Читать книгу Getting Married Again - Melinda Curtis - Страница 8

“WELCOME TO SILVER BEND, Idaho, Population 770.”

“Off by one,” Jackson mumbled to himself from the driver’s seat of his idling truck. Nobody had subtracted him from the sign when Lexie divorced him seven months ago and he’d gone to Russia to join a humanitarian aid party. Facing death there had made him realize he had a lot to live for.

Strike that. He had a lot to do over. Jackson just hoped that he’d be able to figure out where he went wrong, hoped Lexie would give him a second chance.

He recalled Lexie’s face when she’d handed him the divorce papers that last night he’d spent in the States. Her shuttered, pale features so different from those of the vibrant, smiling girl he’d fallen in love with in high school. All those years ago, he’d won her heart and she’d followed Jackson everywhere, from one party to the next. Twelve years later, she didn’t want to do any of the things they used to enjoy together. Toward the end, she wouldn’t even go with him to hang out at the Painted Pony, the restaurant his mother owned. Not for the first time, Jackson wondered when Lex had changed.

How was he going to win her back when she didn’t want anything to do with him?

If he turned left here, on Lone Pine Road, he’d be at his house in minutes. It was Lexie’s now. He hadn’t contested any of her requests. Why would he have? He hadn’t thought she was serious about splitting up.

Since he’d fought his way out of the Russian fire, Jackson had wanted to come home to reclaim his family. As soon as he’d been able, he’d said goodbye to his comrades and hopped on the first plane back. He should just charge up the mountain, fall on his knees, promise her anything and beg her to take his sorry ass back.

Yet, he hesitated.

Trouble was, a severe case of groveling might not be enough for Lex. He needed something meaningful to say, something to sway her. He doubted “I had the crap scared out of me in Siberia and realized I can’t live without you” would cut it.

And that’s what held him back.

Jackson reached for the paper-wrapped bundle sitting on the seat beside him and fingered the handmade wool shawl—a gift for Lexie. Breniv, one of his Siberian fire-fighting trainees, had taken Jackson aside the day before he left for home. They had stood alone on a muggy, empty side street outside of the fire station, the laundry waving from windows high above the street.

“You bring gift for woman?” the burly Russian had asked in his broken English, dark bushy brows drawn low.

Jackson, who had said nothing about Lexie to anyone, had given Breniv a cool look and a curt “No.” One of Jackson’s reasons for hanging around his Russian counterparts rather than the other Americans was to avoid personal conversation, particularly about his marital status—about the plain gold wedding band he still wore.

Breniv ignored Jackson’s off-limits demeanor. “Woman know you love, no?”

“No.” Jackson shook his head and looked out on the sturdy brick buildings along the street, reminded of the ache in his heart.

“Here, we have way of showing love,” Breniv persisted patiently, as if Jackson were a child. “You face death, you show love.”

His words caught Jackson’s attention, because that was exactly how he felt. Life was more fragile to him now. Love more precious. He wanted to be with the ones he loved.

“Yes.” Breniv spoke as if reading Jackson’s thoughts. He pressed a small packet into Jackson’s hands. “Keep woman warm, she love you back.”

Jackson carefully lifted the ends of plain folded paper, revealing a beautiful black shawl with pink roses that was made of the finest wool. Jackson had seen shawls like these in the market, had heard other American firefighters talk about the high prices of the handmade, hand-blocked shawls.

“Breniv, this is too expensive. I can’t accept it.”

But Breniv was already backing away, his expression solemn. “You save life.”

“Not all of them.” He couldn’t accept the gift. Didn’t Breniv realize Jackson had almost killed them all by taking them out to fight a forest fire when they were so ill-equipped? Fighting a fire without benefit of weather reports to predict the impact of strong winds or air support to monitor the progress of two converging fires was foolhardy at best. Fighting a fire without an escape route was plain-ass stupid.

They called Jackson a hero.

He was no hero.

While the flames had roared toward them, he’d made his team shore up two sides of a crevice carved naturally into the mountainside, not an easy task given the hard-packed forest soil. Only as the fire leapt closer did he see the look of terror in Alek’s eyes. It was the young man’s first summer fighting fire. Jackson doubted the rookie had ever seen a fire’s rage mere yards away.

