Safe in the Fireman's Arms (8 page)

“As usual, my own fault.”

He sipped his coffee. “Good coffee.”

“Don’t look so surprised.” She pulled open a cupboard and pointed to several boxes. “Did you want a toaster pastry with that?”

“Uh, no, I’ll pass. Thank you.”

Maggie leaned against the counter and eyed him. “Do you always make deliveries for the hardware store,” she asked.

“No, we’ve got a guy who does that. There was some sort of overbooking glitch. We’re computerized, so I don’t know how it happened. But my dad asked me to help out.”

“Nice of you.”

“Part of the job.” He shrugged. “You know how to run a rototiller?”

“No, however I am very big on manuals.”

“I bet you are—only it doesn’t come with a manual.”

“Oh. Well, I’ll figure it out.”

He looked out the window at the yard. “That’s a big project. I’m happy to help.”

“I don’t want to bother you,” she said.

“I’m here. Allow me to help.”

“But—”

“I’ll get the tiller and gasoline can from my truck.” He pulled keys out of his pocket. “Could you do a walk-through for any sticks, or rocks or anything else that might be in the yard, before I come through with the tiller?”

“Of course.”

Maggie slipped an old sweatshirt over her head before she pushed open the side door and stepped into the yard.

A perfect Colorado morning. Perfect for tilling after the recent rain. Or possibly a little too wet. This might prove to be a messy job.

She tied the laces on her boots and grabbed a trash bag, and began to walk through the garden area, poking at the dirt with a stick and carefully inspecting the mud.

Jake appeared, pushing the rototiller, with Chuck at his side.

“Mind if Chuck watches?”

“No, of course not. Would he like a cup of coffee, too?”

Jake laughed. “He’s fine, though we appreciate the hospitality.” He put on his safety glasses, rolled down his sleeves and pulled on gloves before yanking on the tiller cord. The machine roared to life.

Maggie stepped back as he directed the tiller into the area she had just cleared. He steered the turning blades into the soil, making parallel passes through the garden.

Halfway across the plot, as she stooped down to pick up a stick, Maggie realized something had struck her between the shoulder blades. She twisted her sweatshirt around.

Dirt.

She glanced over at Jake but his concentration remained fixed on the ground and the task at hand.

Probably an accident
.

Maggie proceeded down the next row, stopping after a moment to pick up a large rock. A clod of moist dirt slapped her yet again, this time landing right on the seat of jeans. She narrowed her eyes at Jake.

Nothing.

When it happened a third time she grabbed a clump of soil and threw it in Jake’s general direction.

“What’re you doing?” he yelled above the roar of the tiller.

“Sorry. Accident.”

A few minutes later, surprise made her shoot straight up as a blob of mud slapped her backside.

Jake must have felt her glaring, because he turned and angled his head, assessing the situation. His face wore a puzzled expression.

Maggie scooped up a good chunk of dirt and carefully tossed it at him. The clod landed squarely on his shirtsleeve.

Jake turned off the tiller. He patiently shook the soil off the sleeve of his once-pristine shirt. “What are you doing?”

“You’re throwing dirt at me.” She turned to show him the back of her shirt and jeans.

Though he wasn’t laughing his amber eyes were bright with amusement. “Not me, it’s the tiller.”

“Well, your tiller is shooting dirt and hitting my backside.”

“I suppose I could aim a little better.” He bent down and picked up a fresh piece of wet soil, focused and threw it. The chunk landed on her arm.

“Aim better? Seriously?” She responded by selecting a generous blob of mud and formed the mess into a ball.

“Wait. No. Maggie.” Jake took a step backward. “Don’t even think—”

She wound up like a pitcher on the mound and released. The ball of mud splattered across Jake’s chest, bits decorating his chin. Maggie stood back and admired her handiwork.

The morning air was quiet as Jake swiped at his chin with the back of his hand. Slowly, and with the utmost deliberation, he used two hands to gather an impressive amount of dirt. Maggie could only be grateful his handfuls weren’t nearly as wet as hers had been.

He winked, his attention completely upon Maggie. She realized much too late that she might have underestimated him.

Maggie cringed and narrowed her eyes as Jake targeted her feet. She jumped back as the dirt ball landed hard and exploded.

