The wind kicked up. The fire hungrily sucked it in, feeding the flames with fresh air.

The angry red glow brightened. Like orange lights winking on in the darkness, the flames scattered to trees farther away, jumping long distances. Heading south, heading up the mountainsides.

The wind, shifting almost wildly, blew smoke their way, blinding them, causing Mary to cough as it burned her throat.

Huge tongues of flames leapt upward, more than twice the height of the trees. And on the wind they could hear the distant roar, like that of a hungry beast.

A shoulder brushed Mary’s, and she looked to her side. Elijah Canfield stood there, staring at the fire. “Where’s Sam?” he asked.

“I think he’s still down with the crew building the firebreak. He didn’t come back after he took food down.”

His eyes, intense even in the dull red glow that was lighting the night, fixed on her. “Doesn’t anyone know for sure?”

Mary felt a stirring of impatience, accentuated by her growing anxiety. “That’s the last we heard from him.” She paused, then asked skeptically, “Why? Are you worried about him?”

A January Chill “is an entertaining romantic suspense that stars two wonderful lead characters.”

—Midwest Book Review

July Thunder
Rachel Lee

www.millsandboon.co.uk

July Thunder

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Epilogue

Prologue

Lightning struck the same day Elijah Canfield arrived in Whisper Creek, Colorado. It struck at precisely the same hour, and within a few minutes of Elijah’s arrival. No one took note. Not then.

The lightning struck a forest as dry as tinder. It hadn’t rained in months, and the snowfall of the past winter had been light.

Had anyone been around just beforehand, they would have known it was coming. The charge built in the ground until boulders hummed like angry beehives. Animals scurried away, their coats prickling and trying to stand on end, racing through charged air that felt as if it were full of cobwebs. It was as if the mountain came alive with anger, as if its very spirit rose to the heavens in outrage. The world hummed and buzzed with fury.

No one saw it happen. The bolt came out of a nearly cloudless sky, unexpected, unlikely.

In an instant, with a single thunderous clap, the lightning struck, picking as its target a tall, dead pine. The pine rent with another crack, lost in the rolling explosion that echoed off surrounding mountains, then burst into flame. Thin wisps of black smoke rose from the burning pitch, blown away immediately by a brisk breeze, concealing the evidence that otherwise would have been visible for miles.

But the wind did more than conceal. It lifted and carried tongues of flame with it, scattering them almost merrily among the other trees. Some died before they found sustenance. A few licked happily at dry branches and grew.

But no one was there to see.

Just as no one was there to see when Elijah Canfield pulled his car up to The Little Church in the Woods some forty miles away. Elijah was a minister, and the church was to be his new home. It was a small congregation and a small church, but it was a congregation that thirsted for the message that Elijah brought with him, the same way the flames thirsted for the dry limbs and needles of the pines. Elijah brought thunder and hoped his words would strike as lightning.

And flames began to devour the mountain.

1

Sam Canfield regarded the beautiful day with disfavor, then wondered if that wasn’t just getting to be a bad habit. It had been three years since his wife’s death, and common sense told him he should be getting past his dislike of beautiful sunny days. Especially beautiful sunny days when there was no snow on the ground.

After three years, he told himself, it should no longer seem like a personal affront when the sky wasn’t filled with low, leaden clouds that wept. So maybe he had just developed some bad habits.

Still, he wasn’t happy to see a sky so blue it hurt to look at it or feel the warmth of a summer day, a day the locals would call “hot,” even though they would be lucky to see eighty.

He locked the door of his snug little house behind him, closing it on the memories within that had haunted his nights for a long time. This morning, for some reason, closing that door didn’t feel like a betrayal. At once, the realization filled him with guilt.

Was he healing? Part of him thought it was about time, and part of him wondered how he could even think of letting go.

Sighing, he got into his patrol car and headed for his job as a sheriff’s deputy in Whisper Creek. Another day, another dollar, he told himself. But this morning the words didn’t sound quite so…despairing. This morning they just sounded cynical.

It occurred to him to wonder if he would even like the man he had become, assuming he bothered to look closely, then he dismissed the question. When life dealt you lemons, you made lemonade. He wasn’t at the lemonade stage yet, though. He wondered if he would ever be.

And he wondered why he should even bother.

Morning roll call, such as it was, was quiet as usual. A dozen deputies, just waking up, got ready to go out to their cars and patrol the remote byways of the county and the quiet streets of the town. The kinds of crimes that plagued major cities were rare here. Domestic violence and brawls topped the list of problems, followed by relatively rare robberies and burglaries. That was one of the reasons Sam had moved here from Boulder. A quieter life. A less dangerous job. Because he and Beth had planned to start a family.

The thought darkened his soul, but he was making a decent effort at shaking the mood off when Earl Sanders, the sheriff, stopped him on his way to the car.

“Hey, Sam,” Earl said. “How’s it going?”

“Great,” Sam replied. He wouldn’t admit to anything else. Earl had held his hand through some of the darkest nights of his life, a friend at every turning, and Sam was determined not to lean on him any longer.

“We’re still on for dinner tomorrow night, right? Maggie’s swearing she’ll kidnap you if you don’t show up under your own steam.”

Sam summoned a smile to his stiff face. “I’ll be there.” He couldn’t blame Earl for checking. He’d accepted more than one invitation to dinner with the Sanders family only to beg off at the last minute because he couldn’t bear the thought of being immersed in their happiness for several hours. “I promise.”

“No excuses.”

“Not a one.”

“Good.” Earl’s smile suggested doubt, but he wasn’t going to say so. “I wanted to ask you…. Didn’t you say your dad was a minister?”

Sam wondered which of his drunken binges had caused those words to tumble out of his mouth. He never talked about his family, made a policy of pretending he had none. Which he didn’t, not really. But more than once in the last few years he’d gotten in a mood and drowned his sorrows in beer, and he had probably babbled unwisely.

He didn’t drink like that anymore. A sign of healing, maybe, or a sign of despair. He didn’t know which. Something inside him had begun a painful dying when Beth was killed, and maybe it had finally given up the ghost, leaving him dead inside. Which was fine with him. Feelings weren’t all they were cracked up to be.

“Yeah,” he said reluctantly. “Why?”

Earl shrugged, but the sharpness of his gaze belied his seeming indifference. “There’s a new minister over at The Little Church in the Woods. He arrived in town yesterday. I wondered, because his name is Elijah Canfield.”

Elijah Canfield. Recognition hit Sam like an explosion in his head, and for an instant he couldn’t even see. And he had thought he was dead?

Life poured into him, painful life, with an anger so pure it burned in him like a white flame, with a hurt so deep it filled his gut with molten lead. Holding himself in became a nearly impossible act of will.

He could barely see Earl’s face. Between clenched teeth, he said, “He’s my father.”

Then he turned and walked out of the station, his limbs as stiff as ice.

In his patrol car, he sat for long minutes trying to calm himself. Nothing had changed, he told himself. The old bastard was just closer than he had been before. It didn’t make any difference. Elijah would still treat his son as dead, and Sam would continue to ignore the existence of his father. They might see each other on the street or in a store from time to time, but what would that change?

Walls of ice could be opaque. Elijah had built those walls block by block, and finally, when the anguish surpassed bearing, Sam had sprayed water over them, sealing even the tiniest chink. The anger that burned in him now was dangerous because it might melt that wall.

He couldn’t allow that. By sheer force of will, he tamped it down. Ice. He had to maintain the ice. It was the only protection he had.

Mary McKinney was driving to the store for her week’s groceries, puttering along Main Street, thinking about nothing in particular. She was good at that when she didn’t have something to occupy both her hands and her mind. Often she wasn’t quite sure where she drifted to, but things popped in and out of her head. Safe things. Simple things. Like whether she should drive down to Denver to visit her aunt this weekend.

The cat darted out from between two cars, directly into her path. It was as if time slowed down and her entire universe suddenly focused on that cat. Orange, tiger-striped. Big. Ratty looking. And right behind it there would be a little boy. She could almost see the dark top of his head as he ran after the cat.

She jammed on her brakes, tires squealing. An instant later there was a loud crunch and she was slammed back in her seat, her head banging against the headrest.

The cat paused to look at her, then darted away across the street. The little boy—oh, God, there was no little boy. She started to shake, her hands so tight on the steering wheel that it shook with her.

Deputy Sam Canfield was suddenly beside her, looking in the passenger window. “Mary? Mary, are you okay?”

Still shaking, she turned her head, speaking through stiff, bloodless lips. “The little boy…”

“What little boy?”

“Did I hit him?”

His rugged face changed. At once he straightened and walked around to the front of her car. There were some passersby standing there, and they spoke with Sam, but Mary couldn’t hear what they said. Her mind was spiraling downward into a dark, terrible place, a place she couldn’t let herself go again.

“Mary?” Sam was back, leaning down to her, his face now concerned. “Mary, there’s no little boy. You didn’t hit anything. Nobody saw a little boy. Just a cat.”

“Oh, God…” Tremors shook her so hard that her teeth chattered. No little boy. No little boy. The words whirled around in her head, almost incomprehensible. She’d seen…no, she hadn’t seen. She hadn’t really. She’d just expected to see.

“Mary, are you okay?”

Licking her dry lips, she made herself look at him again. “I’m fine,” she managed to say. “Just shaken.”

“You got rear-ended pretty hard. Can you put the car in neutral? I want to push you over to the curb.”

She nodded and reached for the stick shift. The car had stalled when she jammed on the brakes, and she didn’t try to start it. Sam opened the driver’s door and leaned against the post, pushing the car with deceptive ease to the curb just ahead. Mary managed to steer, even though her hands felt welded to the wheel.

“There,” he said, when the car bumped gently against the curb. “Set the brake and take it easy.”

But her tremors were easing somewhat, and she couldn’t just sit in the car and think. She needed to be active. Immediately. Before the pit swallowed her again. Climbing out, she stood on rubbery knees and looked at the vehicle that had hit her.

It was a pickup truck that had probably been young about the time Elvis had been in the Army. It was driven by an eighteen-year-old boy who was claiming the Subaru had stopped too soon.

Mary recognized him. He’d been one of her students last year in senior English class. He was a good student and pretty much a good kid, she thought. Just careless, the way many of his age group were.

“It wasn’t my fault,” Jim Wysocki said. “Honest it wasn’t, Deputy Canfield. She shouldn’t have stopped there.”

Sam wasn’t looking too forgiving, Mary noticed. That surprised her, and she clung to the surprise, because it kept her from thinking about anything else. Still feeling wobbly, she walked to where they were standing between the vehicles. Cars eased past them, people craning their necks to look.

Oh, God. The pit of memory yawned, opened by the familiarity of the scene. Mary leaned against the side of her car, looking down at her crumpled rear fender without seeing it. No sirens, she told herself. There were no sirens. Nobody was hurt. Nobody.

But nightmare images hovered at the edges of her mind like the fluttering black wings of bats, waiting to pounce. She closed her eyes and bit her lip until it hurt, then tasted blood. “It was my fault,” she heard herself say hoarsely. She didn’t know whether she spoke to the memories or to the present.

“Like hell it was,” Sam snapped.

It was such a shock to hear the mild-mannered Sam Canfield bark that Mary was shocked out of her memories. “Sam?” she said questioningly. She didn’t know him that well; he liked to keep to himself. But she’d come to think of him as a gentle, kind man, albeit withdrawn and sorrowful.

But Sam didn’t seem to hear her. He jabbed his finger at Jim Wysocki. “You’ve had two speeding tickets just this year. You’re hell-bent on getting yourself or somebody else killed.”

Mary’s instinct was to protect Jim, her student, barely more than a child. “Sam, please. I did stop suddenly.”

