“I made you uncomfortable.”

Charity’s heart lurched. “Why do you think that?”

“Because I asked you out,” Wayne said. “You’re sitting there trying to make casual conversation with someone you have nothing in common with except work.”

He’d nailed it. A little while ago she’d felt giddy about meeting him. Now she was uncomfortable and floundering.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I know you’re leaving. This is what you want to make it, nothing more. I like you. You’re very attractive. But maybe mixing business and pleasure was a stupid idea.”

“No. I was glad you asked me out. Truly. I like you, too. It’s just that …” Charity hesitated.

“We have an advantage here,” Wayne continued.

“We do?”

“Sure. When you go back to Atlanta, you never have to see me again. That ought to be freeing, not inhibiting.”

“Sort of like Las Vegas?”

“Yup. Or not. But I guess what I’m saying is, relax. Be yourself. I won’t hold it against you.”

He made sense, she realized. There were advantages.

“Ah, you’re smiling again,” he observed. “Good. This was supposed to be fun, not trial by fire.”

***

Be sure to check out the next books in Conard County: The Next Generation series!

Playing with Fire

Rachel Lee

www.millsandboon.co.uk

RACHEL LEE was hooked on writing by the age of twelve and practiced her craft as she moved from place to place all over the United States. This New York Times bestselling author now resides in Florida and has the joy of writing full-time.

MILLS & BOON

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To the brave men and women of fire departments everywhere. You tread where angels fear to go.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter 1

Charity Atkins drove into the outskirts of Conard City and suddenly felt sickeningly out of her depth. It was a grandiose name for a small town, she realized, and although she was a good arson investigator, she’d only worked in industrial areas and other businesses in large cities, not on ranches out in the boondocks.

It didn’t help to remind herself that location didn’t matter, that figuring out whether the arson was attempted fraud remained the same no matter where it occurred. For the first time, though, she knew why Todd had claimed he couldn’t handle this job and had recommended Charity take his place. All the stuff he’d said about how she was such a great investigator? She’d thought it was exaggerated at the time, but now she knew why. Separating Todd from his metropolitan comforts might have been too much to ask. She snorted.

Two minutes later she realized she couldn’t have been more inappropriately dressed. The casual clothes of people she passed were mostly well-worn versions of Western style. Wearing a gray business suit and high heels was going to make her stick out like a sore thumb. Of course, given the size of this place she’d probably stick out anyway.

She felt like an alien, but that was something she was fairly used to. Always being on the road kind of created that feeling.

She reminded herself that arson was arson no matter where it occurred. Still, when she’d been told to come to Conard City, she’d envisioned a much larger place. Flying in on a four-seater Cessna hadn’t concerned her, and she hadn’t really thought about it when she climbed into a rental car that wasn’t new enough to have a GPS mapping console.

Only now, driving down Front Street toward what she hoped would be the fire station, did she get a clear picture. The houses were all older Victorian and Craftsman styles commingling contentedly. The leafy trees looked as old as the houses, and for a main street this one struck her as awfully narrow, narrow enough that parking was allowed on only one side. She’d been in some older neighborhoods in Atlanta like this, but if this was the whole town...oh, boy.

She was a city girl in rural territory, and immediately she began imagining all kinds of problems with the locals who’d probably resent the heck out of her. She had traveled the world throughout her entire life and knew that outsiders were rarely welcomed. Looking into a big industrial fire often only drew flak from the owners. In a place this small she might draw flak from the entire community. But she always drew flak, some of it potentially dangerous. She’d been threatened more than once.

She shook herself and continued the slow drive. She’d manage. She wasn’t here to be liked, merely to protect her insurance company against fraud.

The firehouse was near the town square, she’d been told at the airport. Couldn’t miss it. Well, she hadn’t passed anything resembling a town square yet so...

Just then sirens penetrated her thoughts. She pulled over immediately to the curb, and soon a fire engine came racing by. Behind it was a red SUV with flashing white-and-red lights. She hesitated, then figured that in a burg this size it was unlikely the chief would still be at the station. He’d probably be out helping.

So she pulled an illegal U-turn and followed the truck. Might as well see how this department operated in action. That could sometimes be useful to her investigation. An ambulance, horn blaring, raced past her, forcing her to the curb again.

She kept to the speed limit, unlike the trucks, but soon reached them. They had pulled over on a side street, already being blocked by police to traffic. Two men in yellow firefighting gear were heading indoors as flames leaped out one lower story window. There must be a potential victim inside, as they didn’t wait for the hoses. Others were hooking up hoses to the truck and a nearby hydrant. Not bad yet. It was clear where the fire was, and apparently the window had been open. She studied it with a practiced eye.

One guy stood out, mainly because of his white helmet, the word Chief stenciled in black on it. He was clearly directing operations, his arms and hands moving as he pointed where he wanted things.

She stopped against the curb outside the cordon. After a minute, she climbed out and joined concerned neighbors across the street who had either been ordered out of nearby houses or were gathering out of interest. “She’s got a baby!” one of the onlookers shouted, trying to be heard over the racket of the pump truck, other vehicles and raised voices. “Upstairs, bedroom on the right.”

The chief turned, gesturing that he’d heard. He pulled up his flash hood, donned his face mask and, moments later, he ran into the house, to rooms that had to be right above where flames spewed out the open ground floor window. He went alone, seeming to ignore the two-in, two-out rule. Another firefighter saw and raced after him.

Yet another two stood near the truck, ready to run in if any firefighter ran into trouble. The two out.

Charity felt her heart speed up. She didn’t know these people, but she hated fires, hated what they did, and was intimately acquainted with the dangers for those who fought them. Her career of investigating arson wasn’t just a job, it was a mission. Preventing fraud was one thing. Stopping people who killed and hurt others was even more important to her, though it wasn’t often she had an opportunity to do that.

“Who are you?” one of the onlookers asked her. She glanced over and saw a man of about seventy, thin and a bit bent.

“I’m here to see the chief,” she answered quietly. “Business.”

“Oh, no!” someone cried.

Charity looked at the house again and saw flames had reached the second story. The beehive of firefighters began to swarm even more rapidly. A hose doused the outside wall of the house. One was aimed right inside the lower floor window. The roof, too, was getting its share of water. Another truck pulled up and in seconds was fanning water over the neighboring roof and side wall to prevent the fire from spreading. That must be a constant danger with the houses so close.

She knew all the dangers. Fire spread fast enough, but when combined with the gases it created, it could turn into an instant conflagration at the point of flashover. That was why windows were giving way to axes even though the fresh air would fuel the fire. It would also dilute the explosive gases and flammable black smoke that was roiling out the front door.

She’d lost track of how many firefighters were now in the house. Her heart was slamming like a trip-hammer.

Then one came out of the house carrying a woman. His buddy followed close on his heels. Others immediately went to help him, quickly putting her on a stretcher and turning her over to EMTs. Two more firefighters ran in to battle the blaze, but already the flames were shrinking from the side window. The smoke coming out the front door was turning gray. The water was doing its work.

Where was the chief?

Almost in answer to her silent question, he burst out through the front door, carrying a tightly wrapped bundle. Ignoring everyone else, he threw off his respirator mask and helmet, then knelt on the grass, unwrapping a baby.

Charity’s heart nearly stopped. The infant looked pale, almost blue. She raised her fingers to her lips, trying to hold in the anxiety. Not a baby. Please, not a baby.