They’d crammed themselves like sardines into the grave they’d made and covered themselves with Jackson’s fire shelter—a one-man tent made of silica, fiberglass and aluminum foil that reflected heat. Everyone jumped in, except Alek. The fire had passed over the men with heat so intense it blistered exposed skin.

Alek had not been so lucky.

By the time the vivid memories of crackling wood, unbearable heat and failure receded, and Jackson returned his attention to the humid street in Russia, Breniv was gone.

Now the shawl sat on the passenger seat next to Jackson as if holding a place for Lexie. The rest of the gifts he’d brought back were tucked into his backpack on the floorboard of his truck.

Who was he kidding? Gifts and groveling weren’t enough to get her back. She wanted the one thing he’d been unable to give her—another child.

Jackson pulled onto the highway and headed into Silver Bend. He needed a beer before he decided what to say to Lex. Since it wasn’t noon yet, a strong cup of coffee would have to do, and if that cup came with a bit of advice from his mom, so much the better. He could use all the help he could get.

As Jackson drove by the gas station, the attendant nodded in greeting while pumping gas into Marguerite’s shiny new Cadillac. Marguerite Sterling, his mother’s friend, craned her neck far enough in the direction of his passing truck that Jackson feared she’d knock her spine out of alignment again.

Jackson waved, somewhat comforted by the familiarity of it all.

Smiley Peterson tottered out of his client chair in the barbershop and pressed his bulbous nose to the glass when Jackson parked his truck on Main Street in front of his shop. The old man shuffled to the front door, opening it with a clang of the bell that Jackson had helped him install.

“Hey, Jackson, that you?” he called.

Jackson climbed out of his truck, working the kinks out of his body after sitting for so long. It took him a bit to answer, but Silver Bend was a quiet town where slow wasn’t necessarily considered stupid.

“Yeah, Smiley. It’s me.” Jackson slung his backpack over one shoulder.

“Seen Lexie?” Smiley asked, not smiling. Jackson couldn’t remember when he’d seen Smiley without his trademark toothless grin.

Ignoring the feeling of emptiness that hearing Lexie’s name gave him, Jackson shook his head, pushing off his unease. Lexie was fine, he was sure.

Jackson gestured to Smiley’s candy-striped barbershop pole listing dangerously to one side of the door. “How long has that sign been broken? Some fool will smack into it if they aren’t watching where they’re going.”

“Blew loose in a summer storm a week or so ago.”

“Got a screwdriver handy?” It wouldn’t take but a few minutes to fix it.

Now Smiley grinned. “’Course I do.”

The old barber leaned against the door frame while Jackson tightened the pole back into place. “Wanna shave that beard?”

“Naw.” Jackson stroked the thick growth covering his cheeks and jaw. He hadn’t shaved since he left home, hadn’t had a haircut in months either. Besides, no one let Smiley near their hair anymore. He’d nearly taken off a little kid’s ear a couple of years back because his eyesight was atrocious and his hands were too shaky. Now, he employed younger hairstylists in the afternoons and on weekends, but he still hung out all day in the shop.

“Shame. Goin’ back soon?”

“I start back in two weeks.” The Department of Forestry hadn’t expected him to return for another five months, so there weren’t any immediate job openings for a Hot Shot leader. His slot as superintendent of the Silver Bend Hot Shots had been filled for the year by Logan. He’d been assured they’d find something for him in two weeks. In the meantime, they had granted his vacation request.

Bureaucrats may talk about budget cuts and downsizing, but when push came to shove, the Department of Forestry found the approvals and moneys necessary to keep valuable assets like Jackson on the ground where he could make the most difference.

An asset. That’s how his boss at the Department of Forestry in Boise had referred to him this morning when Jackson explained that he was thinking about giving up firefighting.

There were fewer than one hundred Hot Shot superintendents in the United States, employed by various government agencies including the Department of Forestry. There were less than fifty with Jackson’s tenure of service, and fewer than twenty who had served overseas. The Department of Forestry wanted Jackson back on the first line of defense against wildland fires—not exactly the ideal situation for a guy who broke into a sweat just remembering the feel of heat on his skin.

Jackson hadn’t wanted to listen to his boss’s protests, but he couldn’t help himself. He was a second-generation Hot Shot. Fighting fires was in his blood. The last thing he wanted to do was quit. But what choice did a coward like him have?

