Chapter One
E ven in his most pessimistic moments, Ricky Sharp had never imagined himself troubleshooting between an overexcited and oversized black poodle, its irate senior citizen owner, and an outraged blonde swinging her red handbag like Whitey Ford winding up a wild one for the New York Yankees.
Or that he would be performing this civic service in Temple Mountain, the hometown he had left behind so many years ago.
He considered the tall, athletic-looking young woman, hands on her hips, framed by the fading fall colors of the park.
Throw her over his shoulder in an old-fashioned fireman’s lift, fending off the poodle with his bare arm? Hoist the dog over both shoulders in the classic one-man pack strap carry, and fend off both humans with his elbows?
His knees gave a warning creak. Not without the risk of serious injury and/or major humiliation.
Strictly speaking, Ricky was the new assistant to Chief Leroy Browning of the Temple Mountain Fire Department. A short-term contract, perfect for a man who’d been put on extended leave and told to get his head straight.
In reality, his job meant dealing with every town council problem which could be loosely classified as public safety. Like smart-assed kids who liked to set fires in trash cans. Or exuberant poodles and outraged ratepayers.
“Ma’am.” He kept his voice level. “If you could please stop doing that...it’s not helping and it’s...er...provoking the animal.”
The blonde’s eyes narrowed dangerously. Ricky’s memory stirred.
“Me? Provoking that giant poodle?” She inched up the hem of her fitted navy skirt to reveal a glimpse of shapely thigh. “See that?”
“Very nice.” Ricky spoke without thinking.
She glared. Her midnight blue fingernail tapped a drum tattoo against the red mark on her lightly tanned leg. “Right here. The dog bit me, completely unprovoked.”
“Pshaw!” The portly pet parent gave an outraged yelp, momentarily easing his grip on the dog collar.
Released, the animal lunged joyfully at its new bestie. The young woman squeaked and jiggled the bag. The dog’s tail wagged ecstatically. Game on!
“There she goes again. Teasing poor Bubbles. And she’s a boodle. That’s a cross between a poodle and a bull terrier.” The fond voice lowered to a parental coo. “She’s saying hello, that’s all. Lovely gentle dogs, boodles.”
Without warning, Bubbles reared up on her long legs. Huge paws, the size of saucers, came to rest on the young woman’s bosom.
Woof!
This throaty, friendly greeting was met with a horrified gasp. The handbag flew, just as Bubbles was yanked away, and the heavy contents slapped the senior citizen on the chin.
Both parties spoke at once.
“That’s assault.”
They turned in unison. Ricky’s hand inched towards his radio to call for backup. He wasn’t sure if he needed the dog wagon or the people wagon.
For a brief second, he thought longingly of the simple days when all he had to do was rush into a burning building and rescue people.
Ricky straightened his shoulders and channeled all the natural authority which had made him the youngest lieutenant at the New York City Fire Department Engine Company 264.
“Let’s dial this back, folks,” he said sternly.
The blonde raised an eyebrow. Ricky wasted a second admiring her perfectly made-up ice blue eyes. And strictly speaking, perhaps that dark gold hair was more honey than blonde.
“Sir. Ma’am.” He cleared his throat. “Dogs must be restrained by their owners in public parks.”
The exact wording of the council rules evaded him, possibly because Ricky’s well-honed olfactory senses were distracted by a light musky fragrance that wasn’t the dog or its owner, and that in the fracas, a glossy lock of hair had fallen from the woman’s carefully curated topknot.
The rumpled effect was surprisingly powerful.
He dug deep for something official sounding.
“Sir. Your...er...boodle has clearly made contact with this person’s...limb.” He was madly improvising now. “—possibly breaking the skin, which is a violation of Statute 264 and Boodles...I mean Bubbles, could end up in trouble if this lady complains and shows her leg to the court.”
The elderly man looked puzzled, then worried. The blonde pursed her lips. She was struggling to keep a straight face.
