Playing With Fire: inspirational romantic suspense (Montana Fire Book 2) (2 page)

Three years earlier…

The last place Conner should be right now was fighting a fire in a pinprick of a town in northern Minnesota.

Not when his grandfather had a countdown on his life.

Not when his brother lay unavenged in a dismally marked grave in a meadow in northwestern Montana.

And especially not when Conner hadn’t yet dug up any answers.

“Can I help you, mister?”

Conner looked down from where he was unloading his gear from the back of the lime-green, Jude County Hotshot buggy into the innocent blue eyes of a little boy.

The vehicle resembled an ambulance, with two bay doors in the back that opened to supplies and beds. After two days on the road, the box smelled exactly like it should after housing ten cramped, sweaty men and one very tolerant woman. And it wasn’t likely to improve anytime soon—not with their immediate debrief at the National Forest Service office that overlooked the tiny hamlet of Deep Haven, Minnesota.

Smoke rose from the forest to the north, the reason why they’d made the trek east from their base in Ember, Montana.

“And who are you, champ?”

“Tiger Christiansen. My daddy is in there.” Cute, the kid possessed freckles and a thin red scar over his eye that gave him the look of trouble. To bolster the look, he also nursed a hint of a fat lip and grass stains on his jeans.

Tiger pointed to the NFS building nearby where the rest of the hotshots, starting with Conner’s boss, Jed Ransom, would be getting a sit-rep on the lightning strikes that had started a blaze in the tinder-crisp forest of the BWCA—Boundary Waters Canoe Area—along the border to Canada. A blowdown from ten years ago had scattered the carcasses of pine, birch, and poplar like kindling across a million acres of forest, and now with resorts and homes threatened, the NFS had called in the big dogs from the West.

The Jude County Hotshots.

According to Jed, the fire was currently inaccessible by land. They’d have to paddle in, and no doubt Jed was already on the horn to Jock Burns, hoping he could dispatch the rest of the smokejumpers who’d stayed behind to mop up a fire in Montana.

Conner’s crew, and he’d be glad to see them.

Especially since the fire had already incinerated over thirteen thousand acres of boreal forest. Despite the ten thousand lakes that populated northern Minnesota, the fire was jumping from island to island. Today’s flyover by one of the locals had the flame lengths at over one hundred feet.

“Are you here to help us fight the fire?” Conner asked, grabbing an orange Nomex helmet and fitting it on the boy’s head.

“Sure!” Tiger held the helmet on as he jumped up and down, an exuberance in his tone that had Conner smiling. Reminded him of his friend Jim Micah’s kid. Four years old now, little Sebastian had the tough hide of his father, a former Green Beret and one of Conner’s best friends.

One of the few people who knew what the little envelope Conner had jammed in his front shirt pocket meant.

Conner had read the letter, oh, roughly eighty-three times since leaving Montana.

Every single time, he wanted to get off the buggy, hop on a plane, and show up in the office of one P. T. Blankenship, lead investigator in his brother’s murder.

Maybe offer his off-the-books assistance in a tone of voice he’d left behind in the military, back when he and Jim Micah were operating behind enemy lines in Iraq.

Leave no man behind—apparently the National Security Agency didn’t abide by that little golden rule. Because after seven years, certainly they could offer Conner
something
of closure to give his grieving grandfather.

If Conner couldn’t hop a plane to DC, then he’d settle for donning his gear and jumping into the dragon’s mouth, armed with just his Pulaski and a chain saw.

Anything to burn off the edge of helplessness. It buzzed under his skin, made him irritable. Sweaty. Maybe even a little hungry.

“Okay, buster, carry this,” Conner said and handed the kid a backpack of line gear. Nothing heavy—just a fire shelter, a space blanket, an empty canister for water, a couple of candy bars. Tiger pulled on the backpack, nearly as big as he was, and scampered inside the building.

