Thierry Guenther rubbed his fingertips over his forehead as he looked at the lease his brother Lucien had brought home with him this weekend. As president of the Cascada Encantada Winery, which had been in the family for generations, Lucien always had plans to put the place on the map. But why did he have to come up with such big ideas that always landed so firmly on Thierry's shoulders? 
Yeah, it would be great to have an additional tasting room on Main Street, where other wineries from the area had already ventured, but Encantada already had a contract to get the wine into the grocery stores in South Texas, and increasing the production for that was already a headache. Another tasting room meant more stock, more staff. He had to hire new people and buy new grapes, because while their winery was the oldest in the area, the weather in Texas was a bit more volatile, and his production was down this season because of the cold, dry weather this winter. So he was buying some grapes from Lubbock and more from Washington already. They'd still use Encantada recipes but he always preferred to use his own grapes, especially for the viognier and the syrah. The tempranillo was no problem--those were the grapes he grew the most of. 
So, yeah, he had his hands full before Lucien had this brainchild on his own. 
He looked down at his German Shepherd, Ronan. "I need to have a talk with him and see where he thinks I'm going to get all these grapes, and all the people for the bottling." 
Ronan cocked his head, his no-longer-puppy ears not quite flopping together the way they used to. Thierry had always wanted a dog growing up, but his mother hadn't allowed it, even though they lived on a ranch. Well, she would have allowed it, but the dog would have had to stay outside, and he hadn't wanted that. He wanted a dog that would sleep in his bed, sit at his feet at the table. He'd been home from college now for almost ten years but had been so busy with the winery, he hadn't wanted to get a dog if he didn't have time to devote to it. Last Christmas, he'd decided he didn't want to wait any longer. One of their neighbors had had a litter of German shepherds, which had always been his favorite breed. So he'd bought one and spent months house training him, and leash training him, and now never even put him on the leash. He would probably never get a puppy again, because they were a lot of work, but Ronan was a good dog. Thierry was lucky he was able to bring him to work every day so the dog didn't languish at home while Thierry worked his long hours. 
Thierry rose from the desk at his home office to walk down the hill to the barrel room. Thierry's home office had its own entrance, both for privacy during rare meetings held there, and to keep Thierry from working around the clock. Ronan jumped to his feet, attentive as ever. Yeah, the dog got just as restless as Thierry did when he wasn't doing something. The majority of the paperwork wasn't his responsibility, thank God, but sometimes he just had to see what Lucien was up to.
Lucien didn't work on the property, and actually only came up on weekends lately. He had an office and apartment in San Antonio, and occasionally traveled to other parts of Texas on business. They had agreed, as a family, that they would conquer Texas first, before they moved on to other parts of the country. Thierry was just as glad to have the distance between them. He and Lucien had different outlooks on life, and clashed more often than they got along.
Thierry opened the door of the office and Ronan dashed out into the cool, damp spring morning. This kind of weather was wonderful for grapes, and just what the bluebonnets would need. He'd seen a small patch of them in someone's yard the other day. Pretty soon the roadsides would be covered, and the roads themselves filled with tourists wanting to take pictures in them. The winery made sure to have plenty of help in the tasting room this time of year, so those sightseers that were so inclined could come to the winery, maybe take home a couple of bottles, join the wine club. Yeah, March and April were a good time at the winery. But he was sure his brother Sebastian had a handle on the additional staff. He could count on Sebastian to run the tasting room, make sure everything was stocked and on-hand, just like Lucien could count on him.
Ronan ran toward him with one of the many tennis balls that littered the grounds. Thierry scooped it from him and threw it in one fluid motion. His dad had always wanted him to be a baseball player, but as disciplined as Thierry was, he'd never been drawn to the life of a professional athlete. Playing in high school was one thing, but playing in the majors was another. He didn't even care to watch the games anymore.
Ronan barreled back toward him and Thierry played fetch with him another ten minutes before the dog dropped in front of him, panting and smiling at the exertion. 
Which reminded Thierry he hadn't gone for a run in a couple of days. That was something else a dog was good for--making you got out of the house, away from work. Maybe he should sign up for another marathon and make himself accountable. He needed to do it for himself.
He walked into the barrel building and the hum of the refrigeration soothed him like no other sound. This was his favorite place in the world, the sounds, the smells. This was where he'd learned wine production at his grandfather's knee, and though he'd had to go away to college to get a degree in oenology, nothing had taught him more than spending time here with his grandfather.
He wondered what the old man would think about the improvements they'd made, the plans they'd made to advance the company. Thierry was pretty sure he'd be glad they'd decided to limit their expansion to Texas for now. He'd never wanted a big company, just wanted to share his love of wine with the people of Cascade. 
Thierry noted that his cellar lead was here already, and Charlie Everett lifted a hand in a wave. Thierry nodded his response, and started rolling up his sleeves as he headed to join him. 
* * *
With one eye on the gas gauge, Piper Tobin turned her little car the road toward Cascade, Texas. She'd heard they had the best wineries in the area, and she'd timed her trip so she would hit at peak bluebonnet season. Only, so far, not so much. She had seen one tiny cluster of the state flower near town, but not the blankets of flowers she'd expected. She would get a hotel room for tonight, drive around tomorrow and visit some of the wineries. She had a list of the most picturesque, which suited her needs better than the tastiest. She was a photographer, after all, not an advertising agency. People might be inspired to visit the wineries based on the photo journal she was producing, but they didn't have to like the taste of wine.
She drove down the main street, lined with storefronts adjacent to each other, some limestone, some brick, some wood. Antique shops, a drug store, a few clothing places, some wine tasting rooms occupied the buildings. Pretty cement planters graced the sidewalks, overflowing with geraniums and ivy.
Since her funds were limited, she selected a motor hotel that may have been built in the 1960s, on the main road between Cascade and the majority of the wineries. Maybe she could pick up a short-term job at a bar or something and earn some tips to tide her over. No more than a week, because then she was heading to Lubbock next. Hopefully spring weather would greet her. She'd seen just last night on the news that they'd gotten more snow. 
She parked, then registered with the curious woman behind the counter. Piper didn't give into her natural urge to engage in conversation. She was too tired, and her mind was spinning with thoughts that she didn't want to spill to a stranger in a small town. 
"You here to visit the wineries?" the woman asked. 
Piper was sure not many wine tasters stayed at this dated place, when there were newer hotels in the area. She shook her head. "I came out to take pictures of the bluebonnets."
"Oh, you're a little early. They're starting to come out now, but the peak will be in another two or three weeks."
Again, Piper bit back on her questions. How did this woman know? Had she lived here long? She was fairly certain the woman was eager for conversation herself, but Piper was road-weary and just wanted a bed.
When she walked through the door of the room, though, she had second thoughts. The place smelled damp, and while it was damp outside with cool humidity, this smell was older, probably from the dripping window unit. Ugh. The carpet was wet beneath the window. At least it was the carpet and not the bed, though Piper made a mental note not to walk barefoot by the window. 
She tucked her camera equipment on the bedside table away from the door, set her suitcase on the dresser and looked at the tube television with the rabbit ear antennas. Okay, she'd stayed in worse places, and she could deal with this. At least the art on the walls--Texas wildflowers--was pretty. 
Keeping her shoes on, she investigated the bathroom. Rust stains from yet more dripping pipes striped the tub, but the corners were clean, something she'd learned to look for. She didn't feel so bad now as she showered off the day's travel, toweled off with a tiny rough towel--she'd pick up some towels of her own at Walmart tomorrow--and headed for bed. The remote didn't work, of course, so she set the television on an Austin channel, just for the noise, and crawled into bed. The sheets smelled better than the carpet, and she drifted right off.