“You, of course, as the owner, would go to court,” Ricky amended quickly. “And you may be forced to wear a muzzle. Boodles, that is.”
The young woman finally took pity on Ricky. “I have no intention of complaining, officer,” she said smoothly. “But perhaps you should take down Bubbles ’ details...she may be a repeat offender, and in that case...”
The man was already backing away, one gnarled hand keeping a tight grip on the dog’s collar. “No need, Officer, ma’am, I’ll be on my way...”
Ricky and the young woman, who was almost as tall as him, watched in silence as dog and man trotted briskly down the leaf-strewn path and disappeared.
The unladylike explosion of mirth at his shoulder was somewhere between a snort and a laugh.
Memory returned in a glorious toe-curling rush.
Jodi Ruskin.
All of thirteen, they had hidden in a dim pantry during a riotous game of hide and seek at a birthday party. A boring, childish game, he’d thought at the time, until the lanky Jodi had dived through the pantry door, distracting him from the pleasant aroma of oatmeal and brown sugar.
She had smelled of fruity gum and felt pens, and her short blonde hair was tousled every which way like she’d dived through a hedge.
And just like that, it had happened. His first kiss. The touch of her so-soft lips—both of them shy, awkward—had catapulted him from childhood into steamy adolescence in the space of seconds.
He had never lost his enthusiasm for oatmeal cookies.
“Boodles!” Jodi laughed again, throwing back her long, smooth throat. “A muzzle! Lord, I think you gave that curmudgeon Everett Thompson something to chew on all right!”
Her voice was soft and a little husky, as though she’d taken up whiskey and cigarettes or just spent a few solid hours on the telephone. Being a preacher’s granddaughter, he figured it could be either one.
She grabbed the stray lock of hair and pinned it back into place. Her eyes rested on his face as though trolling through her memory banks. Recognition dawned.
Ricky’s heart seemed to stop.
She cocked her head to one side and threw him an impish smile that made him feel thirteen all over again.
Oh yeah, she remembered the pantry.
An unexpected thrill of anticipation snaked down his back. He shifted uneasily under that clear gaze.
“And what brings you back to our little town, Ricky Sharp?”
***
J odi knew that she didn’t really have time to be having coffee at Bean blue like Lake Ontario on a still, twilight evening in summer. And that the tough firefighter had thick long eyelashes like a girl and a tiny scar on his chin.
“Sorry. That was clumsy. And nosy.” Ricky grinned apologetically. “I’ve gotten out of the habit of having adult conversations that don’t involve dogs or trash cans. At least I’m getting plenty of exercise. This morning I had to chase a Rottweiler through the park with my net.”
“Sorry I missed that,” murmured Jodi. She hastily reined in her over-active imagination. “I’m always looking for local interest stories with great visuals.”
He rolled his eyes. “Don’t even joke about it.” His eyes danced as though he could read her mind.
He leaned back and looked around curiously like Temple Mountain was an alien planet and he was expecting Scotty to beam him up real soon.
Jodi tried not to bristle.
“I’ve lost touch with most of the old gang,” he continued. “I always thought you would be a big shot in a marketing firm in Manhattan by now.”
There it was. Same old what-are-you-doing-with-your life question. At least he hadn’t mentioned wedding rings and babies.
Jodi bit back a snippy reply. She gave a frosty smile. Sipped coffee. Of course Ricky was curious. And heck, so was she.
Who was that girl?
Of course. An art student, Chrissie someone, with a taste for recreational drugs and slam poetry. And like most of their classmates, Chrissie and Ricky had headed for New York City straight from college without a backward glance.
It didn’t take a nosy journalist to figure out that the relationship hadn’t lasted.
Jodi followed Ricky’s gaze. A few yards away, young moms in gym gear steered strollers around clumps of retirees and the occasional high schooler staring at their phone like a zombie. The traffic was light, mostly utilities, SUVs, and the odd motor home.
