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The Woman For Dusty Conrad
Tori Carrington


SHE WAS HIS WIFE–THE ONLY WOMAN HE HAD EVER LOVED…Yet tragedy had torn Dusty Conrad from her loving arms. Now Dusty was back, and everyone in the small town of Old Orchard thought he'd come home to stay. To be the man Jolie Conrad still loved. But they were wrong.Dusty had come back to say his final goodbyes. To take in his arms for the last time the sweet beauty he'd once wed. But what Dusty didn't realize was how much he still felt for Jolie. And when this husband and wife found themselves sharing a house, everyone knew what these two had yet to discover.That some things, like love, were meant to be forever.









The Woman for Dusty Conrad

Tori Carrington







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




TORI CARRINGTON


Bestselling authors Lori and Tony Karayianni are the husband-and-wife team behind the pen name Tori Carrington, and are the winners of an RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award for Series Fiction. Their August 2009 Harlequin Blaze novel, Unbridled, marked their forty-fifth published title…and they have no plans to slow down anytime soon. For more info on the couple and their titles, and to enter their monthly online drawings, visit them at www.toricarrington.net.


In loving memory of Kostoula Karayianni, who dedicated more than twenty-five years to the Athens Fire Department, and her entire life to her family. You are deeply missed.




Contents


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18




Chapter 1


Dusty Conrad’s mission was simple. Go into the firehouse. Seek out Jolie. Get her to sign the divorce papers she’d had for two months. Move on with his life. Let Jolie get on with hers.

Simple. Right. Then why was he driving around the narrow, tree-lined streets of Old Orchard, going everywhere but the fire station?

Dusty tightened his hands on the steering wheel of the shiny red pickup and visually inhaled his surroundings. He took in the hay bundles decorated with pumpkins, the witch and black-cat decals clinging to the windows of the older homes that lined Main Street, the colorful mums dotting nearly every free space. Funny. Only six months had passed since he’d left. Somehow it seemed just like yesterday. Except that now the town had on its Halloween best, ready to partake in the spooky festivities unquestionably scheduled for the weekend. Six months ago budding tree branches had borne pastel eggs and windows had sported cute caricatures of rabbits and baskets.

Bustling was one word he’d never use to describe the Rockwellesque streets of Old Orchard, Ohio. No. Rather the word sluggish came to mind as he left the residential section of Main and slowly drove into the quaint downtown area. As he veered to the right to navigate around Lucas Circle, he watched young Dana Malone as she tried to teach her son Josh how to look both ways before crossing the street. The toddler, however, seemed to have other ideas, like trying to climb into the gargantuan water fountain that had been designed some hundred and twenty years ago. The entire town had been built around Lucas Circle. It was where all town functions began and ended, the town meeting spot for union support rallies and carnivals alike. Just like the old, hulking cement structure of Old Jake’s, a general store where everyone still shopped, despite the spreading cancer of strip malls a mere five-minute drive away.

He supposed the word town no longer fit the growing city now estimated at forty-five thousand. But while the modern semi-new hospital on the opposite end of Main Street and several towering office buildings had altered the skyline a bit, the heart of downtown looked pretty much as it had a century earlier. Three-and four-story brick buildings crouched side by side for blocks on either side of Main Street and Old Orchard Avenue, storefronts holding advertisements for seven dollar haircuts, sporting neon beer signs and announcing daily specials. With the majestic trees, the old stone library and the turn-of-the-century church, the small-town flavor remained. An essence carefully and lovingly tended to by Old Orchard’s citizens, the majority of whom still chose to walk instead of drive, frequented the smaller shops rather than heading out to the cheaper strip malls and large chain stores nearby, and were never too busy to say hello and stop for a brief chat, or help out a neighbor in need. It was a place where if you didn’t directly know a person, you knew someone who did. Some might find conversations dotted with “you know, Jim Olsen’s cousin’s husband’s aunt” difficult to follow, but here such connections were the norm.

Dusty finished negotiating Lucas Circle and absently rubbed at a spot just below his rib cage, at the needling ache there. Old Orchard was where he’d been born. Where he’d passed every major milestone, from first step, to first sexual experience. He knew just where to look for items in Old Jake’s General Store on the corner, be it his favorite candy bar or condoms. Knew that the unseasonable warmth of the late October day would glide into a crisp autumn night. Could remember that if you hit the curb just right with the front tire of your bicycle, you could either pop an awesome wheelie…or lose your front teeth. He could practically hear the old church bell missing a ring as it chimed off the time, and the sound of the kids being let out of school on the outskirts of town and the hum of lawnmowers as homeowners saw to the last of the garden chores before winter set in.

He could also practically hear the echo of his younger brother Erick’s mischievous laughter riding on the gentle breeze and smell Jolie’s subtle perfume entwined with the scent of autumn leaves.

Once outside Lucas Circle he continued down Main and reluctantly picked up speed, reaching his destination quicker than he intended. He slowly pulled to a stop outside Fire Station 2, then glanced at the building. The renovated old schoolhouse looked exactly the same. The tower clock was stuck at the same time—nine-fifteen, the same moment it stopped back on June 6, 1982, when a fire had claimed the lives of two firefighters at the automobile-parts manufacturing plant five miles outside town—and the white trim contrasted neatly against the warm red brick. Then again, he hadn’t expected it to change any. He was the one who had changed. So much he barely recognized the man who had spent nearly as much time running to the station than from it, perpetually late. Even now he fought the urge to glance at his watch to see that he was on time, though no one would be clocking him in.

Two of the three bays were open to the midmorning sun, revealing that one of the hulking red engines—the hose truck—was missing, while the pumper stood gleaming like a chrome-toothed animal.

“I’ll be damned. Is that Dusty Conrad?” a familiar voice echoed from within the depths of the station.

Dusty watched his old friend John Sparks step out from the side of the remaining engine, wiping his hands on a soft leather cloth, a mile-wide grin on his too-handsome face. He wore his gray-and-black sheriff’s uniform, telling Dusty that his penchant for hanging around the fire station hadn’t changed any. And seeing as Sparks had started out at the fire station, no one complained about his being there. Especially since he enjoyed helping out.

Dusty began to step toward the open bay when another man stepped from the shadows behind John. The pinprick in his chest turned into a tangible pain as he realized he’d half expected to see his brother, Erick, stepping out after John. But no matter how similar in build and coloring the unfamiliar man—more kid—with Sparks was, he could never be Erick. His brother was gone. And Dusty was the one to blame.

Realization seemed to spread across Sparks’s face. He looked down, then hooked a thumb in the kid’s direction. “This is Scott Wahl. You remember him, don’t you? Think a foot or two shorter—”

“Scooter.” Dusty nodded, finally recognizing the blond-haired teen. Whenever the station team conducted school classes and drills, or demonstrations at the county fair, Scott, aka Scooter, had always been the one to dog them every step of the way. He must have graduated to actually hanging out at the station.

Growing aware of the uncomfortable silence, he switched his gaze to John Sparks. The shorter, wiry man had been Erick’s best friend. All throughout elementary, middle and high school nothing had been able to separate the two.

Nothing but death.

“Hey, Sparks, how have you been?” he asked, finding it difficult to face the only person on earth who had been as close to his brother as he.

John’s ready grin always caught him off guard. As did his strength when he came out and shook Dusty’s hand so vigorously he might have vibrated him straight out of his work boots before giving him a brief, awkward “guy” kind of half hug. “I’d say you were a sight for sore eyes, Conrad, but with you looking like a paint can just fell on your head, I can’t.”

Dusty lifted his free hand to his light brown hair. “Funny you should say that. A paint can did fall on me. Two days ago on a work site.”

John’s grin never budged. “It was rumored you were working in construction in Toledo.”

“Yeah. Nothing much ever escaped town gossip, did it? Sneeze and those on the outskirts called to bless you.”

“That’s Old Orchard, all right.” John slapped a hand across his shoulders and they walked toward the open bay door. “You back for good?”

Back for good? Dusty slowed his step, an odd foreboding taking root in his stomach. He glanced at his friend and absently rubbed the back of his neck. When he’d left, he’d done so without any intention of returning. John’s sincere expression told him he expected otherwise.

“Nope,” he finally said in answer. “Just back for a visit.”

When he’d left, he’d done so without talking to anyone but Jolie. He’d never stopped to consider how she might explain his absence. Even if he had, he would have guessed she’d put it as simply as possible. Say something along the lines that after the death of his brother, he’d lost his nerve…both as a firefighter and her husband.