“Oxygen,” the chief shouted. He bent close to the child, listening for breath, then feeling for a pulse. An EMT rushed over and joined him. The infant’s color improved within seconds after the oxygen mask was placed over its face. The child was swiftly moved to the ambulance.

Relief nearly caused Charity to sag. Leaving the spectators, she returned to her car, watching the scene unfold. She’d seen this many times. Too many times. She’d even trained with firefighters and had volunteered so she could understand.

Now she understood too much.

* * *

An hour later, the scene had quieted. While firemen, including the chief, moved through the house, axing open walls to make sure they concealed no fire, others rolled up the hoses. The house still stood, but it was a mess. The outside wall was covered with soot, two window frames charred black. Inside, everything would be ruined by smoke, ash and water. She wondered how much these poor people would be able to salvage.

Pulling out her cell phone, she went to her company’s site, logged in and tapped in the address. Her company covered that house. She scanned the firefighters and realized the chief was once again outside, occasionally speaking to his crew. The small crowd of onlookers still lingered, talking to each other. Already she heard plans to help the family. Good people.

No one hindered her passage, and she reached the chief’s side. He was preoccupied and didn’t immediately notice her. He was still talking to the other firefighters, making sure everything had been taken care of. She was certain he had a running head count going in his mind. She didn’t want to interrupt it.

His face was smudged with soot. Apparently he had wiped it a few times, probably to get rid of sweat. The gear he wore was heavy and hot, at least fifty pounds as he was dressed now, more in full paraphernalia. She had worn it and hated it even though her life depended on it.

At last a firefighter came out of the house. “Clear,” he called. The second truck, which had been hosing the adjacent structure, was already pulling away. The fire rescue ambulance had departed a while ago.

It was then the chief noticed her. His gray eyes slid over her from top to toe. “Who are you?” he asked bluntly.

“Charity Atkins, Chief. We had a meeting.”

He shook his head a little. “Wayne Camden, and the meeting has to wait a little while.”

“Of course.” She didn’t even try for a smile. She held out a card. He looked at it, pulling off one of his huge gloves to take it.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Be sure the family gets it. My company insures this property, too. What happened?”

He had fully placed her now, his mind leaping from the all-important mess in front of him to her purpose in being here. “You’re the arson investigator about the Buell fire.”

“Yes.”

“Well, this wasn’t arson. Looks as if a grease fire started on the stove and was mishandled. The woman’s burned. Her husband’s out of town. You’ll have to wait to get your answers.”

“I don’t want answers. I just want them to know I’ll have an adjuster out here tomorrow if possible. We’ll cover alternate accommodations.”

He nodded. “Fair enough. I need to finish up here. You can wait for me at the station, unless there’s something else you want to do.”

“I’ll see you there.” She returned to her car and called her company to give the family a head start on their coverage.

* * *

Randy Dinkum loved fires. He always had, even though it was a relief to open that damned turnout coat and feel cool air on his skin again. As he closed the last panel on the fire truck and got ready to board for the ride back to the station, he looked one more time at the house. Tragic now, but no one had died. Poor woman was a mess, though. He might love fire, but he hated it, too.

He wanted to pat his own back for how well they’d handled the whole thing. It hadn’t spread to neighboring houses, although that was always a huge risk in town, what with all these old buildings so close together. Dried out by the years, their frames and siding were practically tinder.

Kind of surprising they hadn’t lost the whole house. The interior was wasted, but a contractor should be able to fix that.

“Great job,” said the chief, clapping his shoulder briefly before moving on to the next fireman.

Randy beamed, then pulled himself up onto the truck. A few seconds later, Jeff Corner hopped up beside him. “That was a beaut,” Jeff said.

“It sure was,” Randy agreed. As the truck started moving, he saw the stranger in the business suit drive away. “Who was that woman talking to the chief?”

“Dunno. Heard him tell her to meet him at the station.”

“Girlfriend?” Randy suggested. They both laughed. “That’ll drive Donna crazy.”

“You think he moves in those kinds of circles? That was a fancy suit.”

“Wish we saw more of that around here. Damn, I want a cigarette.”

Jeff laughed again. “You know what the chief thinks of smoking in public.”

“Considering the amount of smoke we breathe on the job, why should he care?”

“Public image,” Jeff said knowingly. “Haven’t you heard? Gotta be a good example for kids.”

The familiar jolting began as they rolled down the street. They weren’t a big fire department and didn’t have the fanciest equipment, so they hung on to the rear of the truck since they all couldn’t fit inside.

Eventually, Jeff and Randy would graduate to inside seats and younger men would stand here. But even hanging on here was better than being a volunteer, those who responded only when needed.

Soon the summer would dry out the grasslands and firefighting would sometimes become a full-time job for them all. Randy liked those times best, not only working to beat back the flames but because firefighters came from everywhere to help out. When they weren’t actually facing the flames it was like a big party. A tired party, but still.

And those were the times he felt best about himself. People treated them all like heroes. He guessed they were, actually. Today they’d saved a woman and a baby.

He hadn’t known about the baby. No one had. “Say, Jeff?”

“Yeah?”

“Why do you think no one knew there was a baby in there until Old Man Kroner shouted it out? Was it, like, a secret, or something?”

“I dunno,” Jeff answered, leaning as the truck turned into the station. “I thought everyone around here knew everything about everyone.”

“Yeah. Kinda weird.”

“Well, it looked like it was just born. Maybe the grapevine didn’t reach us yet.”

“Maybe.” Randy pondered that as the truck slowed to a halt. One of the advantages of being in such a small town was you knew who might be in a dwelling when you responded. People didn’t get easily overlooked. Which made the Buell arson even weirder. Someone who’d burn a house full of people was scary.

It was troubling, something Randy hoped would be solved—and soon.

* * *

Charity walked into the firehouse through a side door just as the final truck rolled up and joined two others in the bay. A young woman with red hair, wearing a comfortable dark blue station uniform, sat at the desk. Those uniforms were designed not to impede movement, as they were worn under the turnout suits, and designed not to ignite easily. Over her breast, a shield was embroidered, her last name below it.

The woman sat facing a wide plate-glass window that looked into the truck bay, surrounded by consoles and equipment. Her eyes widened as she took in Charity’s apparel.

Definitely going to have to change into native garb, Charity decided. Soon. “Hi, I’m Charity Atkins, arson investigator for the Buell fire. The chief has an appointment with me and he told me to wait here for him.” She wondered if she imagined the flash of instant dislike on the woman’s face, then brushed it aside. A lot of people, including officials, didn’t like arson investigators. Or maybe it was the suit.

The woman stood and offered her hand. “Donna Willem, fire inspector and admin, former smoke eater. Have a seat. Help yourself to coffee.”

Charity looked at the dregs in the pot and decided to do without. She took the simple metal chair and summoned a smile for Donna. “Thanks. Why former?”

Donna patted her hip. “I took a fall during a barn fire. Can’t climb ladders anymore, and frankly carrying the equipment got painful, too.” She sat. “We’re not so busy that I don’t get bored.” She held up an e-reader. “But I do read lots of good books.”

Charity laughed. “There are advantages to most things. I volunteered with a fire department for a while.”

“Yeah?” Interest sparked in Donna’s gaze. “Why’d you quit?”

“It was a temporary thing from the start. Sort of job training so I’d be a better arson investigator.”

“Ah.” Donna studied her as if she didn’t much care for Charity. It had to be the expensive suit. “Arson infuriates me.”

“Me, too. Do you see much of it?”

