Montana Hero

by Debra Salonen

  “Were you married at the time?”

  “Yes. And, while it would be easy to blame Mom for my divorce, the reality is I changed the playing field when I took over her care. Greg doesn’t do sickness. Or kids,” she added under her breath, hoping he wouldn’t hear it. She tried to remain upbeat about Greg for Brady’s sake. If anything happened to her, Greg would be Brady’s only family.

  “He was okay with you moving to Montana?”

  “He supported my decision. Yes.”

  Outa sight, outa mind. Outa billfold.

  “So your mother suffered from Alzheimer’s?”

  “Yes. Mom passed away suddenly from complications from pneumonia brought on by aspirating a sip of soup from a caregiver’s spoon,” she said, fastening her seatbelt. “She was only sixty-two, but the last few years were pretty tough on all of us.”

  He shook his head. “Wow. My mom’s age. That’s harsh. Thanks for sharing. I thought maybe you were holding out on me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The way you took control of the situation made me think they should have given my job to you.”

  She relaxed, afraid he was going to ask her why she didn’t file a complaint against Ken. “The timing wasn’t right. Brady is still adjusting to the move,” she said, repeating the excuse she’d given to the Sheriff when he asked her to apply for Ken’s job.

  Eventually, she’d tell him about Brady’s issues, but not yet. She hated for people to meet her son with preconceived ideas of autism spectrum disorder because, as Kat learned early in her son’s diagnosis, each child with Asperger’s will display his or her own pattern. Brady was a unique individual with special gifts Kat preferred to focus on rather than dwelling on the problems that arose from his inability to interact with his peers on occasion.

  Luckily, Flynn didn’t ask her to elaborate, and a second later, she spotted something black and white move near a house with a ramp leading to the front door.

  “There. Peaches. Pull over.”

  She took off running before the truck came to a complete stop. She’d always considered herself a dog lover, not a feline aficionado, but when Mom moved in with them, so did her two very spoiled cats. Kat had a few tricks up her sleeve when it came to herding escape artists of the feline variety.

  Flynn was on his phone when she returned, Peaches purring contentedly in her arms. She stroked and nuzzled the plump animal as she waited. His one-sided conversation sounded serious.

  “Got it. Keep your ankle elevated and put ice on it until I get there. Maybe it’s just a sprain.”

  He pitched the phone into the open console between them then stepped on the gas. “That was my friend, Tucker.”

  “The guy building the zip line?”

  He nodded. “Where are we going?”

  She motioned for him to continue on straight ahead. “What happened?”

  “Stepped wrong. Twisted his ankle.” He glanced at the cat. “We’re done with this call once we deliver Peaches, right?”

  She nodded. “Yep. After you drop Kermit at the ER and take me to the office so I can start filling out the incident report, you’re good to go. Turn left at the next corner.”

  She felt good about today. She’d proven herself on the job and she’d survived being in close proximity to Flynn, who probably couldn’t help giving off a boatload of we-could-have-some-sexy-fun virility. She liked sex—or she had back when she had the time and opportunity to fool around. Unfortunately, her life was far too much of an emotional quagmire to get involved with another person.

  Priorities, she silently reminded herself. Take care of Brady. Take care of business. And take care of me. The last should have been the simplest, but, of course, it wasn’t.

  *

  Brady Robinson knew things his teacher, Mrs. Miranda, didn’t have a clue about.

  He knew there was going to be a fight at recess.

  He knew who would start it, and he knew who would wind up in the principal’s office.

  He looked at the bulletin board behind his teacher’s desk and let out a sigh. Some things couldn’t be avoided.

  His dad—if he ever heard about this—would say schoolyard fights were part of growing up. His mother wouldn’t say much. She never did. She accepted him—even the crappy parts—because she loved him.

  Brady assumed he loved her, too. He just didn’t know for sure because he didn’t feel things the way other people did. One of the many doctors Brady had seen over the years told Mom and Dad that people like Brady suffered from “emotional detachment.”