He would never have thought that she might not explain it at all.

A full minute passed before Dusty’s eyesight adjusted from the bright sunlight to the dimness of the station as they stepped into the open bay. “Jolie around?” he asked as casually as he could, though just forming his mouth around her name did something funny to his stomach.

John shook his head. “She, Martinez and Sal are out on a run.”

Dusty wasn’t surprised. If a truck was gone, then Jolie was on it. “Nothing serious, I hope.”

John chuckled. “Not unless you’re a chicken farmer. One of Rudy Glick’s chicken trucks overturned over on Route 108 with a full load. Yeah, I’d say Jolie and the guys have their hands pretty full right about now.”

At the sound of their voices, the remaining members of Group 1, the team scheduled for duty that day, came out from the back room. Dusty weathered a swarm of back pats, arm slugs and hearty greetings from the men he’d spent a good chunk of his life with fighting fires.

“There is a God,” Gary Jones, the chief, moaned, his gray hair tucked under a station ball cap. “I haven’t had a decent meal around here since the day you left, Dusty.”

Sparks patted Gary’s round middle. “Not that you could tell.”

“Watch it, boy, or I’ll ban you from the station.” A grin smoothed the edge off his words. “Either that or retire now instead of in a few weeks, leaving the town in the lurch. Then where would you be, Sheriff Sparks?”

“Ouch.”

Dusty slid his fingers into his front jeans pockets. “Who’s on kitchen detail now?”

“Martinez.”

He winced. “I’m guessing he got stuck with it because of lack of seniority rather than any real skills in the kitchen.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not his skills we’re questioning. It’s his choice of foods. Refried beans are not something you want churning in your stomach when you’re called off on a run.” The guys laughed. “Anyway, we did try to enlist somebody else….” Jones’s words drifted off even as his blue eyes twinkled. “You should have seen Jolie’s face when we suggested she take over, you know, thinking she may have picked up a thing or two from you along the way.”

Dusty scratched his chin. “I can imagine. You all must have thought it was the Fourth of July what with all the fireworks that suggestion should have launched.”

Gary grimaced as he burrowed his fingers under the front of his ball cap. “Got that right. We nearly had to get out the hose. That little gal of yours sure has a temper, all right.”

All at once Gary seemed to realize what he’d said, as did everyone else in the firehouse, setting off an uncomfortable silence. Even Scooter Wahl, hanging out on the fringes, looked ill at ease.

Sparks cleared his throat. “So how long you in town for, buddy?”

“I don’t know yet….”

The strident sound of an engine horn bellowed through the house. They all turned to find the missing members of the team pulling into the drive. Behind the cab, Jolie jumped off the step onto the pavement, her heavy gear slowing her not at all.

Dusty was rendered completely speechless. Fool that he was, he hadn’t considered how he’d feel when he laid eyes on Jolie again. Hadn’t even thought to remember that just looking at her made him wonder if he’d just swallowed a handful of sand. Hadn’t anticipated his intense physical reaction to her, a need, really, that always seemed to be there, just below the surface of his skin. Even in her turnout clothes, the bulky yellow fireproof and waterproof jacket and pants, she drew his gaze like a spotlight. The bright morning sun ignited the auburn strands in her hair, her cheeks were full of color, the adrenaline inspired by any run fairly emanating from her like a heady perfume.

Then she spotted him. Her blue eyes widened to the size of baseballs, then brightened with a happiness that sent Dusty’s stomach careering down to land somewhere around the vicinity of his knees.

Simple. Right.

Dusty had the sinking sensation that nothing about this visit was going to be simple.



Joy surged through Jolie Calbert Conrad’s veins sure and strong as she stared into the face of the man it seemed she had loved her entire life. How many times in the past few months had she imagined returning to the station to find Dusty there? No fewer than a dozen at least. But he never had been. Until now. And despite the weightless sensation in her stomach, her shallow breathing, and the heat that immediately rushed to her cheeks, she wasn’t altogether sure how she felt about him being there now.

Especially since his coming here to the station, rather than stopping by the house, their house, didn’t bode well for what he was doing back.

“Did you get those dangerous, rampaging chickens picked up?” the chief asked as Martinez climbed from behind the driver’s seat.

“Dirty job, but somebody’s gotta do it,” he said. “The town is safe for all to walk the streets again.”

“Hey, it’s Dusty!” Martinez rushed her husband and gave him an awkward bear hug. Jolie envied him the simple gesture, if only for the physical contact it allowed. She averted her gaze, trying to push the desire to hug Dusty herself safely away.

She swallowed the sudden emotion clogging her throat. Hugging Dusty should be the last thing she wanted to do. After five years of marriage, and a whole lifetime together before that, six months had gone by with little word from him. Except, of course, those words that came through his attorney.

She shivered despite the sunshine warmth of the day and the heavy gear she wore.

Martinez made some comment on Dusty’s getting a little soft around the middle, then said, “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you, buddy. Where in the hell have you been? How in the hell are you?”

“Fine,” Dusty said, his gaze never leaving Jolie’s face.

Suddenly Jolie’s boots seemed made of cement rather than specially treated leather, and her gear weighed a ton. She felt as if she’d just come off from fighting a four-alarm fire rather than chasing chickens that had been granted unexpected clemency down the highway. Something brushed against her foot and she started, making her realize that while she may appear completely at ease at seeing her husband for the first time in six months, her nerves were pulled taut and her stomach burned so much it hurt. Almost as an afterthought, she looked down at the scrap of fur that wound itself around her ankles. The usually coolly indifferent station cat traced figure eights around her legs. Jolie grimaced as Spot nudged her with more power than she would have thought possible. She stumbled forward, then played it off as if she’d meant to do that. Plucking her hat from the truck cab, she began shrugging out of her coat. Spot followed.

“Dusty,” she acknowledged, trying to treat him like any other fellow firefighter as she entered the station. Pretend she hadn’t spent the first month after he’d left crying her way through the night, then the next month dreaming he’d come back.

But as she grew nearer to him, she became all too aware of how exactly he wasn’t just a fellow firefighter. And it had more to do with just the plain gold band she still wore around her ring finger.

Dusty Conrad was her husband. The man who had promised to love and cherish and care for her until “death do us part.” And though she hadn’t checked with the pastor, she was sure that those vows in no way included a note that read, “Please forgive me,” and a disappearing act that would have made Copperfield sit up and take notice.

Chief Jones cleared his throat. “Hey, Jolie, you schedule that annual physical yet?”

She glanced at Gary, as if unable to comprehend his words. “Not yet.”

“You’ve only got till the end of the month, you know.”

She nodded slowly. “I know.” And to think, just this morning she was thinking how much she hated checking in for her annual physical. Compared to facing Dusty now, it came a distant second.

The brief exchange proved the silence-breaker and the guys started talking again, conversation centering on Dusty and his sudden return.

Jolie purposely jutted her chin out. No matter how good he looked standing there in those faded jeans and soft chambray shirt, she wasn’t going to let on how loudly her hormones screamed or how much she wanted to pin him against the firehouse wall and make up for lost time. She wasn’t about to reveal anything until she found out why he was here. And even then, it might not be a good idea to tell him how much she’d missed him.

“I’m going to clean up,” she said to everybody and nobody in particular. She sprinted for the locker room, nearly tripping over the fluff of black-and-white fuzz that was Spot blocking her path. So much for making a graceful exit.



Well, hell, that hadn’t gone quite as he’d expected.

Dusty cast a glance toward the empty kitchen doorway and wondered exactly what Jolie had gone to clean up. He’d assumed she’d meant herself. But in the forty-five minutes since she’d been gone, she could have cleaned the showers, bunkhouse and both fire engines…with her toothbrush.

Anxious, he flipped over the chicken-fried steaks he was preparing, seeking comfort in his old familiar role as cook. But his mind wasn’t having any of it. The truth was being here was a little too familiar. Too comfortable. And to think he’d purposely come to the station instead of going to the house because he’d been afraid of familiarity. Wanted to avoid the temptation of falling back into old routines.

If that was the case, then why was it taking every ounce of restraint he had to keep himself from going after Jolie in the back rooms? Not to confront her about their divorce papers, but to rediscover her mouth, relearn her taste, find out if the flame he’d glimpsed in her eyes a short while ago burned just as hot now as it had back when.

He cleared his throat, ordering his coiled muscles to relax, holding his long-denied libido in check.