* * *
The following morning her stomach woke her, and she checked her insulated shopping bag of food. Since eating out was cost prohibitive, she brought her own food when she could. One more protein bar. She'd have to pick up more of those at Walmart, too. She chowed down on it and washed it down with a bottle of water though her brain screamed for caffeine. Maybe Walmart had a McDonald's or something inside where she could get a cheap cup, because she didn't really trust the ancient coffee pot sitting on the dresser next to her luggage. 
She'd hit Walmart early, unload here, then head out to the wineries. Maybe by then the fog that had been creeping up would burn off, and she would be able to get some good pictures, though the fog might create some interesting effects. 
She walked out to her car and tried to remember which direction to turn to get to the store. The fog had dampened all sound except that of her keys as she pulled them out of her bag. She heard a car drive by, but nothing else. This might get her some cool pictures, though, and she thought about going back in for her camera before dismissing the idea. She didn't know how interesting photos of the Walmart parking lot might be. 
She turned left onto the highway, hoping her sense of direction served her well. Man, the visibility was terrible. Maybe she should just wait, but she really wanted some coffee. And she was already out. So she pulled out onto the highway, where it seemed she was alone in the world. Everyone else had better sense than her.
The deer came out of nowhere, and even as her heart leapt in her chest, she swerved.

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Leo Erickson pulled up in front of Bluestone Elementary School and sat for a moment, gripping the steering wheel and fighting the knot in his chest. Feeling anxious about seeing one’s own son was all kinds of wrong, but he hadn’t seen Max in almost two months, and from what Leo’s mom said, the boy was having issues.
Yeah, well, why wouldn’t he, after all the changes in his short life? But Leo was his father, though he didn’t much feel like one these days, so he came home from his assignment in Afghanistan to see what the problem was. Then he’d go back to the war and finish his story. It was too important to be left untold.
He opened the door of the SUV and approached the school with the same trepidation that he’d seen soldiers approach a bunker. The place was scary quiet, as though something dangerous lurked inside, just like a bunker.
Then the bell rang, like a bomb going off. His heart threatened to jump through his ribs. The glass doors flew open and children of all sizes streamed out, the very few teachers calling ineffectively to those who veered off in search of freedom. How could so few adults be expected to control so many children?
An impact against his knees made him grunt and he looked down into the wide dark eyes of a little girl, her black hair parted exactly in the center of her head and braided to her shoulders. She stared up at him, pink Dora backpack slung over her shoulder, and shoved her thumb into her mouth. No telling how long they stood there before a woman—her mother—hurried over to scoop her out of the way, casting a wary glance at Leo.
Right. Small town. Stranger. Never mind that he’d lived here from sixth grade until he could get the hell out. No one remembered him. And though he’d hated living in a small town, he wanted that protective atmosphere for his child.
Who he didn’t see, anywhere.
“Whose Toyota is this?” an annoyed voice called from behind him.
He turned to see a beautiful blue-eyed blonde standing at the fender of his rental. “Mine.”
She huffed out a breath. “Sir, you can’t park here. You’re backing up traffic. Don’t you see the arrows?”
His face heated. He had seen the arrows but thought he’d be long gone before the traffic started to flow. His first time with the after-school business. Livvie had dealt with that, then the stream of nannies had taken over, then his parents. He’d just thought…
“Where should I go?”
“There’s plenty of parking across the street.” She pointed to the supermarket parking lot.
He turned toward the thinning stream of kids emerging from the school. Where was Max? “My son should be out any minute.” He tried his charming smile, so rusty it had to be more of a grimace.
She wasn’t charmed, just folded her arms under her full breasts and waited. Behind her, several cars took up her cause by honking. At him. Well, hell.
With another glance at the school, he turned to the rental, tugging the keys from his front pocket. “Sorry,” he muttered to the blonde as he climbed in and started the vehicle, doing his best not to peel out as he left the place.
By the time he parked—plenty of space his ass—and jogged across the street to the school, most of the kids and traffic had gone. Some older kids milled around, and one smaller one, bent double, sobs racking his body as the blonde woman crouched before him, her hair tucked behind her ear as she tried to comfort him.
Christ. He hadn’t thought—the day Liv died, Max had been left at school, with no one to pick him up for hours. His son had to think something had happened again to turn his life upside down.
“Max! Max, I’m here.” Leo increased his speed and dropped to his knees beside his son, putting his hand on his arm. The boy’s flinch surprised Leo into drawing back. “Hey, buddy. Hey. I’m here.” Helplessly he let his hand fall to his lap as he watched the blonde cradle his distraught son in her arms.
“I…want…my…grandma.”
Leo’s gut tightened at the boy’s refusal to even acknowledge him. He’d thought his mother had been exaggerating, but maybe not. “Okay. Okay. I’ll take you to Grandma’s. We just thought it might be fun if I surprised you.” Actually his mom hadn’t thought that was such a great plan, but Leo hadn’t gotten where he was without being stubborn—in his career and in his life. Look what it got him, a son who wouldn’t look at him, who clung to a stranger instead. Leo’s arms ached with the need to comfort his son.
“Are you his father?” the blonde asked.
He shifted his gaze to the woman. “Yeah. I’ve been out of town. Are you his teacher?”
“The school counselor.”
Right. So she knew Max, who lost his mother and moved to a new town so his father could report on the war in Afghanistan. He watched his son, nonplussed. The kid had loved visiting his grandparents, so Bluestone seemed like the perfect solution when the string of nannies didn’t work out. But the kid before him didn’t look like he was bouncing back from the loss of his mother. He was pale and fragile, almost unrecognizable. Did the boy think the same about him?
“Max, your daddy wanted to surprise you.” The blonde’s smooth, soothing voice even had Leo relaxing.
She rubbed her hand up and down Max’s slender back and made gentle shushing noises, just like Liv had done when Max was little and had colic. Christ, he missed his wife, missed that he hadn’t had to feel guilty when she was around because she took care of everything. Missed that he hadn’t had to feel helpless.
“He came all this way to see you,” the blonde continued.
Her words gave him a jolt. Did she know where he’d been? Probably, since this was Bluestone where everyone knew everyone else.
Max turned his face away from her shoulder with a doubtful sniff as he inspected his father—and no doubt found him lacking. Leo forced another smile. This was his kid and he didn’t know what to say.
“I’ve missed you, buddy.”
Max snuffled and pulled away, just a bit, from the counselor. Leo held out an ineffective hand, knowing the boy wouldn’t take it.
“Want to go home?”
For a moment, the boy’s face brightened and Leo knew he’d said exactly the wrong thing when the boy echoed, “Home?”
“Grandma’s.” Not the beautiful house in Excelsior with the playroom and the neighborhood where his friends lived and the mother who loved him more than anything. “Grandma’s house.” The words lumped in his throat. He wanted to go home, too, to the time before his wife had been killed, when the light that had warmed both his son and him had been extinguished.
The blonde murmured a few encouraging words Leo didn’t pick up over the roar of blood in his ears, and Max finally straightened to stand before his father. Leo flinched at the accusation in his son’s eyes. He rubbed a hand over Max’s arm.
“Wow, you’ve gotten big,” he said in what he hoped was a man-to-man voice. “What are you lifting these days?”
Max only looked at him, and again, Leo felt helplessness flow through him.
“How about some ice cream on the way home?” He glanced over at the counselor. “Is the Dairy Queen open yet?”
She nodded. “Just last week.”
Leo stood and offered a hand to his son. “Let’s go ruin our dinner.”
The blonde rose, too. “Will you be in town long? I’d like to schedule a conference with you and Max’s teacher.”