Sam shook his head, his gray eyes as frigid as the tundra. “If he hadn’t been following too close, he wouldn’t have rammed you. Careless driving, that’s what it was. At a higher speed, he could have killed you.”

His gaze swung back to Jim, who had stopped protesting. The young man’s head drooped. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry ain’t good enough,” Sam snapped again. “Sorry isn’t going to fix Ms. McKinney’s car. Sorry wouldn’t resurrect her if you killed her.”

Jim shrank even more, and Mary felt compelled to intervene again. “Sam…”

He shook his head at her, silencing her. “This young fool needs to understand that a car is a deadly weapon that has to be handled with care. Maybe he doesn’t care about his own life, but he should care about other people’s.” He turned on Jim again. “How would you feel if you had to attend Ms. McKinney’s funeral in a couple of days because you were being reckless?”

Mary knew how he would feel. Knew it like the beating of her own heart. The pit yawned beneath her feet again, and she could feel herself teetering, ready to fall over the brink.

Struggling to hang on to the here and now, she reached out and gripped Jim’s forearm. “Listen to him, Jim,” she said hoarsely. “Before it’s too late.”

She felt Sam’s curious gaze settle on her, as if he wondered why the change of heart, but she never took her gaze from Jim’s. It was crucial that he hear her, that he listen to her.

Slowly the young man nodded. “I’m sorry, Ms. McKinney. Really. I was following too close. Deputy Canfield’s right. And I’ll pay to have your car fixed. Every dime, I promise.”

Mary searched his face. Satisfied with what she read there, she let go of his arm. “Don’t give him a ticket, Sam. Please. He won’t do anything silly again.”

“I wish I believed that,” Sam said gruffly.

Mary looked at him, knowing she could never in a million years explain why she felt it was so important to protect Jim from the consequences of his own actions. Knowing that she must, believing the boy understood.

“Oh, what the hell,” Sam said after a few moments. “No ticket. But I’ll tell you, boy, I’m gonna have my eye on you. If I see you doing anything the least bit reckless or stupid, I’m pulling you over. I’m gonna be on you like white on rice, you hear?”

Jim nodded. “I hear.”

“All right. Ms. McKinney’s going to get an estimate on her car and give it to you. See that you take care of it.”

“I will, I swear.”

“Get out of here.”

Jim didn’t argue. He hurried to climb into his truck and drove away considerably more slowly than was his wont.

“Thank you,” Mary said to Sam. Her voice sounded distant, even to her own ears.

“You don’t look good,” Sam said. “I’m taking you home. I’ll get Taylor’s to tow your car.”

“I need to go grocery shopping,” she protested, but the words were automatic, almost inaudible over the buzz in her ears.

“Not in that car. Not when you’re shaking like a leaf. Let me take you home. I get off at three. I’ll take you shopping then.”

She nodded, past arguing. The cat. The child. There was no child. But in her heart there would always be a child. Always and forever.

“Come on,” Sam said, his voice suddenly softening. He took her arm and guided her to his cruiser.

That was closer to her nightmare than he would ever know.

2

Sam was concerned about Mary McKinney. When he dropped her off at her home, she was still shaking and pale. Extreme reaction to the shock of the accident? Or something more?

He didn’t know how to ask. There were secrets in those deep green Irish eyes of hers. As a man with secrets of his own, he figured it was better not to pry.

Besides, he didn’t like the way he was noticing her. Damn it, he’d known the woman for years. Why was he suddenly noticing the way the sun struck fire in her red hair, or the way her green eyes seemed to be layered with both darkness and light? Worse, why was he noticing her tidy breasts and lush hips? Or the delicate shape of her ankle?

He wasn’t ready to notice those things about a woman. He didn’t know if he would ever be ready. Or if he would ever want to be.

But he noticed anyway. Noticed the faint scent of her perfume, a gentle hint of lilac. Noticed her delicate, pale hands with their slender fingers and short nails. Wondered if her skin was as soft as it looked.

Wondered what it would feel like to touch her.

Forgive me, Beth.

But Beth wasn’t there anymore to ease his heart with a touch or a smile, and somehow that only made him feel more guilty.

He set his jaw and walked Mary McKinney to her door. “I’ll be back a little after three to pick you up,” he said.

Before she could say anything and he could discover the pain that lay behind her mossy-green eyes, he turned and went back to duty. The boring hours spent cruising the streets and nearby environs of Whisper Creek were a blessed escape from temptation.

He didn’t want to be tempted. He didn’t want to be unfaithful to Beth, gone though she was, and he didn’t want to risk that kind of pain again. Two good reasons to avoid Mary McKinney.

But the world was apparently in no mood to leave him in his icy prison. Summer heat dogged him, making him aware of the smell of the grass and the pines, of the sound of buzzing insects, though at this altitude there weren’t all that many. Memories teased him, memories of lying in the grass beneath the summer sun while clouds drifted overhead painting fantastic pictures in white and gray. The bark of a dog in someone’s backyard reminded him of Buddy, his golden retriever, already old when Sam married Beth, who departed in his sleep one dark night.

He missed Buddy, too, missed the friendship and companionship of his warm, furry body and soft brown eyes. Maybe it was time to get another dog. Maybe that would settle his heart down again.

A dog he could risk. A woman, never.

But God was not done with him, either. She reached out her hand and turned his day upside down.

There was a battered old car pulled over on the county road about a mile out of town, sitting forlornly on the grassy shoulder, just inches from a drainage ditch. Behind it was a large orange rental trailer, one tire flattened.

The sun was playing tricks, and Sam could barely make out that there was a figure behind the wheel. Hurt? Man or woman? He couldn’t see anything except the silhouette of a head.

The driver probably had everything he owned in that trailer and didn’t want to abandon it beside the road, not even long enough to drive to town for help. Sam keyed his radio and notified dispatch of the problem. They promised to call for a tow.

Leaving his roof lights flashing, Sam climbed out of his car and went to tell the motorist help was coming. It was not until he stood right beside the open driver’s window of the car that he realized who he was looking at.

A fist seemed to slam him in the solar plexus as he looked at a man he hadn’t seen in nearly fifteen years.

“You!” he said.

Icy-blue eyes met his, set in an austere, deeply lined face that was surrounded by the snow-white mane of long hair and a beard. The man looked like a prophet of old, and his gaze held the same fanatical zeal. He pushed open the door of his car and climbed out, standing tall and straight.

But Elijah Canfield didn’t say a word. He hadn’t spoken to his son but once in all these years, and that once had been to strike the deepest wound he had ever given Sam.

Sam couldn’t speak, either.

The two men stood staring at each other, strangers with an old, anguished history between them. Sam felt hatred simmering on the hot pavement between them, buzzing in his head like angry bees. But it wasn’t his hate; despite everything, he had never hated his father. But his father had hated him. Still hated him.

In response, Sam felt despair rising in him, a choking, agonizing hopelessness. For a few seconds he thought he was going to lose the battle. Then, in an instant, all the painfully constructed defense mechanisms slammed into place. Distancing him. Turning this old man into just another stranded motorist.

“There’s a tow truck on the way,” Sam said.

Elijah nodded once, briefly, a bare acknowledgment. But still he didn’t speak.

Of course not, Sam thought, looking past his father to the mountains beyond. Elijah hadn’t spoken to him in so many years other than to condemn him that he probably couldn’t even manage a civil word anymore. Simple human courtesies such as “how are you?” and “thank you” could no longer fill the silence between them. It was too late.

It had been too late for a long, long time. Sam bowed his head for a moment, battering down a surge of feeling, then looked at Elijah again with the chilly gaze of a stranger. “I’ll wait until it gets here.”

Then he turned and went back to his car, slipping inside behind the wheel, grateful that his suddenly unsteady legs didn’t need to support him any longer.

Sometimes, he said silently to God, you have a nasty sense of humor.

And for a few moments, he almost thought the hills laughed back at him.

“Mary?”

Mary McKinney held the phone closer to her ear. “Yes?”

“Fred Taylor, Taylor’s Auto Body.”

“Oh, hi, Fred. What’s the bad news?” But she didn’t care. At least this bad news would distract her from her other unhappy thoughts. Funny how the past could sometimes be more vivid than the present. She’d spent all day since the accident trying to put it back where it belonged.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to call your insurance?” Fred said hesitantly.

“That bad?”

“The bumper has to be replaced, and the tailgate is really bent. I don’t think we can straighten it, so we’ll probably have to get a whole new door assembly. Taillight assemblies, paint…well, you’re not gonna like it. But the car’s almost new. You ought to have it fixed the way it was or it’s worthless. The bank wouldn’t like that.”

“How much?” she asked.

He quoted a price that caused her to straighten abruptly.

“That much?” she said, appalled. No way was Jim going to be able to pay for that, not after working at the mine for little more than a month. But neither could she afford it herself. A schoolteacher’s salary didn’t stretch that far.

“Let me call your insurance,” Fred said. “They’ll work it out with the other insurer and it won’t cost you a dime.”

She was tempted, sorely tempted. But it might cost Jim Wysocki his insurance, and without insurance, he wouldn’t be able to drive, even to get to work. Biting her lip, she fought down a sense of panic. What was she going to do without a car? “Is it drivable?”

“Not now.”

“How long would it take to get it drivable?”

“At a minimum, five days. I have to order parts, and there’s a lot of work to do just to get that far, never mind the paint.”

Well, of course, she thought miserably. It was only what she deserved. “Let me get back to you, Fred, okay?”

After she hung up the phone, she sat staring out the window. Across the street, someone was moving into the small house, a man with incredible white hair. A couple of people were helping him. It crossed her mind that she ought to wander over and offer to help, too, but she felt too stunned. Too…depressed.

Jim wouldn’t be able to pay for the repairs. She wouldn’t have a car to drive, which meant she wouldn’t be able to go visit her aunt this weekend. That troubled her, because Nessa was seriously ill, undergoing chemotherapy for cancer. But it was no more than she deserved, she reminded herself. No reason her life should be easy when she had destroyed someone else’s.

With a heavy sigh and a heavier heart, she picked up the phone and called Jim Wysocki. He was just getting ready to go on his shift at the mine.

“Oh, jeez, Ms. McKinney,” he said when she told him the bad news. “Oh, jeez. I can’t pay for the whole thing at once. Half. I could do half. And maybe pay the rest in installments over the next couple of months?”

Paying half would wipe out her savings. But apparently it would wipe out Jim’s, too. Her shoulders sagged. She could have insisted on going to the insurance company, but she couldn’t bring herself to do that. She would manage somehow. She had to.

“All right,” she said. “Take the money over to Taylor’s. You can pay me the rest when you’re able. And tell Fred Taylor to give me a call after you stop in, will you?”

“Sure, Ms. McKinney. Thank you! I mean…”

But she didn’t want to hear his gratitude. As quickly and gently as she could, she ended the conversation. He was a good kid. But like most eighteen-year-olds, he still had some growing up to do.

And she had to stop spending so much of her own money on classroom materials. Like all too many teachers, she was always finding things that she thought would stimulate interest in her students, things the school system didn’t provide. And of course there were always the students from poorer families who needed the most basic supplies, from pens to notebooks. She never regretted those purchases, but she did need to be more careful about them, if her savings could be wiped out by a single car accident.

Forcing herself to shake off the mood that had been plaguing her since the accident, she went to freshen up a little. Sam would arrive to get her soon. And there was the neighbor across the street. She needed to at least welcome him.

The past needed to return to the dungeon where it belonged.

Which of course it didn’t want to. But after all these years, Mary had some experience of twisting her mind away from it by playing tricks with herself. She rewrote her shopping list, telling herself she needed to forgo a few extravagances she had planned. Crossing these things off the list simply wouldn’t do.

