Chapter 2
Two
Colter
“Here, let me get you a piece of this chess pie.”
As I watched Vivian Maddox plate up a slice for my grandmother, who was two people ahead of me in the dessert line, all I could think was that my big brother, Bodie, and his bride had pulled off a literal miracle.
Evidence surrounded me on all sides in the trailing array of tables and seating set up all through Grandma Elsie’s house to accommodate the usual massive contingent of Gibson relatives and all the members of the Maddox clan who’d elected to join us in breaking bread and giving thanks over turkey and a football field’s worth of cornbread dressin’.
And if there were a handful of Maddox kin who were clinging to the lore of the blood feud that had been running between our families for more than a century and a half?
Well, they were in the minority and hardly mattered anymore.
Emmaline and Bodie had carved this truce out of equal parts stubbornness and love—the kind of love that weathered storms and defied generations of bitterness.
The kind that made a man believe in second chances and fresh starts, even when the odds were stacked so high against you that any sane person would’ve thrown in the towel before the first round.
And standing here, watching them at the table together, her hand occasionally brushing his arm in that unconscious way people in love had, him leaning over to whisper something low and private that made her smile that soft, secret smile that was meant for him and him alone—well, I wasn’t too ashamed to admit that seeing them together like this, quietly happy in a way that ran bone-deep, hit me square in the feels every single damn time.
Made something in my chest get tight and tender all at once.
They’d fought for this. For each other. For the right to build something new out of the ashes of old grudges and ancient hurts.
Oakleigh elbowed me in the gut. “Dad, you’ve got that look again.”
I hooked a comfortable arm around my daughter’s slim shoulders. “Which look is that, Twig?”
“The super sappy one that usually means you’re about to give a speech that’ll embarrass me.”
Grinning, I pulled her into a loose headlock and pressed a smacking kiss to the top of her head, which I’d have sworn was an inch higher than last month.
“First, it is my sworn right as your father to embarrass you at any and all opportunities. Second, I already gave my two cents about what I’m thankful for, so you’re safe for the immediate future. ”
She did some duck and twist move that told me she’d been hanging out with her Uncle Dean, who’d been training her how to get out of headlocks since he left the Marines. Useful for when she started dating after forty. Less helpful for single-combatant noogie delivery.
Free from my grasp, she pointed two fingers at her eyes, then at me. “I’m watching you.”
I knew that face. It usually meant Nerf-fueled retaliation.
Because that was how Gibsons settled arguments, and my girl was a well-trained master of foam marksmanship at nearly twelve.
So when we made it to the dessert table, and she grabbed a slice of pecan, a slice of chess, and went for trifle, I had to deploy the Dad-stare.
“Twig.”
She batted long-lashed, innocent brown eyes she’d totally gotten from her mom. “What? It would be rude not to try everybody’s. In the name of the end of the feud.”
I folded my arms and continued to stare, deeply unimpressed with this argument.
Oakleigh just lifted her chin. Fearless, my kid.
Our standoff got interrupted as Blair Young—my sister from another mister—called out, “Hey, Emmaline, why aren’t you drinking?”
That had the predictable effect of stopping all conversation like a record screech.
Emmaline blinked for a few long moments like a deer in the headlights before taking a long breath. “I… can’t.” The words came out so softly, I wasn’t sure I’d heard her right. Then she tried again. “We can’t.”
The house exploded with immediate joy from everyone in attendance.
Grandma Elsie immediately started planning for the new grandbaby.
Blair and our Uncle Dee began some kind of impromptu jig.
Our other siblings immediately began tossing out name suggestions and questions about due dates and baby showers in a big, happy jumble, one on top of another.
Through it all, Bodie just stared down at his wife, eyes full of all the things he wasn’t apt to say out loud. Then a slow, delighted smile spread over his face, and he kissed her like there weren’t upwards of thirty people in this house right now.
A new baby. The next Gibson grandchild. For all these years, it had just been Oakleigh—because I’d gotten started on that by total accident when Lisa and I lost our virginity on prom night senior year and became the cautionary tale that condoms weren’t invincible to all my siblings coming after.
Bodie and Emmaline had done things in the right order—mostly—being grown ass adults who’d gotten married first. Now they were predictably getting started on the next generation.
A weird stab of something that wasn’t exactly jealousy slid through my chest, settling somewhere in the vicinity of my heart.
Yearning, maybe. Longing for something I couldn’t quite name.
I wanted more kids. Hell, I’d always wanted more.
As one of eight, I’d grown up in a big, messy, chaotic family where there was always someone to talk to, always someone getting into trouble, always noise and laughter and life happening all around me.
I’d always wanted a family of my own—a house full of kids and all the beautiful chaos that came with it.
But while we remained best friends and fantastic co-parents, Lisa and I hadn’t been meant to last like that, not in the romantic sense.