He glanced behind him, although he knew exactly where each of his former fellow firefighters was sitting at the table without looking. As always, Jones was at the head of the table looking every bit like the chief, while Martinez leaned back, rocking the front legs of his chair from the floor, acting the renegade rookie ready to take on the world. John Sparks was smack-dab in the middle of everyone, his sheriff’s shirt rolled up to his elbows, those same elbows resting against the tabletop, while Sal was snacking on something or other he’d pilfered from the refrigerator. Dusty fell right into the old routine of exchanging verbal jabs with them with far too much ease. Even found himself listening for the old bell alarm that would call them out on a run.

He glanced toward the doorway again, only this time Scott Wahl blocked his view. Dusty looked back to the cooktop, not wanting to compare how similar the young man was to his brother, Erick. Not wanting to think about the chair at the other end of the table that was left empty because Erick was no longer there to fill it.

“You were the cook?” Scooter asked, propping a too skinny hip against the counter next to the stove.

“Yeah.” He tested the boiling potatoes with a fork.

“I always thought cooking was a sissy chore.”

Dusty hiked a brow.

“Not to say that you’re a sissy or anything,” Scott said quickly, his spine snapping flagpole straight. “Actually the guys have been telling me how, you know, you are the best and everything—”

“Was,” he absently corrected the boy. “I was the best.” At least up until the point when he’d caused the death of his brother. “How old are you, Scooter?”

The kid looked relieved that he’d changed the subject. “Eighteen.”

Eighteen. Dusty nearly burned himself on the skillet handle. Erick had been eighteen when he started hanging out at the fire station, not content to do other things until he turned twenty-one and qualified for being a firefighter. No, Erick had automatically expected an exception to be made for him. Of course, none was. But that hadn’t stopped his younger brother from dogging their steps when they went out on runs. If not on his bike, then in his car.

“You eat, don’t you?” he asked Scott.

“Yeah, of course I eat. If I didn’t eat, I’d be dead.”

Damn. “You trying to tell me you’ve lived eighteen years without preparing a single meal, Scooter?”

“Scott,” the teenager said, the tips of his ears reddening. “Everyone calls me Scott now.”

“Is that so?”

The boy nodded.

“All right, then, Scott it is. And you didn’t answer my question.”

The boy shrugged. “I’ve fixed stuff for myself. You know, like macaroni and cheese and frozen pizzas when my mom’s not home. But that doesn’t count.”

“How so?”

Scott grinned. “Because no one but me eats it.”

“Ah.” He switched on the fire under the vegetables, then held out his fork. “Well, then, I think it’s about time that changed.”

The kid stared at the fork as though it was a wild hose he couldn’t bring under control. Dusty chuckled. “Don’t panic. Just keep an eye on those steaks. When they start to brown, they’re done. Just take them out and put them on the plate over there.”

“Mr. Conrad, I—”

Mr. Conrad? Dusty fought the urge to look around to see if his father had dropped in for a visit from Arizona. “It’s Dusty, kid.” He patted him so hard on the back, Scott nearly doubled over. “And I have complete faith in you.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about. I mean, I think it’s cool and everything that you cook, but…I…”

“What? You never linked firefighting with cooking?” Dusty shook his head. “See, Scott, that’s one of the things you have to learn around here if you hope to make a good…no, great firefighter. Every job, be it wiping down the engines, checking the gear, or cooking, is an important one. After all, where are the men going to get the energy to fight fires if they’re not eating healthy food?”

Scott turned redder than the fire engine Dusty could see through the door. Behind them, the men snickered.

“We sure could use some of that money you’re making in Toledo in the ante,” Martinez said from the table, tapping the edge of his cards against the top. “That is, if you can handle the pressure.”

Dusty grinned. There was no more than seventy-five cents on the table if there was a dollar. “Sorry, guys, but you’re just going to have to squeak by without me. Bets are too rich for me.”

He started for the door, giving up on restraint and intent on tracking Jolie down. He reached the doorway at the same time she popped into it from the other side. Her appearance should have eased the tension from Dusty’s shoulders. Instead, seeing her pulled his muscles tighter.

It was the same reaction he’d always had when faced with Jolie. That stomach-tightening, breath-robbing, mouth-watering sensation that if he didn’t kiss her within ten seconds he’d die. And six months away from her had only made the reaction more acute. Which definitely didn’t bode well for his mission.

“Hey, hey, hey, there she is,” Jones called out. “Now, here’s somebody not afraid of losing a few dollars.”

Dusty noted the way Jolie avoided eye contact with him. For all the attention she’d paid him since she’d returned from her run, he was beginning to feel as if he were invisible. A nonentity unworthy of her attention. Which was no less than he deserved, he supposed. If only her unexplained emotional distance hadn’t been part of his reason for leaving in the first place.

He hadn’t meant to make their…meeting again so public. He’d thought about showing up at the house without letting anyone else know he was in town, then realized that was wishful thinking. The moment his truck rolled over the county line half the population probably already knew he was back, and by the time he parked it, his return was probably old news.

Ah, hell, who was he kidding? He’d come to the station on purpose. Had needed to be surrounded by others in order to make what he had to say go down easier…both for him and her.

Jolie skirted the table. “Sorry, guys, I’m going to pass tonight.”

Exaggerated groans followed her to the refrigerator, where she pulled out salad fixings, then dropped them to the counter next to the stove.

From next to Dusty came an audible swallow. He didn’t kid himself into thinking Jolie had made the giveaway sound. No, Scooter looked like he’d rather be in the skillet with the steaks, rather than watching over them. “Um, Mr. Conrad. I mean Dusty…”

Now that Jolie was where he wanted her, at least for the moment, Dusty accepted the fork from Scott and turned the steaks out onto the plate. “Your instincts were straight on, Scooter. Trust them.”

“Okay.”

The teenager too happily turned cooking duty back over to him, all but scuttling to the chair he’d abandoned at the table. The rest of the men gladly dealt him into their next hand of poker.

But now that Dusty had the opening he’d been looking for, all his rehearsed words drained from his brain like water through a sieve. Taking his cue from Scott, he cleared his throat and slanted a glance toward Jolie. With neat, violent strokes of a knife, she made quick work of the salad. He was afraid if he didn’t say something now, she’d finish and likely up and disappear on him again.

“Um, Jolie?” He winced at the hesitant sound of his voice. Especially when she pretended not to hear him.

A windblown strand of sun-kissed brown hair curved against her cheek. Dusty stopped himself from brushing it back around her ear or tucking it into the French braid neatly fastened at the back of her head.

“Spit it out, Dusty.”

He blinked a couple of times, as if to verify that she’d actually spoken to him. She laid the knife on the counter, then wiped her hands on a towel. She turned cloudy blue eyes on him. “I’ve already accepted that I’m not going to like what you have to say, so just be out with it.”

“Uh…” Grand sakes alive, he felt like a speechless teenager all over again. There was something about the thin black that encircled her irises. The direct way she looked at him and only him. The enticing way she discreetly caught the inner flesh of her bottom lip that shot his best intentions all to hell.

The widening of her pupils told him that the effect was fully mutual. All at once the stiffness around her jaw eased, and he was afraid she was a heartbeat away from bestowing on him one of those all-Jolie smiles that would undoubtedly knock him down for the count.

Before he could question the wisdom, he reached out and gently worked a single white chicken feather from her hair. Her intake of breath was so shallow he was certain he was the only one who heard it. He slowly pulled his hand back, displaying the feather. “Um, a little remnant from your run.”

Her cheeks colored, then her gaze dropped suggestively to his mouth. She blinked. “You shaved off your mustache.”

Dusty lifted a hand to his bare upper lip. “Yeah.”

His own gaze lingered on her just-moistened lips. If she didn’t stop looking at him like that, more would be sizzling than just the steaks.

With incredible self-restraint, Dusty hauled his gaze from Jolie’s mouth. He switched off the burner under the nearly melted potatoes, wondering just how he went about switching off the flame in his gut.

Just be out with it, indeed.

“Jolie…I’ve come to pick up the divorce papers.”



For the life of her, Jolie couldn’t figure out why she felt as if she’d just lopped a finger off with the knife. In the time she’d avoided coming into the kitchen she’d pretty much figured out that the reason Dusty had come back was not a good one. She merely hadn’t taken the assumption to the next step and connected his presence with the unsigned papers she’d stuck into a drawer at home the instant she received them a couple of months back.