  “When most people get excited, happy, or mad, they react with emotion,” the thin, rat-faced man said. Brady hadn’t liked him from the minute they met, so he’d pulled back completely, never looking the man in the eye—even once. “Brady doesn’t. He observes, curious some of the time, but mostly bored.”

  The man got that part right. When Brady was bored, he tuned out the world around him, focusing instead on a jaw-dropping factoid he’d read earlier that day or some curious conundrum he’d encountered. This is where the problem came in. People were offended by his lack of interest in their boring, ordinary stories. Some of his classmates thought that meant Brady thought he was better than them. He was in some ways. Not that he told them that. He wasn’t stupid.

  A few assumed Brady didn’t like them. Sometimes, they were right, but not always.

  Rick, the boy who wanted to beat up Brady, was an okay kid. Not overly smart, but not the biggest bully Brady had ever met. That put him on Brady’s OK list. Until this morning when Rick came into class and told everybody his parents were getting a divorce, and he was moving to Florida with his mother.

  Naturally, Brady said the first thing that came into his head. “Cool.”

  He started to explain about the Everglades, which Brady had studied extensively in second grade and still wanted to visit. But his classmates jumped all over his comment, calling him “mean,” “stupid,” and “insensitive”—that from a girl Brady sort of liked.

  Brady had felt an uncomfortable sensation he assumed was embarrassment—even though he didn’t really care what his classmates thought of him. He did not, as a rule, like being the center of attention, and, at that moment, all eyes were on him.

  So, he’d hurried back to his desk, tripping over some kid’s backpack strap as he did. People laughed. Brady ignored them and sat down and started reading. Books were the second best escape. Video games were his favorite.

  Halfway through the first period, someone passed him a note. A poorly written note that said: “Fight. After school. Ass whole.” He corrected the spelling of hole and added the word: “Fine,” to the bottom of the page, before handing it back to the intermediary.

  His mom was going to be disappointed that he wasn’t able to make friends and fit in, but she’d get over it. She always did.

  Chapter Four

  ‡

  Flynn double-checked his phone to be sure he had cell service then he turned off the engine and opened the door of the Jeep. He’d taken the smaller vehicle from the fleet because he needed to check out each of the units before he completed his inventory evaluation report.

  The Sheriff broke the news that morning that he’d been asked to complete a summary of SAR’s preparedness for the Board of Supervisors. The task was not as simple as it sounded because so far Flynn had run across a dozen items on SAR’s inventory list that weren’t around. And this Jeep, which supposedly had a new engine, was running on three cylinders. Plus, two of its tires sported bulges from being driven over rocks. Since the call log didn’t show a reference to an off-road response, Flynn had to assume the Jeep had been used for personal “wheeling,” as the good ol’ boys in Tennessee called it.

  He grabbed his high country response backpack, which included a first aid kit, from the back, hefted the eighty-pound weight to his left shoulder, and then turned to look around. Very little, if anything, had changed since the groundbreaking ceremony a week ago.

  The n
umber of county dignitaries present, along with three- or four-dozen spectators, had surprised Flynn. Some, Flynn recognized as Tucker’s fellow dancers—with their very young, very pretty entourage.

  “What have you been doing up here, man? Goofing off?”

  “F-you and the ugly Jeep you drove up in,” a grumpy voice called from the campsite twenty or so yards to Flynn’s left. “I’m in pain and you give me a hard time about crap I’ve got no control over?”

  Flynn turned toward the ten-person tent nestled in a natural enclave of pines. The portable kitchen and aluminum picnic tables looked familiar, but the oversize molded plastic toilet was new.

  “Does that portable john have a shower? Wow. All the comforts of home,” Flynn said walking to the grouping of camp chairs circling a rock fire pit.

  The night of the groundbreaking the place had been littered with tents, campers and cars, despite the near freezing temps. The fire pit had been a popular hangout into the wee hours of the morning.

  The canvas camp chair Tucker occupied was the kind that reclined with a built-in footrest. His stocking foot sat elevated on a couple of pillows. Flynn nodded his approval that Tucker had followed his instructions. “Where are all your workers?”