“Kids sometimes get careless. But in the past year or so...” She shrugged. “Sometimes things come in bunches. Chief says three fires have been arson, including the last one at the Buell Ranch. Say, can you tell me something?”

Charity tensed. Her investigations had to remain private. “If I can.”

“Edna Buell’s a friend of mine. I’m worried about her and her family. Does your insurance cover arson? I’ve always wondered.”

Well, that was easy. “Unless the arsonist is the owner of the property or his agent, yes.”

“Good.” Donna swiveled her chair a bit as if trying to loosen up some back muscles. “Must be difficult to figure out sometimes.”

“It’s always difficult.” Even more difficult when you had some guy with loads of money breathing down your neck and you suspected he’d gotten tired of owning that building. Or couldn’t pay the taxes or upkeep. Some guy who could afford to pay some slime to start the fire. But you had to prove it.

“You gonna be here long?”

Charity shrugged. “Only as long as it takes me to clear the Buells. A few days, I hope.”

“Bet you work with cops, too?” Donna asked.

“When it’s needed.”

“Must be an interesting job.”

Charity nodded, watching through the plate-glass window as the next important tasks were carried out. No rest for the weary. Equipment had to be cleaned, checked out and stowed. Then the truck would get babied. No relaxation for these men for hours yet to come. By the time they hit the showers, they’d be dead on their feet, probably.

Fighting a fire took a lot out of person, she’d learned. Not just the weight of all their equipment, but the heat inside the protective gear, the inevitable adrenaline rush, a lot of hard labor... Fatiguing. This hadn’t been a terrible fire—they’d only battled it for an hour or so—but they were guzzling water from bottles as if they’d spent a week in the Sahara.

A door to one side of Donna opened and Chief Wayne Camden stepped in. He was swigging from a water bottle, too, and his hair was damp. He must have just showered, because the soot was gone.

He wore the simple blue uniform of this department, with black work boots on his feet. Apparently he didn’t always follow the custom of white shirt for higher-ranking members. For the first time she noted that he was tall, lean and muscular. Staying in shape was important in this job for a variety of reasons, and he apparently knew it. His hair looked almost black, maybe because it was still wet, but his eyes were a silvery gray that reflected some of the blue in his uniform.

“Ms. Atkins,” he said. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

Charity rose, smiling. “For good reason, I think. You took quite a risk going for that baby.”

He shrugged it off. Of course he’d taken a risk. That was what firefighters did. She felt almost stupid for even saying it. “Come into my office. It’s not the neatest place in the world, but it works.”

She saw what he meant as he ushered her through the narrow door. Files were stacked everywhere, as if the filing cabinets had run out of space. They were neat stacks, but still stacks.

“It’s all on the computer,” he said, gesturing to the machine on his desk. “Eventually the paper goes to the archives.”

“How many years does that take?”

He glanced at her as he motioned her to take a seat, then sank into his own chair on the other side of the desk. Battered leather, it had clearly seen better days, and it creaked beneath his weight. “Seven years,” he answered, then laughed. “You’d be surprised how often the paper is needed.”

“Probably not,” she said, returning his smile. “Bureaucracies.”

“At every level.” He leaned back and the chair creaked some more. “So you want to examine the Buell place.”

She nodded, wishing his gaze was less steady. Something about it made her aware that he was a man. She didn’t want it, didn’t need it, and she wouldn’t be here long anyway. The sting of her last breakup was still fresh. She needed to focus on the task at hand, not this man. “You said it was arson.”

“It most definitely was. You ever walk into a building a day after a fire?”

“Quite often.”

“Then, you know. You can sometimes smell the accelerant. I always thought that was odd, that it can leave behind an odor when it should all burn up. The aromatics should be gone.”

“Aren’t they usually?”

“True. But the stench of kerosene and gasoline cling for a long time. If you use too much and some of it doesn’t burn...” He shrugged one broad shoulder. “Of course there are some you can’t smell.”

She wondered why he was schooling her. She was the arson specialist. She might have gotten annoyed at being patronized, but somehow he didn’t give her that feeling. It was more as though he was trying to shift mental gears and get into the groove on the Buell fire. He drank more water and offered her a bottle from the small fridge beside his desk. She accepted it gratefully. Flying always left her parched.

Suddenly he zoomed in on her and on the subject at hand. He leaned forward, as if he had finally fully switched mental zones. “It was arson, all right. I don’t think the Buells did it, and you can’t smell accelerant in the house—just in the barn. More important, it went up too hot and fast. Who the hell around here would know a different way to start a fire?”

He had her full attention now, too. And now she understood why he’d mentioned aromatics, the things you could smell. He hadn’t been schooling her. He’d been working up to something.

“Do you think the Buells did it?” he asked her.

“I haven’t seen the site.”

He shook his head almost irritably. “Don’t fence with me. You’re the insurance carrier, you know their coverage. Do they stand to gain from this?”

“It’s always possible,” she said truthfully. “Even the minimally insured have been known to set fires in order to get aid. But really, I have to see the extent of the damage and evaluate some other things before I can say.” And if that made him feel protective of people he knew, too bad.

“Black bones pointing to the sky and some dead livestock,” he said shortly. “There isn’t a whole lot left except the herds out in pasture. Amazingly, we didn’t get a grass fire. It was hot, it was too fast and the Buells were damned smart to have alarms. Now Fred Buell is out there every day trying to tend his cattle from the back of a truck with the help of neighbors. He didn’t gain a thing that I can see except a whole pack of new problems.”

She nodded, willing to accept his judgment for now. Her own would come later.

He stood up and went to stare out his own plate-glass window at the men who were finishing the cleanup. “We got us a firebug, Ms. Atkins. Bad and mean. I want him.”

“Your inspector mentioned this was the third arson in a year.”

“Close to. Less than a year, to be specific. The first two were definitely gasoline, but this one is different. If they’re the same perp, then we have a huge problem. He’s getting smarter.” He turned and looked at her. “And more dangerous. The first two didn’t go up like a bomb. We had time to get out there, and the ranchers are pretty good with a hose themselves. This time...” He shook his head, a dark frown on his face. “Are you gonna help me?”

She started. She hadn’t expected this. She had come to assess one situation, not hunt for an arsonist. But something in her quickened, and she felt a touch of his fury.

“I hate arsonists,” she said finally. “Passionately. I’ll do what I can, what my job allows.”

After a moment he said, “Fair enough. You’re an expert. I’m not really. I can recognize arson, can usually tell where the fire started and what caused it. But this is different. I need some expertise around here. I sent for a state investigator, but they’re shorthanded. I’ve covered the points of ignition I could find, but with every passing minute, evidence is disappearing.”

She completely understood and shared his concern. While she had no stake in any of this, she did indeed want to help figure out what had happened and who had done it before this creep managed to kill someone. Still, given her job, there were definite limits on what she could do. She also liked that Wayne Camden cared this much. She’d known some who didn’t.

“All right,” he said. “We’ll go out first thing in the morning. Where are you staying?”

“There’s a motel...”

He shook his head sharply. “You won’t catch any diseases there, but you’ll be right across the street from the truck stop. It’ll be noisy and it’s probably not what you’re used to.”

“I’ll survive,” she answered, but just from the way he’d objected to the idea, she already felt her skin starting to crawl.

He returned to his desk and picked up his phone, dialing a number from memory. “Hank? Wayne. Listen, I got an arson investigator in town for a few days. You wanna do me a favor? She needs a place to stay, and I don’t mean the La-Z-Rest. Yeah, okay.”