Which was stupid, really. And that only agitated her further. She’d spent her life proving that she was the exact opposite of stupid. Up to any task set in front of her, she was. A regular anything-you-can-do-I-can-do-just-as-well kind of girl, with her feet firmly steeped in reality. She’d had to be for her own survival. It hadn’t been easy being raised by a paternal grandfather who didn’t have a clue on how to react to a six-year-old girl, much less raise one. As he’d told her often enough, he’d seen to raising his one son and that should be more than any one man should have to endure. So Jolie had learned at a young age how to not only look after herself, but after him. Seemed she was always trying to keep placated the well-meaning but nosy townsfolk who questioned the old man’s ability to look after her. For they were at the ready to take her away from the only family she had left.

Of course, no one was happier than she was when the time finally came for her to start making her own decisions. And nothing had intrigued her like the beast that had stolen her parents from her: fire.

“Jolie?”

She blinked Dusty’s handsome face back into focus, noting the pity there. She hated that he felt sorry for her. That hadn’t always been the case. Of course, when you were six years old and the older next-door neighbor was paying you attention, you didn’t recognize that same attention as pity. You just took attention any way you could get it.

Now she knew better.

“They’re…um, the papers are back at the house.”

“I see.”

She gathered the salad fixings into a bowl and tossed them. “You didn’t think I kept them here in my locker, did you?”

His half grin made her remember that mischievous boy who used to include her in all the goings-on. “Let’s put it this way—it wouldn’t have surprised me.”

She realized then that the room had gotten suspiciously quiet. She turned to find the poker game going on as if in slow motion. Her cheeks flamed. How much of her conversation with Dusty had they overheard? She hadn’t told a soul that she’d heard from Dusty, much less received divorce papers from him. Heck of a way for them to find out.

Who was she kidding? She was probably the last person in town to figure out he wasn’t coming back when he left.

She cleared her throat. “Okay, guys, wrap it up. Dinner’s on.”

A flurry of activity followed, though any attempt at conversation was awkward at best. She began to set the table alongside Martinez when Dusty grasped her wrist.

Her pulse gave a telltale leap and her throat went as dry as charred wood. Which was silly, really. His touch was meant as nothing more than a halting measure.

Yeah, tell that to her body.

“Jolie?”

She looked to where everyone was nearly settled around the table. “Look, Dusty, can we talk about this later?”

The sound of the alarm sliced through the room, eliciting a series of groans and curses. Three bells. That meant they needed both engines, which would nearly empty out the firehouse.

“Figures,” Gary groaned. “First decent meal we’ve had around here in six months and I can’t even eat it.”

He along with a couple of the other men stuffed what they could into their mouths and pockets, then rushed out of the room to grab their gear.

Jolie started after them, feeling almost relieved. Talk about being saved by the bell. Although she was certain that whoever had coined the phrase hadn’t had quite this interruption in mind.

“Jolie,” Dusty said again, more insistently.

She turned to face him, and nearly tripped over Spot for the second time that day. She looked down to make sure the cat was okay, wondering just what exactly was going on in her little feline brain. She received an irritated twitch of a black tail for her effort as the cat scampered off into the station.

Jolie flicked her gaze back to Dusty. His expectant expression tightened the vise around her heart. For a second she’d forgotten where they were, where she was, thinking he’d be on her heels, rushing for the nearest engine right along with her.

But he wasn’t. And probably never would be again.

She dug her fingers into her front jeans pocket. “Here,” she said, tossing him her house keys. “Stay at the house. I’ll see you at eight tomorrow morning.”




Chapter 2


Jolie gazed wistfully at the autumn sun hovering on the horizon. She wished the weak rays could chase away the cold that seemed to chill the marrow of her bones. It had been an especially grueling twenty-four-hour shift. Only she wasn’t convinced her work schedule was the cause of her reluctance to walk the six blocks home. No, she knew it wasn’t. The dragging of her feet had more to do with the man who was waiting at the end of her walk. Her husband. The man who had walked out on her and their marriage without a second glance. A man who had returned. For whatever reasons.

Jolie felt…well, strange, was the best way she could describe it. For so long now, she had grown accustomed to being on her own. Living a compartmentalized existence. At work she was still part of a team, a family, really, where there was little time to ponder her marriage, her life, and what, if anything, she could do to change either.

When she attended town events, or went shopping, she was the same person she’d always been. Or so she tried to convince everyone. And, just being around others made her feel that maybe in some ways she was.

It wasn’t until she went home after her regular twenty-four-hour shift, then spent the next two days there waiting for her next shift, or returned from grocery shopping or lunch with her best friend and sister-in-law, Darby, that she became aware all over again of the void that was her life. A void that had gaped open the instant Dusty had told her he couldn’t live with her anymore.

Petition for Divorce.

Shivering, Jolie worked her hand through a too-long denim coat sleeve, then tucked her hair behind her ear.

She didn’t know what hurt her more. The fact that Dusty was seeking a divorce. Or that he had personally come back to compel her to agree to it.

The brisk morning air burned her eyes. At least that’s what she told herself as she blinked back tears and picked up her pace. She decided that Dusty’s seeking a divorce bothered her more than his being back, however temporarily. Their marriage, their life together, had been more real than anything to her. Being with him had filled her with a hope, a hunger for living, a sheer happiness that she couldn’t remember feeling before. Not since her parents were ripped from her life when she was six. He’d made her feel loved. Needed. As if she belonged.

Which left her wondering what she was supposed to be feeling now.

Of course, she and Dusty had been unable to have children….

Jolie bit solidly on her bottom lip, emotionally incapable of probing that raw wound. Not on top of everything else swirling inside her right now.

The one person she had shared part of her ordeal with was Pastor Adams. He had asked if she’d like him to intervene on her behalf. Contact Dusty and try to talk things out with him. She’d not only declined his offer, she’d taken his suggestion as almost an insult. It was bad enough that she hadn’t been woman enough to keep her man. Now she needed a clergyman to intercede on her behalf? Go after her missing husband and beg for him to come back? She let the pastor know in so many words that she’d rather eat a bucket full of earthworms first, a feeling that hadn’t changed even after crying for two days straight after her conversation with him. And not even after his sermon on pride.

Pride. Now there was a word. What was a woman to do when it seemed that pride was all that made her get up in the morning? That saw her through living in a house still chock-full of her husband’s presence? Injected the very fire she fought into her veins whenever she caught one of the townsfolk looking at her in that long, pitying way?

She rounded the corner and the small two-story renovated farmhouse came into view. In the driveway parked behind her Jeep was Dusty’s pickup. Of course she’d known he’d be there. But actually seeing him there was another matter entirely.

Mrs. Noonan across the street opened her screen door with a telling squeak. Jolie fought the urge to roll her eyes. Awfully coincidental that the town’s busiest busybody chose this moment to collect a morning paper delivered two hours ago.

“’Morning, Jolie!” she called out.

Jolie waved a hand and returned the greeting.

“I see you’ve sold the house.”

Sold…the…house…

Jolie’s gaze edged the neat front lawn, then traveled to where only a hole indicated that there was once a Realtor’s sign posted. Her stomach tightened. Dusty must have taken it down when he’d come home last night.

Home. She’d have to stop referring to it as such. The house they’d spent five years in together was no longer home. Not to him. Not to her.

“I’m sure it’s a mistake, Mrs. Noonan. The house hasn’t been sold.” Yet.

Collecting the morning paper, she instinctively reached for her keys, only then remembering that she’d given them to Dusty the night before. Resting her palm against the smooth wood door, she thought she’d rather break a window than have to knock to get into a place that had been hers alone for the past few months. She curved her fingers around the doorknob. It turned easily in her grasp. She gave a faint gasp of relief and pushed it inward.

As she closed the door behind her, she instantly became aware of the proof that someone other than herself was in the house. The aroma of coffee wafting from the kitchen. Hiking boots abandoned in the hall. Papers strewn across the coffee table while the television mutely flickered the morning news.

Jolie caught herself tiptoeing and censured herself. What was she afraid of?

“Dusty?” she called out, dropping the paper and her purse on the hall table and craning her neck to peek through the kitchen doorway. He didn’t answer. She forced herself to walk into the room, feeling as if something were different. The yellow walls seemed…brighter, somehow. Refusing to explore the reasons for that, and especially not daring to think Dusty’s presence the cause, she took a mug from the cupboard and poured herself a cup of coffee from the half-full carafe. She eyed the dark sludge. Not exactly fresh. Shrugging out of the coat she had on, she draped it on the back of a slatted wood chair, then lingered over it, running her fingers down the well-worn denim. She absently plucked a couple of Spot’s white hairs from the material. Since the mornings had turned brisk a couple of weeks ago, she’d taken to wearing the wool-lined jacket Dusty had left behind. She supposed he’d be taking it along with the divorce papers and the rest of his stuff when he left again.

