Smolder (Firefighters of Montana Book 1) (2 page)

“Tyson Campbell Johnson,” she called out as she hauled the goat, her son’s backpack, and her coat down the stairs leading into the barn. “How many times have I told you that you have to keep the door closed so this damn nosy goat will keep his butt out of the loft?”

The familiar scent of leather, liniment, horse, and hay greeted her, along with a suspicious silence. Too bad for her son, the chilly morning air did nothing to cool off her annoyance. Aside from finding a goat nibbling at her breakfast, Tyson’s father had texted saying he needed to speak with Laurel as soon as she’d dropped their son off at kindergarten. Both needed to happen before a very important meeting with her boss in just over an hour.

Oreo let out a little yip at the sight of the goat, but everyone else in the barn stood reverently admiring a gorgeous palomino horse munching on hay in one of the stalls—a palomino that had not been in that stall when Laurel had done the barn’s night check eight hours earlier. Laurel none-too-gently shoved the goat toward the open barn door. “Where did that horse come from?”

Her father fiddled with the piece of straw in his mouth. “Isn’t she a beauty?”

Apprehension fueled Laurel’s annoyance. At twenty-eight, she could read her dad pretty accurately, and her father’s words and demeanor told her he was up to something. “Yes, she is, but that wasn’t the question I asked, Dad.
Where did she come from
?”

“She came from Texas,” Tyson piped up.

“At seven-thirty in the morning? Did she walk here, then?” It was possible Laurel had missed the sound of a hauler while she was in the shower, but surely her father would have mentioned that he was expecting a horse to board with them; especially one as fine as the doe-eyed mare enjoying breakfast while an audience of worshipful men watched her every move like high school boys at a strip show. Laurel pulled on her puffy jacket to ward off the shivers brought on by both the morning chill and her premonition of trouble.

They hadn’t kept many extra horses since her mother’s health began failing nearly eight years ago. Before then, the ranch had been home to many champion quarter horses her mother had trained and Laurel had competed on. Today, their stock consisted of hearty hacks her father used for guided mountain tours and seasonal trail rides.

“She belongs to him.” Tyson’s mouth took on the familiar mulish look he got when she told the five-year-old he couldn’t buy candy at the grocery store checkout. Her sweet-natured son was usually too friendly with strangers, so his uncharacteristic animosity instantly put Laurel on guard.

She turned in the direction Tyson pointed. Her breath caught in her lungs momentarily at the sight of the tall, well-built man exiting the tack room. Amber eyes locked with hers as he prowled toward the palomino, his boots deceptively silent on the stone floor for a man of his build.

His swagger identified him to Laurel instantly, however. Her cousin’s description of the new captain of Glacier Creek’s forest service station was dead on—broad shoulders, wavy dark hair, perpetual five o’clock shadow, and an arrogant chin. Miranda had left out one crucial detail, though. The guy had a most exceptional ass. Laurel swallowed roughly when he walked past her to pat the horse on its withers.

The new station captain was definitely perpetuating the tough guy persona he’d ridden into town with a week ago. His light leather bomber jacket and well-worn Levis weren’t much of a defense against the crisp morning air in the flatlands. But if he wasn’t complaining, she’d just enjoy the view.

“Laurel, this is Captain Gaskill,” her father said. “An actual captain, as a matter of fact. He just left the army. Those boys over at the forest service base won’t know how to act with a real soldier commanding them.”

She grimaced at her father’s uncharacteristic tactlessness. Russ Edwards, the station’s previous captain, died tragically seven months ago when his parachute clipped a tree during a fire jump. The smokejumpers—as well as most of the town—had taken Russ’s death hard. Laurel’s uncle, Hugh Ferguson, had stepped back into his old job of station captain while the forest service recruited a new commander for the base, but most of the young smokejumpers only knew Hugh as the bartender from their favorite watering hole, The Drop Zone.

Needless to say, discipline and morale had been lacking during the off-season. Two of Laurel’s cousins worked at the station, so she knew the crews all deeply resented the forest service hiring someone from the outside. From what she’d heard, the army captain had his work cut out for him. Laurel almost felt sorry for him.