When he hung up he said. “Solved. A friend of mine has a furnished house for rent. You can use it, no charge.”

Astonishment filled her. “Why would he do that?”

“Because he used to be a fireman, too. Come on, I’ll show you where it is.”

* * *

She followed his red SUV down narrow tree-lined streets for a few blocks until he pulled up in front of a small house. A man was waiting for them outside, the perfect image of a cowboy except he canted a little, suggesting he had some kind of back trouble.

He smiled and held out his hand. “Hank Jackson.”

“Charity Atkins. It’s so kind of you to do this.”

He shook his head. “Teeny little thing. The place is empty. Empty houses aren’t happy houses. It’s fully furnished, though. Some groceries and you’ll be all set. Let me show you.”

“Tell her about Maude’s,” Wayne Camden said. “I need to get back to the station. Paperwork awaits.” He paused and looked at Charity. “I live just one street over, not that I get home often. Hank here can help you with just about anything, okay?”

“Thanks so much.”

“No problem. Not for me anyway. Should I pick you up around eight in the morning?”

Converted to Eastern Time, she realized, that would be her equivalent of ten. “Or I can come by the station after I get some breakfast.”

“Okay, I’ll see you there.”

He strode to his car, leaving her with Hank Jackson, a man with a weathered face and eyes that crinkled when he smiled.

“So you were a firefighter, too?” she asked.

“A long time ago. Now I’m just a cowboy. Come on in. Make yourself at home.”

* * *

Elsewhere, an arsonist pondered the arrival of the insurance investigator. How much did she know? How much could she figure out? Was she like the state investigator?

That was worrisome. The delay in getting the state guy down here created time between the fire and the investigation, and time made evidence go away, killing it with sun, wind and rain. Longer was better.

If the woman was a threat, the arsonist needed to know. Certainly, the fires had to stop for now. Frustrating, but necessary. There was no way to explain that the fires were meant to be helpful. Watching the investigator became paramount. If she became a threat, she would have to be removed somehow.

But that Buell fire had been something else, far more than the arsonist had expected. So fast, so all-consuming, way beyond the plan. Watching it erupt had been a thing of pure beauty and pure terror. The arsonist had been afraid of it, even at a distance. Way beyond control, not supposed to happen that way. The kind of fire that would draw major attention from every direction. A mistake.

Looking through binoculars, the arsonist had made sure the family escaped, and only then could enjoy the show. Sheets of flame reaching heavenward, whirling in fiery tornadoes, the sparks creating fireworks as the house and barn had collapsed. The biggest fire, short of a wildfire, ever. Two buildings, barn and house. That hadn’t been intentional, but the show... Well, maybe that made it worth it.

A perfectly created work of art. And all of it for a good cause.

But that arson investigator could prove to be a huge headache. Something drastic might need to be done.

With memories of that gorgeous fire still dancing, the arsonist decided the investigator needed to be driven away. Somehow. With any luck, it wouldn’t take much.

But if she nosed around too much, killing her was a possibility.

Chapter 2

By morning, Charity felt she had begun to land. Yesterday had been long, with a red-eye flight out of Atlanta to Denver so she could catch the puddle jumper to Conard City in time for her meeting with the chief.

She was used to it, did it often enough, but by the time she could finally hold still, she was ready to crash. She hadn’t even considered getting dinner. A shower and a comfy bed met her needs.

It was dark when she awoke, still on Atlanta time. She turned on all the lamps and light poured through the house, revealing it to be pleasant, and dashed with color here and there as if someone had tried to brighten it. Better than most motel rooms any day, and Charity felt grateful to Wayne and Hank. She’d only be here a short while, but she’d at least be comfortable when she wasn’t working.

Today, however, looked like the day to start wearing her real work clothes: jeans, shirt, boots and jacket. No place for the fancy suits while wandering around the fire scene.

She found coffee of an indeterminate age and a coffeepot. She made some and tasted the staleness, the oils just on the brink of going bad. She guzzled half the pot anyway, then realized that morning was beginning to arrive. Already she felt halfway into her workday. Funny how much difference a two-hour clock change could make.

Now that she felt fully rested and awake from the caffeine, Wayne Camden popped into her thoughts. Attractive man. Very. Then she struck that off her mental list. No time, no desire. One-night stands weren’t her thing, and these days she was burned out on relationships. It amazed her how often men could become controlling, resenting her work hours, her frequent trips out of town. Her job was part of the package and she was up-front about it. Yet still, sooner or later, the guy would get unhappy. Danged if she could figure it out.

She rubbed the last of the sleep from her eyes and headed to the bathroom. To makeup or not to makeup, she thought humorously. The familiar face that stared back at her from the mirror showed few remaining signs of fatigue, so she went for a very light touch. Then she clipped her long auburn hair firmly out of the way and hunted up her ball cap and hard hat. She was ready, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.

And she figured that she needed to get some things straight with Wayne today. He’d asked for her help in finding this guy, and she shouldn’t have left the possibility open. She was an insurance investigator, not a criminalist or a cop. She’d gone to the arson academy, but her job most often involved checking out the evidence provided by forensics, and then looking for motivations and links. Yes, she was good at what she did, but she needed to make her limitations clear.

He really did need a fire marshal from the state.

She found the diner Wayne had mentioned without any trouble. Shortly after seven, local time, it was pretty well packed, although most of the patrons appeared to be older men who might be retired. A grumpy woman whose name tag announced she was Maude took her order with all the grace of an angry rhino, but the coffee came fast, and the eggs were perfectly cooked. Charity noticed the grumpiness extended to everyone else and no one seemed to mind it, so it must be par. She could ignore it.

Through the window she caught sight of the sheriff’s office up the street on the corner across from the square she had seen for the first time this morning. Maybe she could find some assistance there. They were surely going to need it.

She ate quickly with her laptop open, scanning the fire reports that had brought her out here. No mistaking the all-caps word ARSON typed into the blank for the probable cause. The rest offered little enough information except that both house and barn had been destroyed, horses and calves in the barn had died, but no other injuries.

Really. No other injuries. From the way Wayne had described it, she was kind of amazed. Fast and hot, almost like a bomb. Achieving that was no simple task. Most arsonists fell down in that area. Partial damage, a fire that ran out of fuel too soon, an accelerant that wasn’t as good as they thought, not enough ignition points...

She closed the laptop, the limited facts fresh in her mind. As soon as she paid the bill, she hotfooted over to the sheriff’s office, only peripherally noting that men were playing chess and checkers at stone tables and benches scattered in the gardens of the square.

The wizened woman at the dispatch desk was smoking a cigarette right below a no-smoking sign. Charity almost laughed when she realized that none of the deputies in the room seemed disturbed by this fact. An ashtray of butts nearby seemed to indicate this wasn’t a onetime infraction.

The woman eyed her from rheumy eyes. “Need something?”

Charity offered her card and the woman took it. “I’m Charity Atkins, an arson investigator. I’m here about the Buell fire. I was wondering if I might get some information here.”

Thin eyebrows reached for an equally thin graying hairline. “You need the sheriff. Straight back that hall on the left. Can’t miss it.”

She found the door labeled Sheriff Gage Dalton and had just raised her hand to knock when the door flew open. The man who faced her appeared to be about fifty, one side of his face marred by a shiny burn scar.

“Whoa,” he said. “Sorry if I startled you.” He held out his hand. “Gage Dalton.”

“Charity Atkins, arson investigator.” She pulled out a card for him. “If you have a minute, I’d like to ask about the Buell fire.”

