How to Tame a Wild Fireman (10 page)

Llamas, on the other hand . . .

Goldie gazed out the window with her flat yellow eyes and munched on the grass he’d given her as a road snack.

“If you get carsick, tell me and I’ll pull over,” he told her.

Her jaws shifted side to side as she chewed.

“If I don’t find a home for you here, how’d you feel about bunking with Stan at the firehouse? You don’t hear about too many stations with their own llamas. We’d have to call you the Bachelorette Llama of San Gabriel.” He chuckled, filling with warmth at the thought of Station 1. He’d be home soon enough, back in Truck 1 where he belonged.

Patrick’s gut tightened as he made the familiar drive down the winding gravel driveway. Something wasn’t right here in Callahanland. It looked as if no one had been tending the grounds for a while. The grasses had grown taller than he was. The way they swayed in the dry breeze made him shudder.
Fire hazard
. How had the ranch avoided catching fire? One spark from the wildfire and it would have gone up like a pile of sticks. It still could.

He’d have to tell his father to do something about that. Not that his father had ever listened to anything he said, but now that he was a trained and experienced firefighter, maybe things would be different.

The sight of the ranch house shocked him even more. The sprawling structure was completely overgrown with shrubs and tall grasses; everything looked dangerously dry. The outbuildings—­guesthouse, bunkhouse, barn, stables, well house, garden shed, chicken coop—­were just as bad. What was going on here?

Megan and his mother waited on the wide porch that wrapped around the front of the house. Megan was practically bouncing up and down with excitement, but Candy Callahan looked . . . well, worried. Externally, she hadn’t changed much, still slim and straight, but when Patrick bent down to kiss her on the cheek, he noticed new frown lines under the gardenia-­scented powder. A former beauty queen and kindergarten teacher—­before Big Dog Callahan had swept her off her feet—­she was still gorgeous, with her chin-­length auburn bob and bright blue eyes. Patrick had never understood how she put up with someone as impossible as his father.

“Hi, Mom,” he murmured in her ear.

“Patrick, honey.” She stood on tiptoe to wrap her arms around his neck. “I can’t believe Megan talked you into this.”

“Is it a bad idea?” He straightened up with a laugh.

“You never know. That man, he’s liable to make me scream more often than not these days.”

Megan shot him a nervous look and adjusted the glasses on her nose. She wore a denim skirt dotted with daisies and a dainty white blouse.

“And that’s different how?” Patrick winked at Megan.

“Oh, you troublemaker. Megan and I told him we’d both eat at Denny’s tonight if he made any fuss. But you know how he is.”

“Not big on the listening, you mean.”

“Promise you’ll be nice?” His mother fixed a strand of hair displaced during their hug.

“Have I ever been nice, Mom?”

“Patrick . . .” That warning tone still had the ability to make him back down.

“I’ll be nice. Hey, I have a llama in my rig. Should I take her to the stables?”

Megan’s face lit up. “Goldie’s here?”

“She wouldn’t have missed this for the world.” His mother and sister followed him back to his truck, where Goldie was now fast asleep, her fluffy white beard nestled on her front hooves. Candy and Megan cooed over her until Patrick shushed them.

“Don’t wake her up, she hasn’t been sleeping well since the fire,” he whispered with a wink.

Which reminded him . . .

“I’m expecting a guest,” he told his mother as they all strolled back to the porch. “Remember Liam’s friend Lara Nelson?”

Candy frowned. “She’s not coming here, is she?”

For the first time, Patrick wondered if his old rebellious impulses were leading him astray again. “She was Liam’s best friend. Why not?”

Candy pressed her lips together, then shrugged.

Megan glared at him as they trooped into the house. “You did not have permission to bring Lara,” she hissed as he stepped across the threshold. “It was hard enough getting him to agree to you.”

“Thanks, I needed that,” said Patrick dryly.

“Oh, you know what I mean. Will you
please
be good? I promised Dad you would be.”

But Patrick was busy dealing with the onslaught of emotions brought on by stepping foot inside his childhood home. As they passed through the living room, he saw that his cross-­country trophies still lined the mantelpiece—­except the one his father had thrown out the window in a rage.

Something about him landing in jail after the victory party that night had really ticked his father off.

Then there was the doorjamb where he and Liam had marked their heights as they grew up. A line high on the wood was gouged out and painted over, but Patrick remembered it perfectly. It had marked his father’s height and was labeled “Governor Blowhard, March 1995.” Yes, that had been his father’s nickname among his opponents. But for some reason he hadn’t liked seeing it written by his own eldest son.