A future hotshot in the making. Conner let a smile tug at his face as he pulled out a large metal box filled with electronics—his remote video surveillance devices, his computer, a few specially designed handheld radios. He opened the door to the NFS office with his hip and carried the box inside.

The once-quiet small-town office hummed with activity, the radios chattering with flyover reports from spotters. Another squawked weather updates.

The hotshot crew had already filtered in. Graham, from the Blackfeet Nation near Ember, and Pete—“Sarge”—Holt, former military, the dad of a cute two-year-old daughter. Katie Whip, who they referred to as simply “Whip,” was as tough as she was pretty, and smart, too, with her degree in fire management from Boise. She crouched down, offered Tiger her whistle, and he blew it.

Laughter all around, except from the man standing with Jed. Dark hair, his mouth a grim slash, a build that suggested a capability on the fire line, he bent over the map where Jed was outlining the fire and the hotshots’ intended assault.

Jed had mentioned his friend Darek Christiansen a dozen times on the trek east. Apparently they’d been greenies together before Darek quit to return home, raise his son. If Conner remembered correctly, the poor guy had lost his wife a few years ago in a horrible car accident.

“Dare, I’d like you to meet Conner Young,” Jed said. “He hitched on board with us last year doing some advanced communications work. He developed a program to help us read and predict fire behavior.”

Darek met Conner’s grip. No preamble, just, “Hard to see a fire from twenty-plus miles away. Better to get close to it, hear it, feel it. Does it work?”

Conner was about to jump in when Jed cut him off.

“We’re still testing it, but he’s able to upload his data right to the handhelds,” Jed said. “Sort of like smartphones but with better service.”

Simplified, but okay. Jed wasn’t exactly the tech-savvy type.

“Can they survive being dropped in the dirt, kicked, and burned?”

“Oh no. We leave that abuse to the hotshots,” Conner said. He tried to get a read on Darek, the way he kept checking on Tiger, and with a start, Conner made the connection.

The guy was trying hard to put responsibilities over passion—Conner got that. And the hole it dug into a man when he chose one over the other.

As if in confirmation, Jed asked Darek if he’d like to help them work the fire. Not a bad idea since Darek lived here, worked in these forests.

“I...I’d love to, but—” He glanced at Tiger again. “I can’t.”

Just then, Tiger jumped up, ran over to his dad, holding himself, doing the potty dance.

Conner hid a grin as Darek steered his son toward the bathroom.

And for a second, seeing the man with his hand on his son’s shoulders, the way he guarded the door as Tiger took care of business—it all dug a hole inside Conner that he couldn’t place.

An emptiness, an echo of something he’d once wanted long ago.

But, passion versus responsibility. Both had him in a chokehold.

Conner headed back outside and pulled out his cell phone. He took the letter from his pocket, dialed the number at the bottom, and listened to the ringing on the other end.

He stared at the blue of Lake Superior glinting through the pine and birch. A pretty little town, Deep Haven, tucked into the north woods. From his vantage point on the bluff overlooking the town, he made out a pebbled harbor, a few hotels along the rocky edge, a park in the center, a cafe, a tavern, and a coffee shop. And in the air, he smelled the fried crispiness of a donut shop.

The call slipped to voice mail.

“Hey, Grandpa. I thought I’d check in—I’m in Minnesota. Don’t know when I’ll be back—but when I am, I’ll stop by.” He ran a hand behind his neck, debating the last part. “I...got a letter from the NSA. Blankenship. They’re closing the case, putting it in the cold files.”

He swallowed, hated the way the words dug in, fisted his chest. “I’m so sorry. I know I promised—” And he couldn’t continue, not with the words turning to acid in his chest.

His promise. It had turned into a noose, cut off his breathing. His life.

“Anyway, I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

No, that wasn’t what he wanted, but maybe he didn’t know what he wanted, really. Absolution? Forgiveness?

Anything to help him close the door on his failures.

“I’ll call you later.” Conner hung up and heard feet behind him. He turned and spied Tiger running out, still wearing his helmet.