Despite his boss’s protests, he’d applied for two different desk jobs, one as a fire specialist—to predict the path of destruction a fire might take—and one as a member of the Incident Command team—an on-site group that managed the various crews and support personnel needed to combat a fire. Both jobs were with the National Interagency Fire Center, which monitored fires in the nation, processed requests for assistance with fires burning on government land and recommended deployment of resources, which included everything from fire engines to portable showers to fire fighters. The DOF and NIFC were both located within the Boise airport.

Jackson handed the screwdriver back to Smiley and accepted the old man’s “Welcome home” before continuing on his way.

Jackson walked down the empty sidewalk to the Painted Pony, noticing the vast number of cars and trucks parked in the lot beside the life-size plastic horse that was the restaurant’s icon. He recognized many of the vehicles as being owned by his Hot Shots. In this part of Idaho, forestry and firefighting jobs were a big part of the community. A few tourists came for the rafting on the Payette River, but Silver Bend, with its ranger station and Hot Shot base, was considered by locals to be a fire town.

He entered the town’s lone restaurant and local hangout, then paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness, letting the familiar smells and sounds envelop him.

Almost immediately, the door opened behind him and another of his mother’s friends, Birdie Lowell, local busy-body and grocery store owner, came in on his heels. Jackson had thought Birdie was old and cranky when he was a kid. Today, she looked ancient and cranky. The last time he’d seen the old woman, she’d told him the one way to get Lexie back was to take her camping. As if roasting marshmallows over an open fire would win her back.

Jackson stepped aside to let Birdie pass. He wasn’t in the mood for her brand of advice today, but Birdie stopped in front of him anyway.

“Have you seen Lexie yet?” Birdie asked, forehead crinkling as she craned her neck to look him in the eye.

Jackson’s jaw tensed. It was clear that everyone knew about the divorce, which was damn irritating when Jackson was trying to figure out how not to be divorced. “Not yet, Birdie. How’re you?”

Birdie pursed her pale, thin lips while she studied his face. After about thirty seconds, she huffed “Fine,” and then strutted out with an ungainly, jolting gait similar to a pigeon’s.

Obviously, something funny had been added to the water in Silver Bend, because everyone was acting as if Jackson needed to run straight to Lexie. Sure, he’d just returned from Russia, but it wasn’t as if Lexie was anxiously awaiting his return.

That was the problem—she was too damn good at taking care of herself.

Jackson took a moment to reacquaint himself with his mother’s restaurant. He’d grown up cooking, bussing tables and doing dishes at the Pony, idolizing the Hot Shots that treated the place as a second home. There was nothing like the combined aromas of yeasty beer and seasoned curly fries to make him feel like he was back where he belonged.

Nothing had changed here, thank you very much—from the retro blue-green and chrome chairs to the faux white marble countertops to the mural of a rearing black-and-white pony. The scarred pool table still stood to his right, a small video game section to his left. Three rows of oblong tables cascaded back to the bar.

One of the tables near the kitchen was overflowing with familiar faces. Most of his Silver Bend Hot Shots were congregated for a late breakfast. In their fire-resistant Nomex green pants and yellow shirts, they looked ready for battle. The group glanced at him curiously, at first not recognizing him behind his beard.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in.” Logan McCall, who had been the best man at Jackson’s wedding, kicked his chair back and strode across the room “Slummin’, Golden? Or did they kick your lazy butt out of Russia?”

Jackson grinned and took two steps before receiving a bone-crunching hug with much backslapping. “I heard the fires were raging back home, so I took the first plane out, Tin Man.” Jackson used Logan’s nickname, bestowed after one particularly disappointed woman publicly proclaimed Logan to be lacking a heart. Logan was a confirmed bachelor who enjoyed women as long as they didn’t expect more from him than a night or two of his company.

“Just in time,” Logan said. “We’re shipping out today. Got us a nice runaway in Wyoming over at Bighorn.”

Like most Hot Shot teams, Silver Bend fought fires anywhere they were needed, from Alaska to Florida. It was dirty, exhausting, dangerous work fighting fires from the ground with little more than a shovel and a Pulaski—a combination ax and hoe. The physical job requirements were so tough, only the strongest passed the arduous work-capacity test. And only the most courageous lasted more than a few seasons.

His gut clenching at the thought of facing flames again, Jackson concentrated on holding on to his smile.

“Have you eaten? The guys would love to hear some stories.” Logan pointed to the table and walked back as if assuming Jackson wanted nothing more than to join them.