Patrick had to admit he hadn’t been the easiest child in the world.

In the dining room, his father was already seated at the head of the long table made from polished burl wood. Patrick Callahan III extracted himself from a thronelike chair and unfurled himself to his full height. Like Patrick, he wasn’t particularly tall, but his physical presence made up for it. Burly-­chested, his lion’s mane of hair gone stark white, his face ruddy from the scotch he always drank before dinner, he was a man used to dominating every situation. As always, a cigar smoldered in a bison-­skull ashtray next to his plate.

Intimidated despite himself, Patrick stopped a few feet from his father. “Hi, Dad. It’s good to see you.”

Those etiquette lessons at the governor’s mansion didn’t die easy.

His father stuck out his hand with the lopsided grin that had once charmed Nevada voters. Patrick breathed a silent sigh of relief. “Welcome back to the ranch, son. You’ve been in California, eh?”

“Yes. A little town called San Gabriel.”

“Your sister saw you in the magazine. A ‘Bachelor Fireman,’ they said you were.”

Patrick winced. Of all the things his father had to focus on, why that? “You know the media. Once they get started on something, you can’t throw them off.”

“Not unless you hire a good press agent and take them out for a steak dinner every week.” His father rumbled with laughter. Patrick, glancing at his mother, who’d sat down in the chair at Big Dog’s elbow, saw her face brighten. Maybe this wouldn’t be an outright disaster.

“I’ll mention that to Captain Brody.” Patrick eyed the remaining seats at the table. A healthy distance from his father seemed best. He sat down at the far end and pulled out the chair next to him for Megan, who sat down gingerly. Parents at one end, children at the other. Callahan dinners had always been about battle lines. And armor. And weapons of mass destruction.

His father sat down and stuck his cigar back in his mouth. “You aren’t the captain at your station? You an Indian or a chief? Can’t be both, it’s either one or the other.”

Patrick gritted his teeth. “I’m the topman.”

“Top man,” said Megan quickly. “That sounds amazing. Even better than captain. Doesn’t it, Mom?”

“Yes, honey, it does. It means you’re the top man in your unit, right?”

Patrick tried hard, really hard, not to laugh, but didn’t quite manage it. “Not at all. It means I go up on roofs and hack holes in them.”

“Hack holes in them!” His mother looked appalled.

“That sounds like your kind of trouble,” said his father. “I remember the time you tried to fly off the roof and took a bunch of shingles with you. Went splat, as I recall. Broke two bones in your arm.”

Patrick counted to five before he spoke again. “When a house is involved in a fire, you have to create vent holes to let out the smoke. That’s why we put holes in the roof.”

“That sounds very brave,” said Megan, trying desperately to get the conversation back on track. “Is it dangerous?”

“It’s one of the more dangerous jobs, but firefighting is a dangerous profession in general. Luckily, we’re highly trained and manage to avoid injury for the most part.”

His father grunted. He’d looked happier when remembering Patrick’s misdeeds. “Well, firefighting is a decent enough profession, I suppose. Meggie said you’re helping out on our local wildfire.”

“Was. It’s mostly out now.”

“Thanks to him,” Megan pointed out. “He rappelled out of a helicopter
into
the fire.”

His mother gasped in admiration, while his father puffed on his cigar.

“Still taking stupid risks, in other words,” Big Dog grumbled.

Patrick clenched his fists, fighting to hang onto his manners. It had never taken longer than a few minutes for him and his father to start going at it. Why had he thought ten years would change things?

“Megan and I made beef stew and corn bread,” said Candy, fidgeting with the rings on her fingers. “You boys always loved that.”

“Sounds great.”

“I’ll get the stew.” Megan jumped up and scurried from the room, leaving Patrick alone with his parents, who seemed just as uncomfortable as he was. Twice as uncomfortable, since there were two of them. Damn it, this was exactly why he’d wanted Lara here.

Instead, he was on his own. He reminded himself of all the fires he’d tackled and helicopters he’d jumped from, and took a deep breath.

“Speaking of me and Liam, Megan told me that he left. When’s the last time you heard from him?”

A shocked silence gripped the room. Clearly he’d blundered his way into the wrong topic. Big Dog crushed his fist around a fork. “Why are you bringing him up? Trying to make trouble?”

“No, sir. I’d just like to know where he is.“

His father pinned him with a harsh glare. “Not in the hospital anymore, no thanks to you.”

Candy let out a gasp as Patrick bolted to his feet. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means what it sounds like. And no swearing, boy.”