Darek and Jed came out behind him, Jed carrying a map. He took it over to a truck, pulled down the tailgate. Gestured Conner over.

Conner noticed the logo on the side—
Evergreen Outfitter and Cabin Rentals
.

“Darek’s found us a place to set up fire camp,” Jed said, unrolling the map, and pointing to a clearing north of town. “And he’s offered the resort to house the Jude County crew. The rest of the teams will have to fend for themselves in town.”

Gravel crunched in the lot, and the three turned as a Jeep pulled in.

A woman
got out and pulled out a white box with the words
World’s Best Donuts
imprinted in red on the side.

“Hey, Liza,” Darek said.

“Dare. I should have expected you to be hanging out with a group called the hotshots,” she said. “Whatever.”

Darek laughed.

Conner couldn’t take his eyes off her. Tall, shapely, with long, silky sable hair blowing in the wind off the lake., and when she smiled, warmth touched her deep brown eyes. She wore a pair of green fatigues and a pink T-shirt with speckles of lavender paint on the sleeve, hinting that she’d torn herself away from a project to buy them donuts, and flip-flops that showed off blue toenail polish. Sparkly, intriguing, indigo blue.

“I brought donut holes for our local heroes.” She opened the box, and inside was a mound of powdered sugar holes. “Especially for my
favorite
hero.”

She wasn’t talking about him—although for a crazy, split second, when she glanced at him, something caught his attention.

Her eyes. On closer look, they weren’t just brown, but the color of rich, freshly pulled espresso, and they had the same effect. A bracing, nourishing jolt that went straight to his bones.

For a second, it jerked him out of the dark funk he’d dragged with him from Montana.

Then she bent and held the box open to Tiger. “You’re going to save our little town, right Tig?”

He grinned and grabbed a powdered sugar hole, bit it. It left a ring of white powder around his mouth as the sugar puffed off the pastry. She laughed and handed him a napkin.

Only then did she look up and truly smile at Conner.

She had a sweetness in her smile that matched the donuts, dusting him with a sense of joy. However, not a hint of flirt in it, nothing that carried the hero worship, the adoration that usually accompanied a female welcome committee.

Huh. Finally, a woman he didn’t have to dodge.

Even better would be a woman who might share his faith.

Not that it mattered—he didn’t look beyond today, couldn’t promise anyone a future.

Conner reached for a powdered donut hole before Darek lifted the box away from Liza to carry inside.

“I’m Conner Young,” he said. He popped the hole in his mouth then grabbed a napkin. “I’m with the Jude County Hotshots—actually, I’m a smokejumper, but we’re helping out the crew.”

“Liza Beaumont,” she responded. “I’m with the Deep Haven Donut Brigade—actually, I’m a local artist, but I’m helping out the volunteers. I’ve been sent on a peacekeeping mission by the chamber of commerce to make sure you feel appreciated.”

She said it in the most innocent of ways, nothing lurid in her tone. Yeah, he liked her. Felt his defenses lower just a little more.

“There are hotels in the area ready to put you up—”

“We’re staying up at the Evergreen Resort,” Conner said.

“Perfect. Ingrid and John will take good care of you,” Liza said. “And I know you’re here to fight the fire, but we’re having an art festival this weekend in town. There’s a street dance on one of the nights, and although the fireworks display has been canceled, there’s crafts and homemade ice cream and...well, if you want, you could stop by my booth. I’m giving demonstrations.”

Still nothing of a come-on in her voice.

She was safe and sweet, and something about her expression told him that he just might have found someone he could spend time with without stirring up expectations.

“What kind of booth?” he asked, aware that it didn’t really matter. She could be giving demonstrations on stacking rocks and he’d be mesmerized.

“I’m a potter.”

And she smiled again. For a crazy second, the coil of frustration tightening his chest since Ember loosened. He took a full, clean breath of the fresh lake air.