The small Upstate New York town wasn’t quite New York City or even nearby Rochester.
Ricky looked back at her, clearly expecting an answer.
Feeling like a wizened barfly who’s been watching the world go by, Jodi briskly rattled off a few sentences. Who had knuckled down to jobs in town, who had spread their wings, who was divorced, who was a fixture at Little League.
Just as she finished, her phone started up a series of low pings. Texts from Dougie. She turned the phone over and threw her companion a bland smile.
Ricky was looking thoughtful. It was her turn to segue.
“Hatch, match, and dispatch as we say in the newspaper business,” she said briskly. “But you, Ricky Sharp. You were living the dream, working for the New York City Fire Department.”
He sat back. His expression turned vague. “Nothing much to report. I’m on extended leave. Came back to help out.”
His eyes wandered around the small space and fixed on the colorful graffiti art showing a line of old-fashioned Italian-style baristas which had transformed the old brick wall.
“My father is still getting over Long COVID, he’s back part-time at the plant. His lungs are shot. And my mom, she’s getting on too.”
Jodi nodded politely. The last time she had seen Lottie Sharp, the woman had looked in fine fettle. A little worn down by her husband’s health issues and the weary years of the pandemic like most folks but hardly decrepit.
Ricky was clearly another expert in avoiding hard questions about himself.
Her phone vibrated again, and she rolled her eyes apologetically and flipped it back over. They both gazed at the fresh string of messages, each stuffed with emojis like currants in a bun.
She sighed. “Save me from journalism graduates with their eyes on the next Pulitzer Prize.”
Ricky laughed. The kind of warm, caressing chuckle almost guaranteed to make a girl feel like she was the only woman in the world. Unless of course she was a hard-nosed journalist, in which case a woman might merely experience a frisson of heat and the slightest quickening of her heartbeat.
Not that it mattered. Jodi thrust the phone in her coat pocket and finished her coffee. Ten months into the role, she understood that acting editors had no private lives to speak of. And she was way past sighing over secret teenage kisses.
“I’m guessing that our jobs have a lot in common.” Ricky’s smile was wry. He rose to his feet to help her into her coat. “A bunch of needy customers and a phone that never stops.”
Jodi smiled. She slipped her arms through the sleeves, catching a whiff of something clean and woodsy under the musty smell of dog and fire retardant.
The firebug.
There was a story that any conscientious editor would snap up. One that could possibly require her to spend significant chunks of time with the Chief’s new assistant.
Ricky’s bare hand brushed against hers. Jodi ignored the faint tingle of pleasure and arranged her face into what she hoped was an expression of professional interest.
“I want to follow up on that story. It sounds like a real public safety issue.”
“Boodles?” His eyes danced.
“No, the firebug,” she said frostily.
He laughed again, and Jodi grinned, suddenly charmed. She had sounded pompous, and she knew it. Deep inside she felt the brittle wall between her cool professional persona and her private dreams crack a little.
“I agree,” he said, suddenly sober. “The Chief has been keeping it under wraps, but we need to get the town on alert before something bigger than a trash can goes up in flames. I’ll talk to him about media coverage and get back to you.”
He zipped up his mud brown jacket, pulled out his own phone.
Jodi bit back a sharp retort about press freedom and where Chief Leroy Browning could put his media management. She rattled out her cell number.
He keyed the number in and threw her a warm smile. “You didn’t say before...your grandpa is still a minister at Temple Mountain Community Church?”
“Sort of. He’s moved out to the retirement village but insists on being on the preaching roster. My theory is that most of the folks on the church council are aware that Gramps knows where the bodies are buried.”
Jodi huffed out a laugh that was part affection and part exasperation.
“I guess he finds it hard to let go after all those years ruling the roost.” She smiled and shook her head. “But there’s a new family in the rectory. The Beechams. Both ministers, a married couple with a passel of kids.”