“Sure.” He stepped back in. “Wayne’s the guy you need, though.”

“I’m meeting him in twenty minutes at the firehouse.”

Dalton’s eyes crinkled with a crooked smile. “Not much time, then. Take a seat.”

But before he joined her, he called down the hall, “Velma! We got a statey on the way over. Get rid of your butts. And while we’re at it, why don’t you take up electronic cigarettes?”

He didn’t wait for an answer but limped around the desk to sit facing her. Files teetered on one corner. A computer occupied the other. He sat with a grimace of pain, then smiled again. “Velma’s too old to change. But she’s not too old to get me into trouble.”

“I hear you.” Charity wanted to laugh. “I know you’re probably busy, but I was wondering what, if anything, you might know about this situation. The fire chief is hoping I can help him solve this somehow, but honestly, I’m an arson investigator who is primarily concerned with fraud. Fire and law enforcement are the people who do the real work. I just put it together.”

He nodded, drumming his fingers. “I don’t know much. I know Wayne is worried. Third arson in less than a year, but this was the worst by far. As for the Buells... Hardworking family. They’ve treasured that place for generations and never caused a lick of trouble. I wish everyone was like them.”

“But ranching is a hard life,” she said quietly.

“Not hard enough to give up everything he’s worked for. Not the kind of man who’d kill his own livestock, either. And you should talk to his wife and kids. They got out by the skin of their teeth. Fred Buell is now one very angry man, and I can’t say I blame him. If you’re still in town and want to get a measure of the regard folks around here feel for that family, come to the barn raising on Saturday.”

She blinked. “People still do that?”

“Don’t have to do it often, but yeah, they still do. Give the man a barn, he can take care of his business and his family will have a roof until they can put up another house.”

Charity tried to imagine it. “Living with the animals?”

“People used to do it all the time. Anyway, I got nothing on the Buell family. He’s not exactly in high clover, but he pays his debts and takes good care of his family. I can’t imagine him doing this to himself.”

She glanced at her watch. “Thank you, Sheriff. Guess I’d better run over to the fire station.”

“If you need anything else, let me know. It’s not like we’re not trying to look into this. I’ve battered the phone lines with demands for an investigator, and I know Wayne has sent samples to the forensics lab. But right now, we’re pretty much stalled without a trained arson investigator.”

She shook his hand again, then paused in the doorway. “Are the property appraiser’s records online?”

“More than mine,” he chuckled. “Yeah, they kept up with the times. Around here, we’re still catching up with the twenty-first century.”

Her car was still parked in front of the diner. She hurried back to it, then set out for the fire station. One thing to say for small towns, it was easy to find most places.

The only guys she saw as she walked up to the station, carrying her hard hat and laptop, were two men in the bay busy running on treadmills. She wondered if they had a weight room. Probably. There was even a basketball hoop hanging above the bay doors. That had been a favorite pastime when she’d volunteered.

Donna was still at the desk and simply waved her on through. “Chief’s waiting for you.”

Wayne rose the moment she opened his door. This morning he looked rested and his smile came easily. She found herself wishing he lived in Atlanta. She’d gladly get herself into some trouble with this guy.

“Ms. Atkins.”

“Charity, please.”

His smile widened a shade. “Wayne. Ready to head out?”

“Actually, do you have any internet Wi-Fi hotspots around here?”

“Not many,” he answered. “We’ve got Wi-Fi for law enforcement, the schools, the library, and us, but you need a password. I can get you one if you want.”

Oh, boy, she’d come back to the Stone Age. She quashed the thought immediately, as being rude. This area was extremely rural, and she was simply spoiled to think she could find a hot spot behind every storefront. “Thanks. I need to look at the property appraiser’s records on the Buell place.”

“Before we go?”

“It would help me understand what I’m seeing.”

Without another word, he turned his monitor so they both could see it. “Take a look,” he said as he began to type. A minute later, she saw the appraiser’s page for the Buell homestead. At once she started taking notes, tapping quickly on her own keyboard.

“Let me print it out.” As soon as the printer started humming, he rose and opened his office door. “Donna, can you fix it so Ms. Atkins can access our Wi-Fi while she’s here?”

“It’ll take me a few to set up a new account.”

“Later will be fine,” Charity said as she scanned the page. Big house, big barn, big appraisal. Her stomach sank as she read. Fred Buell had been underinsured, probably painfully so when you added in the livestock. No way would he gain from this fire. How had her company let this happen? When including reconstruction costs, they usually went overboard.

“This afternoon,” Donna said. “The darn thing always argues with me. I swear these machines have their own minds. Of course, if I wait for county IT to do it, it might take a week.”

Charity closed her laptop and reached for the sheet from the printer. As she did so, she saw a framed five-by-six photo on his desk. A young woman with long dark hair smiled back at her. Was he a cradle robber?

“She’s lovely,” she said to Wayne, indicating the photo.

“That’s Linda, my daughter. Seventeen and getting ready to leave me for college.”

Charity smiled. “You started young.”

He chuckled. “Older than I look. I guess I should take it as a compliment.”

“By all means.” She started to open her mouth and ask about his wife but realized it would be rude. Not everyone with a child had a spouse. She didn’t want to risk opening an old wound, if one existed.

“My wife left us about five years ago.” A shadow passed briefly across his face.

She guessed she’d given herself away somehow. “I’m sorry.”

“This town doesn’t suit everyone,” he said, closing the subject. “All set?”

“All done. Thanks.”

“Ride with me. Better for the roads than your rental.”

* * *

Wayne noted Charity’s change of garb and approved. She’d been pretty in that suit yesterday, but city had been written all over her. He could be excused for wondering how she could do a job like this. How could anyone do it in a business suit, male or female?

Now he saw the signs of a woman who’d be capable of climbing through the ruins with him and across the rough, open spaces. Even her boots were sensible and looked as though they had steel toes.

But she was still a pretty package. When he’d stared at her in surprise yesterday, all duded up in city clothes, the first thing he had noticed were her gentle curves. Just gentle ones, reminding him overall of a thoroughbred, perfectly shaped and in shape. Those curves hadn’t vanished in jeans and a long-sleeved button-down shirt. If anything, they stood out more. Her hazel eyes were probably a little more expressive than she realized. The rest of her face revealed little, if anything, and he suspected she had schooled herself to keep her secrets.

Regardless, she was still a lovely package.

Food for fantasy, he told himself, and nothing more.

He stared down the roads, amused by himself. Why even waste the time noticing her appeal? She’d be out of here the instant she could shake the dust from her heels. Same as a lot of women. Same as his woman. She’d grown a taste for flashier towns, and coming back here had about killed her. At the end of a year she swore she was losing her mind.

Finally, feeling he was being too silent and far from friendly, he asked, “What did you find out from the appraisal?”

“Plenty. Mr. Buell was underinsured. That shouldn’t have happened. Somebody was asleep at the wheel.”

“Meaning?”

“We generally look at appraiser’s records and adjust values accordingly. We don’t want our clients getting caught short like this.”

“You mean you can charge more.”

She didn’t answer for a few seconds and he wondered if she was hanging on to her temper. Her face told him nothing. Too bad, but he didn’t believe insurance companies were in the charity business.

“Yes, that, too. Although it doesn’t affect our bottom line any if we pay out less.”

“But how often do you have to pay for a total property?”

He glanced at her and at last saw a faint frown on her pretty face. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s reality. Everyone needs to make a living.” Even if some of them made more than a decent living. Way more. But this time he guarded his tongue.