And finally she went across the street to welcome her new neighbor, sure that a few minutes of conversation until Sam arrived would be just the distraction she needed.

He was a beautiful man, she thought as she approached him. Tall, lean, with the thickest, whitest hair she had ever seen, and piercing eyes as blue as ice. His very presence seemed to command, and something about him struck her as familiar.

“Hi,” she said brightly. “I’m Mary McKinney, your neighbor across the street.”

He smiled. “Reverend Elijah Canfield,” he said in a deep voice that hinted at thunder. “I’m the new pastor at The Little Church in the Woods.”

“Oh, it’s a lovely little church,” Mary said warmly.

“You’ll join us sometime for worship?”

“I’ll think about it,” Mary replied, though she had no intention of that. She belonged to another church with which she was quite content, thank you very much. “Canfield? I know a deputy named Sam Canfield.” It was a casual remark, something to mention to a stranger when she didn’t know what else to say. She didn’t expect the answer she got.

“I know him,” said Reverend Canfield.

“Are you related?” The thought surprised her. While she didn’t know Sam all that well, she suddenly realized that she’d been under the impression he didn’t have any family at all.

“I know him,” Elijah repeated.

“Oh.” Mary felt uncomfortable suddenly, as if she’d trod somewhere she shouldn’t have. A strange feeling for a first, casual encounter with a stranger. “Well, I hope you enjoy your time in Whisper Creek, Reverend. It’s a lovely, friendly little town. And if there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to let me know. I’m always good for a cup of sugar.”

He laughed, and the uneasiness was dispelled as if the sun had come out from behind a cloud.

“I’ll remember that, Mary McKinney. Is that missus?”

“Ms.”

“Miss McKinney,” he said with a little bow.

Mary, who was quite opposed to “miss” because she didn’t feel her marital status was anybody’s business but her own, realized she had just run into an old-time preacher who thought women had their proper place. However, out of common courtesy she said nothing. Some old dogs couldn’t learn new tricks, anyway.

“So, what do you do, Miss McKinney?”

Was she imagining it, or did he emphasize the “miss”? Down, girl, she told herself. It was not time to get on her feminist soapbox. “I’m a teacher at the high school,” she answered. “Creative writing and literature.”

At that moment two of the helpers came out of the house, and with a suddenly sinking heart, Mary recognized them. They were parents who had last year attempted to get some of the books on her reading list banned.

“Literature,” Elijah Canfield said. “That wouldn’t be The Catcher in the Rye and The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, would it?”

It would be. It also included The Return of the Native, Pride and Prejudice, Captain Blood (for the boys) and a lot of other classics, like Catch-22 and The Old Man and the Sea. She’d had to go to the mat over some of them last year before the school board, and she was prepared to do it again.

But now she found herself looking into the eyes of a new enemy, one who could be considerably more powerful than the handful of parents who had complained last year.

She felt her dander rising but tried to remain civil. “Among other books,” she said pleasantly. “I always feel it’s best to introduce young people to a wide variety of the greatest works of literature. It tends to be instructive in ways that help them better avoid some of the errors and temptations of life, not to mention exposing them to powerful writing.”

So take that, she thought almost childishly.

“The Bible is powerful writing.”

“Indeed,” she agreed with a smile. “Very powerful. But it’s wisest to leave that in the hands of ministers, don’t you think? I’m sure you’d be very unhappy with me if I pointed out the apocryphal nature of some of the Biblical stories.”

And thank goodness Sam’s patrol car pulled up across the street just then. Escape was at hand. But then she noticed that Sam didn’t get out and come join them. Why not, if he knew this preacher?

“There’s nothing apocryphal about the Bible,” Elijah said sternly.

“Not about its message, no,” she agreed, clinging to her smile. “However, I’m sure some of the stories are more illustrative than factual. But I have to go now, Reverend, so I’ll leave the Bible in your capable hands. Let me know if I can help with anything.”

Except banning books in my school, she thought irritably as she crossed the street and climbed into the patrol car beside Sam. Then it struck her as odd that Sam hadn’t even climbed out to open the car door for her. That didn’t seem like him. What was going on here?

“That man,” she said as Sam pulled away from the curb, “is going to be a major thorn in my side, I know it.”

“He enjoys being a thorn,” Sam said levelly. “It’s his stock-in-trade. Don’t get into it with him, Mary. You’ll regret it.”

“I have a feeling he’s going to want to ban books.”

“Probably. He has everywhere else he’s been, as far as I know.”

She turned in her seat and looked at him. “Sam, what’s going on? Who is he? Do you know him?”

“I used to know him,” Sam said after a moment.

“Friends? Relatives?”

They were almost at the store before he responded. “He’s my father.”

A million questions occurred to Mary, but she didn’t voice them. The store simply wasn’t the place to have such a discussion.

Sam pushed the cart for her while she selected items and dropped them into it. He seemed preoccupied, which gave her the opportunity to look his way frequently without being detected. He was a strong man in his mid-thirties, with a face attractively lined by exposure to the harsh mountain elements. His gray eyes, so unlike the icy-blue of his father’s, were warm, even now when he seemed low. And never, not once, had she ever found him to be anything but kind.

A remarkable man. A handsome man. One who would give women little heart flutters simply by smiling. As well she knew.

She remembered his late wife only slightly, a petite dark-haired woman with a thousand-watt smile who always seemed to be laughing. Sam must sorely miss her. Which, she told herself sternly, was one of the best reasons to ignore those little flutters.

Besides, marriage wasn’t for her. She didn’t deserve such happiness.

But she owed Sam something for going out of his way, so she picked up extra for dinner, determined that he was going to eat with her tonight. No matter what he said. No reason for him to go back to his empty house, and no reason for her to spend the evening alone, worrying about that preacher across the street. Besides, it would give her an opportunity to ask one or two of those millions of questions that kept popping up in her mind.

At the very least, learning about Sam Canfield would keep her mind off her own problems.

Which, she told herself, was a very selfish way to think. Okay, so she was selfish. Maybe it would be good for both of them to talk a little.

But nothing more than that. Not ever.

3

Sam helped carry Mary’s groceries in for her. From across the street, where the moving activity had ended, leaving only a locked-up trailer in the driveway and a battered Oldsmobile parked out front, he could almost feel his father’s eyes boring into his back.

Elijah wasn’t in sight and might not even have been there, but Sam could still feel his presence and had to steel himself not to dart any looks in that direction. For all he knew, the old man was staring out a window at him.

Although why Elijah would do that, he couldn’t imagine. He hadn’t cared to look on Sam’s face in fifteen years, and he hadn’t seemed any happier to see him on the road today.

But the feeling persisted anyway, and he was glad when he carried the last bag into Mary’s kitchen.

“You’ll stay for dinner, of course,” she said to him as he set it on the counter.

Part of him just wanted to escape to his safe hermitage, but another part of him couldn’t resist the warm friendliness of her smile. He stood there, torn, and realized that his social graces had apparently gone the way of the dodo, because as his silence grew longer, her face began to fall.

He couldn’t allow that. “Sure,” he said. “I’d like to.” Then he added, so she wouldn’t misunderstand, “Eating alone is the pits.” Then it struck him that that had been an ungracious thing to say. Damn, he sounded like he’d been raised in a stable.

The corners of her mouth lifted, however, letting him know she hadn’t taken his words amiss. “It sure is,” she said. “And it’s absolutely no fun to cook alone. What we need to do is start a singles dining club. Get a group of us lonelyhearts together to cook for each other once in a while.”

“That might not be a bad idea,” he allowed, although in truth he had no intention of socializing that way. He’d avoided all the singles clubs in town because he was convinced that whatever they claimed was their purpose, their members were all after the same thing: marriage. And he didn’t want that ever again.

He unpacked the grocery bags for Mary, handing her each item so she could put it away. The way he’d once done for Beth, because she’d been convinced he would screw up her pantry organization if he put things away himself. His heart squeezed painfully at the memory.

“Are you all right, Sam?”

Mary’s voice, quiet and sweet, drew him back to the present. “Uh, yeah. I’m fine.”

Her brow knitted with concern and maybe a bit of disbelief, but she didn’t press him about it. He handed her a container of grated Parmesan cheese, and she turned away to tuck it into the cupboard.

Then she gave him another kick in the heart. “So that’s your father moving in across the street?”

He couldn’t blame her; her curiosity was natural. But he wished she would talk about the weather, the upcoming school year, or even his job. Anything but this. On the other hand, he couldn’t be rude.

“Yeah,” he said, and pulled some cans of soup out of a bag.

“I take it you don’t have a good relationship?”

He gave a harsh crack of laughter. “That’s an understatement.”

“I’m sorry.”

For a minute he thought she was going to leave it there. But women never left anything there. A man would have, but a woman always wanted to pry into a guy’s heart. Hadn’t he learned that with Beth? Secrets were anathema to women. Particularly secrets of the heart and soul.

“What happened between you?” she asked, her voice as gentle as gentle could be. That gentleness was going to kill him.

“He disowned me fifteen years ago,” Sam said flatly. “Threw me out and disowned me.” His tone was meant to be a bar to further questions, but that didn’t work, either.

“Oh, Sam,” she said, groceries forgotten, her gaze sorrowful. “Why in the world would he do such a thing?”

“He said it was because I refused to become a preacher.” Although, in his heart of hearts, Sam believed it was more. As far back as he could remember, he and his father had disagreed on basic religious beliefs. Sam had challenged Elijah more than once with the brashness of youth. And even now that maturity had mellowed him somewhat and made him more tolerant, Sam still couldn’t buy into a lot of his father’s notions. Or at least the notions Elijah had tried to raise him with.

“I’m sorry,” Mary said. “That’s terrible.”

“It was a long time ago. It’s just better that we don’t speak. More peaceful for everybody.”

Mary nodded and resumed putting the groceries away. “Well, it’s going to be awkward for you, living in the same town.”

Sam shrugged and passed her a box of crackers. “I’ll deal with it.”

Yeah, he thought. The way he was dealing with it right now? Feeling the pressure of his father’s presence like a dark cloud? Entertaining fleeting thoughts of taking a job elsewhere? Cripes, he had to quit running.

He helped Mary make their dinner, a simple meal of salad, bakery rolls and two porterhouse steaks, which he was sure had been a big splurge for her. He felt bad about that, knowing that schoolteachers made about the same as cops.

“How’s your car?” he asked when they sat to eat at the dinette in her kitchen.

“Bad.” She tried to smile. “Jim can only pay for half of it right now, so I’m anteing up the rest until he can pay me back.”

“You should have made him take responsibility for it, Mary.”

“He is taking responsibility. And I don’t want to be responsible for making him lose his insurance, because if he can’t drive, he can’t get to work.”

“That’s true. But that kid seems to need a lesson.”

“He’s eighteen. He’s getting his lessons. But sometimes it’s necessary for adults to provide a bit of a safety net so these kids don’t crash and burn while they learn.”

He nodded slowly. “You’re a kind woman, Mary.”

She shook her head. “I’m a teacher. I haven’t had a chance to forget all the stupid things I did at that age.”

Sam nodded, admitting to himself he was coming down harshly on Jim, more harshly than was his wont. Maybe he was just getting sick of human stupidity. He sure saw enough of it.

“You know,” Mary said, “I’ve never known a preacher’s kid before. Well, other than one I taught. Is it true that you guys cut up more than usual as kids?”

“I don’t know about anybody else. I think I was just average.” Actually less than average, because his father would have put him through hell for even minor misbehavior, but he didn’t want to get into that.

“That seemed to be true of my student, too. Just the average sort of stuff. He seemed like a normal kid to me.”

“An interesting concept, normal.”