“And this here”—her father gestured to the mare—“is Tupelo Honey, the foal of Honey Bun and Honeysuckle. She goes by Tabitha in the barn. The captain is going to keep her at the ranch while he’s in Glacier Creek. Aren’t we lucky?”

Laurel didn’t see anything lucky about the arrangement. Her spidey-sense was still telling her there was more to the story.

She let her gaze wander back to the sexy ex-soldier. “So, you ride, captain?”

Sam Gaskill’s chin never moved while his arresting eyes slowly checked out Laurel from head to toe. Pulling her coat more tightly around her, she tried not to let the sensation of being given the once over by a lion scouting out his prey unnerve her. Instead she squared her chin and met the captain’s assessing gaze head on.
So much for feeling sorry for the guy.

His lips barely moved. “I don’t.”

“Yet, you own a champion-bred quarter horse?”

“She belonged to my wife.” This time his mouth grew harder, if that was even possible.

“Oh, well, there’s your first mistake. You should have bought her some jewelry or a car so when you split it up you wouldn’t be stuck with something so difficult to pawn.”

He stiffened at her flippant remark and her father let out a beleaguered groan.

“My
late
wife.” The three words crackled through the frosty air and Laurel felt each one like a slap to the face.

She didn’t bother looking at her dad, who was likely wearing that pained look he always did when she spoke without thinking. Would she never learn? Her mother claimed Laurel had been born without the essential filter that ran from her brain to her mouth. Needless to say, impulsiveness had been Laurel’s downfall on more than one occasion.

Her cheeks were hot and her palms sweaty as she pushed the words out of her mouth. “Forgive me. That was beyond rude.”

A charged silence hovered within the barn as the oblivious mare continued to chew on hay. Laurel forced herself to meet the captain’s eyes. She was surprised to see the pain that was reflected there before he quickly extinguished it. Her stomach quivered in embarrassment.

“I’ve got to get to work,” he said stoically before running a hand along the mare’s sleek back. The intimate gesture brought out an unexpected flush to more than just Laurel’s face.

“Take good care of her. Let me know if you need anything else for her training.” His footsteps sounded much more commanding in retreat, and it wasn’t until Laurel heard the hum of his vehicle making its way along the drive that his last words registered.

“Training? What kind of training was he talking about, Dad?”

Her father shot her a disapproving look, likely left over from when she’d put her foot in her mouth moments earlier. But Laurel refused to let it deter her.

“You did tell the guy that Mom hasn’t trained a horse in years, didn’t you? He knows that she’s in a wheelchair and doesn’t ride anymore, right, Dad?”

Her father shoved his hat back on his head and squeezed at his temple. “I’m not some snake oil salesman, Laurel. Of course I told him all that.”

Laurel slapped her hands on her denim-clad thighs in exasperation. “Then why did you tell him we were going to train his horse?”

“Because we are!” His bellowed words echoed off the stone walls, startling the mare and sending the grooms scurrying back to work. Tyson looked on wide-eyed while Oreo let out a whimper.

Laurel felt as though the barn was spinning. “Who do you mean when you say ‘we’?” Although, she had a sinking feeling she already knew the answer to her question.

“You!” Her father pulled his hat off his head and dragged his long fingers through his shaggy silver hair. “I mean you, Laurel.”

Staggering back a step, she nearly tripped over Tyson’s backpack. “You can’t be serious? I don’t know the first thing about training a horse. That’s Mom’s talent. I just ride them. What possibly made you think I could—
or would
—do it?”

“For crying out loud, Laurel, the man’s wife is dead.” His voice trailed off as he stared past the barn door toward the house across the gravel drive where her mother likely waited to share breakfast with him. The barn was tense and quiet for a moment before her father swallowed fiercely, his fingers tightening on the brim of his hat. “She’d raised the horse from a foal and it was her dream to see it compete at the highest level.”

The captain’s wife had been a horsewoman like her mother then. That familiar fear that always gripped her when she thought of her mother dying added to the anxiety that already had Laurel on edge. Josephine Keenan had always been larger than life. Not only was she a popular designer for many of the stars who had vacation homes in the region, but her mother had served as the town’s elected mayor for eight years. She was a vibrant fixture in Glacier Creek until fate had intervened. Her mom’s multiple sclerosis was stable, her prognosis cautiously optimistic, but Laurel knew how quickly circumstances—and life—could change. From the looks of it, so did her father.