With a raised finger, Jake scratched a point on an invisible chalkboard in the air.

“Truce?” he asked, with an engaging smile that lit up his face.

She dragged her gaze from his smile, paused and considered the offer, scanning his clothing, then hers. “Truce,” she agreed, trying to keep a straight face.

Nodding with satisfaction, he yanked on the tiller’s start cord, bringing the machine back to life, and began to turn over the soil in parallel rows.

She was covered with dirt and yet all she could do was smile. Truce, he’d said. But could she trust him?

Maggie bit her lip, vowing to keep a watchful eye on Jake MacLaughlin.

* * *

Jake grinned at his reflection in the mirror and wiped another streak of mud off his face. He had to give Maggie credit, she was a good shot. His chin and neck were peppered with mud. She was a good sport, as well. He hadn’t expected that. And he hadn’t had that much fun in a long time, either.

When he came out of the restroom, there was peach pie dished and waiting for him in the cozy kitchen. Maggie had changed clothes and was drying dishes by hand.

Jake smiled. “That pie for me?”

“Yes. You certainly earned it. Despite the mud bath, I am very appreciative of your help.”

“My pleasure.”

“What do you want with that? Iced tea? Coffee?”

“Have any milk?”

“Sure.” She poured a glass for him.

He bit into the pie and savored the flavors. “Whoa. This tastes like Bitsy Harmony’s pie.”

“It is Bitsy’s.”

His head jerked back. “Bitsy gave you a pie?”

“Yes.”

“You’re on her good side already.”

“I got the feeling it was more like she was trying to get on my good side.”

“You’re probably right.” He frowned, trying to put the pieces together. One thing was clear. He’d been outsmarted by Mack and Bitsy. Yep. They’d gotten him to deliver the rototiller.

Jake met Maggie’s gaze and she smiled, touching something deep inside him.

He picked up the fork. Lucky for them he didn’t mind being hoodwinked. This time.

“Aren’t you having any pie?” he asked Maggie. “You worked as hard as I did.”

She cut herself a small piece and stood at the counter.

“I don’t bite.”

Maggie slid her plate onto the table and pulled out the chair across from him.

“Looks like you missed a spot.”

“Hmm?”

Jake picked up a napkin and wiped a trace of mud off the back of her hand.

“Thanks.”

He glanced pointedly at the white band of skin on her ring finger. “Lose a ring?”

“Engagement ring.”

His eyes rounded in surprise. Something almost like jealousy stirred inside of him. “You were engaged? Pretty recent?”

Maggie took a deep breath. “Yes.” She bit her lip. “I was supposed to get married this weekend.”

“This weekend?” The air whooshed from his lungs as realization hit. “That’s why you took a cab from Denver.”

She nodded slowly.

“A runaway bride? Mind if I ask what happened?”

“I realized at the last minute that I was going along for the ride to make everyone happy—everyone but myself.” She swallowed hard. “And he didn’t love me.”

“I’m sorry, Maggie,” Jake said.

He searched her eyes, seeing the pain. “Better you realized before the wedding, right?”

She met his gaze. “Of course, but I’m not upset about the breakup. Actually I’m relieved about that. I’m upset that I spent so many years trying to please others instead of myself.”

“Take my advice, sometimes all you can do is make peace with the past and move on.”

“I’m still working on that part.”

The ringing of a phone interrupted the silence that stretched between them.

“Your phone?”

Maggie turned around and grabbed her cell from the counter. “Hello? Yes. This is Margaret Jones.”

A tiny gasp escaped her lips and her brown eyes lit up.

“Thank you so much. Yes. I will. Absolutely. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

Jake raised his brows in question. “Good news?”

“That was the county school board. They got my résumé and they want me to come in for an interview tomorrow.”

“There’s a job opening? How did you find out about it?”

“Beck told me. It’s a temporary teaching position at the high school. I emailed my résumé over yesterday.” The excitement that bubbled over was contagious.

“And the college professor from Denver would consider teaching at a high school in Paradise?”

“Of course.”

Of course.

“That’s great. Congratulations, Maggie.”

“I don’t have the job yet.”

“Oh, I’ll be praying.”

“Will you?” she asked, her head tilted so her ponytail hung askew.

“Sure will.”