“Look,” she said finally, “I don’t want to argue with you. Believe it or not, I’m not here to cheat our client. My job is to prove that he isn’t trying to defraud us, then we’ll pay. From the look of it, fraud’s out of the question for now.”

He didn’t miss the qualifier. He wanted to respond, but decided against it. Her job was to be distrustful. He let the conversation drop.

“I’ll need to see the files from the other two arsons,” she said finally. “They’re not my clients, obviously, but there might be links.”

“The biggest link is three arsons in such a short time. That’s not a routine problem around here. And ranchers are especially good about avoiding fires. It takes too long to get help.”

“I know.”

He glanced over and saw her staring out the window at the sage and fresh green grasses of spring. If the Buell place had gone up in a few months, they might have been fighting one hell of a brush fire. As it was, it was bad enough.

“Our usual rule,” she said, “is not to insure a dwelling or business more than eight minutes from a fire station. We make exceptions for ranches and farms because, you’re right, they avoid fire. We get the fewest claims from that segment. As you noted, most of these folks are equipped to deal with a small fire on the spot. My company even gives a discount if they have a high capacity water pump and fire hose. You know, like we do for households with fire extinguishers and security systems.”

“That’s good to know. I can tell you one thing for sure, these ranchers out here regard fire as their worst nightmare. They worry about it all the time, especially when we dry out in the late summer. Fighting brush fires and wildfires is a lot of my job. These guys are all over it. I’ve arrived at more range fires than I can count to find every rancher and hired hand in the area already trenching a fire line.”

“I can believe it,” she answered. “I was impressed with the way you handled that fire yesterday, by the way. Good work.”

He didn’t know how to evaluate that. “Thanks.” Then, “Do you watch many fires? I wouldn’t have thought so.”

She made a small sound. A laugh? “Before I got into this business I was a volunteer firefighter.”

Okay, then. He wasn’t dealing with a bean counter who knew next to nothing. That settled him a bit. The woman in the suit had transformed from a threat into a potential ally. She knew both sides of the problem.

A few minutes later she spoke again. “The sheriff said you sent samples to the forensics lab already?”

“I did. I’m sure I didn’t get everything. I need to look some more. It’s only been five days, and there’s a lot I still need to look at. I’m not even sure yet that I’ve found all the ignition points.”

“It’s harder when there isn’t much left.”

“No kidding.” He turned onto the Buell’s road. In the distance he could just make out the black smudge of what was left, an ugly hulk against a beautiful blue sky. Fred Buell was probably out there somewhere taking care of his herd as best he could. There were a lot of young calves at this time of year, still frail enough to develop problems. They probably needed all kinds of care, too, and Fred might even be sorting out the ones he’d sell. Wayne had never run a ranch, though, so he didn’t claim to know much about it. As a kid he’d lived in town, his dad a lineman for the electric co-op. Adulthood had taken him through some college and into working for a fire department in Glenwood Springs. Then he’d come home to be chief here.

“How big is your department?” Charity asked.

“Full-time? Part-time? Volunteers?”

Her laugh surprised him. “That kind of headache, huh? And only three trucks?”

“Only three plus two fire rescue ambulances. We have other heavy equipment garaged on the end of town. Never needed more yet.”

“But what about wildfires?”

He shrugged. “Then we get help from everywhere, up to and including heavy equipment lent to us by ranchers and the state. I’ve got twenty career firefighters. Sixteen part-timers. And a whole boatload of volunteers.”

“Twenty full-timers doesn’t seem like a whole lot.”

“There are smaller volunteer departments. But the full-timers make the core, and usually between them and the part-timers, we can handle the average incident. We spend an awful lot of time on training, though, especially with the volunteers.”

She nodded as if she was familiar with that. “I was impressed yesterday, so don’t take my questions as criticism. I’m just curious.”

“Well, if it’ll settle your mind any...” He paused as they went over a bump in the road and he had to steady the wheel. “There are a few very small outlying towns in the county. I’m talking around a hundred people per. They have their own volunteers. And of course the ranchers stand ready to jump in at a moment’s notice. It’s not as if we have to cover thousands of square miles with just three trucks. But we train everyone.”

“A lot of open land,” she remarked.

“A lot,” he agreed. He supposed it could be startling to someone from back East. Out here you could drive dozens of miles, sometimes hundreds of miles, and see nothing but fences and a ranch road from time to time. And the mountains. They could be seen from everywhere.

At last they jolted to a stop in front of the burned-out lumps of the barn and the house that used to be the Buells’. He hoped that, underinsured or not, Fred and his family could come back from this.

Charity didn’t immediately climb out of the car. She sat staring at the blackened ribs of what had once been structures. “My God,” she said finally.

He didn’t answer. The scene spoke for itself. Without a raging wildfire, you didn’t usually see this kind of destruction. Blackened areas surrounded the remains, but the fire hadn’t spread. Green grasses still waved in the breeze. It almost looked as if the house and barn had been blasted from above.

“How many ignition points did you find?” she asked.

“So far eight.”

She shook her head. “There must be more.”

“Seems like it. Short of a bunker-buster bomb, this shouldn’t have happened.”

She turned her head, looking at him straight on. “You have more than a firebug. Did the Buells have enemies? Because whoever did this was awfully determined. It wasn’t about thrills.”

His chest felt heavy. “No,” he agreed quietly. “It may have been about murder.”

Then he climbed out of the vehicle, unable to say any more. Blue tarps rippled everywhere he’d managed to find ignition sources, protecting them from the elements. But time was short. Even without rain, each passing day destroyed more evidence. Although at this point he couldn’t imagine what evidence was going to get them any closer to the sick mind that had done this.

“No pyromaniac,” she said when she stood by the car.

“No,” he agreed. “Too organized. But angrier than all get-out about something. Or making some kind of point.” He paused and looked at her. “I know my department is under suspicion, too.”

Something flickered across her face but he couldn’t read it. “I didn’t say that.”

He shook his head. “I’m well aware that a small but significant number of arsonists are firemen. So don’t count us out. I’m not.”

Then he went to the back of his vehicle to pull out his evidence gathering equipment, a handled rack of glass bottles, a large metal equipment case and protective gloves. “Let’s see what we can find.”

* * *

Charity hung back as he walked toward the blackened ruins. Lifting her laptop, she began to take photos of the scene, and his silhouette provided a good perspective point. It also reminded her how solidly and well he was built, but she brushed the thought away like an annoying gnat. No time to be experiencing her own brush fire. Time to get to work.

When she was satisfied with her photos, she tossed her ball cap on the seat and replaced it with her yellow hard hat. Computer in hand, she followed Wayne toward the mess.

While the scene looked as if a huge gasoline bomb had demolished it, some items survived. After a fire there were always surprises that left her wondering how they hadn’t burned or melted. There wasn’t much this time, though, and that disturbed her. Wayne was right—this had been hot and fast.

Few arsonists achieved so much destruction. Most acted on impulse with little knowledge of how a fire burned, and they weren’t necessarily interested in burning up an entire property. Most often they wanted the excitement of the fire, and the excitement of watching the firefighters. Except for firefighter arsonists, who often were just bored young men, most especially in rural departments, and who wanted some action. She knew that as well as the chief, but she wasn’t going to say it to him. His department was under suspicion, all right. Especially the younger firefighters.

But this fire hadn’t been set for entertainment. That many ignition sources, and perhaps more, meant that this had been carefully planned. Whether the Buells were chosen at random or with reason, she could only guess. One thing for sure, this hadn’t been prepared all in one night.