“Tyson.” She pushed out around the tightening in her chest. “Take Oreo up to the house and say good morning to your grandma. I’ll be up in a minute to drive you to school.” She reached down and handed her son his backpack. Tyson eyed his grandfather before wisely slipping out of the barn. Truman fell into step behind him.

“Is there something you’re not telling me, Dad,” she asked as soon as Tyson and his menagerie had cleared the door. “Something about Mom?”

Her father swore under his breath. “No, of course not.”

“Then why would you commit me to training a man’s horse?

“The captain’s wife already trained the damn horse, Laurel. You’re welcome to watch the videos.” He reached out and patted the horse’s neck. “She just needs some fine tuning so he can sell the animal. Two, maybe three months at the max.”

“Two to three months?” Laurel gasped. “Dad, even if I thought I knew how to ‘tune up’ a horse to the caliber this one needs to be, where am I going to find the time? I work full-time. I help out here at the ranch, and I’m studying for my CPA, remember?”

Her father finally turned so his brown eyes met hers head-on. Her breath caught at the vulnerability she saw in them. “I already hired an extra hand to help out on the trail rides and the overnights so you’d have more time to study. He starts next week.”

His words surprised her. Up until now, he’d been dismissive regarding her ability to become an accountant. Laurel was the first to agree the career didn’t naturally fit with her personality, but she was quick with numbers and the work provided an adequate challenge for her impulsive brain. Not only that, but she had a son to support—without her parents’ help. Unfortunately, her father’s opinion led to a great deal of self-doubt on her own part. His willingness to help her out now, in spite of the motivation behind that support, wasn’t something she could easily dismiss.

“The days are getting longer,” he continued. “I thought that maybe you could work with the horse in the evenings. Your mom could come out and watch while it’s still warm from the sun. It could be just like old times; her coaching you from the rail.” His voice broke slightly and Laurel felt it reverberate deep within her chest cavity. “I don’t think the captain is expecting miracles, honey. But I know both he and your mother would get something from it. The man was deployed in a war zone three times. He deserves our respect and whatever help we can give. And your mom. . .well, she deserves something to look forward to every day.”

Laurel didn’t know how to respond to her father. The morning had been a tsunami of anxious emotions already and she wasn’t sure how she felt about anything. She opened her mouth to say what, she had no idea, when Tyson came charging back into the barn.

“Mom, the big hand is on the twelve and the little hand is on the eight. We need to get to school. Miss Ivy said she’d let me turn on the computers and iPads today!”

Her father cleared his throat before putting his hat back on his head. “Well then, we’d better get you loaded up into your car seat. We don’t want Miss Ivy giving your special job to anyone else.” He gave Laurel’s arm a squeeze as he passed her. “Just think about it, Laurel. For once, give the situation time to settle before you react.”

He followed Tyson out of the barn, leaving her alone with the mare and enough guilt to swallow her whole. The horse eyed Laurel warily as she approached.

“You are a looker, I’ll give you that,” she said softly while the mare continued to crunch on her hay. Laurel pulled a mint out of her coat pocket and let it rest in her flat palm. The palomino hesitated coyly before sniffing Laurel’s fingers and finally taking the mint with a lick of her hand. Releasing a resigned sigh, Laurel patted the horse’s nose. “We’ll just take it one day at a time and see what happens.”

The horn on her beat-up Land Cruiser sounded as she gave the mare a final pat. “Gotta go. Tyson loves school and it makes him impatient in the mornings. Boys can be such a pain.” The horse snorted. “Your guy, too, huh?” Laurel said, sarcastically. “Hmm, I never would have guessed.” With a quick check to see if the stall door was secure, Laurel headed out of the barn to get on with her already crazy day.

S
am let his
legs dangle off the jump tower as he carefully took in the scene a hundred feet beneath his boots. A group of ten men and women were scrambling around on the ground below, hauling parachutes and pulaskis from one side of the damp field to the other. The afternoon sun had warmed up the day substantially and most of the crew was in short sleeves while carrying out routine training drills.