  “Probably lined up to file unemployment claims.” He scowled in a very un-Tucker way. “We hit the wall in our permitting process. Apparently, the State of Montana has some say in how this damn thing goes together. The company I hired to build the zip line claims they were blindsided by new regulations. Luckily, I took your advice and hired Austen Zabrinski to oversee the licensing, permits and insurance.”

  He winced as if the word was aluminum foil connected with a filling.

  “Don’t get me started on what it’s going to cost to open the damn doors once we get this place built. But, on the upside, Austen is a legal pit-bull. Ferocious. Total man-crush. I’d be in love if I didn’t like girls better.”

  Flynn eased his pack to the ground and took the chair beside Tucker’s. “Glad that worked out. Mia told me her brother had been involved in state politics until some sort of scandal pulled the rug out from under him. Now, he’s using his connections to work on behalf of small businesses. Apparently his girlfriend…no, wait, fiancée, owns an alpaca ranch and just opened a new retail operation featuring local crafts made with the fleece and yarn. Even she had problems getting a permit until Austen got involved.”

  He leaned over to peek at the ankle sporting a gallon-size zipper bag of ice. “Did you make this?”

  “No. Thankfully, Raul, my foreman, was here when I fell. He wanted to drive me to the ER, but I told him I wanted you to look at it first.”

  Tucker, who was dressed in his usual individual style—madras print Bermuda shorts over a pair of thermal long johns and an over-size black fisherman knit sweater—took a pull from his metal water bottle.

  “Keeping hydrated, huh?” Flynn asked facetiously. He didn’t doubt for a minute that whatever beverage was in the bottle it included vodka.

  “I’m in pain, man. Quit giving me grief. So?” He tried to sit up. “How bad is it? Is my dancing career over?”

  Flynn rolled his eyes. “Such a drama queen.” He tossed the dripping, half-frozen bag in Tucker’s direction and was pleased to see his friend catch it one-handed. “How did you do this to yourself?”

  “I was checking out launch site Number One when my heel sank in a pothole and I fell sideways. Seriously. I don’t have time for surgery. Am I going to need surgery?”

  Flynn peeled back the bright green sock. The ankle was swollen and the skin pinkish-red from the ice pack. In two places, the pink showed definite undertones of purple. “I can’t say for sure without an X-ray, but my gut says you twisted the hell out of it.”

  Flynn was used to doctoring his buddies. Everyone on their Hot Shot team went to Flynn for their aches and pains since he was a certified wilderness EMT—a certificate he was certain played a roll in getting him hired with the Crawford County Search and Rescue. “Once I stabilize it, I’ll drive you down the hill to the Doc Shop or whatever they call Urgent Care in Marietta.”

  He listened to his pal’s protests and the long list of reasons why Tucker couldn’t leave the place unattended, but in the end, Tucker shut up when Flynn asked, “Do you want to dance again or not?”

  Naturally, the whole process took longer than Flynn wanted. He hadn’t liked the way he’d left things with Kat. He’d sensed how connected she felt to the old woman they’d helped, and a text a few minutes ago from the EMTs said they were admitting Molly. When the Emergency Room doctor examined her, he heard a rumble in Molly’s chest that suggested pneumonia.

  Plus, he probably owed Kat some sort of explanation for why he froze the way he had. Too bad the truth made him look like such a pussy.

  “So, what’s the new job like?” Tucker asked from the backseat, where Flynn had positioned him to keep his foot elevated on a pile of Tucker’s belongings and Flynn’s backpack.

  Flynn glanced in the rearview mirror. “Not bad. It feels a lot like our downtime…without a rake.”

  Generally, people didn’t know how much of an active firefighter’s time was spend cleaning, prepping and repairing equipment, in addition to tending to the landscaping around the firehouse and other public places. For the past couple of years, his crew had campaigned for residents who lived in remote areas to clear safety breaks thirty feet around all structures. Flynn and his crew called themselves “master gardeners with chain saws and rakes.”

  “My call this morning involved an old lady on a candy-apple-red scooter and a lost cat.”