She smiled. “Isn’t it?”

Her smile, he realized, was warm enough to make his toes tingle. Why had he never before noticed her? And why was he noticing her now? Both questions left him feeling uncomfortable, and he began to develop an urgent desire to get away from her. She was disturbing him, and he didn’t like that.

But she was a beautiful woman, and he had plenty of opportunity to notice that while they did the dishes. Her movements were inherently graceful, as if she were comfortable inside her own body. What was more, she didn’t have that boyish look that seemed to be so popular in women these days. Her hips were well rounded, looking as if they could cradle a man in perfect comfort. And her breasts, while not overly large, were full and inviting. He couldn’t understand why some man hadn’t snatched her up long since.

Which was, surely, a damn good reason to get the hell out of there.

“Do you have any other family?” she asked as he washed and she dried.

“Not a soul.”

“I’m not blessed that way, either,” she admitted. “My aunt is still alive, but right now she’s getting chemotherapy.”

“I’m sorry. How bad is it?”

“I don’t know. The doctors seem hopeful, but…I’m not sure they’re not lying to us.”

“Where does she live?”

“In Denver.”

He reached for another towel and dried his hands. “If you want to go down and visit her before your car gets fixed, let me know. I’ll be glad to take you. In fact, if you need to get anywhere between now and then, just let me know.”

“Thanks, Sam.” She smiled. “You’re a kind man.”

Hah, he thought as he stepped out into the night. Kind? Not hardly.

He paused in the driveway beside his patrol car and stared at his father’s house across the street. The long mountain twilight had erased the shadows, making the evening strangely flat. A light had come on over there. The old man was home.

Sam stood for a few minutes, trying to deal with the reality of his father moving to town. All day long he’d stewed in discomfort, but he hadn’t allowed himself to really think about it. He supposed it was something he needed to do, and the sooner the better.

It kind of surprised him, though, that fifteen years of separation didn’t seem to have given him any real emotional distance. The instant he’d laid eyes on his father this morning, all those old feelings had been there, as fresh as they’d ever been. That wasn’t going to make the situation easy.

Just then he thought he smelled a whiff of smoke. Instinctively he scanned the area, looking for signs of a fire. Nothing. He supposed that someone must be burning a log in their woodstove to take off the chill of the evening, even if it did seem warm enough to him.

Another whiff and then it was gone. Nothing.

Sighing, he climbed into his patrol car and headed home.

Elijah Canfield had seen Sam help Mary in with her groceries, but he hadn’t seen him leave. He hadn’t intended to watch, but he was getting older and had collapsed into his easy chair, surrounded by the boxes that held the residue of his life, too tired to do any more today. It just happened that his chair had been put in position to see out the front window.

He wandered briefly into the kitchen, where everything was still in boxes, and helped himself to the dinner his new congregation had brought him: cold sliced turkey, salad and slabs of homemade bread. For dessert there was a generous square of crumb cake.

When he returned to his easy chair and settled in the only position that would ease his stiff back, he resumed his absent contemplation. That was when he saw Sam come out of the McKinney woman’s house.

So they were dating.

That was inconvenient, he thought. When he’d accepted the pastorship here, it had never occurred to him that Sam would still be living in this town. Sam was a runner. He’d run away from Elijah more than once in his younger days, and Elijah had just somehow figured that Sam would have moved on when his wife had died.

Regardless, it hadn’t been a possibility that had entered into his decision one way or the other. He’d long since buried his son, emotionally speaking.

Or he thought he had. Judging by the way he was reacting, things weren’t quite as dead as he’d believed.

He felt angry. Of course, anger wasn’t unfamiliar to Elijah Canfield. He routinely got angry at sin. Anger was, in fact, his stock-in-trade. Sometimes he even let his anger spill over from the sin to the sinner, if he thought it might do any good.

But when he thought of his son, he wasn’t angry at sin. He was angry at waste. Sam had wasted himself and his God-given talents. The Spirit had been upon him, but Sam had refused the call.

Belle, his late wife, hadn’t seen it that way. They’d fought bitterly over their son on many occasions, especially after Elijah had disowned the boy. Belle had thought it wasn’t Elijah’s place to determine their son’s calling. Elijah felt that, as a preacher, he was better able to judge that matter than anyone else.

But whatever the arguments had been, it remained that Elijah was still angry. Searingly angry.

And hurt.

Sam had failed him. Sam had turned his back on his upbringing and his faith. He had spat on all that his father believed.

Nursing his pain, Elijah sat on into the evening, thinking about Sam, and about the woman across the street, the woman who had challenged him on the obscene books she encouraged children to read.

His mission here was becoming clear. He knew what he had to do.

The fire, stymied at the heights for lack of fuel, caught between two brooks that stood sentry over the rest of the forest, nearly died. The last flames vanished, and a smoky pall hung over everything, even filling the valley below.

Across the brooks, still unsettled by the smell of soot and ash, animals tentatively tried to resume their routine. But the deer were restless and slept lightly, awakening frequently to sniff the night air for danger. The birds were completely gone, offering no surety of a timely alarm if they were disturbed. Smaller animals, creeping out of burrows and nests, seemed even more skittish than usual as they followed their various habits of hunting and gathering. Pausing more often than usual, they lifted their heads to test the acrid odor of the air.

The fire slumbered. Hot coals, protected by the thick layer of ash, glowed, awaiting their moment. Only hours before a hungry conflagration, the fire bided its time, showing a patience that few imagined it capable of.

Throughout the night, the forest waited, knowing it was not yet safe. Then, at dawn, a breeze freshened. Blowing across the burned-out area, its strength undimmed by the leaves and needles of living trees and brush, it stirred the ash.

Little wisps of smoke began to rise again. The warmth buried in the protective coat of ash grew hotter. And as the blacked acres heated yet again, the rising air sucked the breeze more strongly into the heart of the sleeping fire.

At first only ash lifted on the breeze. Dead, lifeless, it sprinkled itself harmlessly among the still-green trees across the brook. But the fanning renewed the life in the small coals the ash had covered.

And before the sun had fully risen, sparks were swept up on the eddies of the growing wind.

Most fell harmlessly, burned out before they reached the fresh fuel across the water. But at last one made it, finding a welcoming spot among pine needles so dry they ignited instantly.

The fire spread, needle to needle, multiplying rapidly. Soon there was a large, charred circle ringed in flame. A gust of air lifted those burning needles in a shower of orange lights and deposited them among the needles of parched trees, where they grew hungrily.

A dozen trees ignited with a huge whoosh, the hungry fire drawing more wind to its heart.

And the conflagration once again began its inexorable march, this time toward the pass that led to Whisper Creek.

4

Sam smelled smoke again. It was carried on the clear morning air, again just a whiff, gone so quickly it was hard to be sure he’d smelled it. It unnerved him just the same.

Standing in his driveway, he searched the rooftops of the town and saw nothing untoward. Then he scanned the circle of mountains around the valley. Not a thing.

Nothing except, perhaps, the faintest darkening to the west. As if the sky was not quite true blue. He studied it but couldn’t be certain he was seeing anything. Sometimes the sky looked like that before clouds developed, and God knew they could sure use some rain.

He sniffed the air again but detected nothing. His imagination?

Maybe.

“Good morning, Sam!”

He turned and saw his next-door neighbor, Sheila Muñoz, coming out to get her paper. Sheila was an attractive divorcée who lately seemed to have developed the habit of getting her paper just about the time he left for work in the mornings. And lately, when she came out that door, she was still wearing her nightclothes. Nightclothes that were a little too…suggestive. Not indecent. Just suggestive.

“Morning, Sheila,” he called back and slipped quickly into his patrol car. There had been a time in his life when he might have been flattered, but no more. Now he just wanted to escape as quickly as he could.

Gunning his engine, he backed out of his driveway and turned away from Sheila, even though the route to work would be longer.

Coward, he thought almost wryly as he took his alternate route. But he wasn’t interested in Sheila and didn’t want to give her any idea that he might be. The best way for both of them to save face was to avoid any situation where someone might be embarrassed. Especially in a town this size.

But he kind of felt sorry for her, too. Her divorce was new, and loneliness was a miserable thing. Hector had walked out on her only six months ago, leaving her for another woman. Sam had no doubt that part of what Sheila needed was reassurance that she was still attractive. Well, he wasn’t up for that game. She was nice enough, as a neighbor, but there it ended.

“Dinner tonight,” Earl Sanders reminded him the minute he stepped into the office. Apparently he was the first arrival for the day shift.

“I remember.”

“Good. I don’t want you wiggling out again.”

“I won’t.” What was the point? Earl was going to keep on stalking him like a lion after prey.

The thought caught Sam like a hiccup, and suddenly he laughed. A genuine laugh. A feel-good laugh. God, was he really this morose? Or was it just an ugly habit?

“What’s so funny?” Earl demanded.

Sam was still grinning. And for once his face didn’t hurt from it. “Me, boss. Just me.”

Earl scanned him from head to foot. “I don’t see anything funny about you.”

“And that’s the whole problem, isn’t it?” Sam shook his head. “I think I’m getting bored with my own company.”

“It’s about time. Six o’clock. And bring a date if you want.”

“Who, me?”

“Yeah, you.” It was Earl’s turn to grin. “I figure you could have your pick of about half the single females in the county.”

“What’s wrong with the other half?”

“Beats me. Maybe not smart enough?”

Sam laughed again, much to his own surprise. “Or maybe just too smart.”

“Nah. So, are you going to bring a date, or do you want me to invite some nice lady?”

That sure sounded like an ultimatum, Sam thought, and he didn’t like ultimatums. His inclination was to become more stubborn than a Missouri mule when he felt pushed or cornered. But this time, just as his contrariness was rising, he found himself thinking of Mary McKinney. Thinking how comfortable it had been last night to share dinner with her. “Yeah,” he heard himself say. “I’ll ask someone.”

“Great.”

As he was walking back out to his car after the morning briefing, he started shaking his head and grinning to himself. Earl was like every other happily married man: he wanted everyone else to be happily married, too. Until last year, when he’d married Meg, Earl had been content to let Sam work out his problems in his own way and time, ready to lend an ear when necessary, but essentially hands-off.

Not anymore. Since his marriage, Earl had been persistently nudging Sam to rejoin the human race.

Well, maybe it was time, Sam thought as he slid behind the wheel. Not to date or anything, but to get over himself. Grieving was one thing, but clinging to it was something else.

And he supposed he’d better ask Mary if she wanted to come with him to the Sanders’s house tonight before it got much later. He wasn’t so rusty he didn’t remember that last-minute invitations could be construed as insulting.

He drove over to her house—it was along his patrol route anyway—and found her in her front garden. Wearing shorts, a halter top and a bandanna over her gorgeous hair, she was kneeling before a bed of marigolds, weeding industriously.

Nice view, Sam thought as he pulled up. Probably giving his father a heart attack, if Elijah was home across the street. It wasn’t giving Sam a heart attack, though; it was giving him an equally strong but very different reaction.

He turned off the ignition and sat a moment, indulging himself. Mary had a nice bottom, with little left to the imagination as the shorts stretched tightly over it. Nice legs, too, slender but not skinny.

Just then she straightened and twisted to see who had stopped, giving him a great view of her breasts in their sheath of stretchy red cotton. Yup, Elijah would have a heart attack.

Suddenly feeling guilty, Sam climbed out of his car. Mary smiled and waved, as unself-conscious as a child who had been playing in a sandbox. She clearly had no idea that one of her neighbors would consider her to be indecently dressed. Nor was Sam going to advise her. Elijah had always needed to loosen up a bit.

“Hi,” she said. She dropped her trowel and weeding fork and pushed herself to her feet. For an instant Sam could almost see down the neck of her top. Down, boy.