“Cal, don’t you dare!” Candy wailed. “You said you’d give him a chance. Do you want to drive all our children away?”

“Oh, so it’s my fault again!” Callahan growled.

Candy was on her feet now too. “Maybe it is! You’re the one in charge around here, as you’ve been telling me for the last thirty years! Why wouldn’t it be your fault?”

Big Dog hauled himself out of his seat. He pointed a shaking finger at Patrick. “Only one person’s to blame! He’s the one who put Liam in the hospital. He’s no different now, except he’s got graffiti all over him!”

Patrick glanced down at himself. Sure enough, his T-­shirt revealed a few tattoos, though not nearly the full extent of his ink. Maybe he should strip off his shirt and really give his father a shocker. But with Big Dog Callahan turning a disturbing shade of brick, he restrained himself.

“I’m going,” he said instead, jaw tightly clenched. “I didn’t come here to fight.”

“If he goes, I go!” Candy’s face now matched the red of her hair.

“No, Mom, you don’t have to—­”

Both his parents ignored him.

“Only say it if you mean it,” roared Callahan.

“Oh, I mean it all right!” She planted both fists on her hips and fixed blazing blue eyes on her husband. “I’m tired of you running my children off. Now you apologize to Patrick!”

“I’d rather stick my cigar in my eye!”

Shocked, Patrick looked from one to the other. His parents had always stuck together, through four years in the governor’s mansion, several fortunes won and lost, the infection that cost Liam his hearing. He’d never seen them turn on each other before. Should he do something? Step between them? Tackle his dad to the ground? What was he supposed to do?

It was one thing for his father to yell at him. But his parents fighting? He had no idea how to handle
that
.

His father wheeled on him. “See what you’ve done now, Patrick?”

There, that was better.

“Get out!” Big Dog thundered.

“Gee, that sounds familiar.” Patrick finally found his voice. “Isn’t that the last thing you said to me?”

“I still mean it!”

“Cal, you stop it, right now!”

“What’s going on?” A wail from Megan cut through the clamor of shouting voices. She stood in the doorway, holding a heavy, steaming pot. Blinking madly behind her fogged-­up glasses, she looked from one of them to the other. “What
happened?
”

No one wanted to explain. Patrick and his mother glanced at each other warily.

Into the silence, a throaty, tentative voice spoke. Patrick felt it on the back of his neck like a tickling caress.

“Sorry I’m late. I hope I haven’t missed too much.”

Chapter Nine

L
ara, her buttery hair loose to her shoulders, peered from behind Megan. “Oh good, you haven’t even sat down yet.”

Patrick tried to catch her eye. He shook his head, then drew a finger across his throat—­the universal symbol for “stop before you step into a shit storm.”

But she was looking at his parents, smiling brightly. “Mr. and Mrs. Callahan, so nice to see you again. I’m Lara Nelson, in case you don’t remember. Liam was a good friend of mine back in high school. I came to visit him a few times after the accident . . .” Finally she seemed to become aware of the tension paralyzing the room. Callahan swung his head toward her like a bull spotting a red cape. Her eyes went wide.

“Is . . . uh . . . maybe this is a bad time. I probably have the wrong house. Did I say Callahan? I meant . . . Candygram. No one here ordered a Candygram, did they? Didn’t think so. I should really go.”

Patrick had to give her points for creativity.

She took a step backward.

“I know you,” growled Callahan. “The hippie girl. From that candy-­ass peace-­and-­love commune down the road.”

“Definitely a bad time,” said Lara. “I’ll be going now. But someone should really help Megan with this pot. I think she’s about to drop it, and the poor girl can’t see a thing.”

Patrick hurried forward and took the stew pot from Megan’s hands. “Don’t leave,” he muttered urgently to Lara.

“I’d rather jump from a helicopter than stay here another second,” she hissed back. “Sorry, Megan.”

“It’s okay.” Megan wiped the steam off her glasses and planted them back on her face. “This is all Patrick’s fault anyway.”

“What?”

“Why did you invite Lara? You knew it would rile Dad up even more.”

And in fact an earthquake seemed to be erupting across the room. Callahan slammed a fist onto the table, making the silverware jump and the glass in the windows rattle. “Don’t I get a say in what goes on in my own house anymore?”

“Uh-­oh,” said Megan. “You’d better go, Lara.”

Lara nodded and whirled around, her hair fanning behind her.

“Wait for me outside,” Patrick told her. “I’m right behind you.”

