Ring of Fire (25 page)

Love? “I didn't say I loved him.” Did she? “I just said we had feelings for each other.”

Karen gave a soft laugh. “Oh, you love him, Lark Cantrell. That's obvious. The question now is, what are you going to do about it?”

She couldn't have fallen in love with Eric. That would be stupid. Wouldn't it?

Brooke's hand gripped tighter. “As a child, you decided you wanted to be a firefighter. That was a tough road for a girl to pursue, but you wanted it and you worked for it. If you want Eric, don't give up without doing the hard work.”

* * *

It was almost 1930 hours on Friday when Eric pulled the Jeep to a stop in front of Lark's house. His flight from Ottawa, connecting through Edmonton and Vancouver, had been scheduled to arrive in Williams Lake at 1420. An hour and a half's drive and he should have been back in Caribou Crossing by 1600. But there'd been flight delays, as seemed almost inevitable these days. When he'd phoned from Vancouver airport to tell Lark he was running late, she'd said, “No problem. Come when you can.” And so he had.

The seats on planes and in airport gates were hard on his body, and both his left leg and his residual limb ached. His head pounded from hours of mulling over his frustration and disappointment with his dad. When he'd climbed into his Jeep at the airport, he'd put the top down and clicked off the radio, but even the silence and fresh air hadn't helped.

As he maneuvered his sore body out of the Jeep, he thought that he'd changed a lot in the past weeks. The old Eric would have sought privacy. He'd have gone to his drab apartment, removed his prosthesis, had a long soak in the tub, and drunk two or three beers in front of some game on TV.

Now here he was, looking forward to a boy's chatter, to an older woman's understanding gaze, and mostly to just being in the company of a strong, sexy, compassionate woman.

No, that wasn't it. They weren't a boy and two women, they were Jayden, Mary, and Lark. It was their companionship that he welcomed. That made him feel, as he shunned the wheelchair ramp and walked painfully up the half dozen steps, almost like he was coming home. Much more so than when he'd walked into his parents' house two nights ago.

He rang the doorbell, hoping that it would be Lark who answered. He wanted his arms around her, his lips on hers, even for a moment.

It was Mary, though. “Hello, Eric. I hear the airlines haven't treated you well today.”

“No.” As he stepped inside, he said, “It feels good to be—” He stopped himself before saying “home.” His home was wherever the army sent him. “To be here. Thanks for inviting me over for dinner.”

“We're glad to have you.” She tilted her head, gazing up at him. “Lark is at the fire hall.”

“She was called out?”

“There was a call this afternoon. She's back, doing paperwork.” She kept staring at him. After a moment, she added quietly, “She had a worse day than you, I think.”

A shiver rippled through him. Lark must not have been hurt—at least not physically—if she was doing paperwork. But an IED had taught him that the worst injuries weren't always the physical ones. Keeping his voice low so that Jayden, who was likely either in the kitchen or the family room, couldn't hear, he asked, “Did someone die?”

“I don't know. All she said was that it was bad, and to make sure Jayden didn't watch the news, that she wanted to tell him herself. I haven't looked either. I'll wait for her to tell me. I don't know when she will be home. After something bad, she needs time alone.”

Time to do the initial processing of the pain, the anger, the regret, before she came home to her impressionable son. Eric understood. “I probably shouldn't hang around. I don't want to intrude.”

So often, when Mary gazed at him, he felt as if he was being evaluated. Oddly, it didn't make him all that uncomfortable. She made him feel as if she saw him, or at least was trying to see him, which was more than his own parents had really ever done. Except that, maybe, his mom was starting to.

“You could stay,” Mary said. “I'll heat up your dinner. I'm sure you're hungry. You could play with Jayden. He'd like that.”

“I'd like it, too. But what about Lark? Is she actually alone, or are some of the other firefighters there?”

“She sent them home.”

Independent, experienced Lark knew what she needed, and yet he found himself asking, “Does she really want to be alone?”