Jackson recognized many of the faces there, had trained most of these men. Those who he didn’t know watched him with the eager expressions of novices. Jackson quickly looked away from their curious stares.

Logan introduced Jackson to the newest Hot Shot members, and slid him into a chair facing the kitchen. “Best view in the house,” Logan said with a private grin, as if he, and he alone, were privy to some inside joke.

Someone poured Jackson a cup of coffee.

“Did you teach the Russians how we fight fires…Golden…sir?” This from a fresh-faced boy, introduced as Rookie, who didn’t look old enough to drive, much less shave, although he had the broad shoulders and beefy arms of a seasoned firefighter.

Most Hot Shots kept in shape, but the Silver Bend Hot Shots trained like fiends—lifting weights and running miles across the mountainous ranges in the area to increase their strength and endurance. They had a reputation for the ability to build more fire lines than any other crew, and generally considered themselves the best of the best. Up until last year, Jackson had believed leading the Silver Bend Hot Shots was a job he’d been born for.

“I did teach my Russian crew something.” Jackson only half smiled, trying to ignore the hero worship in Rookie’s eyes as he remembered another eager, young recruit. Unwilling to elaborate, he felt his easy grin slip away as his mind flashed upon that face, filled with terror.

Why did you run, Alek?

The table was oddly silent as everyone waited for Jackson to say more. He took another sip of coffee, unable to talk about what had happened over there. The goofy grin on Logan’s face was starting to wear on his nerves.

He could hear his mother in the kitchen, banging pans and talking to herself. Now would be a good time to excuse himself, greet his mom and ask her what she thought he should do about Lexie.

“They spoke English, did they?” Chainsaw Hudson asked after a bit. Chainsaw carried his namesake into battle. One of the shorter crew members at only six feet tall, Chainsaw was a burly man who was a terror to trees standing in the way of a firebreak.

“Some. I had an interpreter most of the time.”

“A blond-haired, blue-eyed beauty?” Chainsaw waggled his brows suggestively.

Jackson chuckled, thinking of Levka, the pudgy, wrinkled firefighter that had been assigned to the team of U.S. firemen. “Something like that.”

That was just what the crew wanted to hear. Chainsaw slapped Jackson on the back as other crew members pulled their chairs closer. “Gentleman, our boy is definitely back in the dating game. Anyone want to offer him some tips?”

Everyone started talking at once.

Jackson brought his coffee cup to his lips, letting the table’s enthusiasm roll over him unacknowledged. He didn’t want his team to know he was still devastated over his divorce. He’d never live something like that down.

If only he could hide his cowardice as easily.

“I suppose you’ll have lots of stories to tell. Knowing you, they’ll be good ones.” This from Spider, who had a love of scary movies and wore only black when he was off duty.

Jackson didn’t answer. He didn’t plan to tell many stories, especially stories about that last fire. The heat. The smell of fear so pungent you could taste it.

He took another sip of his coffee, trying to drown the gnawing monster of doubt eating away at his gut. The same demon had been his constant companion since the fire. Nothing seemed to keep the demon at bay—not coffee, not alcohol, not exhaustion.

“Seen Lexie yet?” Spider asked, stretching his wiry frame and tipping the chair back on two legs.

His control—already worn down from exhaustion and longing—at its end, Jackson leaned forward. Appearances be damned. “Hell, no, I haven’t seen my wife yet. Why do you ask?”

“But…but,” Spider sputtered. “You’re divorced.”

Jackson stared real hard at Spider.

Spider let his chair fall forward with a solid thunk on the hardwood floor, averting his gaze. “I’m just gonna keep my mouth shut,” he mumbled.

“Jackson!” Mary Garrett gasped before running around the ancient wooden bar of the Painted Pony.

He’d shot up out of his chair upon seeing her, and was ready when she threw herself into his arms.

“I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.” His mother squeezed him tight.

“We finished up a little early,” Jackson replied gruffly, holding his mom close and trying not to remember that he almost hadn’t made it home. He wanted to tell her that he loved her, but he rarely uttered those words, even to Lex—and there was his reputation to consider, with half a team of Hot Shots watching his every move. Instead, Jackson put some distance between them and reached down into his backpack for the gift he’d brought back for her. Awkwardly he thrust a book of Russian fairy tales her way.