Thrusting the thought from her mind, she turned toward the counter and set about making a fresh pot of coffee. She filled the water reservoir then scooped in the grounds. A loud banging noise from upstairs startled her. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared warily at the ceiling. What was he doing?

The coffee couldn’t brew fast enough for her. Halfway through the cycle, she quickly poured two cups, then headed for the stairs. A splash of white on the gleaming oak kitchen table slowed her steps, then drew her to a stop. Dusty had laid out their divorce papers.

She didn’t have to ask how he’d found them. She had a habit of shoving everything into a desk drawer as she received the items, planning to get to them later. Only in this case “later” hadn’t come soon enough for him.

The banging upstairs started up again. Her heart beating an uneven rhythm in her chest, she climbed the stairs and followed the sounds through the second-floor hall. Her palms grew instantly damp as she realized he was working on the master bath. Correction, the half of a master bath. Dusty had begun the addition about a year ago and had left it unfinished, much as he’d left their relationship unfinished.

Her knees as firm as an empty fire hose, she stepped into the bedroom, her bedroom, and stood frozen before the rumpled four-poster bed. A bed she had slept in alone for the past six months. A bed Dusty had obviously slept in last night.

She tightened her fingers on the coffee mugs, afraid she might drop them. There were at least two other places he could have chosen to sleep. One a comfortable guest bedroom, two, the oversize couch downstairs. Why had he chosen her bed?

The sound of hammering resumed and she forced herself to the half-open door that led off to the left. From a discarded leather tool belt, to a greasy rag, then a piece of floor molding, her gaze wandered until it settled on the back of Dusty’s jeans. The faded material hugged his athletic thighs and legs to perfection.

Despite everything, Jolie found herself awkwardly attracted to her husband.

“You read my mind.”

Her gaze flickered to Dusty’s wryly smiling face, then to the tipping cups she still held. She quickly righted them, nearly causing the liquid to spill out the other way.

She shakily handed him his cup.

He took a hefty sip. “Just as I like it. Heavy on the coffee.”

Grasping her own cup in both hands, she looked at him. Really looked at him for the first time since she’d spotted him at the firehouse yesterday. God, but he looked better than any one man had the right to. His light brown hair was as closely cropped as ever, making her palms itch with the need to run them slowly over the spiky strands. His rich Irish-cream brown eyes were just as watchful, making her feel as though he looked straight through the wall of her chest and into her heart. His body was just as defined, the six-pack ripple of his stomach muscles clearly visible under his chest-hugging white T-shirt, his hips just as trim beneath his close-fitting jeans.

“What…what are you doing?” she asked, surprised by the gravelly sound of her voice.

He put his cup aside, then wiped his mouth with a slow, long sweep of his wrist. He gestured toward the Jacuzzi. “I, um, woke up early and thought I’d have a go at finishing this.”

Jolie swallowed hard. This was all too comfortable…too normal, when everything between them was everything but. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

Before she could stop herself, she asked the question that had been burning on her tongue ever since he’d voluntarily placed himself within shouting distance. Drawing a shaky breath, she asked, “Dusty, where have you been?”



Dusty sat back on his heels as though pushed back. The inside of his eyelids felt peppered with sand, reminding him how very little he’d slept last night. Looking at the smudges under Jolie’s eyes, he guessed she hadn’t fared any better. But while she’d had the firehouse to keep her busy, he’d been stuck at the house with little more to do than think about everything that had come before. Everything that would come after.

He glanced around the half-finished room, the only place in the entire house that hadn’t been there since the beginning of time. He knew every inch of this place. Just which floorboards would creak when you stepped on them. Which windows you could jimmy open with a couple of jostled tries even when locked. The slight incline of the kitchen floor from where the house had settled. Not perceptible to the human eye, but obvious when you spilled something and the liquid pooled near the back door as if seeking a way out.

Somewhere around 4:00 a.m., after he’d found the divorce papers crammed at the very bottom of the desk drawer, then watched TV until he’d overdosed on infomercials, he’d drifted off to sleep on the couch only to awaken with a start a little while later. Without thinking, he’d dragged himself upstairs and dropped into the bed they had once shared. It wasn’t until after he was surrounded by Jolie’s sweet lemony scent, and after he’d had an especially steamy dream that left him drenched in sweat, that he’d given up on catching any quality shut-eye, fixed himself some coffee, then headed back upstairs to check out what she had done with the master bath. It didn’t take long to figure out that she’d done nothing. The door had been tightly closed, his tools were still out exactly where he’d left them. It was almost as if he’d stopped working a day or two ago and had returned to finish the job. Never left.

But he had left. And though some things hadn’t changed, many other things had.

Deciding to avoid her question, he asked one of his own. “When did you put the house up for sale?”

Her gaze flitted away from his to settle on the cup she held. She gave a casual shrug of her shoulders, but the straight way she held herself told him she felt anything but casual. “Last month.”

He cocked a brow. “Don’t you think it would have been a good idea to ask me first?”

“I did ask you. When your attorney called a couple months back I asked him what you wanted me to do with the house. He told me that you wanted me to have it.”

“I meant that you should stay here.”

She gazed at him for a long moment before answering. “Why?” she asked quietly. “This is your family’s house, not mine. I wasn’t raised here, Dusty. If you didn’t care about…what happens with it, why should I?” She leaned against the jamb. “Where’d you put the sign?”

He hooked a thumb toward the window. “Out back. I chopped it for kindling.”

Her eyes widened. “You didn’t.”

“I most certainly did. Though I doubt the Realtor will be very happy with my actions, it sure as hell made me feel a lot better about the whole thing.”

The sound of strangled laughter surprised him. And inspired a grin of his own. He’d thought she’d be upset. Although judging by her own expression, she was just as shocked as he was by her reaction.

“You know, I really shouldn’t be amused by this,” she said. “I should be absolutely livid that you’ve come back and taken over just like you’d never…”

He scanned her features, noticing the way her lips were slightly parted, as if she were ready to breathe the last word but didn’t dare. “Like I never left?”

Jolie stood completely silent for a couple of heartbeats, the amusement shifting from her face. She abruptly turned, pretending to take a sip of her coffee, though he suspected her throat was as open to liquids as his was, and that was not at all.

“You didn’t have to come back for the papers, you know,” she finally said, placing her mug on the unfinished sink and turning to face him. “You could have just had your attorney call my attorney and remind him.” She hugged herself, the unconscious action making his own arms ache to hold her. “Remind me.”

As Dusty watched her shut herself off from him, he reminded himself that her emotional distance wasn’t a result of his leaving. It was one of the things that had propelled him to leave.

He mindlessly gathered his tools together and pushed to his feet. “I suppose I could have done that.” He faced her. “If I thought calling would have had a chance in hell of working, I would have.” He stepped closer to her. “Admit it, Jolie. When you stuck those papers into the drawer, you did so with no intention of signing them.”

The way she blinked told him he was right. Jolie had never been very good at bluffing. Once upon a time, everything she felt, everything she thought, had been all right there on her lovely face for all to see. And right now he saw a woman bursting with a pain felt so deeply it reached out and enveloped him in its dark fingers. The emotion was the first honest one he’d seen from her in so long that it nearly knocked his knees out from under him.

“Oh, Jolie, the last thing I ever wanted to do was hurt you.”

Her brows drew together and her voice was low when she spoke. “How did you think I would feel when you left, Dusty? Filed for a…divorce? Did you think I’d be happy?”

He grimaced. She’d likely felt the same way he had after he’d lost his brother, Erick, six months ago to the same kind of fire she fought nearly every day. A loss that had changed his life. Made him realize the importance of life period. “Of course I didn’t—”

“Please explain it to me, because right now I’m not understanding a whole lot. If you didn’t want to hurt me, then why did you leave? If you didn’t want to hurt me, then why did you send me divorce papers? If you didn’t want to hurt me, then why—” her voice caught “—why did you come back?”

“Aw, Jolie…”

Dusty wasn’t sure of the logistics, but suddenly his arms were full of Jolie. Sweet, soft, wonderful Jolie. Her fresh-smelling hair tickled his nose. Her breasts pressed against his chest. Her back was as rigid as all get out, and he was the only one doing all the holding, but right that minute it didn’t matter.

Given the way things had been between them in the end, he’d had no idea his leaving had hurt Jolie so deeply. So irreparably. She had always been so strong. Taken everything in stride. He’d thought she’d be relieved when he left. For the first time in five years of marriage she could lead her life the way she wanted without someone questioning what she was doing. All she was putting at risk every time she walked out that door and went to the fire station.