Maggie staying in Paradise?
He wrapped his mind around the idea, liking it more and more. Oh, yeah. He’d be praying.

He met her gaze and smiled, then looked away, forcing himself to concentrate on the pie instead of the woman across the table from him, because in a stunning instant he realized that he’d been right all along. Maggie Jones held the power to do some serious damage to his heart and that fact rocked him.

Chapter Six

B
ells chimed as Maggie pushed open the door to the Hair Emporium on Main Street. Immediately the buzz of conversations came to a sudden halt and whiplash moved through the shop like the wave at a football game.

Women popped their heads out from beneath the dryer hoods and craned their necks. At a far sink, a technician shampooing someone’s hair peeked around a large woman with pink sponge rollers in an effort to assess Maggie. A manicurist seated against the wall swiped fuchsia enamel across a patron’s nail and looked up and over her bifocals. All eyes were focused on the door.

The pungent and unmistakable scent of a perm in progress wrapped itself around Maggie’s throat and tightened. She swallowed before taking a tentative step into the room.
Where was Susan?

From across the busy shop, a petite woman in a white lab coat moved through the activity toward Maggie.

Self-confidence
.

And this woman owned it. Her heels clicked on the linoleum as she approached. The name
Sally-Anne
was stitched in black on the pocket of her pristine jacket. Her glossy black hair framed her face in a short, banged bob that swung back and then forth as she propelled her lithe frame forward.

Sally-Anne’s age seemed impossible to determine—somewhere between forty and...forty? The woman was flawless, from her perfect makeup to her impeccable French manicured fingertips.

“Maggie Jones.” She gave a short nod. “Sally-Anne.”

“How did you know who I am?”

Sally-Anne smiled and pointed to the newspaper on the counter. “You’ve made the front page. Again. Twice in less than seven days.”

“I didn’t realize anyone was counting.”

“Welcome to Paradise.” She gestured with a wave of her arm, toward the window of the shop. “And you’ve met Chief MacLaughlin.”

“Yes, but...” Panic hit Maggie. Surely the woman didn’t think... “Those fires were accidents,” she finally said.

“I’m sure they were.” The other woman offered an indulgent smile as she moved behind the counter and scanned her computer screen. “What can we do for you today? I don’t see any notes next to your appointment,” Sally-Anne said.

Maggie gripped the small clutch purse in her hands tightly and searched out the window, hoping to spot Susan or her little red car. “My cousin is supposed to meet me here. Maybe I should reschedule.”

“Nonsense. We’re booked solid due to the Founder’s Day events on Saturday.”

“Okay, then, I guess a trim would be good.” She pushed a loose lock of hair behind her ears.

“A trim?” Sally-Anne stepped from behind the counter and circled Maggie.

Maggie heard the acute disappointment in the woman’s tone.

She reached out a hand to inspect a strand of Maggie’s hair. Then she fingered another strand and rubbed it between her fingers. Raising red-framed glasses from the chain around her neck onto her nose, Sally-Anne examined the ends of Maggie’s hair, all the while uttering dispiriting noises of assessment under her breath.

Behind them the door burst open, setting the bells into a frenzy of noise.
Susan.
The cavalry had arrived.

“Style and cut and low lights. I brought a picture.” Susan handed Sally-Anne a page torn from a magazine, then glanced at herself in the mirror behind the front counter and adjusted the Peter Pan collar on her white silk blouse.

“Hmm.” Narrowing her eyes, Sally-Anne analyzed the photo for a moment before holding the paper next to Maggie’s face. Then she turned to Susan. “Deep conditioning is critical. The follicles have been seriously neglected.”

Neglected follicles.
The accusation stabbed at Maggie’s already dismal self-esteem.

“That will be fine,” Susan said. “We want her to dazzle. She’s going to the supper with Jake, you know.”

Maggie’s eyes widened when Sally-Anne perked up, and her jaw sagged in surprise.

“You have a date with our Jake?”

A buzz started through the shop. Someone under the dryer whispered loudly to the woman seated next to her. “Late with Jake?”

“No. A date with Jake,” her dryer partner corrected.

Maggie cringed. “Not exactly a date,” she said. “I won him.”

“Oh, it was you. I heard a Margaret won. I thought it was a woman at the retirement home.”