have that part down.”
He reached for her, and this time her arms went around his neck. He felt her rise up to her toes again as their lips met, as they parted for the slow, seductive slide of tongues.
He let himself stop thinking, stop worrying what if. Just act. His hands stroked down her back, over her hips, up her sides, then up again to pull the pins out of her hair.
It tumbled over his hands, slid through his fingers while she tipped back her head so his lips could find the line of her throat.
Nerves floated away on an indescribable mix of comfort and excitement. She shivered when he eased back to unbutton her shirt. As he did when she did the same for him.
She slipped out of her sandals; he toed off his shoes.
“So far . . .”
“So good,” he finished, and kissed her again.
And, oh, yes, she thought, he definitely had that part down.
She pushed his shirt aside, splayed her hands over his chest. Hard and fit from a lifetime of training, scarred from a lifetime of duty. She laid her lips on it as he drew her shirt off to join his on the floor. When he took her breasts in his hands, she forgot about gravity. How could she worry when he looked at her as though she were beautiful? When he kissed her with such quiet, such total intensity?
She unhooked his belt, thrilled to touch and be touched, to remember all the things a body felt when it desired, and was desired. The pants it had taken her twenty minutes to decide on after he’d called slid to the floor. Then her heart simply soared as he lifted her into his arms.
“Lucas.” Overcome, she dropped her head to his shoulder. “My whole life I’ve wanted someone to do that. To just sweep me up. You’re the first who has.”
He looked into her dazzled eyes, and felt like a king as he carried her to bed.
In the half-light, they touched and tasted. They remembered, and discovered. Rounded curves, hard angles, with all the points of pleasure to be savored.
When he filled her, she breathed his name—the sweetest music. Moving inside her, each long, slow stroke struck his heart, hammer to anvil. She met him, matched him, her fingers digging into his hips to urge him on.
The king became a stallion, rearing over his mate.
When she cried out, fisting around him in climax, his blood beat in triumph. And letting himself go, he rode that triumph over the edge.
“Well, God,” she said after several moments where they both lay in stunned, sated silence. “I have all these applicable clichés, like it is just like riding a bike, or it just gets better with age like wine and cheese. But it’s probably enough to simply say: Wow.”
He drew her over where she obligingly curled at his side, her head on his shoulder. “Wow covers it. Everything about you is wow to me.”
“Lucas.” She turned her face into the side of his throat. “I swear, you make my heart skip. Nobody’s ever said those kind of things to me.”
“Then a lot of men are just stupid.” He twirled her hair around his finger, delighted he could. “I’d write a poem to your hair, if I knew how to write one.”
She laughed and had to blink back tears at the same time. “You are the sweetest, sweetest man.” She pushed up to kiss him. “I’m going to make you the best pasta you’ve ever eaten.”
“You don’t have to go to all that trouble. We could just make sandwiches or something.”
“Pasta,” she said, “with fresh Roma tomatoes and basil out of my garden. You’re going to need the fuel, for later.”
As her eyes twinkled into his, he patted her bare butt. “In that case, we’d better get down there and start cooking.”
13
As her father slept the sleep of the righteously exhausted in Ella’s bed, Rowan headed into her eighth hour of the battle. They’d had the fire cornered, and nearly under control, when a chain of spot fires ignited over the line from a rocket shower of firebrands. In a heartbeat, the crew found itself caught between the main fire
and the fresh, spreading spots.
Like hail from hell, embers ripped through the haze, battering helmets, searing exposed skin. With a bellowing roar, a ponderosa torched, whipping flame through clouds of eye-stinging smoke. Catapulted by the wind the fire created, burning coal flew over the disintegrating line, turning near victory into a new, desperate battle.
On the shouted orders, Rowan broke away with half the crew, hauling gear at a run toward the new active blaze.
“Escape route’s back down the ridge,” she called out, knowing they’d be trapped if the shifting flank fed into the head. “If we have to go, drop the gear and run like hell.”
“We’re going to catch her. We’re going to kill her,” Cards yelled back, his face fervent with dragon fever.
They knocked down spots as they went, beating, digging, sawing.
“There’s a stream about fifty yards over,” Gull said, jogging beside her.
“I know it.” But she was surprised he did. “We’ll get the pump in, get the hoses going and build a wet line. We’ll drown the sister.”
“Nearly had her back there.”
“Gibbons and the rest will knock the head down.” She looked at him, his face glowing in the reflection of the fire while hoarse shouts and wild laughter tangled with the animal growl of the fire.
Dragon fever, she knew, could spread like a virus—for good or ill. It pumped in her own blood now, because make or break was coming.
“If they don’t, Fast Feet, grab what gear you can, haul it as far as you can. The way you run, you ought to be able to outrace the dragon.”
“You got it.”
They worked with demonic speed, dumping gear to set up the pump, run the hose, while others cut a quick saw line.
“Let her rip!” Rowan shouted, planting her feet, bracing her body as she gripped the hose. When it filled, punched out its powerful stream, she let out a crazed whoop.
Her arms, already taxed with the effort of hours of hard, physical work, vibrated. But her lips peeled back in a fierce grin. “Drink this!”