“I’ll be here awhile,” he said, not wanting to let Max know he only planned to stay a couple of weeks, until things settled again. “I’m Leo, by the way.”
“Trinity Madison,” she said, and extended a hand.
He shook it, briefly, trying not to think about the softness of her skin, the ringless state of it, and he turned to guide his son across the street to his SUV.
Now that he and Max were alone, he was even more clueless. He’d talked to Max on the phone a few times while he was in Afghanistan, but the conversations had been short. The kid apparently followed in his own footsteps when it came to social interaction.
“Have you been to Dairy Queen yet?” he asked as he buckled the boy in the booster in the back seat.
Max shook his head. “Grandma said too much sugar isn’t good for me.”
Leo remembered her saying the same to him, but weren’t grandparents supposed to spoil kids, just a little? And if any kid deserved spoiling, it was one who’d lost his mother. “Yeah, well, it’s not good for any of us, but we’re going to go anyway.”
He closed the back door and rounded the vehicle to climb in, trying to remember what his mother used to do when she picked him up from school. “How was your day?”
“I got a mark.”
A mark? What the hell was a mark? “What does that mean?”
“I couldn’t sit still in class and the teacher yelled and then she gave me a mark in my behavior folder.”
Okay, so he got in trouble. “So what does that mean? Did you miss recess or something?”
“Tomorrow I have to stand against the wall at our break.”
“Well, buddy, I guess you need to stay in your seat so you can play on Friday.”
“Doesn’t matter. No one plays with me anyway.”
His mother had mentioned Max didn’t have any friends, but Leo figured it was just a matter of time. Clearly that wasn’t the case. “Well, that sucks.”
“Grandma says that’s a bad word.”
Leo pressed his lips together. “Yeah, she’s right. Sorry, buddy. So why doesn’t anyone play with you?”
“They think I’m weird. And they’ve all been friends before. They don’t need me.”
Again Leo heard the accusation in the boy’s voice. Man, he’d really screwed this up, moving Max away from the world he’d known so Leo could get back to his life. Worse, he didn’t have the first clue about how to make it better.
* * *
Ice cream apparently wasn’t the way. Max ordered a dipped cone and dripped it all over the booster seat, then the minute they pulled into the driveway at his parents’, Max puked all over the running board. Leo’s mom Nora must have been watching from the front window because she hurried out from the side door, helping Max out of his soiled shoes and casting a baleful glare at her son.
“Ice cream?”
Like Leo needed to be judged right now. “He was upset. I was trying to smooth things over.”
“You did a bang-up job there. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” She scooped Max into her arms—the kid was nearly as tall as she was—and marched into the house, leaving Leo alone, his arms still aching to hold his child. Instead, he turned on the hose and washed the ice cream off his car.
When he walked into the kitchen later, Max was at the same counter where Leo had done his homework years ago, freshly bathed, the scent of the shampoo his mother had used since Leo was a child carrying him back. He wanted to press his lips to his son’s head, something he’d done when Max was little but now just felt awkward. Instead he leaned on the counter at a right angle to the boy.
“Where’s your homework?”
“We do it right after dinner,” Nora answered. “We have a routine, Leo.”
Frustration bubbled, but he tamped it down. His mother had called him to come home, but now wouldn’t make room for him.
He turned to his son, drawing on the depths of his patience. “Do you have a lot of homework? What’s it in?”
“Wednesdays are spelling,” Nora said. “Twenty sentences.”
Tension gripped his shoulders as he fought bitter words. He was trying to engage his son in a conversation, and his mother was interfering. But how could he fault her, when he’d asked her to do that very thing so he could continue his career, knowing Max was in good hands?
And he was in good hands. But that no longer seemed enough.
He sat on the stool beside Max. “Why don’t you drag out that homework and we’ll get it knocked out before dinner?”
“We do it after dinner,” Max said, parroting his grandmother.
“Yeah, well, if we get this done, we can play some ball before bed.”
“He’s already had his bath,” Nora protested, turning away from the stove.
“So he can have another one.”
“I don’t like to play ball. Or take baths.”
Leo laughed, something he couldn’t have imagined doing just an hour ago, and he reached out to ruffle his son’s hair. Max flinched.
Leo folded his hand and let it fall to his lap. “Right. Well, let’s get going on that homework. Twenty sentences seems like a lot.”
* * *
He’d had no idea how much of a struggle it was to get ten sentences out of a kid who didn’t want to talk but that was all they managed before his mother instructed Max to set the table for dinner. His mother sent Leo a chiding look when Max went into the dining room.
“He needs things a certain way, Leo. There’s security in our routine. You can’t just come in here and change it.”
“I’m his father.”
“You trusted me to do what’s right for him. So I am.”
Leo rocked back on his heels. He wasn’t willing to admit that he had no idea what was right for his son, only that he wanted to be the one to call the shots. He could almost hear Livvie chiding him, telling him he couldn’t have it both ways—couldn’t have his freedom to do his job and be in charge here, too. He’d made a choice and clearly it was the wrong one. He’d known it at the time, but God help him, he couldn’t bring himself to stay. He needed the job, the way it absorbed him.
And abandoned his kid.
“Is it that he misses her, do you think?”
“Misses her, misses you, misses home. Everything’s changed for him, Leo, against his will. He has no control over his life and it makes him angry. Sound familiar?”
He heard the smile in her voice but wouldn’t meet her gaze. He’d been much the same way when his parents had moved him away from his friends in Milwaukee and planted him here. They’d grown roots. He couldn’t wait to blow away.
Instead of responding to her, he turned toward the dining room. “I’m going to see if he needs help.”
But Max was putting the finishing touches on the table when Leo entered. Max closed the sticking drawer on the breakfront with a grunt, and turned to his father.
“What are we drinking?” Leo picked up one of the cut-glass tumblers his mom had had since he was Max’s age.
“I drink soy milk. Grandma and Grandpa drink ice water. Grandma bought your beer. She said it’s your favorite kind.”
Leo’s mouth watered at the idea of the beverage, but he wasn’t going to indulge before he tucked his son in bed. “I think I’ll have milk, too. Soy milk?”
“Grandma thinks I’m lactose intolerant.”
Leo lifted his eyebrows at the big words. But that would explain the reaction to the ice cream. “Is it any good?”
Max grimaced, drawing another chuckle from Leo. God, he should have spent more time with his kid and less time feeling sorry for himself. Max could have helped him climb out of his grief. They could have helped each other heal. Was that an irredeemable failing?
The milk was nasty, but the meal was good. Leo hadn’t had a home-cooked meal since he’d dropped Max off here two—no, almost three—months ago. The boy had been quiet, but Leo hadn’t wanted to see it, had only wanted to get out of there, get on with his life. He hadn’t seen any other choice, though. He had to work, and Max always loved visiting his grandparents. It had seemed like the perfect solution.
Wrong again.
So he drank the milk in solidarity with his son, and after dinner helped his mother clean up while Max finished the last ten sentences in half the time it took to do the first ten.
“Grandma said my brain needs fuel to do my work,” he said when Leo questioned him.
Leo scanned the sentences, good ones, and read one that caused his gut to clench.
My dad has returned but how long will he remain?
He looked up and saw the question in the boy’s eyes, but couldn’t bring himself to address it. Not long. He had a job to finish, and another after that, and another. And when he came back, how much taller would Max be? How much angrier? “Let’s go play some ball. You have a ball and mitt?”
Max shook his head. “I don’t like to play ball.”
Yet another failing. Leo’s great remaining love was baseball. He’d never shared that with his son. “How do you know if you haven’t tried?”
