Playing With Fire: inspirational romantic suspense (Montana Fire Book 2) (3 page)

Maybe he didn’t have to jump into a flaming boreal forest to find a way to forget his failures.

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Despite the orange haze along the horizon to the north, the hint of wood smoke in the breeze, Deep Haven managed to put together its annual art festival. The chamber of commerce blocked off Main Street, artisans erected flimsy booths, and the smell of cotton candy and kettle corn added a festive flair. Liza could almost convince herself that they weren’t going to burn to death in the near future.

Probably not with the cadre of firefighters in town—hotshots from Montana, a fresh crew from Arizona, another from Alaska, not to mention volunteers from Minnesota.

Even the local fire department had deployed to the firebase up the trail. Apparently, they’d set up a first-rate camp, including tents, a chow line, showers, and biffies.

Despite their camping accommodations, on their off days, hotshots roamed around town, hung out at the local VFW, and generally boosted the local economy. Everyone from Polly down at World’s Best Donuts to Kathy at the Java Cup thanked the heavens for the boon, despite the hover of danger in the air.

And the reports that the fire was only getting bigger.

Liza refused to think about the hotshots who put themselves between the blaze and their tiny town. Heroes, every last one of them.

And yeah, when she thought of heroes, Conner Young tiptoed to the top of her mind. She shouldn’t be thinking of him
quite
so much. Shouldn’t hope that he’d take her up on her suggestion to stop by her booth.

It wasn’t like he’d noticed her, well, not
that
way, and she’d tried not to flirt—not that she knew how, but the last thing she needed was him getting the wrong impression.

Single, happily so. Really. At thirty-five, she was too old for true love. Besides, she was the kind of woman men saw as
Just Friends
. A listener, sometimes with good advice, and easy to walk away from.

And it was her fault, really. The last thing she wanted to do was try to make a man love her. She wasn’t desperate. She wasn’t even lonely.

She had God, after all. Which meant that she made it painfully easy for a man to enjoy her friendship and never see her as anything more. She simply refused to reach out, to hold on, figuratively, and especially literally.

Even if she wanted to. Like a few days ago, when Conner had looked like he could use a hug, with so much stress on his face. Her heart had gone out to him.

It had nothing at all to do with his painfully good looks, that dark golden hair tucked behind his ears, the bronze whiskers along his jaw, and his eyes—so devastatingly blue, the color of the lake, striated blue, with layers of secrets. She couldn’t breathe for a moment when he’d looked up, asked her what kind of booth she had.

She’d mumbled something hopefully coherent, and right about then, Darek came back out and wrapped them up in conversation.

She’d made her escape.

Not that it mattered. Conner probably hadn’t given her another thought.

And she shouldn’t give him one, either.

Liza stared out across the park to where the sun turned the water platinum. A breeze off the lake lifted her long hair, held back in a ponytail. She wore a tank top and a broomstick skirt, but despite the shade in her booth, the pavement could bake through her sandals. However, even in the heat, the freshness of the lake cooled her skin.

She wondered about the breezes and how they might affect the firefighters.

She’d read stories about sudden winds trapping firefighters—

Stop.

From across the park, a flautist played from the stage, the music light, refreshing. A nearby tent hosted a rock-painting contest.

Liza was storing her clay in plastic bags when she spied Darek walking with Tiger and Ivy, the new county prosecutor in town and Liza’s tenant in her over-the-garage apartment. Ivy was cute, petite, smart and sweet, and maybe exactly who Darek needed to start over with.

Interesting. They stopped at her booth.

“Hello,” Liza said and leaned down to tousle Tiger’s hair. Such a tragedy, Darek losing his wife with their son so young.

Life was scary that way. It would be helpful if one could be assured of a happy ending.

“Hello, Miz B,” Tiger said.

Liza grinned at him, then at Darek, Ivy.
“Tiger’s preschool class came to my studio last year and they all made bowls.”

“I painted it, too!”

Ivy was holding a bowl, looking at the bottom. Probably at the fish imprint. “I have a few of these in my apartment.”

True, because Liza had furnished it. “Let me know if you need any replacements.” She winked. “So, Tiger, they’re painting rocks down at the beach. You should head down to the booth.”

Darek looked like she’d suggested walking barefoot through live coals, his attempt at a smile wretched.

“Don’t look so ill, Darek. It’s just watercolors,” Liza said. “Maybe you should paint something. Could be good for you. Loosen you up.”

“I don’t—”

“C’mon, it’ll be fun,” Ivy said, enthusiasm in her voice.

Poor Ivy. Darek almost looked annoyed.

Liza had the crazy urge to tell the girl to run. Because if a guy wasn’t into you, you should cut him loose before he could do serious damage to your heart.

Wise Liza, the romantic guru. Oh, for crying out loud. Ivy would have a better chance at getting romantic advice from Deep Haven’s local Dear Abby, Miss Foolish Heart, who actually
had
found true love with the town football coach. Still, Liza had enough history to know that staying stubbornly single had its advantages.

Like never getting her heart broken…

Or…

She watched them walk over to the children’s booth, saw Darek lean down, heard Ivy laugh.

See, what did she know about love and happy endings?

Clearly nothing.

She finished packing up the clay, was starting to wrap the remaining pottery, trying to figure out if she had the energy to stick around for the street dance or if she should just go home.

Maybe write her stepbrother Charlie another letter, again offering a place for his daughter, Raina, to live if she needed it. Talk about needing a happy ending. Her poor niece deserved someone to love her, despite her list of mistakes.