Big Dog roared. “This is donkey’s balls! The last thing we need around here is free love hippie riffraff wandering around like they own the place!”

Candy slapped her hands over her ears. Patrick hurried to the table, put down the pot of stew, and gave his mother a quick kiss on the cheek. “This smells great, by the way,” he muttered.

He could have sworn he felt the hot blast of air from his father’s end of the table.

“Going again?” Callahan shouted. “Don’t come back unless you’re invited.”

Patrick took a deep breath. It took everything in him to hold back the angry retorts that tumbled through his mind.
I wouldn’t come back if you got on your knees and begged me. Kiss my ass, Governor Blowhard.
Either he’d matured or he was out of practice. But instead of blasting his father right back, the way he would have in the old days, he headed for the door.

“You have my cell now, Meggie. Don’t be a stranger.”

Her pretty face crumpled, and that was the hardest part of all.

“I’ll call you,” he promised. “Maybe you can visit me in California.”

She nodded, clearly holding back tears. He loped out of the house, hoping Lara hadn’t left yet. Even though the evening light had gone dark gold, the blast furnace heat hadn’t lessened. It thickened the air like honey, setting Lara’s hair ablaze with light. She leaned against a white Chevy Aveo. She was playing with the keys, jingling them rapidly from one hand to the other. His swift survey told him she looked extra sexy in a pair of jeans that kissed her curves, and a silky tie-­at-­the-­waist top in a shade of beige that ought to look boring but didn’t. Not at all.

He should have paid more attention to her mood than her looks. As soon as he reached her side, she hauled off and punched him in the shoulder—­hard.

“What the hell?” Grimacing, he put a hand to his shoulder.

“You did that on purpose,” she said in a low, furious voice.

“What?”

“You wanted to upset your dad. So you invited me. He’s
always
hated me.”

“I swear, Lara, that’s not why –”

She cut him off. “Why else would you invite me?”

“Because I wanted you here. With me. I wanted to see you again.” Even to him, that sounded weak. He tried again. “I thought if you were here, at least one good thing would come out of it.”

“Good thing? What good thing?”

“You.” He gave her a cautious look, hoping she’d understand. “We used to be friends, right? Now you’re . . .” he searched for the right words. “ . . . on my mind. A lot. I didn’t want to leave without seeing you again.”

Seeing her was just part of it. All his senses were homed in on her, capturing the faint scent of sandalwood rising from her skin, the rapid skittering of her heartbeat. A clear bead of sweat pearled at the base of her throat. His mouth watered. Was he the only one feeling this intense attraction?

Maybe he was, because she was looking at him as if he was crazy. “You saw what just happened in there.”

“So I miscalculated. He had no call to treat you like that.”

Her eyes flashed whiskey-­dark, the way they used to when he’d teased her as a kid. “I don’t care what he says about me.” She raised her chin, firmed her generously curved lips. And suddenly he saw what he’d never understood before: her hurt, her bravado, her courage.

He stepped forward and brushed his thumb over her cheek. “I’m sorry, Lara. I’m really sorry.”

This close to her, he had a giddy sense of entering a new country, one whose fascinating terrain begged to be explored. He saw her lips tremble, watched her pupils dilate, whiskey turning to dark desire. Sudden lust hung thick between them. Her skin felt so lush under his thumb—­like the petals of some kind of tropical flower.

He bent his head and brushed his lips against hers with the softest, slightest possible contact, which nevertheless shocked him with a third-­rail current of electricity. Every single hair on his body stood on end. And it wasn’t just him. She drew in a quick gasp, her mouth softening, luring him in. She tasted like the sunset sky, like wild honey, like that moment of weightlessness on the edge of a rappel. Desire rocked him, made his hand, still framing her face, shake.

Then something hard was jabbing him in the chest. Lara’s emphatic index finger. He took a step back, the taste of her still vibrating on his lips. She looked just as shaken as he was, but also mad as hell.

“No, Patrick. Have you forgotten I’ve known you since you were
fourteen
?”

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, trying like hell to pull his wits together.

“The whole time, you were fighting with your father. Making trouble. Playing the rebel. You
wanted
him to react. Wanted to make him yell and scream. Liam always hated it. But you didn’t care. You did it anyway. And you’re
still
doing it. That’s why you invited me. You
used
me to get to him. It’s mean and childish and just plain idiotic.” Lara shook her head, raking him from head to toe with scornful, blazing eyes. “He’s all fired up now, thanks to you. Mission accomplished,
Psycho
. You haven’t changed a bit. I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

She got into her Aveo and drove off without a backward glance. Patrick spun around and slammed his fist against the tanklike door of the Hulk.
Damn it to hell.
He’d fucked everything up once again. His parents were at each other’s throats and Lara despised him.