Ricky nodded. “Mom keeps trying to get me to go to church along with her. I’ll...ah...be in touch, then. About the firebug.”
He waved and turned away, moving with the grace of a natural athlete. A man comfortable in his own skin.
Jodi knew she was smiling like a starstruck teenager. She stepped to the curb, watching the shadows of people moving around inside the newspaper office.
The traffic flowed past. It was taking the town a while to get back on its feet after the pandemic, but the empty shopfronts were slowly filling and tourists were returning.
Job vacancies were springing up here and there like pumpkin vines after a rainstorm. Suddenly everyone was desperate for staff. The job offer she’d turned down last month tugged at the edge of her thoughts.
Not the right time, she’d told herself. And making acting editor of The Temple Mountain Monitor at twenty-six? You couldn’t get that kind of experience in New York City.
A break in the traffic finally appeared. She dashed across between a large yellow school bus and an enormous motor home which probably had more appliances and furniture than her apartment.
Jodi steeled herself for the waiting chaos of the newspaper office. There were proofs to read, advertisers to schmooze, last-minute tweaks to the community calendar. Any new outraged letters from taxpayers could be squeezed in under the mayor’s message and between the ads for funeral homes.
She paused, hand on the door. Her brain was still racing.
Okay, maybe she was a soft touch who was pretty good at making excuses about why her life had stalled, but at least Jodi knew why she was still here in Temple Mountain.
But Ricky Sharp?
No way that man had come home just to chop wood and carry out the trash for his ailing parents. And he hadn’t put his dream job with the New York Fire Department on pause so he could be the dog control officer for the town council.
And Jodi was a journalist, she reminded herself. Acting Editor of the town newspaper. A news hound. The fearless breed who made presidents quail and CEOs nervous. And it wouldn’t hurt to find out a little more about why the best-looking man to arrive in town in living memory had really come back to his childhood home.
***
R icky peeled off his shirt. He threw it into the corner with a mild curse. It was dog-shit brown, and the fabric felt like it was made from recycled plastic soaked in chemicals. Far more dangerous than any of the high-tech protective gear he had worn as a firefighter.
He flopped back on the single bed, closing his eyes to block out the scuffed bookshelves and the grubby tape marks on the walls—plus the unlovely view outside of an elderly neighbor’s clothesline flapping with saggy long johns.
Pushing twenty-seven years old and back in his old bedroom.
He inhaled slowly. Noted the familiar scents of furniture wax, long-vanished sweaty gym shoes, and the lingering smell of what he had imagined in his teens was a wildly irresistible cologne.
Not for the first time, his mind detoured back to Jodi. A thrum of excitement tightened his skin and sent his pulse sky-high. Did she still close her eyes when she kissed, make that tiny gasp of pleasure when a hand snaked around to the small of her back?
Ricky felt the first faint shivers of arousal.
My, Jodi, how you’ve grown .
Tall enough and strong enough to be described as statuesque. Curving out nicely into womanly hips, those long legs were firmly planted as she wound up her bag and stared down the boodle.
He chuckled. Not a woman to back down from a fight.
He tried to remember the last time he’d seen her...maybe a glimpse, a couple of Christmases back, sitting in the front row at church. Most eyes had been on her sister Jaylee, who had been there with her husband, everyone wondering whether the preacher’s younger granddaughter had finally settled down. Their little boy’s squalling had almost drowned out the wheezing organ.
Christmas with his parents. Another post-pandemic Christmas which was part joy, part sorrow, the congregation still reeling from the ugly years. Five, ten...how many years would it take to mend what was broken?
Rev. Bob Ruskin at the pulpit of course, preaching his heart out about goodwill among men.
And to be fair, thought Ricky, still staring at the ceiling, Bob was a fine preacher. Rev. Bob understood that a short sermon was a good sermon, bookended by a couple of familiar hymns so folks could raise the roof and start gathering their mittens and scarves and wondering whether the Sunday roast would stretch to feed the neighbors they had just invited to lunch.