“I’ve tried. I don’t like it.”
Leo glanced at his mother, who gave a slight shake of her head. Right. He was pushing. “So what do you like?”
“Fishing.”
A smile pulled at Leo’s mouth. “Fishing. With Grandpa?”
“We go every Saturday morning. He has a boat.”
Oh, Leo knew about the boat. Leo hated that boat, that he’d been forced to help his father rebuild, that he’d sat on many resented Saturday mornings. But he’d been a sullen teenager who didn’t know how to sit still. Apparently his son was better at that, except when it came to class.
“Maybe I can join you this Saturday?”
Max made a face. “Grandpa said you don’t like it.”
“Maybe if I tried it now I’d like it better.”
Max frowned doubtfully.
“There’s no time now anyway,” his mother said, stripping off her rubber gloves. Funny, in their whole marriage, Livvie had never used rubber gloves. Her hands had still been silky smooth the day she died. “Max’s favorite show is on in a few minutes.”
“His favorite show?” Leo repeated, looking out the big kitchen window at the gorgeous day. His parents had never been TV watchers when he was growing up. Most of the time after dinner he was damn near shoved out the door. Of course he had a lot more energy than Max. “Nah, come on, Max, let’s go for a walk down to the lake. You can show me Grandpa’s boat.”
“I want to watch my show.”
Leo opened his mouth to push his idea, but a shake of his mother’s head had him closing it again. He didn’t want to fight with his kid his first night here. So he followed him into the living room, where the curtains had been drawn against the bright evening, and sat on the couch with his mother while Max hunkered on the floor in front of the TV and watched a hideously-drawn cartoon with glazed eyes.
Leo scrubbed his hand over his mouth, feeling impotent. His kid, yes, but he’d delivered him to his parents hoping the sense of family would pull the boy through his grief. Clearly that wasn’t happening. And now Leo felt like an interloper with his own son.
“Time for bed,” his mother announced when the program ended, rising from her end of the couch.
Sunlight still streamed around the edges of the closed curtains, and Leo braced himself for Max’s protests, but none came.
“I’ll get him to bed,” Leo said, holding a hand out to stop his mother.
She cast a questioning glance at Max, and Leo figured he’d have another argument, but Max just headed toward the stairs. Leo thought about saying something to his mother, but instead followed his son.
Max stepped into the bathroom and closed the door in Leo’s face. Uncertain what to do, Leo wandered into his old room, which his mother had redone after he left and which Max now occupied, and looked around.
Max had lived here two months and the room showed very little evidence of it. Granted, Liv had decorated his room at home, but there had been little boy stuff scattered around—action figures, a bicycle helmet, Legos, discarded clothes. He’d had a corkboard with drawings he’d made of superheroes and Godzilla, all pretty good for an eight-year-old.
But here, there were no toys, and only a few books. His school backpack sat by the door on one side, and the suitcase he’d used to bring his clothes up here sat by the door on the other side.
Like he was ready to leave at the first moment’s notice. Leo closed his fingers into a fist. He had to talk to the kid—Max was staying in Bluestone. Leo was here to help him settle in, not to move him back to Excelsior.
Max appeared in the doorway, dressed in dark pajamas, his expression solemn. Leo realized he was between his son and the bed and stepped back. He remembered then that Livvie would always read to Max at bedtime, but he didn’t see any books in the room.
“Do you, ah, want a bedtime story?”
“Dad.” Max’s tone was exasperated. “I’m too old for that.”
“Well, yeah, for picture books and stuff like that. I mean, you can read to yourself, right?” Did Max like to read? Leo had no idea. “But I can tell you a story.”
Max angled his head, then moved past his father to the bed. “About Afghanistan?”
Leo tried to think of a story that wouldn’t give the boy nightmares. Hell, Leo had nightmares about the constant shelling and danger there. “Sure. I’m stationed with some funny guys there.” He tucked the sheet and bedspread over his son and sat at the edge of the bed. “We stay in a bunker most of the time, and it can get pretty boring, so they’ve rigged up some games.”
“Like video games?”
“Nah, that’s too tame for these guys. One time the sergeant was sleeping, and his men rearranged the whole bunker into an obstacle course, so that when the man got out of bed, he had to climb over their stacked bunks, belly crawl under a tent made of sheets and wiggle through boxes, just to get to the can.”
Max’s eyes widened. “Did he do it?”
Leo shrugged. “He didn’t have a choice if he had to go, you know?”
“What else do they do?”
Leo shared a couple more of their innovations born of boredom, his heart feeling lighter at bringing his son into his world, even if only to the safe part. Then he glanced toward the window, saw the sun had set, and patted the boy’s leg. “Better get to sleep. I’ll take you to school tomorrow, okay?”
For some reason, those words shut Max down. “Okay,” the boy muttered, dragging the blankets up to his ear and turning toward the window.
What had Leo said wrong?

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Maddy Saunders studied the brochure as she waited for the ferry to McDavid Island, off the South Carolina coast. The cheap tri-fold on bad paper with bright colors fit a water park better than a haunted tour. The tiny yellow font recounting the history of the island, founded by a family exiled from their colony three hundred years ago because their eldest daughter was accused of being a witch, was giving her a headache, so she folded the brochure and leaned her head against the headrest. Honestly, the guy who ran this operation needed a course in marketing.
Although somehow, her magazine’s new owner had gotten the information. But why had he sent her to write a story about a ghost tour?
She cracked the window of her rented car and the sea breeze rushed in, carrying the scent of fish and diesel fuel, nothing like the scents on the Riviera, where she’d researched her last story.
For years she’d toyed with the idea of leaving "Extravagant,” the luxury travel magazine specializing in getaways for the rich and famous, that her family had owned for the past two decades. After all, she’d gone to NYU with the idea of a much loftier goal, news journalism. She’d been editor of the Washington Square News but had turned down two offers from major papers out of obligation to her family.
Then they sold the magazine without telling her, and "Extravagant" was now "Adventure," an adventure tours magazine.
And she was out here to hunt ghosts.
She toyed with her charm bracelet, lifting her newest charm for closer inspection. She loved the Celtic design with the swirling lines the moment she’d seen it in the display case at her friend Annie’s antique store back in St. Augustine. But when she’d looked at the tag and noticed it was originally from McDavid Island, she had to have it. Usually, she rewarded herself with a new charm when she’d completed a story, but this had been too perfect. Since Annie was having a going-out-of-business sale, Maddy feared the charm might not be here when she got back, so she snatched it up, and at a good price, too.
Maybe finding the charm was a good omen, and this assignment wouldn’t be as bad as she thought.
* * *
Once she arrived on the island, she was pleased to find the picturesque, little town with its sturdy old brick buildings and covered sidewalks lined with flowers quivering in the breeze. The people here had gone to some trouble to turn their homes into a tourist town. But she had to set that angle aside. It wouldn’t suit the magazine’s new platform.
Sally’s diner on Main Street was the meeting place for the tour. When Maddy walked into the glass-fronted building, accompanied by the jangle of bells overhead, several expectant faces turned in her direction.
These folks, in jeans, athletic shoes and ill- fitting t-shirts, looked more like people she’d find on a budget cruise. Three couples sat at two round tables that had been pulled haphazardly together, Coffee cups and many empty sugar and cream packets were scattered in front of them. Three girls, maybe in their early twenties, sat at a booth nearby with half-empty plastic, amber glasses of water in front of them. They wore what her friend, Diane, would call Skank Chic, the low-slung jeans and midriff blouses, displaying their amazing bodies. They looked like they should be strutting their stuff in the big city, not following a ghost tour.