Her knees were grungy with dirt, but she didn’t seem aware of it. He smiled to himself. “Morning,” he said. “Sorry to bother you but…” It suddenly struck him that he didn’t know how to ask.

“But?” She waited with a pleasantly expectant look on her face. “Did you forget something last night?”

“Uh…no. It’s… Well, I was wondering. Would you like to go to the Sanders’s house with me for dinner tonight?”

Something almost fearful flickered across her face, making him wonder what he’d said. Reviewing his words, he couldn’t see anything frightening in them. But they certainly weren’t clear enough. “Not a date or anything,” he blurted.

He winced inwardly, realizing how that sounded. Man, his social skills had not only atrophied, they’d died. Now she would be offended, and rightly so.

But she surprised him by looking relieved. “Great. Sure, I’d like that. As long as it’s not a date.”

She looked relieved because it wasn’t a date. Sam was taken aback by the disappointment he felt, even though he’d laid the ground rule himself. But no, he must be mistaking a little ego bash for something else. He wasn’t capable of getting involved again.

“Good,” he said, forcing a smile. “It’ll be fun.”

“I’m sure it will.”

A few moments of awkward silence, as if neither of them knew what to say next. Get back to work, Sam told himself, but that seemed too abrupt right after asking a woman to dinner—even if it wasn’t a date. But he wasn’t much of a talker, never had been. Although this was even worse than usual.

Mary gave him a sidelong look, as if she were a little uncertain herself. Then she shocked him. “Your father?”

He didn’t want to talk about Elijah. He wanted to pretend the man didn’t exist, even if he was right across the street. But Mary’s mention had been so tentative. And what if something was wrong? “What about him?” he asked roughly.

“He’s standing in his window watching us.”

Sam swung around and saw Elijah standing in the picture window across the street. The man didn’t acknowledge him with so much as a wave. “Nosy old coot,” Sam said, his gut twisting.

“Maybe…maybe he’s hoping you’ll come talk to him.” She offered it almost as a question, hesitantly.

“Not a chance in hell.” Sam turned his back on the old man. “He probably figures you’re in trouble with the law. That’s the way his mind runs.” And he needed to get out of there before the old anger managed to burn through the glacier that encased his heart.

“Well,” said Mary, an impish smile coming to her mouth, while a strange shadow remained in her eyes, “I’m sure he thinks I’m a scarlet woman after our conversation about books yesterday.”

Sam gave a bark of laughter. “Maybe. I’ll see you tonight, Mary. Gotta get back to work.”

He felt her eyes on him as he drove away.

When Sam’s car disappeared around the corner, Mary looked again at the house across the street. Elijah Canfield had disappeared from his window.

She didn’t want to believe Sam was right about his father. She didn’t want to believe any parent was capable of such meanness. But she was also an experienced teacher and she knew better. She’d certainly seen her share of it.

Troubled, she went back to her weeding, trying to ignore a prickling at the back of her neck that seemed to say she was being watched. There was no reason on earth why Elijah Canfield would want to watch her grubbing around in the dirt.

But surely there had to be some way for Sam and Elijah to reconcile?

“Hello.”

The deep voice, so like Sam’s, caused Mary to start. Twisting, she found Elijah Canfield standing in her driveway. He was wearing dark slacks and a white shirt with the collar open and the sleeves rolled up.

“Hi,” she answered, feeling wary.

“I wanted to apologize for the way we got off on the wrong foot yesterday,” he said, giving her a pleasant smile. He was a handsome man, she thought irrelevantly. Almost as handsome as his son.

Mary sat back on her heels, still holding her weeding fork, and looked up at him. “We had a significant disagreement of opinion,” she said, keeping her voice gentle. “Nothing wrong with that.”

He nodded briefly, an acknowledgment that didn’t quite make it to agreement. “But we’re neighbors,” he said.

“That’s right.” Mary waited, a trick she’d learned with difficult adolescents. Let the silence hang until the other person felt compelled to speak. She certainly wasn’t prepared to go out on a limb with this man; she didn’t know him. But from what Sam had said, she wasn’t inclined to trust him.

“The Lord says we should love our neighbors.”

Mary, who was quite religious herself, wondered if she was going to be treated to a sermon every time she saw this man. “That’s right. But sometimes it’s easier to love them from afar.”

Despite the beard, she could see the corners of his mouth tip up slightly. “I’ve noticed that.”

Mary smiled, prepared to be as noncommitally friendly as he allowed. “Is there something I can do for you?”

He didn’t answer immediately, and she had the sense that he was struggling with something. After a minute or so, she decided to take the bull by the horns.

“Sam is your son, isn’t he?”

Elijah’s intense eyes jumped back to her. “Yes.”

“He’s a fine man.”

Again Elijah said nothing, but this time Mary refused to speak, either. If something was troubling him, he needed to tell her or take it back home with him. Their gazes locked and held while time ticked by.

Finally Elijah spoke. “He carries a gun.”

“Yes.” She wasn’t about to say anything regarding that, either. Offering opinions to this man might be dangerous, unless she wanted lectures.

“A man who lives by the sword dies by the sword.”

Mary bit her lower lip, wanting to defend the necessity of police officers but realizing that Elijah’s real problem was something else. Something she wasn’t ready to wade into.

His gaze seemed to bore into her; then he nodded and walked back to his house.

What a strange man, she thought, staring after him. Then a thought struck her: maybe he was genuinely worried about Sam’s safety. Maybe his objection was something more than that Sam hadn’t become a minister.

And maybe she was being too generous to him. She certainly had a tendency to see the best in everyone other than herself.

In herself she saw only the worst. It was a pain she lived with, one so old it was comfortable.

Shaking her head, she went back to her weeding.

Sam continued to be troubled by the occasional whiffs of smoke he detected and the haziness to the west. Finally he called dispatch and asked if anyone had reported a fire.

Nary a whisper about one. But he couldn’t escape the feeling that something was wrong, so he told the dispatcher that he was going to drive up Reservoir Road and take a look.

The reservoir had been built to provide water to Denver and in return had provided a great recreational area for visitors and the residents of Whisper Creek. The road looped around the entire perimeter of the reservoir, a man-made lake that looked as if it had been there forever. Campsites and picnic sites abounded, and the fishing was pretty good. Branching off the loop was a rutted dirt road that headed up to the pass between the two highest peaks visible from town. From there he could see the valley beyond.

As his car ascended, bumping all the way, the air grew cooler and thinner, taking on just the suggestion of a chill. Pines shadowed his way, hinting of ancient mysteries in their depths.

Every time he got out in the woods like this, he found himself thinking of what it must have been like a hundred years ago for the first settlers. They’d come looking for gold but had found silver. When silver prices crashed, they’d suffered until the next big boom. Right now they were getting by on jobs at a molybdenum mine and the surrounding resorts. It had been a while since times had really boomed.

But the first settlers must have thought that a bright future lay here. And certainly in the summertime the place was hospitable. Plenty of water, plenty of sun and shade, but cool enough for a person to work hard. Of course, at this altitude there wasn’t a whole lot you could grow in the way of crops, but there had always been plenty of deer and elk.

It was easy to imagine setting up camp away from everything and just getting by on the land, maybe trapping beavers for their pelts. He could see why people had come and stayed.

Hell, people still came and stayed. People who wanted to live apart in small houses in the woods. People who were more interested in privacy and freedom than neighbors. People looking for a place where they could be unconventional, or a place where they could walk out their own back doors and ski in the winter. And so many of them came with dreams, just like the first settlers.

His car jolted in a deep rut, shaking him out of his reverie. Better pay attention. The pass was up ahead, but the higher he went, the worse the road grew, because it was so rarely traveled. The only things up here were a couple of microwave repeaters and the kind of woods he always thought of when he read that Robert Frost poem.

The smell of smoke was getting a little more noticeable, too. When his car bottomed out in another rut, he turned it around carefully and parked it to one side on a bed of pine needles. Better to hoof it the rest of the way.

He’d come up another two thousand feet, and he could feel the difference as he hiked up the road. He was well above ten thousand feet now, at a place where even his altitude-adapted lungs labored more than usual.

Most summers, the sky would have been overcast by now, heralding a thunderstorm so regular you could set your watch by it. Not this year. This year the sky stayed perfectly blue from sunrise to sunset, unmarred by so much as even one little puff of cloud.

He was approaching the tree line now, and after climbing another fifty feet he had an unobstructed view of the valley and lake behind him. Another fifty feet upward and he reached the pass.

His puffing lungs forgot to breathe as he saw the smoke filling the valley on the other side of the mountains. Ignoring his fatigue, he trotted forward along the vanishing road until he could look downward.

There was a fire at the north end of the valley. Not too big yet, but a definite threat to the woods down there. A definite threat to Whisper Creek by way of the Edgerton Pass to the north, lower and well-enclosed by trees. Maybe a hundred acres were burning right now, and the valley stretched south of the flames like a smorgasbord.

Sam reached for his radio. With nothing between him and Whisper Creek, the connection was as clear as a bell.

“We’ve got a forest fire on the west side of Meacher Peak, about two miles north of Edgerton Pass.”

“How much involvement?”

Sam looked again to double-check his earlier impression. “Maybe a hundred acres.”

The dispatcher said he would take care of it. Sam stood there for a few minutes longer, looking at one of nature’s most ferocious beasts. And for some reason it made him think of his dad.

Although “dad” seemed like too familiar a name for the man who had sired him. In fact, he couldn’t remember a time when dad or daddy had seemed appropriate for Elijah. Sam’s tender years had been filled with terrors of the devil, nightmares about burning lakes and the endless screams of the damned. Countless nights, horrific visions of the end of the world had kept him from sleeping after he’d listened to his father preach.

Elijah’s brand of religion was all about fear and punishment. For some people that was great and exactly what they needed. For Sam, however, it had driven a wedge between him and his father. To a young boy, Elijah had seemed the embodiment of threat and punitive love. A tall man, a very large man to a small boy, whose face twisted in rage when he spoke of sin, whose voice thundered judgment over every peccadillo. For a sensitive child, it wasn’t the right brand of religion.

Sam shook his head and tried to banish thoughts of his father as he drove back down to Whisper Creek. Maybe it was time to consider taking a job elsewhere, because there was no way in a town this size that he wasn’t going to run into Elijah around nearly every corner.

He wasn’t sure he could deal with that; there was just too much bitterness.

5

The Whisper Creek airport, a small private landing strip, had become a beehive of activity. Fire-fighting planes lined the runway, loading the chemicals they would drop from the air. Smoke jumpers were beginning to arrive in their planes, as well.

Up near Edgerton Pass, a command post had been established. Volunteer firefighters were being gathered there to truck into the valley below and cut firebreaks. Up north, at the far end of the valley, similar crews were gathering to try to prevent the fire from spreading in that direction toward the ski resort towns.

The forest service had taken charge, but Sam was assigned as liaison with the local authorities. There were homes in the valley below, scattered miles apart, homes that would be threatened if the fire couldn’t be halted. It would be his job to ensure that any necessary evacuations were made.

At the moment, though, the threat was small and might be contained. Night was fast approaching, though, and the darkness would hinder their efforts.

The first chemical-bearing planes flew overhead as he stood there, then seemed to vanish into the thickening haze of smoke. Lack of wind hampered visibility by allowing the pall to hang thickly, even as it prevented the fire from spreading too swiftly to contain.

“That won’t last,” Sam remarked as one of the foresters commented that the wind was with them.

The guy—Sam remembered his name was George Griffin—smiled. “You some kind of pessimist?” George was a short, compact guy in his late forties or so, with steely hair and eyes that perpetually squinted.