When she turned around and surveyed the remains of the house and barn, she judged it unlikely that one fire had set off the other. Oh, it was possible, but if the barn had blazed first, the family would have had some notice. What was more, it was doubtful that sparks hitting the house could have caused this kind of destruction so fast. If the house had gone up first, upon escaping the family would have attempted to remove livestock from the barn. Two buildings burned to the ground in one night. An amazing haul for an arsonist.

Crunching her way across charcoal, avoiding a steel-framed chair that still had its cushioning and a stove that looked as if it would still work once the soot was removed, she joined Wayne at the far side of the black.

“You can judge the heat of the fire by the standby propane tank,” he said as she came up beside him. “It used to sit here on a rack a good ten feet from the house. You can see the legs here on the ground and the crumpled drum over there. No black leading toward the house, and the drum was blown twenty-five feet.”

She snapped another photo. “Not buried?”

“Fred has a much bigger underground storage tank. This fifty-gallon job was used only if they were close to running out, like during a bad winter storm. Probably didn’t even have much in it this time of year.”

She took some more pictures. It didn’t seem to have abutted the house, which would have been really unsafe, but right now it was a display piece for the power of the house’s collapse. It could have been sucked in by the fire, but had been blown that whole distance. She made a mental note to think about that some more. “LPG is tremendously volatile once it mixes with air.”

“Yeah.” He squatted down, surveying the surrounding area. “But he could have left the barrel open and the gas could have run toward the house before evaporating if it was pouring fast enough.” He shook his head. “I don’t see any sign of that. And it still wouldn’t have been enough to make the house go up that fast.”

She agreed wholeheartedly. Now, if the house had been full of gas vapors... Her mind was fully engaged, trying to imagine the ways enough ignition points could have been placed to create this kind of mess. “It looks to me like his fire starters would have needed to be inside.”

“Or they sprayed accelerant everywhere just before ignition. Come look at this.”

He led her to another point, just outside what had once been a wall of the house, and pointed at a strongly burned area along the remaining concrete foundation and the black burst that spread out from it across the ground as if soot had exploded outward.

She saw it immediately. “It looks like a backdraft, as if the fire was in the walls and was trying to breathe. But how could that be? You’d need heat without fire because of the lack of oxygen, and surely they would have noticed the walls getting hot, or paint bubbling. Unless that happened awfully fast, too.”

“Yeah. Some headache.” He waved to the barn. “That’s easier to grasp. He picked a few good points in there. There’s always plenty of hay in a barn, and quite a few other things to help. Dust, for example. Acetylene. Paint thinners, maybe, although Fred doesn’t remember having any. The barn was old, too, probably tinder looking for a match, at least inside. Easy enough to burn the barn hot and fast. It’s the house that’s the problem.”

“Did you run across anything resembling ignition devices? Because from what you say, everything went up at the same time.”

“Seems like it, but who can be sure? It was three in the morning. You’d think they’d have wakened if the barn went first, given the racket the animals would have made, but no one did. They woke up to the sound of shrieking smoke detectors.”

She knelt down again and looked at the clear sign at the obvious burst of soot just outside the wall. Whatever was left of the foundation had charred. Pulling on a glove, she reached out and touched the wall. So severely burned it nearly crumbled at her touch. Gently she brushed a finger over it, her mind sorting through possibilities and discarding many of them. This was looking like an impossible fire. “Did Mr. Buell go for a hose when he got out?”

“Yeah. But according to him, he couldn’t make a dent. The house was burning everywhere, and he couldn’t seem to get anything to cool down. He said by then the barn was already clearly lost.”

“So the house was a little slower, if not by much. That makes sense to me.” A house had lots of things to stall a burn, not the least of them gypsum wallboard or plaster. She’d have to find out what his interior walls had been made of.

Then she saw it.

“Wayne? Look at this.”

There was a small, unmistakable hole at the base of the remaining wall. Without a word, he pulled out a swab and ran it around inside the hole and dropped it in a screw-cap jar. Then, and only then, did he cuss.

* * *

It was midafternoon by the time they headed back to town. Charity had dozens of photos, and spent the ride tapping away at her laptop, recording impressions and ideas for her next move. When she saw the outskirts of the town approaching, she spoke for the first time. “I need to talk to Fred Buell. And you and I need to talk with some privacy.”

He turned a corner onto Front Street. They soon passed the street where they’d had the grease fire yesterday. “My office is far from a sanctuary. Let me check in there, get your internet log-in info, then run to the diner for takeout. I’ll meet you at your house.”

“I can’t make you coffee.”

“I’ll pick up a couple at the diner. I can run out for more later if we need it. Anything you don’t like, foodwise?”

“I’d love a latte, but that’s probably out of the question.”

He chuckled. “We’re not entirely in the backwoods. I’ll get you a latte. Anything else?”

“I’m okay with anything except wilted salads.” She closed up her computer. “Chief?”

“Yeah?”

“Those holes make an argument unfavorable to Fred Buell.”

She noticed that he didn’t answer immediately. In the end, all he said was “We’ll talk to him.”

So he was wondering now, too. She let it lie for the moment. At the station, she climbed into her own car. One of the guys in the engine bay cheerfully gave her directions to the grocery and assured her it wasn’t far.

She headed down the narrow streets, noting how gracious some neighborhoods appeared while others looked so worn. She got the impression of a town that was barely hanging on, and it didn’t surprise her. Small towns everywhere had troubles these days. A paid-off ranch might even be a liability. She wondered what other debts Fred Buell owed, because running a cattle operation had plenty of costs attached that accrued year by year. It wasn’t always possible to keep ahead of them and support a family.

At the grocery she bought fresh coffee and some cream and sugar just in case. She also grabbed a fruit tray that looked reasonably fresh, then hurried back to her house.

Wayne was just pulling up out front. She turned into the driveway and climbed out with her laptop, then went around to the trunk to get her grocery bags.

“I see you sidestepped me,” he said jokingly as he approached with his own bags and his clipboard.

“I’m hard to corral,” she said lightly. “Actually, I decided I’m not starting another day without decent coffee.”

He laughed and grabbed her bags by their handles so she only had to juggle her computer as she unlocked the front door. Boy, he was attractive when he smiled. She doubted that he’d be smiling for long.

Inside, while she unpacked her few groceries, he hunted through the cupboards and set the kitchen table for them. She noticed he wasn’t saying anything, not even casual conversation, and while she wasn’t the type herself to make unnecessary talk, she began to get uneasy. Was he as disturbed as she? Or was something else going on?

Finally they sat at the table facing one another, foam containers beside each plate, and tall lattes in heavy paper cups in front of them. A pile of napkins sat in the middle.

“I got us steak sandwiches,” he said, “Maude’s specialty.”

“That sounds good. Is she always such a bear?”

Again that devastating smile. “Always. Ignore it. Everyone else does.”

“I kind of got that impression but I thought I’d make sure.” She opened her container and found a sandwich big enough and thick enough for two, along with a mountain of fries. She moved some of the food to her plate, then took a bite of sandwich. Her eyes widened at the flavor explosion. Then she sent him off into another laugh by saying, “I didn’t know beef could taste this good!”

“When you buy locally, someone’s reputation is on the line. This is always prime grade.”

“I couldn’t afford it in Atlanta.”

“Most likely not. So you were a volunteer firefighter?”