Feeling out of place—odd, since she usually traveled alone—she nodded a greeting and moved to the counter. Eying the menu above the pass-through window, she could feel her hips widen as she read the list of fried foods. Wasn’t seafood meant to be healthy?
The bells above the door jangled again. Maddy turned to see two young men walk in. The first was heavy-set, with curling hair that hung to his shoulders and sideburns that reached his jaw. He wore an Army surplus jacket over a t-shirt that proclaimed McDavid Island was for lovers.
The second man was taller. His broad shoulders filled out a plain blue t-shirt and jean jacket. His dark blond hair cropped close around his ears was longer on top and fashionably mussed, accenting his strong-jaw and high cheek-bones. His swagger as he walked toward the joined tables reminded her of Elvis.
Uh-huh. The presence of the girls made perfect sense now. Maddy watched them titter. Could they have less pride? Elvis angled his head and grinned.
“Welcome back, ladies,” he drawled. “Didn’t we scare you off last time?”
The boldest winked. “Hey, Mal. You have to try harder this time.”
Oh, for... Maddy didn’t roll her eyes, but she wanted to. Ghost hunter groupies. She was in hell.
He stepped back, squaring his shoulders. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m Mal Sheridan, this is my partner, Justin Stromberg.” He swung a hand in the larger man’s direction. “Welcome to our haunted tour of McDavid Island. It’s good to see so many of you. I hope we live up to your expectations.” He clapped his hands together. “We’ll begin the tour at the house that used to belong to the McDavids themselves. It’s not the original building, where Elizabeth was supposed to have practiced her witchcraft, but the home of their more recent descendants. After that, we’ll call it a night—or, actually, a day—and sleep at the inn, which was once the governor’s mansion. We’ll tour that tomorrow night. Then the third night we’ll be visiting the most haunted place on the island, the old lighthouse. We’ll see how long you can hold out. No one in our last tour made it through the night.” His hazel eyes glinted and the corner of his mouth quirked.
Excited murmurs rolled around Maddy like the sea breeze. She tamped down her own little thrill. It was ridiculous to get excited over flickering lights and, what...drafts?
When the others bent to gather their belongings, Maddy stood. Apparently, her movement attracted Mal’s attention because he turned and skewered her with his gaze.
“You must be the reporter from the magazine.” He crossed to her, hand extended, eyes crinkled in an attempt to charm.
“‘Adventure’, yes.” She still couldn’t say the name without choking.
He eased back to give her one of those once- overs she hated, the ones that always made her feel objectified. The flick of his eyebrows—approval or disdain, she couldn’t tell, and shouldn’t care—didn’t dispel the feeling.
“You don’t look very adventurous.”
“You don’t look very entrepreneurial,” she shot back, surprising herself. There was a reason she was a writer—she did not think on her feet.
Just for a moment, the smirk melted to a genuine smile. He moved away, not taking his eyes off her until he was standing in front of the whole group, who turned to give him attention even though he didn’t call for it.
“We’ll go on down to the McDavid House now, get settled in, get something to eat, and make sure we keep our minds open.”
He looked straight at Maddy when he said it.
What a waste, really, a good looking guy like that, all strong jawed and buff but believing in spooks. Or at least capitalizing on other people’s beliefs in spooks.
“So get what you need out of your vehicles and meet us back on the sidewalk. It’s a lovely day and the house isn’t far.” He turned toward the door. Behind Maddy, chairs scraped as people scrambled after him. He was definitely a con man. So why was this assignment suddenly looking up?
She retrieved the supplies the brochure had told her to bring: a camp chair, snacks, and bottled water, among other necessities.
Mal Sheridan hung back from the rest, waiting for her. She hefted her messenger bag over her shoulder, engaged the car alarm, and crossed the street to join the others, with Mal following closely behind her.
The house was a block down and around a corner lined with other buildings made to look historic. This one was a three story Federal style brick home. A plaque from the historical society was prominently placed near the front door. Maddy’s pulse jolted to see a symbol on the plaque matching the charm she’d bought from Annie. She hadn’t expected to see it displayed, and just as she opened her mouth to ask about it, Mal launched into his spiel.
“This house was built when the island was settled in 1813,” he said. “It housed the descendants of the founding family, the McDavids. Third generation, I think, and they built this house on the spot where the original family settled. The McDavids who built this house had a number of kids—five, I think—they all grew up here, married, and moved back to this house with their spouses. Kind of like that old show ‘Dallas’.”
Chuckles rippled through his audience as they hung on his every word.
“Imagine living that close to every member of your family every day, every week, every month, every year. Some of us barely make it through Thanksgiving dinner.”
More appreciative laughs. Maddy felt a smile tug at her own lips. No lie.
“Finally, one of them snapped from dealing with all of that togetherness. The husband of the middle daughter got in an argument with the husband of the eldest daughter. No one knows what it was about, but speculation ran through the town like wildfire after the event, ranging from love affairs to someone taking more than their share for breakfast. The younger man was a known hot head, had been in trouble before his marriage, and was in love with another girl from town. Some say he’d been forced to marry the McDavid girl after compromising her. Whatever the case, the living arrangements became too restrictive, and he lost his mind.”
Mal paused, looked around.
“He had a shotgun, a Henry, and he took it downstairs into the parlor after the children went to bed.” He gestured to the house behind him. “And he killed the whole family, with the exception of one.”
Silence. No one was even breathing. The man was a master storyteller.
“Who escaped?” asked one of the women, shod in athletic footwear, a hoodie and cargo pants.
“His own wife escaped through the back window.”
“He meant to kill her, too?” the woman’s husband asked.
“As far as we can tell, he meant to kill everyone. The only thing he seemed to do with any foresight was to wait until the children were in bed.”
Not silence this time, but quiet murmurs.
“We will be spending the night.” He paused for effect, as if expecting lightning to flash to accentuate his words. “In the parlor.”
“Where they died?” one of the girls squeaked.
He nodded solemnly, but Maddy didn’t miss the playful glint in his eye. “That’s our best chance of seeing any activity.” He pivoted on his heel and gestured with a swing of his hand toward the door. “Shall we?”
Maddy followed the others into the pristine mansion with gleaming wood floors, white walls, high ceilings, and a curving staircase. She’d expected to see furnishings from the period when the house was occupied. Instead, it was completely empty. Perhaps a precaution on behalf of the historical society before they allowed strangers in to spend the night.
“You want to set your stuff down here in the hallway before we take the tour?” Mal asked, motioning to a stretch of wall in front of closed double doors.
But he didn’t open the doors. Maddy noticed Justin had disappeared. Where had he gone, and what was he up to? Was he in the parlor ready to jump out at them? The others didn’t appear to have the same suspicions as they followed Mal through the kitchen, dining room, and then upstairs to the empty bedrooms. Several of the tourists took photographs without flashes, then immediately studied their view screens.
Her curiosity got the better of her, and she looked over the shoulder at the short brunette’s camera. “What is it you’re looking for?”
“Orbs,” the girl muttered, inspecting her screen. “What are orbs?”
Now she was the one on the spot as everyone
turned to her. Her shoulders tightened defensively. “You’ve never heard of orbs and cold spots?” another one of the girls, the tall blonde, asked incredulously. “Mal, can you believe that?” She turned back to Maddy. “What are you doing here anyway?”
“She’s doing a magazine article,” Mal spoke up, feet parted, palms together, and a playful glint in his eyes. “Perhaps we can educate her. Who would like to explain?”
“Oh, me.” The blonde stepped forward like a star pupil.
“By all means, Joyce.” Mal gestured her to go ahead with a sweep of his hand then folded his arms. “Orbs are balls of energy,” Joyce said, mirroring Mal’s stance. “People believe they’re the spirits. Did you see ‘Haunted Mansion’ with Eddie Murphy?” 