Goodwill among men .
Ricky’s throat was suddenly raw. Chrissie had been a gentle soul. Had done no harm, meant no harm.
And this was how she ended up?
A truck rumbled down the street, followed by the throaty roar of a motorcycle, wrenching him back into the present. His eyes focused on the fine cracks in the ceiling paint. What had once looked like a map of New Zealand had widened and was in danger of joining up with Tasmania. Or was that Fiji?
Ricky rose, stripped off, and tucked a towel around his waist before heading down the hall. Had to be decent when you were sharing one bathroom with your parents.
The pipes grumbled under his feet as he turned on the shower, and he reminded himself to check the furnace.
His old man’s COVID-affected lungs weren’t up to crawling around in dank basement corners. And Ricky needed to get that patch of damp sorted before he left, before South America joined New Zealand and the plaster came down.
He stepped under the stream of water and began soaping away the grime of the day. Foam slid across his rock-hard torso, and he wondered how long until he lost that hard-won edge. No more daily workouts at the fire station or constant drills wrangling heavy equipment.
Maybe he could take up running in the park and keep an eye on the trash cans at the same time.
Ricky toweled off, scowling at his reflection in the misted mirror.
Chrissie had sketched him, of course. Her talent had been precocious, curious, mercurial. She had drawn anyone, anywhere, who had “interesting bones”. The sharp angles of the under-fed, the flat features which hinted at Central Europe, the dark sculpted lines of Africa and the broad brow and rounded jaw of somewhere in Asia.
Ricky the eagle , she had called him once, frowning with concentration as she worked. They’d still been together then, Ricky head down in intensive training and Chrissie still talking about signing up at the School of Visual Arts.
Only three years ago, perhaps less, but it felt like a lifetime now.
Her pencil strokes had been lightning quick, as though the moment must be seized before it vanished.
He’d laughed when she had shown him the sketch, charmed at how she had captured the intensity of his narrow face, straight bony nose, blunt jaw, and dark, fierce eyes.
“I don’t look very friendly,” he’d objected.
“That’s because you’re not. You are the eagle, the predator ready to pounce. Cold and heartless.”
She’d laughed like it was a joke and grabbed his hand to haul him off to another noisy party where her friends argued about the pointlessness of art colleges.
Ricky stared at his cloudy image, mentally tracing the tiny scars on his forearm from the rain of scorching metal which had penetrated his protective jacket at a warehouse fire. And that jagged line of stitching on his shoulder—that had happened at a car wreck, crawling through the tangled steel to cut away a jammed seat belt.
All the rends in his flesh had healed in time, itching and aching as the tissue mended.
The pungent smell of firefighting chemicals was suddenly back, burning his nostrils. Followed, without warning, by the sour stench of unwashed linen and the cloying stink of smoke. His stomach clenched.
Chrissie .
His heartbeat raced. He tried to moisten the painful dryness in his throat. His heart banged against his chest like it was trying to escape.
Run , said his brain. Run .
Ricky took a deep, shuddering breath. Deep, slow, in and out, like the docs had recommended as they had peered into his eyes, tapped his chest, listened to his lungs. Nothing wrong that a spot of extended rest and recuperation wouldn’t fix.
He closed his eyes, willing himself to let go of the anger and the deep, lacerating regrets.
To concentrate on the single good thing, the unlooked-for miracle revealed in those blackened ruins. The most precious drawing that Chrissie had ever done.
His blood thrummed in his ears like cicadas on a Fourth of July picnic. The almost delirious joy which he had kept tamped down threatened to burst through, although Ricky knew that hope was a dangerous master.
Would he recognize his own flesh and blood? See the familiar narrow, high nose that his mom swore came from her bootlegging South American granddaddy, that double cow lick at the nape of his neck, or the wide coat-hanger shoulders that some blacksmith from the English counties had bequeathed his descendants?
Would he recognize his own child?