His mother ran her fingers over the brightly colored cover, then flipped through the pages. “What fun this will be to read with Heidi,” she said, her eyes bright. With a sigh, she laid the book carefully on the bar.

“Let me look at you and make sure those Russians took good care of you.” His mother studied him. “You were always such a picky eater, and I worried you wouldn’t have anything to eat over there.”

“Mom.” He scuffed his boots against the wood floor as if he were thirteen, not thirty, hearing Logan’s chuckle behind him. His mother often treated him as if he were still in the seventh grade. The only saving grace was that she treated every one of the Silver Bend Hot Shots as if they were in the seventh grade. The Painted Pony was the last place the Hot Shots stopped before leaving to fight a wildland fire, and the first place they gathered when they returned.

His mom gave him the once-over, then peered at his face. “Have you slept at all?”

“Not much.” Jackson still had frequent nightmares about the fire’s advance and continued to carry the emotional scars from his brush with death. It was tough enough for him to fall asleep when he was alone, even harder when he’d been worried that he might wake up screaming or in a cold sweat on an airplane full of strangers.

“It’s a good thing I’m working, then. You can go get some sleep and then take me to dinner tonight.”

“Dinner? I suppose you’ll want to go somewhere nice in Boise and spend all my hard-earned money,” Jackson teased.

His mother’s eyes widened. “Oh, I forgot. I can’t go to dinner with you tonight. Bridge night. Where are you staying? I’ll call you later.”

“Uh…” The question was so unexpected that Jackson stroked his beard as he searched for a tactful reply. “I thought I was staying with you. I don’t have a room at the barracks.” Unless they had a family, Silver Bend Hot Shots bunked down together at a large ranger station up the road.

“Me? Oh, honey, I’m sorry, but you’ll cramp my style.” She glanced over her shoulder toward the kitchen as if concerned something might catch on fire.

“Your style?” He wasn’t welcome in his mother’s house because she was exercising between the sheets? His father died eighteen years ago and his mother hadn’t dated since. In her late fifties, Mary Garrett sported a lined face and the brown mottled complexion of one who enjoyed the outdoor life. Neither slender nor overweight, with short hair turned completely gray, his mother was a bundle of energy, but there was nothing Jackson saw in his mother that someone of the opposite sex would find…well, sexy.

“That’s right.” Her voice was firm and her chin lifted.

What had gotten into his mother? Then she changed the subject on him again.

“Have you seen Lexie?”

Jackson gritted his teeth as he shook his head. “No. Is she working today?” Lexie worked at the Painted Pony during the breakfast shift, as both a cook and a waitress.

“Working?” His mother seemed incredulous. Then she reached up to pat his cheek. “No, honey, not really.”

“Dad?” Heidi appeared at the counter, carrying two mountainous platters of pancakes that wavered when she saw him. She stood frozen in place for a moment, blue eyes filling with tears.

Mary came to the rescue and took the plates from Heidi before she dropped them.

Jackson couldn’t breathe past the sudden lump in his throat at seeing his baby girl, who looked a good inch taller and more like an adult than ever before. At eleven, Heidi was the spitting image of her mother—thick brown hair, bright blue eyes and dimples. Her long ponytail bounced as she ran into his arms. Unable to contain his excitement, he spun her around, then plunked her back on her feet and planted a kiss on her crown.

“I can’t believe you’re back.” Heidi squeezed him again as if reassuring herself that he was real. “It’s been, like, forever.”

Not trusting himself to speak, Jackson just grinned. Heidi was the reason Jackson and Lexie had married before their high school graduation. Lexie had planned on going to college, but the baby had pretty much made that dream impossible. Yet, she’d never once told Jackson she regretted getting married, raising their daughter and abandoning her dreams. They’d wanted to have more children, but the doctors said that Lexie wasn’t able to carry any more babies. That news had broken Lexie’s heart, and eventually, Jackson believed, his marriage as well.

“I almost didn’t recognize you with that beard.” Heidi reached up and tugged gently on his whiskers. “Are beards popular over there?”

“It’s the poor-man’s nose ring,” Logan said, grinning as he loaded up a plate with pancakes.

“Uncle Logan!” Heidi rolled her eyes, then hugged Jackson close. “Wait until I tell Mom you’re home.”