“Did anyone?” she asked, still defensive.
Joyce’s lips twitched in amusement, and Maddy relaxed a little. So did Joyce, who moved ahead in full teacher mode. “Okay, how about ‘Poltergeist’? The scene where the lights are coming down the stairs? Those were orbs. Only in real life, they’re not so grand. Just about the size of a ping pong ball most of the time.”
She sounded so matter of fact. “You’ve seen them,” Maddy observed. The girl seemed to really believe. She may not just be here because of Mal.
Joyce nodded, eyes bright. “On the last trip, we got several photographs of a particularly bright orb. I wish we’d thought to bring it.” She glanced over at one of her friends.
“I get glowing dots on my pictures all the time, especially when the light isn’t good,” Maddy said. “I’ve been told it’s just dust specks catching the light from the flash.”
Joyce’s expression tightened. “If you choose to believe that I can’t convince you otherwise, not without my pictures. But if you don’t have an open mind, how can you write an effective story?”
Maddy glanced toward Mal, who lifted a she- said-it-I-didn’t eyebrow before pushing himself away from the wall and moving toward the door.
“We don’t know if we’ll see anything tonight. Most likely we’ll hear something. That’s what’s happened on previous tours. But not if we stand around talking all night.” He herded the group together and out of the room.
Maddy couldn’t repress the feeling that he was guiding their expectations as they traipsed down to the parlor. She knew all about being manipulated, and in order to pull off this tour time and again, this guy had to be a pro.
The doors of the parlor were open now, and candles lit the room, some on the mantel, some on iron stands. More lined the circle drawn with chalk in the center of the room. Justin was on his knees in the center of the circle, drawing lines with chalk on the wood floor, using sure strokes. Maddy glanced about, but no one seemed concerned at the desecration. Maddy watched as the lines intersected into a five-point star.
A pentagram.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” she asked, surprised by the alarm running through her.
He sat back on his heels. “A pentagram isn’t demonic,” he said wearily as if he’d explained it several times before. “It’s protective.”
“You think evil spirits will try to come?”
“They’re always looking for ways,” he muttered, sketching symbols within each point of the star.
He sounded deadly serious, unlike Mal. Like he really believed in this.
“Have you ever encountered one?”
“Yup.”
Okay, he didn’t have Mal’s charm, but his matter-of-factness was compelling.
“Can you tell me about it?”
He dragged his duffel over, passed it to her, open to reveal more white candles. “Start lighting these. Set them in the center of the pentagram.”
“Justin? The evil spirits?” she prodded.
“Leaves you feeling dirty,” he said when she touched the lighter to the first candle. “Slimy inside, and it’s hard to shake.”
She froze, flame flickering inches from her fingers, before she moved to the next candle. “You mean they come into you? Are you like a medium?”
He grunted, his attention on the pentagram. “No, but you get this energy from them. Bad energy. And it’s like poison, gets into you. Trust me, you don’t want it.”
“Where did you experience this?”
“In an abandoned prison in Boston. Again, in a house in Connecticut.” He rubbed the back of his neck, as if he could still feel it. “Apparently, a pedophile lived there. Killed his victims there.”
“But you don’t get those feelings here?”
He shook his head.
“Why not? A mass murder took place here.”
He lifted a shoulder to wipe at a bead of sweat trickling down from his hairline. “I don’t know why.” “How long have you and Mal been doing this?”
“The tours? A little over a year. But we’ve been interested in the paranormal for years. His sister—” 
“We’re taking advantage of popular interest,” Mal said, moving closer and crouching, careful not to scuff the chalk drawing. “Hand me a couple of those candles, would you, Maddy?”
She handed them to him but kept her attention on Justin, even though she sensed him withdrawing with Mal’s presence. Had Mal moved closer on purpose? Was he afraid Justin would give some of his secrets away?
“What made you interested in the paranormal?” she asked Justin, ignoring Mal. “Did you have an experience?”
“Oh, you know,” Mal said, “some kids are into dinosaurs, some kids into sports, some into video games. We were into ghosts.”
“So, you grew up together? Here on the island?” “Since middle school,” Mal replied.
“Have you ever been to Gettysburg?” the man, who’d been introduced as Mick, asked. “I swear, we had some serious chills when we went out there.”
Mal sat on his heels. Maddy watched his expression change, relax, as he went into man-to- man mode.
So sexy, watching men relate to each other. Not that Mal was hard to look at in any case. And what was she doing letting her thoughts go there?
“What happened?” he asked Mick.
“Oh, we didn’t see anything, but the emotions were so powerful. We knew we weren’t alone. And those boys are so sad. I’ll never forget it. I left there with memories that weren’t my own. You definitely need to go, see what you feel.”
“Sounds awesome. We’ll have to check it out.” He motioned for Maddy to place a candle at a spot beyond his reach.
“So, since middle school?” she redirected. “Were you born here or was Justin?”
“Neither. Justin moved from Maryland, and I moved from Texas.”
“I thought that was a Texas accent. Not many ghosts there?”
“Enough. More here, though. So, do you want to interview me?”
She sat back and folded her arms, aware of the defensive stance, but too late to undo without drawing his attention. “Why would I want to do that?”
“For your article.”
“It’s not about you. It’s about the tour.”
“But how good is your article going to be if you don’t believe?” He rose and held a hand out to help her to her feet.
She hesitated, then took it, releasing it the moment she got to her feet to brush off her butt. “And you’re going to try to change my mind with an interview?”
He lifted a hand in concession of the unlikelihood of that. “Maybe just enlighten you a bit.”
“Won’t the tour do that for me?”
“Depends on how active the spirits are.” He walked toward the parlor doors where they’d left their things. Unerringly, he picked up hers and handed them to her.
She opened her mouth to ask how he knew, but the smug expression on his face told her he wanted her to ask, to notice that he’d noticed. So she kept to the topic as she hefted her camp chair over her shoulder. “I suppose it would be rough running a business where you can’t predict outcomes.”
He led the way to a spot by the fireplace with his own gear. “Can you in any business?” He set up his chair with a single shake and placed it in front of the fireplace.
It was Maddy’s turn to concede. “Seems a risky venture.”
He flashed a smile, all white teeth and crinkled eyes, and motioned her to sit beside him. “The only kind worth taking.”

Read A Ghostly Charm, available at all retailers!

So this was Gabe Cooper.
Peyton Michaels stood at the edge of the group in front of the mess tent to watch the legendary firefighter step up to brief his crew.
Stories about Gabe Cooper and the Bear Claws, the best Hot Shot crew in Montana, had abounded during Peyton’s training to become a wildland firefighter. Most of the stories had been cautionary tales from the instructors, but even some of the trainees had heard about this crew. And when Peyton had been assigned to the Bear Claws, well, nervousness didn’t touch her jitters. Cooper didn’t take rookies, and he didn’t take to reporters. She was both, and would have to work hard to prove herself.
Was she ready?
Scratching her arm beneath the brand-new itchy Nomex shirt, she turned her attention back to the crew leader.
Movie-star handsome, with a long jaw, lean cheeks, deep-set brown eyes framed by long lashes and broad shoulders hugged by a black T-shirt. She’d forgotten how the sight of a handsome, confident man could kick up her pulse.
Cooper’s posture defined self-assurance. The lines that fanned from his eyes and the silver flecking his brutally short hair spoke of his years of experience. His tires-over-gravel voice conveyed his weariness, though it was only July, not quite the middle of the fire season.