Someone, hello, like
Jesus
. The one who’d put Liza back together.

He was enough. Hello and amen.

“So, can you teach me how to, what, make a bowl or something?”

Liza stilled, her back to her now-dismantled display. His voice was low and soft, a little rough perhaps with smoke and the trauma of the fire line, but strong enough to seep under her skin.

Add a little fire to her pulse.

She turned then, painfully aware of the line of sweat across her brow, the pinch of a sunburn on her face and shoulders, and the fact that she hadn’t had time this morning to put on makeup.

Not that it mattered. She was just the festival representative.

“Hey,” she said, maybe a little too much exuberance in her voice. “You showed up.”

And
how.
He had showered, it seemed, because his hair was wet but tied with a red bandanna, the golden ends curling out behind his ears. He hadn’t shaved, his whiskers were longer, bronzing as his beard thickened. He wore a black T-shirt, Gore-Tex pants, and a pair of hiking sandals, and had his hands in his pockets, like he might just be moseying by.

Shoot. She’d sort of hoped...

“Of course,” Conner said. “Well, I mean—I wanted to, but I wasn’t sure I’d get the night off. But we’ve been on four days straight, and Jed said we could take twenty-four hours off. The Arizona crew is holding the line.”

“You can do that—take time off?”

“In a big fire, yes. We rotate in and out. You get too worn out, people get hurt. We work with axes and chain saws, eyes watering, barely able to breathe, and sleep in the dirt most of the time. So, occasionally we surrender to clean sheets and a shower.” He winked at her.

And wow, really, she had clearly been trapped in Deep Haven, the land of No Eligible Men for
way
too long, because her entire body heated.

Probably it was just the warm summer evening.

“It looks like I got here too late for the demonstration,” he said. “You’re all packed up.”

“No—I could—”

“Liza, it’s okay.”

“But I promised.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Actually, no, you didn’t. And that’s good—promises are usually broken.”

She frowned, and he held up his hand. “Because I usually can’t stick around for them.”

Oh. Right.

“But if it makes you feel better, the rate the fire is going, we’ll be here for a while. So maybe I can come back.”

Really? And oh,
really
?

She just stood there like an idiot, smiling at him. “Sure.”

“Perfect.” He smiled back. He had such a nice smile, white teeth, and a genuine warmth in his eyes, like he had stopped by just to see her booth. To see her.

She heard shouting across the park and looked past him to see—seriously? Darek and Jensen Atwood—Darek’s former best friend—tangled in a brawl. Right here in the middle of the festival.

Sheesh—she knew Darek blamed the guy for his wife’s death, but—

Conner, however, had stiffened. Something crossed his face, his smile dimming, a hard look flashing in his eyes. Almost as if he were debating diving in, pulling the two apart.

And then, “Daddy!”

Even from here, she could hear Tiger’s voice shrilling.

It was as if the entire festival crowd froze on Tiger’s cry. Darek certainly did.

Not Conner, however. He took a step toward the brawl.

And then Caleb, the football coach, intervened, pulling Darek away from Jensen, who got up and pushed through the crowd, cute Claire Gibson on his heels.

Ivy wasn’t faring much better with Darek, and again Liza went back to her previous supposition.

Run.

“What was that about?” Conner asked.

“It’s a long story,” Liza said. “I don’t know most of it, but the short version is that Darek’s wife was hit while she was jogging, and Jensen was at the wheel.”

“Oh my.”

“I know. The entire town took sides, and poor Jensen has been doing community service for the past three years, working off his sentence.”

“That’s all he got—community service?”

“It was clearly an accident. Some thought he should have been found not guilty.”

A muscle pulled in Conner’s jaw, and for a second, she saw a story there.

“You okay?” she asked.

When he turned to her, however, nothing remained of his guarded expression. “Starved. If I don’t eat soon, I’ll probably need hospitalization.”

“Clearly you need a pizza from Pierre’s then.”

“I like how you think. Can I help you pack up? Because I probably also need a tour guide.”

And the way he said it, she couldn’t agree more.

Oh, Liza.
She could hear her own voice in her head.
Run.

But he wasn’t asking her out. He just needed a friend. A tour guide from the Deep Haven Donut Brigade.

He helped her pack up her pottery, taking care to wrap the pieces in Bubble Wrap, secure them in boxes. He had strong, scarred, even wounded hands, blistered, bruised, and reddened from his work in the forest. She noticed burns on the tops, evidence of his profession.

The band on stage had switched to bluegrass by the time they closed the booth and headed to Pierre’s pizza stand. Conner bought himself a slice of pepperoni and insisted on buying one for her, too. They wandered the half block down to the park, sat on a bench listening to the band, shooing away the greedy seagulls.

“How long have you lived here?” He folded his pizza in half, like a sandwich.

“About ten years. I moved here with my best friend. I opened my studio, and she started a bookstore and coffee shop and met the man of her dreams, author Joe Michaels.”

“Seriously? I used to read his books when I was stationed overseas.”

Stationed? “Where were you—”

“In the army. Desert Storm.”

“You were in Iraq.”

He made a noncommittal sound.

“Not Iraq?”

His mouth tweaked up on one side. “I was a Green Beret. So, yeah, and whatever.”

Oh. No wonder he had this edge about him, a sense that he took in everything around him. Like the kids playing on the pebbled beach, throwing rocks in the water, and the teenagers riding their skateboards in the street, and a few adults sitting on the deck at the nearby tavern. And she guessed he’d probably even seen Kyle Hueston walk by in his deputy uniform.

“How did you go from a Green Beret to a hotshot?”