Hadn’t she grown tired of their arguments? Hadn’t she had enough of their going nose-to-nose at the dinner table until every last bit of their appetites left them?

“Aw, hell, Jolie,” he said, burrowing his nose into her hair and whispering into her ear. “I’ve never stopped wanting you.”

She drew back, her blue, blue eyes nearly swallowed by tears. It was all he could do not to kiss her then. To claim her trembling lips with his. To mold her compact little body to his. To show her with actions how very much he wanted her even now.

Her gaze dropped to his mouth and he nearly groaned, immediately pegging the gesture for what it was. She wanted to be kissed as much as he wanted to kiss her. And he knew in that instant that he was going to do it, consequences be damned.

A brief touch. That’s all. He’d brush his mouth against hers, then pull away.

The instant his lips made contact with hers, her tear-damp ones softened under his. Dusty groaned. Okay, maybe he should broaden the kiss parameters a tad. Say full contact for no more than ten seconds. As if on its own hungry accord, his tongue dipped out and gently lapped her salty tears. Whoa, that wasn’t supposed to happen. But, oh, she tasted so good. Jolie swayed against him, her arms curving around his waist, her fingers digging into the small of his back near his spine. In that one lucid moment, he knew he was a goner.

A brief touch melted into a needful seeking as he slid his tongue into the hot, honeyed depths of her mouth. Everything might have been all right if she hadn’t responded. But she had—in a breathless, thirsty way that sent his blood surging hotly through his veins like the fires they’d spent so much of their lives fighting. It was all Dusty could do not to back her against the edge of the unfinished Jacuzzi, push her sweater up over her ribs and pop open the button to her snug jeans….

Just like old times.

The thought caught and held. Just like old times. Only it wasn’t old times, was it? No matter how right she felt in his arms right now, the emotions she had momentarily bared to him, how much he wanted to take their kiss to the next level, nothing was the same.

He purposefully set her away from him, his hands a little rough on her arms. “Jolie, this…isn’t a good idea.”

She drew a shaky hand across her parted, well-kissed lips, looking as shocked as he felt. “No. No, it isn’t.” She stepped a little farther back away from him. “I’m sorry…I don’t know what came over me. I guess I’m tired. And—”

“Don’t blame yourself, Jolie. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me.” He gave her a halfhearted smile. “Though your cooperation didn’t help matters much.”

She dropped her hand to her side and returned his smile. “Good thing one of us is thinking clearly, huh?”

He looked away. He may have stopped himself before things spiraled out of control, but Dusty was far from describing his thoughts as clear. If he didn’t get out of this room, put some major distance between himself and Jolie now, it wouldn’t take a whole lot for him to sweep her up into his arms and carry her to the bed in the other room.

Jolie picked up her coffee cup. “I’d better go get some sleep. Maybe after…” Her gaze locked onto his. “Will you be around for a couple more hours?”

He wanted to tell her no, he needed to leave now. But his simple mission had swelled into a complicated one. He needed to stay and work those complications out. As much for Jolie’s sake as for his own.

He finally nodded. “Yeah. I will.” He reached out and tucked a stray strand of her hair behind a tiny ear. “You go on. I’ll be here.”

For now.

The words couldn’t have been louder if he had shouted them, though he was pretty sure he hadn’t even said them aloud.




Chapter 3


Dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb. Dusty paced restlessly across the length of the living room, then back again, his every instinct wanting to lead him to the stairs and up to where Jolie lay in the bed they had once shared together.

Knowing he’d either end up in that bed with her—if she’d have him—or go crazy keeping himself away from her, he snatched up his jacket and headed for the front door. It was only when his booted feet pounded against the pavement, the crisp autumn air whisking by his ears, that his thoughts were no longer dictated by the longings of his body.

What had he done, kissing her like that? He had no right to touch her, much less take liberties with her mouth, no matter how tempted he’d been. He’d given up that right months ago.

So why was it he wanted for all the world to reclaim that right?

None of this made sense. The instant he rolled back into town, he’d felt as if he’d been gone five minutes. His old friends warmly welcomed him back, no questions asked. Every memory he’d ever formed in the small, quirky town had come flooding back. And his feelings for Jolie seemed to have grown more acute rather than diminishing, as he would have guessed.

He reminded himself that his reasons for leaving Jolie had nothing to do with not loving her anymore. Rather, they had more to do with her loving something more than him that he could no longer compete with.

He groaned, still practically able to taste Jolie on his tongue. Aching with need for her.

Hormones run amok, he told himself. It was as simple as that.

Simple. There was that damn word again. Simple didn’t come near describing a single event of this trip. He’d expected to waltz into town, get the divorce papers signed, then waltz right back out again, ready to restart his life from scratch. Allow Jolie to do the same.

Instead he’d hung out at the fire station, stayed the night in Jolie’s sweet-smelling bed, resumed work on the master bath, and nearly molested her the first time they were left alone.

Smooth move, Conrad.

There was nothing like further confusing the issue than…further confusing the issue.

And if he’d really only planned to stay a couple hours, why had he taken a week off work?

He was so occupied by his thoughts he had no idea where he was heading. Until his feet stopped and he found himself staring at the ironwork archway leading into the town’s only cemetery.

He grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck. It was as though his subconscious had sensed his need for reinforcement, and the death of his brother was definitely that.

Dusty stood there for long moments, absently watching colorful leaves flutter from the tall oaks flanking the gate, then swirl lazily along the path. To say that losing Erick had been the beginning of the end of his marriage might be overstating things, but his brother’s death was the one event that had set everything that came after into motion.

With slow, measured steps, he walked into the plainly laid-out cemetery, sticking to the cobblestone pathway barely wide enough to hold a car. For two hundred years this is where the townsfolk were laid to rest. It had only seemed natural that Erick should be buried here, as well.

The quiet hum of an engine sounded behind him, forcing him up onto the grass as a funeral procession drove slowly by. He watched the flagged cars, clearly remembering the cool spring day he’d buried Erick. Twenty-eight years old. Far too young for a life to be snuffed out.

Finally, he stood before the chest-high marble stone that reflected his brother’s name. It was difficult to reconcile the cold etching with the zealous man Erick had been. Beloved Husband, Father, Son and Brother, it read.

His gaze caught on something at the base. He leaned over and picked up a shiny red toy fire truck.

His fingers tightened around the tiny metal frame. He’d been in phone contact with his brother’s widow about once a month since he’d left. When he’d decided to come back, an important item on his agenda was to stop by to see Darby at her sprawling ranch on the outskirts of town. See how she was truly doing with his own two eyes and if she really didn’t need the help he tried to extend to her. To say hi and breathe in the little-girl smell of his twin six-year-old nieces who resembled Erick so much it hurt just looking at them.

He was sure that one of the girls, or maybe even Darby herself, had left the toy fire engine. He rubbed his thumb along the painted side, the toy reminding him of one he and Erick used to fight over when they were younger. When their father headed off for one of his twenty-four-hour shifts and he and his brother would sit on the front step watching him go, rooster-proud that their father was a firefighter. Wanting nothing more than to grow up so they could become firefighters themselves.

Firefighting was a Conrad tradition. Their father, his father before him, and his grandfather before then, the tradition reached back to the time the town was settled. It was only natural that Dusty, himself, would apply at the firehouse the instant he graduated community college and was old enough to enroll. Dusty smiled grimly, remembering how soundly jealous Erick had been that he’d gotten to go first. Erick had probably hated their age difference in that one moment more than he had at any other time in their lives.

Not that Erick’s age had kept him away from the station. Or even from following the truck out on runs.

Scott Wahl’s face flashed in Dusty’s mind and he shook his head, wondering if firefighting was some sort of disease. And if it was, if there was a foolproof cure.

A hundred feet away, the funeral attendants were getting out of their cars. The sun glinted off the maple coffin where six pallbearers lifted it from the back of the hearse. He instantly recognized John Sparks as one of those men, though he was wearing civilian clothes rather than his sheriff’s uniform. He squinted at the others gathered, recognizing most of them, although the pastor was unfamiliar. Definitely not Pastor Adams. He wondered who had passed away. Then he remembered John saying something about Violet Jenkins being found elbow deep in dirt, planting tulip bulbs in her garden a couple of days ago. He rubbed his closed eyelids. God, Mrs. Jenkins had seemed ancient when he was a kid. He wondered how old she’d ended up living to.