The topographical maps on the bulletin board behind him were veined with different colored lines, and Cooper had marked their route in black Sharpie. He traced over it for emphasis, his hand square but oddly graceful as he dragged his finger down the line. The path appeared pretty darn straight, and with all the brush and gullies and boulders, that couldn’t be the easiest way.
Part of his legend was that he didn’t do things the easy way.
Peyton scanned his crew, most of whom cast curious glances in her direction. She could learn a lot about the man by his crew.
A young redheaded woman stood at his shoulder and faced the rest, arms folded, a white bandage on one hand. She wasn’t quite one of them, but also wasn’t in charge. Every time the young woman glanced at Cooper, admiration glowed in her eyes. Cooper didn’t appear to notice. Perhaps he was accustomed to it.
Peyton was a little surprised to see almost a third of the crew were women. Five women besides the redhead, all mid-twenties, not unattractive, proved he had nothing against women.
The men who rounded out the crew ranged from farm boys to rock-band rejects, teenagers to men near her age, some with tattoos and earrings and others with wire-rimmed glasses. All gave Cooper their full attention. He was without question the stuff legends were made of.
Peyton had had her fill of mythical creatures.
“Any questions?” Cooper asked, directing the question at her, sending her nerves skittering. When none were forthcoming, he dismissed them to get their gear, and moved straight toward her.
The skittering nerves started a mambo, and it took everything in her not to step back. The rest of the crew moved slowly as they gathered their gear, watching Cooper.
Not taking her eyes from him, she reached down and hefted her pack onto one shoulder. “There’s been a mistake.” He flicked his gaze to the freshly stenciled name on the pocket of her fire shirt. “Michaels.” His tone had softened a bit from when he was addressing his crew, but still had a take-no-crap edge to it. “I don’t take rookies on my crew.”
She straightened. “I’m not. I mean, I am. A rookie. But I’m Peyton Michaels from Up to the Minute magazine. I’ve been assigned to your crew.”
A reporter. Gabe scowled. That explained everything but the fire shirt that bore no crew insignia. Maybe she’d borrowed it to get into camp. What the hell was she talking about, though, assigned to his crew? He glanced toward the media tent. “I beg your pardon?”
His harsh tone made her draw back, but only a little. “I’m going out with the Bear Claw Hot Shots. Jen Sheridan said you were the best.”
Jen Sheridan. The name kicked him in the chest.
He studied the reporter in front of him. Her elegant features, slender nose, high cheekbones, pale skin, hinted at a privileged upbringing. Her cleanliness pegged her as a rookie. The odd thing was, she was no young girl. Her sharp eyes, the slight creases near them and also around her mouth, made him think she was in her thirties. What kind of job did she think she was walking into?
“The last thing I need is some reporter following me all over the mountain asking stupid questions and getting in the way,” he said.
“I assure you, I’ve done my research and gone through the necessary training.”
“I assure you, I could give less than a damn,” he drawled. “I’m here to get a job done, and I don’t intend to let anyone slow me down.”
“I’m here to get a job done as well,” Peyton said, shifting her pack. “I have my fire card. I can pull my weight.”
He expelled a doubtful snort. “Pulling your weight on my crew isn’t the same as making it through the Forest Service’s sorry course. The Bear Claw Hot Shots are the best of the best, and they’re that way because I don’t tolerate slackers.”
She rolled her shoulders back and lifted her face. “I can understand being the best. That’s what I want, and that’s why I wanted you.”
He took a step closer, dragged his gaze over her. A beautiful woman saying that to him shouldn’t raise his temper. “Ego stroking is not necessary.”
She didn’t move away and returned the inspection. “No, I can see that.” A smile quirked his lips at her boldness.
“Who assigned you to me? Jen?”
She blinked up at him. “Yes. Do you know her?”
Did he know her? When Kim had told him that Jen was IC on this fire, he’d considered asking to be sent to another fire. But to ask would be to admit defeat, to admit working for his ex was too difficult, that his feelings for her were too strong.
If he took the reporter without a fight, Jen would think he was avoiding her.
He gave the reporter—he had to think of her as that and not as the compact little blonde who glared up at him with big brown eyes—a last glance and turned toward the command tent.
Jen was alone in the tent, behind a folding table, her attention on the maps spread in front of her. She looked up at his approach, and her expectant expression froze, morphed into something bland, distant, like she didn’t know him. Way to hit a man right in the ego.
The past three years had been good to her. The healthy tan set off her streaky blonde hair. She appeared—softer, her face fuller. Damn.
“Gabe,” she said quietly, easing back in her chair. “I heard you were on your way out. Good to see you.”
To fight the stab of pain at the encounter, stronger than he’d expected, he slapped his hands on the scarred table between them and glowered down at her.
“Just how much do you hate me?”
Jen returned his gaze unblinkingly, long past being intimidated by him. Hell, why should he intimidate her now? She’d left him without a backwards glance, and here she was, incident commander, his boss on this fire. She’d hold that over him till he got out on the line.
She folded her arms over the maps in front of her and tilted her head back to meet his eyes. “I don’t hate you at all. What are you talking about?”
“The reporter,” he ground out.
“Ah.” She sat back, looking a hell of a lot more relaxed than he felt. “Ms. Michaels wanted the best and I’m giving her to you.”
Her choice of words gave him a moment’s pause, but only a moment. She didn’t hate him, but he’d spent the better part of a year hating her before shutting off all feelings completely. That they’d return now in full force had him reeling. He pulled himself back to the fight at hand.
“She’s a rookie.”
“You’ve taken on rookies before.”
“Not by choice.”
The way she regarded him carried him right back to the last days of their marriage, cold and condescending. “What makes you think you have a choice now?” 
“You’re putting my entire crew in jeopardy to get even with me.”
She blew out a breath and leaned forward again, not releasing his gaze, unwilling to give him that victory. “This has nothing to do with you. With us, anyway. It’s about which crew would benefit her the most.”
“To hell with fighting a fire.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Careful, Gabe. You’re sounding misogynistic. Peyton can do the job. And it won’t be the whole season, just for this fire. Her story’s on wildland firefighters. Once it’s done, she’s gone.”
“Great. As long as she’s invested in the job,” he said contemptuously.
“She’s trying to experience the job. It’s no big deal. There’s nothing scandalous coming out of this.”
He voiced his opinion of that in a few succinct words.
“Jesus, Gabe.”
“One shift, and then you find another crew for her.”
Jen inclined her head. “We can discuss it.” She turned back to her maps. “Is that all?”
Was it? What else could he say to the woman he hadn’t seen in three years? He couldn’t let her go without a parting shot. “Give Doug my best.”
The shocked expression on her face gave him a millisecond of pleasure before he shut that down as well. “You mean it?” Her voice was breathless with hope.
He wished he could be the type of man who would mean it, but he was a bastard. “No. He already got it.”
He pivoted and strode out of the tent.
Fire season was usually hell, but damn, what had he done to deserve this? Maybe this was God’s way of telling him it was time to get out of the Forest Service. Sure, great, but after punching line for twenty years there wasn’t another job he knew as well.
He swore he wouldn’t live in a city again, so being an EMT full time was out. The only way he could bear his time in Albuquerque now was knowing that once spring arrived he’d be back in the mountains. He’d be damned if he’d sit behind some desk in the Bureau of Land Management and send kids into situations out of his control. He was a Hot Shot till the end. Nothing would take him off the line.
So God could just keep on sending those messages. Gabe Cooper was sticking it out.
Peyton Michaels—what kind of name was Peyton, anyway?—sat smugly on a picnic table, waiting for him, her pack still over one shoulder, her ponytail over the other.