Mary's mouth softened at the corners. “She thinks she does. It's always been her way of handling the hard times. She processes the worst by herself, and then she talks to me. The next day, and afterward, she and the firefighters discuss it. Sometimes they work with a counselor.”

Lark didn't need him to mess with her process. And yet . . . “If I went next door to the fire hall, she could tell me to go away if she didn't want to talk to me.”

Mary's lips didn't actually curve, but that hint of a smile grew stronger. “Lark could do that. And you could take dinner to her. She needs food.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Lark had promised that, if she had a problem, she'd share it with him. Even if she refused to do that, as he suspected she might, he could at least feed her.

“Talk to Jayden for a few minutes while I pack up dinner for you and Lark. He's in the family room.” She turned and walked toward the kitchen and Eric went to the family room.

Jayden was on the floor, this time playing with a toy horse rather than his fire trucks. “Hey, Eric,” the boy said. “Mom's at work. Want to play horses?”

“Thanks, but not tonight, Jayden.”

“Pleeease.” The boy gave him a soulful, big-eyed look, the one Lark called his “puppy-dog eyes.”

“Sorry, I'll have to take a rain check. I'm going to take some food to your mom.”

“Oh.” The boy considered. “That's okay, then. You get a special dis-pen-sa-tion.”

Mary joined them, giving Eric an eco-friendly bag that gave off a spicy Italian aroma.

He said good-bye to both of them and with trepidation walked next door. Would Lark welcome him or send him packing?

The last time he'd approached the fire hall office, it had been dark. This evening, a light was on but narrow blinds were pulled and he couldn't see in. He knocked firmly on the door.

It took a minute or more, but finally the door opened and she stood there. She wore her uniform, but for the first time since he'd met her, her shoulders slumped. Her face was pale, with dark smudges under her eyes, and her short hair was messed up like it had dried without being combed. She looked so unlike her normal self, and the worst thing was the expression on her face. Beaten, depressed, grieving. He wanted to gather her into his arms and offer comfort.

She didn't invite him in. In fact, she crossed her arms over her chest. Maybe she meant the gesture to look assertive. To him, it instead looked defensive, as if she was hugging all the pain inside. Holding herself together so she didn't break.

He walked past her, closing the door behind him, and put the bag down on the reception counter. “Mary says you had a bad one.”

Lark's dark eyes were huge, their expression hollow; she was trying to hold the emotion at bay. She gave a slow nod.

She might not want a hug, might not even need one, but he needed to give her one. So he reached out to pull her into his arms. And he smelled . . .

The smoke was sour in his nostrils, choking him, burning his throat, making him cough. The crackle of flames—

No! I'm not in Afghanistan.
Despite the smoky smell of her clothes and skin, he tugged Lark closer.
I'm in Caribou Crossing. I'm Eric Weaver, in Caribou Crossing, with Lark Cantrell.
He focused on the strength of her back muscles under his palms. The tension in them as she refused to surrender to the hug. Her arms pressing into his chest, because she still had them crossed in front of her. He was Eric, with Lark, and this was where he wanted to be. She was in pain and he wanted to help her, if there was any way he possibly could.

She jerked suddenly, and tried to pull away. “Eric, stop, I'm all smoky. I haven't showered.”

He tightened his arms. “I know. It's okay. Relax.” She smelled of something else, too. Gasoline. A vehicle fire.

He could feel her breathing in and out, rapidly. “Why are you here?” she asked.

“I brought you dinner.” But that wasn't the real reason. “Lark, you're always so independent, so strong for everyone else. I thought maybe you could use a friend.” Even that wasn't the whole truth. He sighed. “Okay, maybe I came as much for me as for you. When Mary told me that something bad had happened and that you were alone, I wanted to be with you.”

Finally, he felt the tension in her body begin to ease. “You did? Why?”

“I'm not sure,” he admitted. “It wasn't conscious thought as much as instinct.”

She uncrossed her arms and put them around him, finally letting herself lean into him. “Oh, Eric.”