The thought immediately led to the young age of Erick when Dusty had lost the battle with the fire that took his brother’s life.

He stood numbly, staring at the headstone.

“Dusty.”

He looked up to find John Sparks standing a few feet away, his suit jacket swung over his shoulder, his other hand in his pants pocket. He couldn’t be sure how long he’d stood there, but a glance around told him it must have been a while, for the place was nearly deserted.

“Sparky.”

John took that as an okay to come closer. He stepped up next to Dusty and both of them stood looking at Erick’s grave.

“You know, he’s probably up there now getting a big kick out of us both standing together like this mourning over him.”

Dusty shifted a glance toward the too bright autumn sky. He grinned. “Yeah, he probably is.”

John folded his jacket over his forearm. “So what brings you here?”

Dusty looked at him. “What do you mean?”

The younger man shrugged. “Well, rumor has it you stayed at Jolie’s…er, your old place last night.” His grin was decidedly suggestive. “I would have thought you and she would, um, be catching up on old times.”

Dust bent down and put the toy fire truck back where he’d found it. If only Sparks knew how close to the truth that statement came to describing what had happened between him and Jolie this morning.

John held up his hands. “Trust me, I’m not looking for details. It’s hard enough being a single guy and working with a woman who looks like Jolie without knowing the details.” His chuckle was light.

Dusty straightened. “Who’s the new pastor?”

John stared at him, probably recognizing the change in subject for what it was. Dusty didn’t know what Jolie had told everyone, but he was guessing it wasn’t much given their co-workers’ response to his being back. For whatever reason, she hadn’t shared the truth with any of them. And it wasn’t up to him to tell them. Long after he had gone, Jolie would have to live here. Better she should handle things the way she saw fit.

“He’s not new, really. Just temporary. You know, while Pastor Adams is on a pilgrimage to Lourdes. He said it was the first time the collections were enough for him to make the trip and he was damn well going to use every cent of it.”

Dusty grinned. “Sounds like Adams.”

“Jonas is the name of the fill-in. Jonas Noble. They say he’s from Montana, but nobody knows for sure. He doesn’t much like to talk about himself.”

“Ah, he’s got the gossips’ tongues to wagging, has he?” Good. That left them with less time to try to pick apart his and Jolie’s crumbling marriage.

“Wagging? If you could channel the energy the townsfolk generate, we’d never pay for another electric bill.”

The two of them chuckled. Then they both fell silent and turned their attention back to the headstone.

“I miss him, you know?” Sparks said quietly.

Dusty nodded. He missed his brother, too. More than he could say.

John cleared his throat. “I’ve, um, been out to Darby’s a couple times. You know, to see if she needs any work done around the house and stuff. Figured Erick would have wanted me to keep an eye out for her and all.”

Dusty nodded. “How’s she’s doing?”

“As well as can be expected, I guess. As independent as all get out. Wouldn’t even let me take out the garbage. And trust me, with all those damn animals she’s got out there, there’s a lot of it.” He frowned, then looked off into the distance. “I get the impression she blames Erick for what happened.”

Dusty digested the information. What would Darby do if she knew the blame rested solely on him? “I think that’s only natural. She never much liked Erick’s passion for his job.” Just like he could no longer stomach Jolie’s obsession with hers.

“What about the girls?” he asked.

“Couldn’t tell you anything there. They don’t seem to like me much.” It slightly startled Dusty when John dropped an arm over his shoulders. “Everyone should be gathering at Eddie’s for a drink about now. What do you say we head over and tie one on? You know, for old times’ sake.”

Dusty thought of Jolie back at the house, lying in the middle of that old bed. Visualized the tangle of her rich brown hair spilled across the pillow. Imagined her sleep-warm skin….

He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Um, lead on.”

It was only twelve o’clock, but he was willing to do something, anything, to keep from going back to the house, climbing those stairs and slipping into bed with Jolie.




Chapter 4


Jolie fingered through the fresh greens in the produce corner of Old Jake’s General Store, passing her own favorite of collard and going for the dandelion that Dusty always liked so much. Curling her fingers into her palm, she pulled back her hand altogether, then pushed the cart toward the tomatoes.

The past half hour had been spent doing exactly the same thing. She’d reach for an item, then something would catch her eye and she’d automatically reroute to finger a choice Dusty would favor. The items in her cart totaled four. Laundry detergent, flour, sugar and milk. Generic items that didn’t have any connection to Dusty.

Well, okay, maybe she preferred that specific brand of detergent because she loved the way it smelled on Dusty’s clothes where they rested against his skin. But no one but her need know that.

In the three hours since Dusty had left the house after kissing her, she’d tried to sleep, but failed. Scrubbed the kitchen floor to exhaust herself, and still was wide awake. Then she resigned herself to the fact that she wasn’t going to get the rest she needed after twenty-four hours at the firehouse. It was a good thing she’d stolen a couple of hours’ rest between calls late last night or else she’d be dead on her feet right about now.

Not that her current emotional state was any improvement. She picked through the tomatoes, then chose a bunch of green lettuce. Even now her nerve endings seemed to tingle, jolted awake by Dusty’s skillful kiss and refusing to lie still. Her muscles were tense, her lips still felt swollen…and her body cried out for more than the brief, fevered contact. Not even running errands had been successful in banishing the unwanted feelings. But it had added a decidedly sharper edge to them and her reaction.

When she’d set off in her Jeep, she’d conveniently forgotten the smallness of the town and the open curiosity of the townsfolk. No matter how well-meaning they were, they were downright nosy now that word of Dusty’s return had gotten around. She’d kept busy enough at the station that she hadn’t heard much from her fellow firefighters. But Madge at the post office had been another matter. Then there’d been Gene at the combination dry cleaners-launderette. On top of that, Roger at the gas station had rested a hand against the rooftop of her Jeep and grinned down at her while the pump automatically filled the tank and asked why she didn’t look more cheerful, what with Dusty being back and all.

“Jolie? Jolie Calbert Conrad, is that you?”

Jolie tightened her hands on the cart handle, filled with the incredible urge to run. She wouldn’t have stopped at the general store at all except that she was out of the essentials and had to. She’d known before going in that the central town gossiping center, second only to Eddie’s pub, was a minefield of astronomic proportions. In fact, she was surprised she’d gotten through a half hour of shopping without someone approaching her.

Carefully fastening a smile onto her tired features, she turned toward Elva Mollenkopf. “Hi, Elva. Doing some shopping?”

Yes, the question was mundane, but sometimes when you stated the obvious, the other person dove into a monologue on what they were buying and why.

Not Elva. Her almost predatory smile made Jolie want to set the cart wheels spinning, then jump on the foot rest and let it carry her away.

“Is it true?” Elva asked.

Jolie blinked. “Is what true?”

“Is Dusty really back…and staying at the house?”

Jolie swallowed hard against the cotton batting in her throat. She debated saying something along the lines of “It’s not what you think,” or even toyed with the idea of saying “It’s none of your business,” but she gauged that neither would go over real well with the woman who was twenty years her senior.

“It’s true,” someone said, but Jolie was pretty sure it wasn’t her. She turned her head to see Angela Johansen approaching from behind. Of course, her last name had once been Paglio, back in grade and high school when Jolie had shared more than a few classes with her. They’d always been friends, though not the type of call-every-day, tell-all-your-secrets-to kind of friends.

They had, however, always been there to back each other up.

“Hi, Jolie,” Angie said with a warm, knowing smile. “How are you, Elva?” she said a little coolly. “It’s good to see you again. I don’t think our paths have crossed since…well, God, since the Fourth of July celebration when you had that mishap with Joe Johnson’s dogs. How is your leg, anyway?”

Jolie’s gaze settled on the little blond-haired girl in the seat of Angela’s cart. Angela’s daughter with her husband Jeff should be all of five about now. Eleanor’s chubby fingers were working to free a hard candy from its wrapper, her face contorted in concentration. Jolie’s heart automatically contracted, the way it did whenever she came across a child of the age hers might have been. Had she and Dusty had kids.

Saying something to Elva that Jolie didn’t quite catch, Angela linked her arm with Jolie’s and determinedly turned her, leading her and her cart away from Elva.

Angela leaned closed to her. “I still think she’s a vampire,” she whispered.

Jolie laughed quietly, sneaking a glance over her shoulder to find Elva staring after them in dumbfounded silence. “God, I forgot about that. How old were we when that rumor circulated through school?”

“Eight, maybe? But that doesn’t matter. While I no longer think Elva goes around sucking people’s blood, I do think she feeds on others’ hardships.” She grimaced. “Always at the ready to sink her teeth into any festering wounds.”