“I’m a realist. That sun goes behind that mountain over there, we’re going to see some stiffening breezes.”

“Yeah.” George knew it as well as he did. “We always do. But right now, conditions are on our side. I’ll take every break I can get.”

Another dumper flew overhead with a loud drone. The first one was already on its way back for another load.

George spoke again. “We can’t send the jumpers in until morning. Not enough time before darkfall.”

Sam nodded. His mind strayed a moment, wondering what Mary was going to think when he didn’t show up to take her to dinner. Maybe he should have dispatch call her. Nah. Right now they were too busy fielding calls about the fire. It wasn’t a date, anyway. She would understand.

Just then the breeze kicked up. Not much, just enough to make him feel a chill through his light jacket. George looked at him. The sun was hanging heavy over the western peaks, a baleful red orb blurred by the smoke in the air.

George spoke. “I hope our luck isn’t running out.”

The trucks full of volunteers pulled out, heading down the narrow, winding road. Their job was to build a firebreak to protect the pass. The guys leaned out, hooting and hollering as they passed. Too high on excitement to realize what they were facing. Too macho to admit it.

The breeze suddenly gusted, carrying away the thickest smoke, leaving the fire visible. It had spread. An angry orange beast devouring the valley’s north end.

“Shit,” George swore under his breath.

Sam didn’t say anything. Even at this safe distance, he was suddenly a kid again, looking into the maw of hell. And even as he watched, hunching against the chilly bite of the wind, he saw another tree go up in a burst of hungry flames. Only it was a tree some distance from the fire. The gust had carried a spark hundreds of yards, starting yet another fire.

“Damn,” George said. “Damn.”

The beast had leaped its own perimeter, running free. George picked up his radio and began to bark rapid orders. They couldn’t wait for dawn. Not now.

Mary dressed for dinner with rather more care than was her custom in a town where casual dress reigned. She chose a green polished cotton dress and a pair of two-inch heels. Her hair, usually allowed to fall in waves below her shoulders, she decided to put up in a loose knot with a few long curls hanging free.

It was more effort than she wanted to think about, considering that Sam and she had agreed that this wasn’t a date. She even went so far as to dab on a little perfume.

At six she peeked out to see if Sam had arrived. Instead she saw her neighbors gathered in their front yards, looking to the west. Curious, she went out to discover what was going on.

“It’s a fire,” Elvira Jones, who lived in the house on the left, told her. “In the next valley.”

Mary turned to see the thick cloud of smoke hovering over the mountains, catching the red of the lowering sun. “How bad is it?”

“Not a threat to us yet,” Elvira answered. “But my Bob says they’re worried about it coming through Edgerton Pass. He went to volunteer.”

Mary immediately turned to her. “You must be worried.”

“Nah.” Elvira smiled, her crow’s-feet deepening. She loved to ski so much that she had a permanently sun- and wind-burned face. “He’ll just be helping with a firebreak at the pass. He won’t get near the flames.”

But Mary remembered fires from the past, remembered how a little wind could create desperate situations. At least there wasn’t a breeze right now. Of course, in the next valley that might be different.

“There aren’t many people living out that way, are there?”

Elvira shook her head. “Just a few loners. It’s too hard to get out of there in the winter.”

Mary nodded, trying to remember if any of her students lived out that way. She didn’t think so. Elvira was right. There couldn’t be more than a half dozen folks out there. As long as they could contain the fire, there wouldn’t be much damage to property.

Just damage to the forest. Harkening back to environmental lessons from her college days, she seemed to remember that was actually a good thing, fertilizing the soil, clearing out old and dead growth, making way for renewal. “It’s awfully late in the day to be sending people out there.”

Elvira shrugged. “They can’t just let it burn.”

No, Mary supposed they couldn’t do that. Glancing at her watch, she saw it was six-fifteen. Sam still wasn’t there. Her heart skipped uncomfortably as she wondered if he’d gone to fight the fire, too. After a brief hesitation, she decided to go inside and call.

Sam’s number was in the book, but there was no answer. She waited another fifteen minutes, then called Maggie Sanders, the sheriff’s wife. She didn’t know Maggie well, but she recognized her from the times she’d come to school about her daughter Allie Williams. Allie, in fact, was going to be in Mary’s literature class this coming school year.

“Maggie?” she said when the other woman answered. “This is Mary McKinney. I was supposed to come for dinner tonight with Sam, but he hasn’t shown up yet, and I can’t reach him at home.”

“Mary! I’m glad you called. Earl didn’t know who Sam had invited, and he was hoping you’d call here. Sam’s up at Edgerton Pass, helping the firefighters. A bunch of us are getting some food together to take up there. Do you want to help?”

“Of course I do. But I don’t have a car. Mine’s in the shop.”

“Not a problem. I’ve got to run by Wiggand’s in about thirty minutes. They’re making up a bunch of burgers and fries to take up there. I’ll pick you up on the way. Say…twenty-five minutes?”

“Sure. I’ll be ready.”

She changed swiftly into jeans, hiking boots and a T-shirt, then topped off the outfit with a flannel shirt and a light jacket. Even in summer, the nights grew chilly at this altitude.

God, she hoped Sam wasn’t anywhere near the fire.

She waited outside for Maggie. It was getting darker now, though the sky above the western mountains was still light and smoky. But now the orange glow of fire was visible to the northwest. Her neighbors had all gone back into their homes, and the street was deserted in the mountain twilight.

A light came on across the street, and a man’s shadow moved behind thin curtains. On impulse, Mary crossed over and knocked on Elijah Canfield’s door.

Presently he opened it, his white hair looking like a nimbus in the light behind.

“Reverend Canfield,” Mary said, “I thought you’d want to know that Sam is up in the mountains fighting the fire.” Then, before he could say a word in response, she turned and hurried back across the street. She didn’t want to know if he thought she was a busybody, didn’t want to hear anything he might have to say about Sam. Any man who could think Sam Canfield had failed in life was a man she didn’t want to know.

She was aware that he stood there a while in his open door, but she didn’t look his way. He might be staring at her, or he might be staring at the threatening glow over the mountains. He might be stunned, or he might be indifferent. She just didn’t want to know.

Maggie Sanders was only a few minutes late. She pulled up near Mary in a silver Suburban and leaned over to open the door. “Hop in.”

Mary obeyed, climbing up into the seat and reaching for the belt. “Where’s Allie?”

“At a friend’s house in town. I didn’t want her to be home alone.”

Mary felt a shiver of apprehension and glanced at Maggie. “That’s right. Your house is close to the pass.”

“Yeah.” Maggie shook her head and put the car in gear. “I’m trying not to think about that. But there are quite a few houses scattered around out there. And The Little Church in the Woods.”

The sun had completely vanished by the time they reached the top of Edgerton Pass. Vehicles were everywhere, pulled off to the side of the road, and a tarp-covered command center was now lighted by gas lanterns.

The smoke from the fire, once again a thick, rising column that reached high into the sky, caught the sunlight, glowing golden and red at the top. Below, in the shadows, it turned silvery-gray, smudgy. Occasionally it would part a bit and reveal the hellish glow of flames.

It was a few miles away, Mary noted with relief as she helped Maggie unload the insulated food containers and pass them out to the men. But even as she felt the relief, she realized how rapidly the situation could change.

“Sorry I didn’t call.”

The sound of Sam’s voice caused her to turn around just as she finished lifting two foam containers from the back of the Suburban. Standing there with the cartons in her hand, she felt relief pour through her, so great that for an instant her knees felt rubbery. He wasn’t down in the valley. A little warning bell clanged in her mind, pointing out that she was reacting too strongly, that she didn’t know Sam well enough to feel this strongly. But the thought whispered away as he smiled at her.

“Hamburger and fries?” she asked stupidly.

“Sure. Thanks.” He took a container and opened it, then took a huge bite of the burger. “Are you mad at me?”

“For what?”

“Standing you up.”

It was a good thing it was getting dark, because she could feel her cheeks heat. “It wasn’t a date, remember? Besides, I hear there’s a fire.”

He smiled with his mouth closed, the food bulging in his cheek, and nodded. Other men were approaching, and Mary turned quickly to give them food, as well.

A pickup truck arrived, carrying huge insulated jugs and folding tables. Two mothers who Mary knew from school jumped out, and soon they were all helping to set up the tables near the command tent, on a fairly level bit of pine-needle-covered forest floor. The insulated jugs were full of hot coffee.

Soon another truck arrived bearing cups, water and bags full of chips.

“Instant supper,” Sam remarked. “I need to get some of that down to the guys in the trenches.”

“I’ll drive it down,” Maggie offered.

“Like hell you will. I like my butt just the way it is. Earl would have my hide. I’ll take it.”

So Mary found herself helping to load Sam’s truck. He’d switched his cruiser for one of the department’s Blazers, and they filled the cargo area with food and drink. Moments later Sam headed down into the valley on the narrow, paved road.

Maggie reached out and took Mary’s hand. “He’ll be okay. George Griffin, that forester guy, told me the crews aren’t anywhere near the fire.”

Mary squeezed her hand back. “I know. He’ll be fine.”

Maggie arched a brow. “Are you two an item?”

“No. We’re very clear on that. Not even dating.”

“Really?” A crooked smile came to Maggie’s mouth. “If you say so.”

Mary felt a little burst of irritation, then reminded herself it didn’t matter whether Maggie believed her or not. Time would tell. Which could, she thought, be the whole problem. Not whether Maggie believed her, but whether she believed it herself. Whether she wanted to believe it herself.

Because Sam was an attractive guy. Very attractive. And he seemed both nice and gentle, a rarity in a man. As if he didn’t feel a need to prove anything.

Mary sighed and went back to the table to help serve. It didn’t matter, she told herself. It would never matter. She wasn’t in the market for a relationship, good or bad. And she certainly didn’t deserve a good one.

The wind kicked up. It was nearly ten o’clock, and the last of the day’s warmth had seeped from the thin air. As cold air sank into the warmer valleys, the breath of the breeze stirred and grew. The fire hungrily sucked it in, feeding the flames with fresh air. The angry red glow brightened.

The planes were still flying overhead, dumping their loads of chemicals on the flames. But even as each load fell and fire winked out beneath the assault, the flames spread elsewhere. Before the wind started, it had looked as if they were winning. In an instant, all that changed.

Like orange lights winking on in the darkness, the flames scattered to trees farther away, jumping long distances. Heading south, heading up the mountainsides. Where there had been only one fire, in minutes there were six or seven of them.

George Griffin was talking anxiously into his radio, calling for more chemicals and water.

The wind, shifting almost wildly, blew smoke their way, blinding them, causing Mary to cough as it burned her throat. Then it blew another way, briefly burying the entire valley in an inky pall. Moments later the pall lifted, blurring the stars and revealing the disaster below.

More fires burned now, individual blots of orange and red in the darkness. And the conflagration was creeping toward the pass.

Huge tongues of flame leaped upward, more than twice the height of the trees. Even at this distance an occasional loud pop could be heard as a tree exploded in flames. And on the wind they could hear the distant roar, like that of a hungry beast.

A shoulder brushed Mary’s, and she looked to her side. Elijah Canfield stood there, staring at the fire. “Where’s Sam?” he asked.

“I think he’s still down with the crew building the firebreak. He didn’t come back up after he took food down.”

His eyes, intense even in the dull red glow that was lighting the night, fixed on her. “Doesn’t anyone know for sure?”

Mary felt a stirring of impatience, accentuated by her growing anxiety. “That’s the last we heard from him. If you don’t believe me, there’s George Griffin.” She pointed. “Why? Are you worried about him?”

Under any other circumstances it would have been an unthinkable question to ask a father, but this father…well, he deserved it.