LEXIE IRRITABLY SCRATCHED OUT the figures on the tablet in front of her until the pencil lead snapped. No matter which way she looked at it, she wasn’t going to have enough money this month to pay every bill. She crumpled up the yellow sheet and tossed it in the trash. The money Jackson transferred automatically to her account covered the mortgage and house insurance plus the majority of the grocery bills. It didn’t cover the rest, including the vet bill, and new school clothes for Heidi, who’d grown over the summer.

Lexie shifted in Mary’s chair, trying to ease the pain in her lower back. She’d come over this morning to help Mary feed the departing firefighters and she’d overdone it just a bit. Lexie didn’t regret a few aches. She was just as fond of the Hot Shot crew Jackson used to lead as Mary was. They deserved a little pampering before they risked their lives on a mountain where raging fires sent temperatures soaring above one hundred degrees.

Besides, she needed something to keep her mind off the ticking clock and her mounting bills. When she’d drawn up the divorce settlement, Lexie had been too proud to ask for much money. She’d had a steady paycheck and had thought she could make her own way. That was before she’d had to give up her job at the Painted Pony.

Lexie unfurled herself from behind Mary’s desk and rubbed her back as she headed into the Pony’s kitchen. Not for the first time since the divorce, Lexie wondered if she’d done the right thing. It wasn’t just the money. There was Heidi to consider. Was it fair for Lexie to raise their daughter alone?

Lexie snorted. As if she hadn’t been raising Heidi alone her entire life. Jackson was never home. He was either in another state fighting fires, out somewhere training, or off with his never-ending list of friends. She’d always love Jackson, but their marriage was past the point of salvation. She’d been his housekeeper, his cook and his mistress, but somewhere down the line they’d stopped being friends, stopped being lovers, stopped talking about anything other than his schedule and how he wasn’t going to be around. Finally, Lexie told him not to bother coming home.

Absently, Lexie rubbed her stomach, fighting the slightest twinge of guilt. A year ago, Lexie had discovered she was pregnant. At first, she’d thought the doctors had made a huge mistake; they had told her long ago that she couldn’t get pregnant again. But a miracle had happened—and she had begun to believe that this was the sign she’d been looking for. Her love with Jackson was worth saving.

She’d asked him to meet her for lunch in Boise in a swank little café on the outskirts of the city. Jackson had told her he’d be there after he was done helping a neighbor clear away brush from their house. Lexie had waited an hour before she started to cry.

And then the bleeding started.

Lexie had driven herself to the hospital—alone. Checked herself in—alone. Held herself together throughout the miscarriage when she couldn’t reach Jackson. Then she’d driven herself back to Silver Bend. During the trip home, Lexie had come to realize that she was no longer important to Jackson. This wasn’t the first time Jackson had stood her up, or Heidi, for that matter. How could anyone treat those closest to him—his wife and daughter—so callously? If this wasn’t a sign that their love was unsalvageable, Lexie didn’t know what was.

When Jackson showed up after having missed dinner, with some excuse about a friend’s car not starting, Lexie made her decision. She asked him to move out that night without ever telling him of the child they’d lost.

Lexie sighed, pushing back the guilt. She needed to focus on her current problems, not her past. She’d make it somehow. Just a few more months and things were bound to get better.

The Hot Shot crew in the dining room of the Pony roared with laughter, the raucous sound carrying over the noisy fans in the kitchen. Lexie glanced up from the steaming bowl full of scrambled eggs she’d left on the counter for Mary and Heidi to carry into the dining room minutes before. Something was going on out there. The Silver Bend Hot Shots were such a boisterous, upbeat group that their mood was infectious. Lexie needed some of those positive vibes right now.

She carried the bowl of eggs over to the kitchen window where she could look out on to the dining room. A bearded man with hair touching his shoulders stood with his arms looped around Heidi and Mary, their backs to Lexie. He wasn’t dressed in Hot Shot gear, but the way he stood reminded her of someone. Lexie stretched to put the big, heavy bowl of scrambled eggs up on the shoulder-high countertop, feeling its weight all the way down in her belly. And then he laughed.

It can’t be.

The heavy crock slipped out of her fingers onto the countertop with a sickening crack, splitting the bowl in two and cascading eggs across the counter and onto the floor. Everyone’s head swiveled in her direction, including that of the bearded stranger. Only he wasn’t a stranger. He was the man who still held the key to her heart.