He had no idea what she meant, but she was relaxing into his embrace and that was enough. He stroked her back and leaned his head against her hair. He realized it was so messy because she'd sweated inside her balaclava and helmet, and later her hair had dried.

“I smell awful,” she said.

“Kind of,” he agreed. “But it's okay.”

“No flashback?”

“Almost, but I pushed it away.” It was immensely satisfying to have that kind of control.

“Good for you. I should go and shower, though.” Despite her words, she didn't move. She wasn't hugging him, or actually moving at all, just leaning against him and letting herself be held.

He stroked her back, making circles, hoping the repetitive motion would feel soothing. Despite the stench that came from her hair and clothes, his own headache was easing just from being with her. “Don't worry about it. But, out of curiosity, why haven't you showered?” Surely it would have made her feel at least a bit more comfortable.

“I was doing stuff. Making sure the guys were okay and sending them off. Typing up the report. I planned to have a workout and then shower before I went home.” She gave a sniff. “God, I smell awful. I really do want that shower.”

Did she, or was it a way of avoiding him? “If you want one, then go take it. I'll wait. We can have dinner. Maybe you can tell me what happened.” He smiled wryly against her lank hair. “I've learned that talking about bad stuff can help.”

She pushed herself out of his arms. Her shoulders were straighter now. “I suppose I can't argue with that.” She turned to go, and then said over her shoulder, “Meet you in the kitchen. Could you turn out the light in here, so no one else comes knocking on the door?”

“Sure.” He clicked off the light, and then went into the kitchen. He found plates in a cupboard and a half dozen bottles of beer in the fridge. Surely Lark wouldn't be on call tonight, would she? He put two bottles on the table, but didn't open them. His residual limb ground against his prosthesis and he clenched his jaw, fighting the pain. Oh, the hell with it. Lark had seen him naked without his artificial leg. He took off his jeans, removed the prosthesis, and set it aside. Jeans back on again, he sat on a battered brown leather couch, stretched his aching left leg up, and rested his sock-clad foot on a coffee table covered in magazines and newspapers. Through the right leg of his jeans, he massaged his stump and gradually the pain eased.

It seemed like a long time before Lark came back, looking much fresher in sweatpants and a navy Caribou Crossing Fire Department T-shirt, her hair damp and combed. In well-worn rubber flip-flops, she padded straight to him. Her eyes widened slightly as she took in his one-legged state, but her stride didn't falter. She stood in front of him and said, “I feel better, and I'm glad you're here.”

He lowered his leg and pushed up to stand one-legged. “I'm glad, too. And I bet you'll feel even better after you eat Mary's cooking. Let's have dinner, and then we'll talk.” At home, he often used a cane when he wasn't wearing the prosthesis, but he'd also grown adept at hopping on one leg. He might look graceless as he headed for the table, but he knew by now that Lark wouldn't judge him.

Nor did she rush over to assist, and he appreciated that, too. He seated himself and held up a beer bottle. “Want one?”

“Yes, please.”

She sat across from him as he opened the bottle and handed it to her. While she took a couple of long swallows, he unpacked the food Mary had sent. The big container held a pasta dish: penne with chunks of Italian sausage, tomatoes, onions, and zucchini. The food was warm and the delicious smell made his stomach growl. The small tub contained grated parmesan cheese. She also sent some sliced French bread wrapped in aluminum foil.

Without asking, Eric spooned pasta on Lark's plate and added a couple of thick slices of bread. He held the container of parmesan over the pasta and raised his eyebrows.

“Yes, please, but not too much.”

He shook some on until she said, “Enough. Thank you.”

Then he served himself and opened his own beer bottle. They ate in silence. It looked as if Lark had to force the first couple of bites, but then she ate with gusto. He did, too, after a day of mostly avoiding airport and airplane food. Color returned to her cheeks, but there were still dark smudges under her eyes.

By the time he and Lark had cleaned their plates and dished out seconds, she had finished her beer. He drained his own and held up the empty bottle. “Want another?”

“Sure. I'll get it.”

“No.” He stood. “Don't wait on me because I have one leg, Lark.”