And in the years since, I simply hadn’t found anyone else worth taking a chance on.
I wasn’t willing to upend my daughter’s life, to bring someone into our established rhythm and routine, for anything less than The One.
Oakleigh would always be the center of my world, and I refused to settle for less than she deserved in a potential stepmother.
Remembering our dessert standoff, I turned to look for my kid, only to find she’d entirely disappeared. Of course she’d take advantage of the distraction to abscond with all three desserts. And knowing her, she’d have all of it wiped out before I tracked her down again.
Right. I’d have the peppermint tea and ginger ale ready to go for when that decision inevitably came back to haunt her at two in the morning.
The phone clipped to my belt began to ring. One glance at the readout told me it was dispatch. “Sorry, y’all. On call.” The apology was automatic, though nobody was paying a bit of attention to me. I stepped into the kitchen. “Gibson.”
“Got a report that the McCready place is on fire. Team’s already on the way, but you’re closer.”
The words tripped me into work mode. “Understood. Details about the size of the blaze?”
“Unclear at this time.”
“I’ll meet the team there.”
I ended the call and strode back into the front of the house. “Got a call. The McCready place is on fire.”
“Oh, my God.” Blair covered her mouth. “I saw a car turning in there when we drove by this afternoon.”
For half a second, I closed my eyes. Just a month ago, I’d warned Bodie that the current owners had been trying to pull some shady shit with the online listing. I’d expected trouble, but more like a dispute between the renter and the owner. Not this.
“Damn it. I was hoping the new tenant hadn’t showed up yet.” I’d assess on scene. “The rigs are en route. I’m meeting them there—I’m closest. Oak, you’re staying here.”
“We’ve got her,” my sister Alia assured me.
“Stay safe, son,” Dad insisted.
I was already out the door, bolting for my truck. My daughter was covered, and I knew someone in the family would take care of the dog if this kept me out late.
The old McCready place was barely more than a mile from Grandma Elsie’s house, and I took the winding mountain road as fast as I dared.
I spotted the dark billow of smoke well before I turned into the narrow, tree-choked drive—thick, rolling clouds that churned upward into the darkening sky like some angry god.
The flicker and flare of flame greeted me as I bumped into the yard, my truck jolting over ruts and overgrown grass.
The wreck of a house was well on the way to being fully involved, with an origin point that appeared to be somewhere toward the back side, judging by the way the flames were eating their way forward through the structure.
A single unfamiliar sedan was parked slightly away from the house.
A quick visual scan showed me no one in the yard, no one stumbling away from the blaze or calling for help.
This renter either wasn’t at home or was trapped inside.
Given the place was going up like tinder, I didn’t dare wait on my team to arrive to check.
Parking well away from the structure, I dragged on my gear and radioed the inbound engine.
“This is Gibson. I’m on scene at the McCready fire.” I reeled off a quick status report.
“We’re five minutes out,” came the crackled response.
“Understood. Going in to check for survivors.”
I pulled on my SCBA, the mask settling into place with a familiar hiss, and hustled toward the porch.
Cinders rained down over me as I pounded up the stairs, and a board gave way beneath my boot on the last step with a sickening crack.
I hurled myself sideways, narrowly avoiding going through up to my thigh, my heart hammering as I caught my balance.
Silently cursing anyone who thought this piece of shit had been habitable before the fire, I broke down the door with a solid kick.
The living room was engulfed, the furniture flaring with that particular burn of materials that were more chemicals than anything else—synthetic fabrics and cheap foam that sent up toxic plumes.
I scanned the floor, moving steadily through the room, hunting for signs of anyone, any sign of life.
A massive suitcase lay tipped over on its side, open and spilling out its contents like they’d been under pressure.
Or maybe someone had searched it in a hurry, looking for something before setting the place on fire?
Was this an arson? The question lodged itself in the back of my mind even as I kept moving.
Finding no one in the living room or kitchen, I made my way down the hall, my boots heavy on the floor.
The ancient shag carpet was already smoking, wisps of gray rising from the matted fibers.
I tried the first door, shouldering it open.
A bathroom. No one was huddled in the tub, but there were toiletries on the counter—a toothbrush and one of those clear airline-sized bags full of travel stuff.
Someone had definitely been staying here.
Backing out, I continued down the hall, my breath loud in my ears through the mask.
The next door belched flame when I kicked it open, a roaring gust of heat and orange that forced me back a step.
I jerked back, feeling the heat even through my protective gear, the intensity of it like a physical blow.
As I was able, I crept forward, squinting against the brightness.
I couldn’t tell what the room was, only that it was entirely in flames, the walls and ceiling already collapsing in on themselves.
“Hello! Is anybody in here? Fire department!” I shouted.
But the only answer was a woosh that told me the fire had hit the attic space, the sound like a living thing drawing breath, and my window for finding anyone in here was rapidly closing.