He jabbed a finger at her. “If I agree to this, it’s for one shift and one shift only. You do your job without question, understood?”
Those chocolaty eyes went wide. “Yes, sir.”
“I mean it, Michaels. My crew is the best for a reason, and I’d like to keep them in one piece. The way we work is they do what I tell them to do. Got it? And you call me ‘sir’ again, the issue is off the table.” He slashed his hand through the air for emphasis.
“Of course. Gabe.” She even said his name with a smile in her voice.
He lifted his eyebrow. She had guts. Hell, how could she have anything less, walking into a fire camp and asking to go on the line with the best crew? But as a reporter for Up to the Minute weekly news magazine, she knew something about being the best too.
“I meant the part about questions. I don’t give interviews.”
She angled her head in a way that made him feel like an idiot for saying it. “I wasn’t going to ask for one. This is a look-see assignment.”
He grunted. “You have gear?”
She nodded and he could practically feel the energy, the excitement rolling off her. Her body all but quivered with anticipation but her expression remained cool.
“Let’s go,” he said through his teeth, and ignored the little skip of triumph as she followed him to gather his own gear before they met his crew at the edge of the camp.
Peyton joined the middle of the disciplined single-file group. They headed out of camp on the dusty path curving up the mountain between rocks and shrubs. They’d be walking to a remote site. While the energy pulsed through her now, she hoped to maintain her strength up on the line.
As they got farther up the mountain, the unit shifted into bunches of three and four, and made their own path through the high grass and scrub, their excitement growing as they drew closer to the fire. Other crews had been this direction; someone had pounded down the grass before them.
Peyton turned her attention to the man who held such respect from the firefighting community, his crew, yet kept himself apart, plunging through the knee-deep brush alone.
His matter-of-fact, unapologetic manner reminded her of Dan. The recognition had hit her like a blow to her chest, bruising her heart and making breathing difficult. In her mind she saw her husband standing before the brass at his last debriefing, so handsome in his dress blues, so confident as he justified his SWAT team’s decision to invade that warehouse without a search warrant to stop the drug deal. If only he’d been reprimanded, had suffered some kind of consequence, maybe he’d still be alive. Instead, he’d been applauded, rewarded, and had returned to the job that killed him a year later.
Her “In the Line of Duty” articles had quickly gained recognition and popularity. She’d gone from Coast Guard rescue cruisers to EMT crews stationed in bad neighborhoods to this mountain. But still, nothing she’d written so far had shed any light on what the job fulfilled in Dan that life hadn’t.
The story on Cooper was a departure. Her other articles focused more on the jobs than on the men and women who performed them. She’d probably lost a lot of depth taking that route, but had needed the emotional distance as she grieved for Dan. Could she afford to give it up now?
While she worked up the nerve to invade Cooper’s space—she couldn’t very well write his story from this distance—she zeroed in on a conversation between two of the men who walked with chainsaws slung over their shoulders. Her own pack was heavy with her tools, weighted with bottled water, and these guys carried the machines like they were made of Styrofoam. Sheesh. Their ability so impressed her that it took her a minute to tune in to their conversation.
“You’ve been with him long enough to know how he feels about reporters.”
They were gossiping like old women about Gabe. Calling him an old man. Please. Still, intrigued, she moved closer.
“Why would she bust his balls after, what’s it been, three years? Hell, she married someone else.”
Who? Who? Who? Peyton willed them to give her a name.
“Women are like elephants, man. They don’t forget anything.”
Peyton wanted to take exception, but it was rude to interrupt an eavesdropped conversation. 
“I hear she dumped him.”
“She had to have a reason.”
“I thought the smokejumper was the reason.”
Peyton eased back. Who had dumped Gabe for a smokejumper? What was his punishment?
Her?
But gossip wasn’t her purpose here. If she wanted a real story, she needed Gabe. He was her purpose.
* * *
Gabe’s mind cleared on the way to the line. He threw back his shoulders and sucked in a deep breath. Up on the mountain, the smoke wasn’t as bad as it had been at the camp. It skimmed over their heads to settle in the valley like a rumpled blanket.
The incline grew steeper, the dust-dry brush thicker, slowing their progress. From this altitude he could see the orange glow of the sun that had been obliterated in the valley. Above them floated the wisps of cirrus clouds preceding a front.
He swung around to inspect his unit strung along the trail, the loose gaits, the flashing grins, and suddenly felt very old. The next oldest in his crew was a decade younger. He turned to walk a little faster. He’d be damned if these kids could out-hike him.
Peyton trudged along with the others. She had to be in excellent shape in order to get her fire card, but endurance didn’t concern him. Training was nothing compared to facing the dragon up close.
She saw him looking at her and trekked on over, leaving the group in order to angle up the mountain toward him. She had guts, he had to give her that. If she’d been on more fires, she’d know better than to try to talk to him. Even Kim, who had been with him more summers than anyone else, didn’t talk to him on a hike. Beyond Michaels, his team watched with interest, waiting for him to shred the new girl.
But his heart wasn’t in it. Maybe it was curiosity about this woman. That was all it could be.
“I agreed to this for one shift only,” he said. “After this fire is contained, you’re out. You do your job without question, just like the rest of my crew. Got it?”
Her chin had tightened stubbornly as he spoke and he prepared for an argument, but she merely nodded. Okay. Something was not quite right with her not saying anything. After all, she’d come over here. So why was he the one wanting to ask questions?
He settled on, “You drinking plenty of water?”
“I’m fine.” She stumbled, belying her words, and he resisted the urge to reach out to assist her. She wanted to see what the job entailed, she better stay on her feet.
“You’ll be more comfortable on the trail.”
“I’ll be all right.”
Damn, she was hard-headed. Determination, he understood. Stubbornness just to prove she could do it was something else. “This is the easy part. We have a thirty-degree incline ahead of us.”
She grimaced. “And when we get there?” she asked, a little out of breath.
He showed no mercy, couldn’t afford to. Besides, if he kept up this pace, maybe she’d go back to the others. How long could he keep up the curiosity excuse?
“You know the drill. We cut line, cut down trees, stop the fire and go home.”
“As simple as that?”
This time he stumbled. “Sometimes it is, sometimes it isn’t.”
She snatched her hand back from where she’d reached out to steady him. “You really love this, don’t you? The whole ‘my crew can do what no other crew can do’ mindset.”
He cast her an incredulous glance. “Are you giving me attitude, rookie?”
“I wasn’t aware you needed any.”
Now she was giving him mouth. No one in fire camp—outside Jen—had ever spoken to him like that. He kind of liked the awe with which most of the firefighters regarded him.
He kind of liked the attitude too.
He slowed to get a look at her. She already appeared exhausted. She’d removed her fire shirt and wore a white T-shirt so fitted it couldn’t be cool. Her lacy bra was visible through the thin knit. She’d pulled back her hair and locks of it fell toward her face, brushing the skin of her cheek, her throat. He thought, just for a second, to push her hair back into place but tamped down the urge, instead thinking her exposed skin was going to blister all to hell.
He gave his attention back to the trail where it belonged. “So why are you doing this? There are easier ways to get the story.”
“Do I seem the type to take the easy way?” She sidestepped an outcropping of rock with an agility he hadn’t expected.
“I don’t know,” he drawled. “I haven’t seen enough of you to know.”
He bit back a chuckle when she blushed. Had he stumbled onto some guilt over their sexual attraction?
“Put your fire shirt on, Michaels, and go back with the crew.” He kicked at the smoke hanging low on the ground. The smoke could hide the fire; they could come up on it without warning. The sheer challenge of the lethal hide and seek thrilled him. “It won’t be long now.”
The dragon was close.

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