His gaze seemed to burn into her, but he didn’t answer. Instead he strode away toward George.

Maggie spoke from behind her. “Chilly sort of guy.”

“That’s Sam’s father. The Reverend Elijah Canfield.”

“Whew.” Maggie looked toward him. “Sam never mentions him.”

“I’m beginning to understand why.”

Maggie faced her. “Trouble between those two, huh?”

“I guess so.” She didn’t feel free to share what Sam had told her privately, so she opted for vagueness.

“I can’t say I’m surprised. Sam is one of the nicest guys you’d ever want to meet, but he’s closed off, if you know what I mean. He was that way even before his wife died, except maybe with her.”

Mary felt the kick of interest. “Did you know her?”

“Sam’s wife? Sure. We weren’t best friends or anything, but Earl and Sam have been great friends from the instant Sam moved to town. So Earl would invite me and my late husband over sometimes, and Sam and Beth would be there. She was fun. Outgoing, unlike Sam. Young.”

“Young?”

“Not in years. She was close to Sam’s age. But…I don’t know. She always impressed me as being about eighteen.” Maggie shrugged and flashed a grin. “Probably because I had a daughter and she didn’t. I was buried in responsibility, and she was still having fun being married and in love. You know what I mean. No criticism, by the way.”

“I know.” Mary felt the hovering black cloud that never quite left her reach out for her heart. She hadn’t told a soul in Whisper Creek that she’d had a son. Not one. She couldn’t bear to explain. Or to be reminded.

“Or maybe,” Maggie said after a brief pause, “it wasn’t that she was young. Maybe it’s that I was so emotionally old at the time myself. Going through bad things. Maybe I just envied her vivacity.”

Mary nodded. She could understand that. She felt as old as the hills herself in some ways. Too old to laugh easily, too old to take pleasure in much. Too weary. But she didn’t want to think about herself. “What was going on?”

“Oh.” Meg shrugged. “It’s still hard to talk about. But my first marriage…well, we were going through a rough time back then. I was feeling isolated and pretty down.”

Mary nodded again. “I can identify with that. Things have a way of…going sour, sometimes.”

“They sure do.” Maggie sighed. “Then, of course, my husband died, and there was no way to fix anything. Thank God for Earl.”

“He’s a nice man.” Although Mary didn’t know him very well. She’d pretty much kept to herself since taking the job in Whisper Creek. Her friendships were all superficial, extensions of her job. She didn’t want anyone getting close enough to find out the truth about her. Not only because she felt so guilty, but because she felt so ugly.

“Yes, he is.” Maggie smiled. “And so’s Sam. I’m glad he and Earl are friends. Well, maybe you can drag Sam out of his cocoon.”

“Me?” The thought made Mary blanche. Dragging anyone out of their cocoon meant she would have to come out of hers, and she wasn’t about to do that.

She had a sudden, vivid memory of a caterpillar one of her students had brought to her classroom in Denver. Back then, she’d been teaching third grade, awaiting an opening at a nearby high school.

The girl had brought the caterpillar in a mason jar, along with a small, leafy twig. It was a pretty caterpillar, probably why the girl had liked it. Before the morning was over, the caterpillar had started spinning its cocoon.

The excitement in the classroom had been palpable, so instead of asking the girl to let the poor beast go when she got home, Mary had allowed her to keep it in the classroom as a science lesson. They’d all been surprised by how fast the cocoon was created.

Then had come the morning when the butterfly had emerged. Everyone had crowded around the jar, watching excitedly. The creature was weak, its wings folded and stuck together.

At that point, Mary’s compassion had overborn the necessity of teaching a science lesson. She’d suggested they let the little butterfly go free. Everyone had agreed.

Outside, they’d waited and watched as slowly the wings had dried and spread. But one of them was deformed, and that butterfly would never leave the ground. Seeing what was coming, Mary had swiftly herded her students back to the classroom.

An hour later she went out to check. As she had feared, the butterfly had been killed by ants because it couldn’t escape. There was little of it left.

And that, Mary thought, was why she needed her cocoon. Her wings were deformed. She knew it. The ants would kill her if she ever emerged.

“Why not you?” Maggie asked, her cheerful voice penetrating the haze of Mary’s memory. “You’re the right age, you’re pretty, you’re nice, and Sam seems interested.”

“He’s not interested,” Mary blurted before she could stop herself.

Maggie peered at her, the shadows on her face highlighted by the limited range of the kerosene lanterns. “Not interested? He was bringing you to dinner.”

Mary shrugged. “That was…well, it wasn’t a date. We agreed on that.”

“Oh, my word,” Maggie said, and fell silent.

Mary chose not to pursue that comment, even though it sounded disbelieving. What was the point, anyway? What Maggie might think had no bearing on what was actually happening, or on the fact that Mary never would have accepted the dinner invitation if Sam hadn’t said it wasn’t a date.

“Well,” Maggie said presently, then said no more.

Needing solitude, Mary walked away from the food tables toward an area from which she could see the fire better. In the darkness, a red fog seemed to fill the north end of the valley, and here and there tongues of fire burst above it. It was getting closer. Showing no mercy.

But then, the world, or the universe, or whatever you chose to call it, didn’t show mercy. Ever. It was a cold, heartless world, where bad things happened no matter how good you were.

“It looks like the fires of hell,” Elijah remarked.

Mary started, surprised that he had joined her. She wondered if he was going to stick like a burr to her. And if so, why. “It looks like a forest fire,” she said flatly.

His face, only dimly illuminated by the lanterns behind them and the glow from the fire, looked dark, a ruddy black. His shaggy white eyebrows seemed to glow with their own light. They lifted. “You don’t believe in hell?”

“Oh, I believe in it, all right. I just don’t think we agree on what it is.”

“I see.”

She averted her face, hoping he would take the hint and leave her alone. He didn’t.

She heard what at first sounded like the rush of running water. But then, as the pitch-black treetops began to sway against the slightly lighter sky, and as the kiss of the breeze nipped at her ears, she knew what it was. The wind was coming up strongly.

Not just the earlier occasional gust, this was strong, steady. Exactly what they didn’t need.

At first it seemed content to sweep the mountain-top and ignore the valley. Mary tensed as she waited, hoping against hope it wouldn’t sweep down the slopes and spread the fire. Beside her, she heard Elijah begin a low-voiced prayer. Almost instinctively, she reached out and took his hand, silently joining him. To her surprise, she felt him squeeze her fingers.

And she wondered yet again why Elijah seemed to be haunting her.

6

Dawn seeped through the smoky haze, bringing a dim gray light to the men who had struggled all night to build a firebreak below Edgerton Pass. Even though the fire was nowhere near reaching them yet, the area still looked as if it had been bombed out. Trees had been cut down, and during the night bulldozers had arrived to shove them away from the cleared area. Now there was nothing to be seen except a wide, barren strip they hoped the fire couldn’t cross. There was still more work to be done, more land to be cleared, but the crew that had worked all night was being dismissed as replacements arrived.

Sam was among those leaving. He climbed into his truck, offering rides to some of the other men. The air reeked of wood smoke, enough to make their eyes burn. All of them wore kerchiefs over their mouths.

Climbing up the pass didn’t make it any better. It was like driving through a pea-soup fog that stank of burning pitch. It was as if he could have driven off the end of the world at any moment.

The command center at the top of the pass was a hive of activity, but this morning almost all the faces were new. George Griffin was still there, though, handing over the reins to his replacement.

Sam parked, letting the other guys out to go to their own cars. He went over to George and asked, “What’s the news?”

“Not good.” George sighed. His eyes were red from the smoke, and his face had a gray cast to it. Most of the faces did. Soot was settling everywhere. “We’ve got four different fires burning now, maybe twenty-five hundred acres each. Hard to tell how bad it is right now, though.”

It certainly was. Once again the pall of smoke concealed the fires and most of the valley.

“Go on home,” George said. “Get some sleep. We’re going to need all the rested help we can get later.”

That didn’t sound good, Sam thought as he headed back to his truck. Not good at all. He didn’t have any experience with forest fires, but he’d read some about them. Fighting them was never easy, and in a place like this, with no road access to the burning area, it was even worse. Everything out there was fuel.

The air stirred a little, and fine ash sprinkled over him. He hardly noticed it; it had been happening all night. Right now he needed his bed and about ten hours of sleep. He figured he could only allow himself six or seven, though. He would have to get back up here as soon as he could.

“Hi.” Mary stepped toward him, looking as gray as the rest of them in the dim morning light. Her eyes, too, were red-rimmed and watery looking.

“You’re still here?” he asked.

She nodded. “I promised your father I’d make sure you got back here safely.”

“My father?” Cripes. Just what he needed to think about right now. Anger stirred in him, a not-quite-sleeping beast. “What the hell does he care?”

“He seems to.” She shrugged. “Can I hitch a ride to town? No car.”

“Sure. Yeah, sure.” He opened the passenger door for her, then slammed it after she’d slid onto the seat. His father. Of all the damn things…

The man hadn’t given a single damn about him in fifteen years, at least. Why the hell was he concerned about Sam’s health now?

A show, maybe? Perhaps it was uncomfortable for a minister of God to have people know he wasn’t even speaking to his son. That could well be. Make it look as if it was all Sam’s fault. As far as Elijah was concerned, everything was Sam’s fault anyway, and always had been.

But it was way too late for the prodigal son routine. Way too late.

Sam headed the truck down the winding road, taking the corners just a little too fast.

“Sam?” Mary spoke. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. What kind of crap is he shoveling, anyway?”

“I don’t know. Are you sure it’s crap?”

He glanced at her, his eyes still burning. Just the smoke, he told himself. “Yeah, I’m sure. He’s the man who called me the day after my wife’s funeral and told me her death was a punishment for my sins.”

“Oh, no!” Mary’s tone was full of distress. “Oh, Sam.”

He took the next corner practically on two wheels and forced himself to slow down. Maybe he didn’t care if he died, but he cared that Mary didn’t. “I’m sorry I missed dinner,” he said, changing the subject.

“It’s okay. Maggie told me you were up here. The fire’s more important.”

“Thanks for understanding.”

“There’s nothing to understand.”

But he couldn’t leave the subject of his father alone. It was like a scab that itched, and he couldn’t ignore it. “What did he say to you, anyway?”

“Elijah? Not a whole lot. He doesn’t seem like a very talkative man.”

“Huh. That’s a surprise. Used to be he could never shut up. Always thundering about something and never listening.”

“Maybe he’s improved with age.”

Sam wasn’t even going to toy with that idea. Elijah was Elijah. Lions didn’t turn into lambs. “That’s about as likely as a leopard changing its spots. Besides, what’s one of the first things he said to you?”

“Something about the books I use to teach literature.”

“Exactly. Give him until the school year starts, then he’ll be out to cleanse the school library.”

“I hope not.”

Sam shook his head and braked for another turn. “Waste of effort. He’ll do it. He’ll also probably try to close down the X-rated video rental room at Baker’s Video Rental. Not that I like those things, but…”

“I always thought it was good they put those tapes out of sight where the kids can’t find them.”

“Me, too. It shows some responsibility, without interfering with people’s choices. And it’s all soft-core, anyway.”

A little giggle escaped her. “You’ve checked it out?”

He sent her a sour look. “Only in my official capacity. Somebody complained that they were renting child pornography.”

“Were they?”

“Of course not. The woman who complained hadn’t even been in the store. She’d heard it from someone, who’d heard it from someone else. You know how that goes. Anyway, the stuff they’re renting is pretty much on the level of an R-rated movie, just more of it.”

“Well, I’ll be the first to admit I don’t understand the fascination for those things. But then, I’m a woman.”