Jolie smiled at little Eleanor, her words aimed for Angela. “Maybe it’s the only way she can make it through the day. You know, compare her life to others’ and be glad that she doesn’t have the problems that we do.”

Ellie’s wide blue eyes were firmly on her mother. “Mommy, what’s a vampire?”

Angela laughed and chucked the little girl under her dimpled chin. “Never you mind, sweet pea. Do you want some Cocoa Puffs?”

Jolie appreciated Angela’s deft handling of the awkward question, wondering if she could have handled a similar situation so well with her own kids. If she had kids.

Angela stopped her cart and placed a box of the sugary cereal into her full cart much to Ellie’s delight. She searched the area around them. “I think the coast is clear.”

Jolie smiled her thanks at her friend. Not just for saving her from a humiliating incident with Elva…but for not asking about Dusty herself. As Angela walked away, she reminded herself to call her later in the week so they could have some coffee together or something. It had been some time since they’d played catch-up.

Of course, Angela was nowhere to be found when Kathy, the cashier, Justin, the manager, then Ruth, whose chickens she had rescued yesterday, all assailed her with questions. Kathy was well-meaning, Justin was looking for tawdry details; while Ruth offered up some advice on how to guarantee Dusty wouldn’t leave again. Advice involving chicken fat and feathers that made Jolie shudder.

Finally, she sat behind the wheel of her Jeep, the door tightly closed and locked, her breathing sounding much too ragged in the empty SUV.

It wasn’t that the questions got to her. It was more that they were far too similar to the questions swirling in her own mind. Clamoring for answers that only one person could give her. Answers she was beginning to fear she’d never get.

She switched on the ignition and waited for the heater to warm the interior of the SUV.

Where her nerves had been a mess after Dusty had kissed her mere hours before, now they visually shook with the tension further created by her outing. When he’d left, the world as she knew it had ended. It had taken her a long time just to be able to get up in the morning, face her friends and co-workers, function like more than a robot, her heart bearing scars she didn’t dare show anyone.

Then just like that Dusty was back and those wounds had been opened up afresh…and the townsfolk had more questions now than they had before.

Sometimes it seemed that all her life she’d been the oddity. The little girl whose parents had died in a fire and whose grandfather wasn’t fit to raise her. She’d promised herself when she’d come of age that she’d never do anything again to garner such open attention.

And in all honesty, she hadn’t this time, either. Dusty had.

She pushed her hair back from her face with shaking hands. Movement from the corner of her eyes vied for her attention and she glanced up from the dash to find Elva bearing down on her full speed, the wheels of her shopping cart wobbling ominously. Throwing the Jeep into reverse, Jolie squealed from the general store parking lot, nearly taking Elva’s cart out in the process.

She honestly didn’t know what more she could do, merely knew the desire to do something. Even though she’d tried to confront Dusty this morning. Asked him why he’d left. But he had skillfully avoided answering her.

What was there left to do?

“You can give him what he wants,” she whispered.

The words seemed to echo in her ears. Her chest tightened to the point of pain.

What Dusty wanted was for her to sign the divorce papers.

She bit down so hard on her bottom lip she feared she’d drawn blood. In front of her, a low-slung sedan was going no more than ten miles an hour, the plates from a neighboring county. She forced herself to let up on the gas and follow at a safe distance, though the temptation to gun the engine and pass the out-of-towner was strong.

The downtown shops were all so very familiar. But rather than finding comfort in seeing Mrs. O’Malley tending to her autumn garden outside her bed-and-breakfast, and Penelope Moon hanging a sign advertising clearance prices on Halloween goodies, she saw threats looming everywhere. Mrs. O’Malley would tell her she’d been a fool. Penelope would probably say something along the lines of destiny had its own way of working things out and that she should just go with the flow, and would she like some aromatherapy candles to help see her through?

Jolie rubbed her throbbing temple as the car in front of her pulled to a stop. She halted as well, scanning the brick front of Eddie’s pub. The day was warm enough that Eddie had the front door open, letting the early afternoon sun slant in and illuminate the first few stools. Her stomach dropped to the floorboard as she spotted Dusty sitting next to John Sparks and a couple of guys from the station.

The car in front of her finally moved, but she stayed completely still.

Almost as if sensing her presence, Dusty glanced up and through the door, his grin still firmly in place as his gaze collided with hers. His smile froze, then disappeared.

Give him what he wants, an inner voice taunted.

All she had to do was go back to the house. Sign the papers still lying on the kitchen table. Then hand them to him when he came back to the house.

Then again, she could just bring them down here and hand them to him along with his things. Or pin them to the front door and leave his stuff on the front porch.

John Sparks was questioning Dusty and he looked away, freeing her from his gaze.

Jolie’s heart felt as if it might race right out of her chest as she carefully placed her foot on the gas. She knew in that instant that she had to do it. She had to give Dusty what he wanted. And she had to give it to him now.



Long strides took Dusty down the sidewalk of Main Street, his thoughts on everything but his surroundings. Until he turned the corner and the old house he’d grown up in loomed a block away. His heartbeat accelerated. His step slowed. His chest grew so tight it was difficult to breathe.

This was the only place he’d ever known as home. Every time he blinked, a different memory flashed through his mind, projections of images marked indelibly on his soul. The sprawling front lawn brought to mind Erick. How they would argue over whose turn it was to get the old mower out of the garage. Tussle in leaves that even now covered the lush green expanse. Toss a baseball back and forth, each lob growing a little harder, going a little farther, until his younger brother would purposely try to hit him with the ball.

But at the end of the day, just after dinner, before either of them were off to do whatever they had to do that night, he and Erick never failed to call a truce and meet as if by silent agreement on the front porch steps. They’d talk about everything. Or nothing at all. He’d always sat with his fingers clasped between his knees. Erick leaning back on his hands, staring off into some unforeseen future path that was mapped out for him in the sky.

Back then it seemed as if the day might never end. As if they’d had all the time in the world to tease each other about girlfriends. Debate which sports team was the better, the Detroit Tigers or the Cleveland Indians. Or just sit in quiet companionship while their mother did the dinner dishes and their father either read the paper at the kitchen table or was off at the firehouse.

Dusty reached those same steps and slowly sat down, considering the view he’d seen a thousand times. Majestic oaks were at the height of color, setting the street on fire with their oranges and yellows, their crisp smell drifting on the air, prompting him to take a deep breath. There didn’t seem to be anything particularly unique about the view itself. No. He presumed that he and his brother had chosen this spot as their own because it was neutral territory. Not his room. Not Erick’s room. Not their parents’ room.

Of course eventually the entire house ended up his. Yet sometimes it seemed as though this spot alone was truly his. His and Erick’s.

He looked down to find his hands clasped between his knees. If only he’d been able to save Erick, this spot would still be theirs.

“Are you going to marry her?” Erick’s voice seemed to drift to him on the cool autumn air, from some long-ago, forgotten time.

Up until that point, the “m” word hadn’t even entered Dusty’s mind. He and Erick had both been working at the station by that point. And with their staggered shifts, it was rare that they were both off at the same time. But they had been that day. Before their parents sold him the house and moved off to Arizona. Dusty had been dating Jolie for barely a year by then. Erick had been dating Darby. And his brother’s question had nearly knocked him over.

Dusty snapped upright, much as he had that day.

“No,” he’d said then, the idea so outrageous he couldn’t even imagine seriously considering it. Marriage was something people his parents’ age did, not him. He was a fireman. Still lived at home.

“I don’t know,” he’d said moments later, the concept beginning to take root as he thought about the girl next door with the brown curly hair and big blue eyes who had transformed into all woman seemingly overnight. He couldn’t even remember now why he hadn’t asked her out before he had. But he suspected his motivations hadn’t come totally from out of left field, and that Jolie had had a bit of a hand in his asking.

“Yes…I think I will.” His slow answer had come after Erick hadn’t responded, and then the concept had not only grown roots, the rightness had struck him, flowing through his veins as thickly as his own blood. Just as it had that day he’d met Jolie, when he’d picked her mail up from where she’d dropped it, her heather-blue eyes soft and sexy and all too inviting.

Dusty swallowed hard. He wondered what his brother would think of what was happening between him and Jolie now. He glanced toward that spot in the sky that Erick had always stared at, that unseen road that he wondered if he’d ever be able to view himself. A path Erick might be on even now.

Silently, he asked, “Erick, where are you? If ever I could have used your advice, it’s now.”




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