He should have stayed in freaking San Gabriel.

He opened the tailgate and found Goldie trying to clamber to her feet. Her golden eyes skittered in a nervous sideways back and forth pattern. “Oh for the love of . . . sorry, Goldie. I didn’t mean to scare you. Better hop out. Potty break. You won’t find a better place to take a crap than right here.”

Goldie crept to the tailgate, then peered out. “It’s okay,” he murmured to her. “I understand why you’re scared, but no one here has anything against llamas. You’re perfectly safe.” When she still hesitated, he reached in and lifted her out. Setting her on the ground, he patted her gently. “Good girl, pretty girl. Poopy-­time now.”

He led her to a thick clump of grass at the edge of the circular drive. The place was one giant fire hazard. And he’d never even gotten a chance to mention that to crazy old Big Dog.

“Patrick.” He almost jumped at the sound of Megan’s voice right behind him. He turned to find her facing him, arms across her chest, chin stuck out, glasses speckled with salt, the way they always got when she’d been crying.

He would have ripped his own face off if that would fix anything. “Aw, Meggie, don’t cry. I’m sorry.”

“No.” She shook her head vigorously. “It’s not you. He’s gotten worse. Don’t you think? I mean, look at this place.”

Patrick looked uneasily around the property, which was more unkempt than he’d ever seen it. “Are they short on money? I can send some.”

“No, it’s not that. I don’t know what it is.” She shoved her hands in the pockets of her skirt. “Thanks for coming, even if it was a complete disaster. At least Mom and I got to see you.”

He studied her, feeling like the biggest loser on the face of the earth. “I can’t be here. I make it worse.”

“I suppose.” But she chewed her bottom lip, looking unconvinced.

“Will you tell Dad that he needs to get the brush cleared away from the house? The outbuildings too. The more the better.”

“He knows. Some firefighters came by here and warned us about it.” An adorable hint of pink appeared in her cheeks. “One of them said he’d do it, but Dad didn’t want him here.”

“Why? Did he ask you out?”

“Patrick.”
Then she smiled suddenly. “Not exactly. But sort of.”

“He’d be a lucky, lucky guy if you said yes,” he said softly, brushing her cheek with his thumb. “Hey, I have an idea. Could you take care of Goldie for me?”

It was either a terrible idea or a stroke of brilliance. Was his newfound pet safe with Big Dog Callahan?

As soon as Meggie’s face lit up, he decided it was genius.

“I’d love to!” She clapped her hands together and bounced on her toes. “I have the perfect spot for Goldie in the stables! I bet she’ll get along great with Angelbaby. We only have three horses left, so Goldie can have her own stall, and in the daytime I can take her out to different fields and she can eat the grass down. She can clear our brush for us.”

“She’s just the girl for the job.” He handed her the rope he’d tied to Goldie’s temporary collar.

“And you’ll come back and check on her?” The hope in Megan’s face made him want to drown himself in a bucket of ice water.

“I’ll write. Goldie will appreciate that. She’s always saying how much she regrets the passing of the old epistolary days.”

Megan giggled. Patrick gave Goldie a rough pat on the neck and grabbed her blanket from the back of the truck. One last hug for Megan and he got in, made a tight, high-­speed reverse turn that mowed down some shrubs at the edge of the drive, and roared toward the front gate.

Hey, he had to leave his mark.

And he kept
leaving it, from Loveless to California, starting with tequila shooters at the Ride ’Em Hard Bar and Grill, which he fled with three bikers in hot pursuit. They caught up with him in Henderson, where they all mutually decided to settle matters with a high-­stakes pool game. That’s how he became the proud owner of a Harley. The Harley got dumped around mile 85, when he needed more room because somehow he’d picked up a family of traveling Mormons who kept lecturing him about his immortal soul.

By the time he reached San Gabriel, he’d left a trail of empty bottles, angry citizens, and big tips for hot cocktail waitresses in his wake. He’d spent more hours drunk than sober, but at least only the sober ones were spent on the road, thanks to his new drink invention—­espresso mixed with Red Bull with a dash of ginseng. He’d outwitted two Highway Patrol officers, half a biker gang, and a kamikaze porcupine determined to become roadkill.

But he still hadn’t forgotten the scornful look in Lara’s eyes when she’d told him what she thought of him.