  Tucker let out an amused whoop. “What is it with you and old women, Bensen? Don’t you think it’s time you tried to hook up with someone your own age?”

  A clear image of Kat Robinson popped into his brain, making Flynn’s fingers tighten reflexively on the steering wheel.

  “How long have you been divorced?”

  “A year and a half, give or take.”

  Flynn and Darla split shortly after Ryker, who’d come to Tennessee to spend Christmas with them after his tragic loss, left. The holiday had been strained, to say the least.

  “Seems longer. I believe The Goat won that pool.”

  Flynn snickered softly. His Great Smoky crew bet on everything. He wondered if the Crawford County SAR bunch did, too? Probably not. He couldn’t see Kat Robinson throwing away money on stupid wagers, particularly when the outcome involved someone’s marriage.

  She’s too kind for that, he thought.

  The way she’d helped Molly O’Neal this morning had really impressed him. Calm, determined, and rock solid. He could go for a woman like that…if she didn’t work for him. He and Darla had been co-workers when they started dating.

  At first, they’d tried to keep the affair a secret. After they married, the tension and drama their ongoing issues brought to the workplace made a bad situation worse.

  Flynn swore he’d never go down that road to disaster again.

  With the uncanny way Tucker had of guessing what was on Flynn’s mind—a gift he attributed to his Cajun grandmother, Tucker asked, “Have you heard from Darla lately?”

  Flynn’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “No.”

  “She married that guy she left you for, didn’t she?”

  “Yes.” And he’d heard she gave birth to a baby a few months ago. A fact Tucker probably knew, too.

  Flynn’s gut churned whenever he pictured the happy family snugly at home in the house he bought with money from his late father’s estate.

  How come it never occurred to me to question Darla’s timing? he asked himself for the ten-thousandth time.

  He and Darla had worked together for two years before she suddenly initiated a flirtation, which led to a whole lot more. Not until Justin pointed out the correlation between Darla’s sudden infatuation and the fact he’d just turned thirty—the age he could access his rather substantial trust fund—did Flynn start to second-guess his wife’s mot
ives.

  Of course, she denied knowing anything about the money before their wedding, but he knew that was a lie. His blabbermouth buddies made sure everybody knew Flynn was a rich SOB.

  Was. Past tense.

  He’d paid for the wedding, which turned out to be a huge party for Darla’s friends and family. Flynn’s mother and step-dad came, but Ryker had been on assignment in Africa at the time and chose not to come. The right decision, in hindsight.

  He and Darla had some good times, of course. The sex was amazing. Darla was a great cook, but she made sure he knew how second-rate the kitchen in their rental house was.

  She started looking for a “place of their own.” He foolishly paid cash for the cute little bungalow she called “the perfect starter home.” The house she took in their divorce settlement in lieu of alimony.

  What a chump!

  Flynn eased off the accelerator when the whine of the engine caught his attention. One glance in the rear view mirror told him Tucker had dozed off.

  He drove slowly, purposefully, still thinking about Darla. The day she told him she and her new husband were expecting a baby, he’d wanted to hurt somebody. Instead, he walked into Headquarters and requested an immediate posting. “Any fire. Anywhere.”

  He’d wound up in the High Sierra trying to save an old woman and her horses.

  Nothing had been quite the same since. But, for the first time in a long time, Flynn was starting to think change was a good thing.

  That didn’t mean he was the same gullible fool he used to be. No way. Thanks to Darla, Flynn took nothing and no one at face value. He questioned everyone’s motivation.

  Even Kat Robinson. Who moves a kid mid-school year on a whim? What was the real story between her and her ex? Why’d she pick Marietta, of all places? He planned to find out…before she got any deeper under his skin.

  *

  Brady stared at his slightly distorted reflection in the glass partition separating the principal’s inner office from the “holding cell,” as the other bad kids called it. His fat lip throbbed worse than his middle finger, which another kid bent all the way back after Brady flipped him off. The jerk had deserved it, but his mother wouldn’t be happy. The last time this happened, she’d made him promise never to use impolite gestures again.