Light-headed, Lexie gripped the counter, grateful that it stood between her and Jackson so that he couldn’t see all of her, couldn’t see that she carried his child.

A child she hadn’t told him about. The child they’d created the night Jackson signed the divorce papers.

Their eyes met and held, making it hard for her to breathe. Having been a firefighter’s wife for so long, she couldn’t resist taking inventory, making sure he was all right. His tall frame was still sturdy. Blue jeans covered his powerful thighs, and his broad shoulders filled a forest-green T-shirt. His sable hair fell uncharacteristically below his ears and brushed his T-shirt collar in the back. A thick, dark beard covered his square jaw, making him look less like the young man she’d married and more like a weary man of the world.

Jackson was safe. She couldn’t think beyond that fact. Firefighters who came home early from assignments weren’t always unscathed. Broken bones. Singed body parts. Eyes so red from bitter smoke that they couldn’t see. But Jackson stood solidly in front of her. Unharmed.

The desire to touch him overwhelmed her. She wanted to run her fingers through his hair, feel the strength of his chest beneath her palms, reassure herself that he was, indeed, home in one piece.

“Are you all right?” Mary darted into the kitchen, gave Lexie the once-over, and then started cleaning up, effectively distracting Lexie from the spell Jackson had put her under.

He may look oh-so-right, but he wasn’t able to love them as a father and husband should. Yet, she couldn’t resist looking at him again.

Jackson’s smile was tentative, his green eyes guarded. It was the first time in a long time that she’d seen him unsure of himself. Oh, he had his weak moments, but Lexie also knew that Jackson hid behind his charm. Few knew he didn’t have the hidden reserves of confidence he’d prefer everyone believed. He certainly had never been anything but upbeat and positive with Lexie through their entire divorce.

“How’re you doing, Lex?” His voice coasted over her like warm honey from across the room.

Lexie licked suddenly dry lips. She should have told him months ago about this baby. He’d know how she was “doing” the minute she stepped out from behind the counter.

The baby thumped against her ribs, trying to capture her father’s attention from deep within the womb.

Heidi hugged Jackson, her joy in seeing her father apparent in her radiant smile. “He’s home, Mom, for good. Just like before. Isn’t it great?”

Jackson’s smile broadened. The Hot Shots at the table were nudging each other and grinning as if this was the best show in town. She supposed it ranked right up there with the time old Marguerite slurped one too many strawberry daiquiris, shimmied into the lap of a highly embarrassed and uninterested Sirus Socrath, the former superintendent of Silver Bend’s Hot Shot crew, and sang “Like a Virgin.”

“Your father is back from Russia, but I’m sure he’s off to fight fires somewhere,” Lexie said, hastening to correct the impression that Jackson was home to stay. It was the height of the fire season and there were several forest fires rampant across the western states. She pasted a smile on her face and looked at Jackson hopefully.

Jackson tugged Heidi’s ponytail, grin firmly in place. “Nope. I’ve taken two weeks off.”

“In the middle of the fire season?” Lexie’s voice cracked on the last word. Any hope she had of keeping her pregnancy a secret from Jackson faded fast. Would he be angry with her? Would he even care?

“Yep. I decided I needed a break, needed to reconnect with my family.” His eyes, dark rimmed as if from lack of sleep, seemed to glow warmly at her, but Lexie was anything but reassured.

“Wow. That’s…” Lexie’s head bobbed as she floundered for something to say, some way to break the news to Jackson gently. She used to be known for her witty comebacks. Now, all she could manage was “That’s… Wow.”

“Aren’t you gonna hug Mom?” Heidi asked, looking innocently up at her father.

One of the Hot Shots chuckled.

“Oh dear,” Mary said, and disappeared into the back room.

Lexie’s eyes narrowed even as her chest heaved. She was being set up by her own daughter, in front of an audience, no less. Emotions warred within her—indignation at being caught off guard and outmaneuvered by an eleven-year-old, anxiety that Jackson might find out how close she was to needing his help, a feeling of relief that Jackson was home safe, the sour guilt of her secret.

The baby slugged her bladder.

Jackson walked closer, his footsteps a slow herald of the moment of truth. Everyone was looking at her now, probably hoping she’d fall back into his arms as if he’d never broken her heart and shattered her dreams of family. Each step Jackson took made Lexie want to shrink back into the kitchen, but she still had enough pride to stand and face him.