“I’m a man,” he said, stating the obvious. “I don’t read girlie magazines, either.” Then, unable to resist, he added, “Why settle for pictures if you can have the real thing?”

He heard her gasp; then a deep laugh escaped her. “You are wicked, Sam Canfield. Wicked, wicked.”

“So my father always said.” But this time he said it without bitterness. Somehow Mary’s laughter had taken the sting out of her teasing words—and the sting out of remembering his father. He wished it would last.

As they approached her house, she said, “Why don’t you come in for breakfast?”

“I don’t want to trouble you.”

“It’s no trouble. I’m an old hand at fast breakfasts. I can microwave bacon and some sausage biscuits, and make coffee in a jiff. And you need to eat something.”

He couldn’t argue with that. Nor, he realized, did he want to. Exhausted as he was, he was still too wound up to hit the hay. He figured it might take him an hour or so to wind down from working all night. It always did.

“Thanks, Mary. If you’re not too tired.”

“I’m as wired as can be. I got my second wind along about 5:00 a.m. And I’m hungry, too.”

So he parked in her driveway. For an instant he wondered if his father was watching from across the street, then told himself he didn’t care. It made him uneasy, though, that Mary had intimated his father was showing interest in him. In Sam’s experience, Elijah grew interested only when he believed his son was messing up.

The air in town was hazy now, not as bad as up in the pass, but the effects of the fire were reaching here, too. The morning sun, heralding yet another dry day, looked pale through the smoke, and yellowed.

“It smells smokier than a frigid winter night,” Mary remarked as she unlocked her door. He knew she was referring to the number of woodstoves that burned around there when it got cold.

But the smoke hadn’t penetrated her house, at least not yet, and Sam noticed a delicate scent of lilac on the air. “Is that lilac I smell?” he asked.

“Yes. I love it. It’s in the carpet freshener.”

Almost in spite of himself, he smiled. “When I was about six, we lived for a while in Michigan. My dad was pastor of a small church up near Saginaw. And we had this huge lilac bush at the corner of the house, just covered with blossoms. I used to like to suck the nectar out of them. And I used to hide under it. Nobody could find me there. I seem to remember spending entire afternoons daydreaming, surrounded by lilacs.”

Mary led him into the kitchen, shucking her flannel shirt and hanging it over a chair back. “Did you have to hide often?”

He found himself looking into her green eyes. Sinking into her green eyes. And he saw a gentleness there that made his heart slam. Gentleness wasn’t something Sam had experienced very often in life, not even in his marriage. It had an unexpected effect on him, an effect that held him rooted to the spot even as she turned away, apparently accepting his silence as an answer.

“How many sausage biscuits do you think you can eat?” she asked, opening the refrigerator door.

“Uh…” Her question might as well have been spoken in another language. Somehow it didn’t connect with his brain.

She smiled over her shoulder. “Why don’t you wash up in the bathroom, and I’ll make coffee. The caffeine might clear the cobwebs.”

He was grateful for the easy escape. Because, for no reason he could figure out, Mary’s tidy little kitchen had suddenly seemed as threatening as a dragon’s lair. As if something awful might leap out at any moment.

A strange way to react to a gentle smile.

One look in the mirror over the bathroom sink almost caused him to laugh out loud. He looked like a raccoon, so much smoke, sweat and dirt had stained his face. He was surprised any woman would offer him breakfast, looking the way he did.

And now that he noticed, his shirt stank of smoke and sweat, too. Oh, man. He ought to slink out of here now, before she noticed.

Although how she could have failed to notice, sitting right beside him in the truck cab, he couldn’t imagine. Maybe the smoke covered the sweaty smell.

If he’d had a change of clothes, he might have hopped into her shower. Instead he had to strip off his shirt and do what he could with a washcloth and a bar of soap. And when he was done, it was kind of embarrassing to look at the black stains on the cloth. He rinsed it out as best he could, but it was going to take a heavy-duty trip through a washing machine to save it. And it was pretty, too, not just some colorless white cotton of the kind he owned.

That was when he noticed that the whole bathroom was pretty. Lavender and lilac and cream dominated in the shower curtain and rug, along with the soap dish and other stuff he never knew the names of. He bet her whole house was pretty. Feminine.

He and Beth had been kind of basic about such things, preferring instead to spend their money on skiing and a recreational vehicle. Not to mention a boat for fishing on the reservoir.

There was even a tiny old medicine bottle holding a few tiny dried purple flowers.

All of a sudden he was uneasy, feeling as if he’d stumbled into a virgin’s bower. Mary McKinney dealt in things he couldn’t begin to fathom, things like tiny little flowers and probably satin sachets in her dresser drawers. It was an alien world.

Moving swiftly, he donned his flannel shirt, thinking that he’d wasted the effort of washing himself. Once again he was enveloped in soot and stench.

When he returned to the kitchen, taking care not to peer off to the side at her living room—it was probably dripping with cute feminine things—he found her pouring two mugs of hot coffee. The microwave was humming, its digital display on a countdown. She, too, had scrubbed up a little, washing the ashen color from her face and neck, restoring her rosy color. But as she moved closer to hand him the coffee, he could smell the smoke on her, too.

“I’m afraid I killed your washcloth,” he said as he accepted the mug. The cream and sugar were already on the table, in blue willow containers. His mother had done that, too, he remembered with an unwelcome pang. She’d never been content to put the milk on the table in a store container.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said pleasantly. “It’s just a washcloth. Two-ninety-nine at the discount store. I’ve got bigger worries.” Then she laughed.

God, her laugh was incredible. Warm and throaty, seeming to rise from deep within her. Its touch was almost physical.

“Sorry,” she said. “I seem to be punchy from lack of sleep.”

A helpless smile came to his own mouth, like the harmonic response of a tuning fork. Irresistible. “Me, too. Tell you what. Nothing either of us says is to be taken into evidence.”

She laughed again. The microwave pinged, and she pulled out a clear plastic pouch containing bacon. “This stuff is actually pretty good.”

“I know. I depend on the microwave. Without it, I’d either starve to death or go broke from eating out all the time.”

She lifted an eyebrow at him, still smiling. “One of those, huh?”

“One of whats?”

“Testosterone-based life-form.”

He had an urge to laugh, but instead he played along. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, you know. Those poor unfortunate creatures who are incapable from birth of cooking or cleaning.”

“Ah. You mean I suffer what some folks call testosterone poisoning.”

She shrugged, still looking impish. “Same thing, I guess.”

“Hmm. Well, I’ll have you know my house is pretty clean.”

“No underwear on the bathroom floor? No giant dust bunnies under the bed?”

“Well, I can’t say for sure what’s under the bed….” He trailed off and enjoyed watching her laugh again. Damn, it had been so long since he’d shared anything approaching humor. Who cared if they were punchy from lack of sleep? It felt good.

Using only the microwave and coffeepot, she put quite a meal in front of him: bacon, sausage biscuits, orange juice and coffee, and plenty of it. And once he started eating, he realized he was famished.

She spoke as he bit into his second biscuit. “It must have been hard work, building the firebreak.”

He shrugged. “It wouldn’t have been quite so hard if I hadn’t been spending too much time on my can in a patrol car recently.”

One of those enticing smiles flickered across her face. “I could say the same. It’s funny, when I moved up here I had all these ideas about cross-country skiing, hiking in the summertime. Instead I always seem to be too busy.”

“That’s life. There’s always something that needs doing.” But then he remembered Beth. “My late wife had a different philosophy.”

“What was that?”

“That the responsibilities won’t go away if you ignore them for a few days. They’ll always be there. In fact, she used to say that if you let them, responsibilities will expand to take all your time.”

“How did that work out?”

“Not too bad, usually. Yeah, the bills had to be paid on time whether you felt like it or not, but other things… Well, she used to get up on her day off, and the house would be a mess because we’d been too busy, and the yard would need mowing, or whatever, and she’d say, ‘Let’s go fishing, Sam. It’s a beautiful day.’” He almost smiled, remembering.

“And I’d say, ‘But, Beth, I’m supposed to work on the yard,’ or whatever it was. Once it was patching the roof because we had a small leak.” Mary’s green eyes were smiling gently at him, he noticed.

“What did she say?” she asked.

“She’d say, ‘Sam, that yard will still need mowing tomorrow.’ Or ‘Sam, that roof will still be fixable this afternoon.’ And off we’d go.”

“Sounds like a great philosophy.”

“It was.” To a point. Sometimes it drove him batty. Things needed doing when they needed doing. Like the roof. They went fishing, had a big early-afternoon thunderstorm, and he’d wound up having to patch the bedroom ceiling as well as the roof. But it would have felt disloyal to say that to Mary, so he kept it to himself.

“Still,” Mary said, almost as if she were reading his mind, “I guess you’d need to watch your balance.”

“Sure. And I’ll be the first to admit that procrastination drives me crazy.” He shrugged. “I’m one of those people who just wants to get it done. So I guess I’ve lost my sense of balance the other way lately.”

She nodded. “Maybe I have, too. It gets easy to let work and responsibilities substitute for life.”

He’d never heard it put that way before, and he turned it over in his mind. “Yeah. Less painful.”

“Exactly.” She sighed quietly and nibbled on her strip of bacon. Sam was making huge inroads into the mound of food she’d put in front of him. “It makes it easier not to think.”

“It sure does.” He was tempted to ask her what she didn’t want to think about but decided he didn’t know her well enough. If she wanted to, she could volunteer. “Used to be I loved to sit out on dark nights and just look up at the stars. I used to feel this, um, connection to something bigger.” He was almost embarrassed to say that. It was a part of himself he hadn’t exposed to anyone in a long time.

But to his surprise, Mary simply nodded. “I know what you mean. I feel that way sometimes, when I’m walking alone in the woods and the breeze is whispering in the treetops. It’s like being in a cathedral.” Then her expression turned haunted. “It also gives me too much time to think.”

He could identify with that. He gathered they were both running from a bit of depression. Well, hell, most of the world was, one way or the other. He didn’t pretend his problems were any worse than anyone else’s. He just didn’t plan to set himself up for another round.

But as he left Mary’s house and headed home, he realized he’d found a kindred spirit in her. And that really disturbed him.

7

“Brother Elijah,” Mrs. Beemis said, smiling too avidly, “you wouldn’t happen to be any relation to Sam Canfield, would you?”

He’d only been at the church a few days, but already Elijah had pegged Mrs. Beemis as a gossip and potential troublemaker. She looked like a dear old lady, with gray hair, a surprisingly smooth and rosy face, and blue eyes that peered out from behind the requisite eyeglasses with rhinestones at the outer edges. Everybody’s grandmother.

She was also entirely too eager to tell him about her fellow congregants. Properly handled, a minister would find a woman like her useful. But she had to be handled like nitroglycerin. Every church he’d ever pastored had had at least one Mrs. Beemis.

It was Wednesday evening, after prayer service, and about fifty people were milling about in the tiny parish hall, sipping grape juice and soft drinks and eating cookies. Too many of them, thought Elijah, were able-bodied men who ought to be helping with the fire fighting. On the other hand, it was his official welcoming party, and many of them may have felt it necessary to be there.

Mrs. Beemis was still waiting for an answer. The longer he delayed, the more likely she was to think he was hiding something. And Elijah had nothing to hide. He hadn’t done anything wrong.

“Yes, he’s my son, Mrs. Beemis.”

“Oh, my, how delightful! He’ll be joining our congregation, then?”

It was not a harmless question. Elijah took a second to consider. “We all have to follow our own paths to the Lord.”

“Yes, of course we do.” Her eyes indicated that her curiosity hadn’t been quenched. It was entirely likely that in a half hour she would be phoning everyone she knew to suggest that a preacher who couldn’t raise his own son in the faith was one who ought to be watched.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.