She nodded and grabbed a napkin from the stack to wipe a dribble of juice from her chin. “For over a year. My company encouraged it when I expressed an interest in arson investigation. They thought it would be good training.”

“Was it?”

She regarded him across the table. His gray eyes returned her look. “Very,” she said. “It’s amazing how common small arson fires are. Just small ones, though. Nothing like what we saw today. Most are kids fooling around, looking for excitement, and most aren’t very big. It’s hard to make a big fire.”

He nodded and swallowed. “Did you ever see a big one?”

“Abandoned industrial building. Smart arsonist. There was enough trash in that basement to cause a huge conflagration. Three departments had to respond.”

“Did you catch the guy?”

“Actually, they did. He bragged about it.” She sighed. “Sixty percent of arsonists never get caught. The ones who do most often have big mouths.”

“Which makes figuring out the psychology of an arsonist fairly difficult.” He took another bite of his sandwich, clearly a hungry man.

“What about you? Do you ever want the excitement of being with a bigger department?” She took another bite, watching his eyes narrow in response.

He raised one brow. “Frankly? No. Turns out I wasn’t built to be an adrenaline junkie. And I don’t enjoy some of the memories I carry with me.”

She looked down, wondering if he had thought that question critical of him. Then she linked it back to their earlier remarks about arsonists. “I wasn’t implying anything,” she said carefully. “Sometimes I miss firefighting myself, parts of it anyway. I just wondered if the slower pace here was a good fit for you.”

“A much better fit in some ways.” He smiled as if to let her know he hadn’t taken it wrong. “We don’t have as many fires, not nearly, but that means I don’t have to worry about my men as much. I guess it depends on your motivation in joining a department. If you want to save lives, we get plenty of opportunity to do that, especially in the winter when auto accidents are common enough. We’re often the first responders for injuries and heart attacks, too. But if you join mostly to fight fires, you might be bored.”

And boredom, she thought, was one of the leading causes of arson among firefighters. In bigger towns and cities, a fire team got plenty of action. Not so much in rural towns. Although that could probably change drastically during wildfire season.

“I know what you’re dancing around here,” he said. She glanced at him again, felt that instant of sexual attraction, then shoved it aside. To her surprise, he’d already eaten most of his sandwich. She looked down again at her own and figured she had dinner and maybe breakfast staring back at her.

“You don’t have to answer,” he continued after a few beats. “I brought it up myself earlier. It’s been gnawing at me since the first fire.”

At that she looked up. “Slow down. Because you said something when we were out at the Buell place that disturbed me. You said that fire was attempted murder. That doesn’t fit the fireman-as-arsonist profile.”

“No?”

She shook her head, feeling a little more energized as the calories began to hit her system. She guessed she must have still been worn out from yesterday. “The fireman who sets a fire almost always picks a building that’s unoccupied. Arson conflicts with his desire to save lives.”

He leaned back, fries totally untouched, and watched her as she began to put her food back in the foam container. “That assumes the perp ever gave a damn about that to begin with.”

“Well, that’s a problem, isn’t it? How little we really know about arsonists.”

“Exactly. The profile is next to useless. Saying that most are below average in intelligence only speaks to those who’ve been caught. Among the other sixty percent, you could have a lot of really smart guys with all kinds of motives.”

“Yes,” she agreed emphatically as she closed her box. She rose to carry it to the fridge. When she turned around to come back to the table, she saw frank male appreciation on his face. She smiled inwardly. The two of them might strike a match themselves at any minute.

The momentary amusement acted to clear her head almost the same way the food had. Feeling more comfortable with him now—silly when the sexual tension should have been a concern—she returned to her seat and reached for the latte.

“Great coffee,” she said, unable to contain her surprise.

The smile danced across his face again. “Maude finally bowed to reality when she bought that espresso machine, and when she bowed she did it right.” He pushed his plate to the side. “You ready to talk about the incident site?”

She nodded. “Let me get my computer. We can use the photos, and I have some notes. You brought yours, right?”

“Always.” He pointed to the clipboard on the table. “Which reminds me.” He pulled a piece of paper off the top and handed it to her. “Your log-in for the Wi-Fi. It’s pretty good here in town.”

“Fire and police are separate?”

“Different codes, so while you’ll be able to access all public records, you won’t wander into any files you shouldn’t see.”

“Great. I was wondering how you worked it.”

“How it works is beyond my scope. I’m not an IT guy. It’s enough that it does.”

His tone held self-deprecating humor and she liked it. She felt herself smiling faintly as she went to get her laptop from the table by the front door.

When she returned, he had cleared the table except for the coffee, and was rifling through his notes. It was a thick stack, probably begun from the moment he’d first seen the Buell place in flames five days ago.

He folded some pages back, then pulled a cell phone off its belt clip. He punched in a number, reading from the sheet, and waited. Finally he put the phone down. “Fred must be out on the range. Cell connections can be questionable there.”

“Will we get him later?”

“No problem. He and his family are staying in town with his wife’s sister.”

She opened her laptop, skipped through photos to one of the tiny holes in the charred wood. “We have a scenario now. Impossible, but valid.”

“I know.” He stared at the photo. “It’s not impossible, but it’s disturbing. Sickening even.”

She nodded her agreement. It appeared that someone had drilled small holes and filled the walls of the house with a volatile accelerant. It would sit in those walls, little of it escaping because the place had probably been fairly well sealed up for the frigid winters. Seeping throughout the building until the walls had become a bomb ready for one spark. Until it built up in the attic.

Devious. Diabolical. A fire in the walls would have plenty of fuel from the timber framing. It would probably spread quite a way before it did enough damage for smoke to seep out and set off the alarms. In such an old house, it was doubtful the walls were filled with a nonflammable insulation, but even if they were, the frame could have provided enough chinks for the fire to spread once it got hot enough. And some of the hottest, fastest fires were those that smoked for a long time because they didn’t get enough oxygen, releasing even more volatile vapors until flashover was possible the instant oxygen poured in.

She flipped back to the assessor’s record and saw the house was a century old. In those days insulation often consisted of newspapers, if any was used at all. Plaster walls, like gypsum board, were fairly noncombustible, but between the house siding and the interior walls, a whole world of possibilities lay. “Do you have any idea if the wiring was inside the walls?”

He looked up from his notes. “No. The house was built before we had electricity out here.” He paused. “You’re thinking an accelerant could have spent a lot of time inside those walls without escaping. No socket holes.”

She nodded, making a note. “I’m not a criminalist,” she said. “You really need your state arson investigator. I need to be clear on that, because most of what I know involves detecting fraud, not solving fires.”

“I understand. But you’ve already helped, just by noticing that hole. I can’t believe I kept missing them.”

“I can. I never would have found that one if I hadn’t been brushing charred wood away. Too small. It would pass for a nail hole, and I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how often nails pop out in fires because of expansion differences. It hit me only because it was right above one of your ignition points.”

“As hot as that fire was, they might still be nail holes.”

She pushed the computer back and rested her cheeks in her palms, her brain spinning around with ideas, most of which she discarded. “It’s the only explanation for the way you described it.”

“So far.” He turned some more pages on his clipboard. “By the time we arrived, the barn had collapsed, the house was fully engulfed and only minutes from collapsing. Most of our job seemed to be cooling things down. An accelerant filling the walls, maybe suffusing the attic, would explain it all perfectly. Nothing else I can think of does.”

She lifted her head, folding her arms on the table. “This guy scares me, Wayne. He terrifies me.”

This arsonist was indeed the stuff of nightmares.

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