The Fire Between Us (Cedar Falls: Fire Department #1)

Chapter 1 - Jennie

I clutch Amelia tighter against my chest as the bus lurches to a stop.

"Cedar Falls," the driver calls out, his voice as weary as the vehicle's brakes.

My one-year-old daughter stirs in her sleep, her tiny fingers curled around the collar of my jacket. The weight of her—the only constant in my life these past eighteen months—anchors me as I gather our meager belongings. One duffel bag. One diaper bag. One life, stripped down to essentials.

"End of the line," the driver adds, eyeing me through the rearview mirror.

I nod, slinging the bags over my shoulder while balancing Amelia. The small-town bus terminal is really just a weathered bench beside a convenience store. A faded sign welcomes visitors to Cedar Falls, population 3573. Small enough to disappear in, large enough not to stand out.

"You need directions, miss?" the driver asks as I step down.

"I'm good, thanks."

The lie comes easily now. I'm not good. I haven't been good since the night I grabbed Amelia from her crib and ran from Derek's raised fist. But I've learned that looking vulnerable invites questions I can't afford to answer.

The air here smells different—pine and something earthy. No city exhaust, no overlapping conversations, just the distant sound of birds and occasional passing cars. It's nearly dusk, the October sky fading to purple above the tree line.

I've chosen Cedar Falls for entirely practical reasons: it's far from Minneapolis, housing is affordable according to my research, and it's small enough that Derek—who hates anything rural—would never think to look here. Still, I scan the street before walking toward Main Street, an old habit I can't shake.

Amelia wakes as we pass a diner with warm yellow lights spilling onto the sidewalk.

"Hey, baby girl," I whisper, kissing her forehead. "We're here. Our new start."

She blinks up at me, her eyes—so like mine, thank God, nothing like his—taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. Then she does what she always does when we arrive somewhere new: she points at random things and makes her little questioning sound.

"That's right," I tell her, as if we're having a real conversation. "That's a diner. And look, there's a bookstore. Maybe they'll have your favorite bear book."

The motel I've booked is just off Main Street, nothing fancy, but the online reviews mentioned clean rooms and weekly rates. The neon VACANCY sign buzzes as I approach, Amelia babbling softly against my shoulder.

"You got lucky," the motel clerk tells me after I pay a week in advance, cash. "Tourist season's over, but we had a fishing tournament last weekend. Place was packed."

I force a smile, taking the room key—an actual key, not a card. "Is there a grocery store nearby?"

"Martin's, two blocks down. Closes at nine." He glances at Amelia, his expression softening. "There's a highchair in the breakfast room if you need it. Breakfast is six to ten, nothing fancy, but the coffee's decent."

"Thank you." This time, my smile feels less fake.

Room 118 smells of industrial cleaner and air freshener, but it's clean as promised. Two double beds with faded floral spreads, a small table with two chairs, a dresser with a TV that probably still has actual channels instead of streaming services.

"Home sweet home," I murmur, setting Amelia down on one of the beds. She immediately crawls to the edge, peering over like she's discovered a cliff.

I unpack our essentials—diapers, wipes, a few toys, and the clothes we'll need tomorrow. The rest can wait. From my wallet, I pull out the folded printout of job listings in Cedar Falls. I've highlighted the promising ones: a waitress at the diner we passed, a seller at the flower shop, and a receptionist at a medical clinic.

These are jobs that pay cash weekly or biweekly, jobs where I might be able to bring Amelia or work while she's sleeping.

My nursing degree is useless now. Too many credentials required, too easy to trace. Maybe someday, when I'm sure he's stopped looking, I can be Nurse Jennifer Miller again. But for now, I'm just Jennie Smith, a single mom starting over.

"Bath time, Amelia-bean," I announce, and she responds with her full-body wiggle of delight. Some things remain constant, even when everything else has changed.

After her bath in the aging tub, I dress Amelia in her warmest pajamas. The room is drafty, and I make a mental note to ask for an extra blanket tomorrow. I heat up one of her purée pouches and feed her as we sit together on the bed.

"Tomorrow, we'll explore our new town," I promise her. "Find a park for you to play in. Maybe even make a friend or two."

The word "friend" catches in my throat. It's been so long since I've had one. Derek made sure of that, systematically cutting off each relationship until my world shrank to just him and his rules. Even after Amelia was born, when I desperately needed the support of other mothers, he monitored my "mommy and me" classes, waiting in the parking lot and timing my attendance.

Amelia yawns widely, her eyelids growing heavy. I tuck her into the middle of one bed, surrounding her with pillows, though she's not rolling much anymore. Next to her, I place Mr. Whiskers, the stuffed cat that's traveled with us through three states. It's the only thing she has from before—a gift from my mother before she passed away, before I met Derek, before everything fell apart.

I take a quick shower, keeping the bathroom door open to hear Amelia. The water pressure is weak, but the heat is steady, and I stay under the spray until my muscles begin to relax. When I step out, I catch my reflection in the steamy mirror. The bruise on my shoulder has faded to a sickly yellow, but the one on my ribs is still purple. They're healing, just like the rest of me. Slowly, imperfectly.

I pull on sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt, then check my phone—a prepaid model I purchased three towns ago. No messages, which is good. No one should have this number.

For a long moment, I stand at the window, peering through the gap in the curtains at the quiet street. Cars pass occasionally. A couple walks hand in hand on the opposite sidewalk—normal people living normal lives. I wonder what that feels like.

I'm not tired, but I need to sleep when Amelia sleeps. That's the rule. I curl around her tiny form, breathing in her baby shampoo scent, and close my eyes.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow we start building something that might, someday, feel like a real life.

The Next Day

The sound of sirens jolts me awake at 7:15 AM.

Amelia stirs beside me but doesn't wake, a small mercy. I slide carefully from the bed and part the curtains. Two blocks down, red and blue lights pulse against the morning fog. A fire truck speeds past the motel, its siren cutting through the quiet town.

My heart rate slowly returns to normal as I step away from the window. Just a local emergency, nothing to do with us. Not everything is a threat, I remind myself. Not everything is him.

Still, the adrenaline has me fully awake now. I take advantage of the quiet morning to shower again and dress in what I consider my "interview clothes"—dark jeans without any wear, a blue button-down shirt, and a cardigan that hides how much weight I've lost.

I twist my hair into a neat bun, apply minimal makeup, and practice my interview smile in the mirror. Friendly but not flirtatious. Capable but not threatening. The balance is exhausting.

By the time Amelia wakes, I've already mapped out our day: breakfast at the motel, then the diner to ask about the waitress position, followed by the flower shop. If there's time, we'll find the local park I spotted on the town's website.

"Good morning, sunshine," I say as her eyes flutter open. "Ready to start our new adventure?"

She responds with a toothy grin that makes my heart clench. For her, I remind myself. Everything is for her.

The motel's breakfast room is empty except for an elderly couple reading newspapers. I settle Amelia into the highchair the clerk mentioned, grateful for one less thing to juggle. The breakfast is basic—cereal, toast, some fruit that's seen better days—but Amelia delights in the novelty of the Cheerios, and I manage to eat half a banana and drink a cup of coffee that is, as promised, decent.

We're just finishing when the bell above the door jingles, and a man walks in, bringing with him the scent of smoke and morning air. He's tall, broad-shouldered, and has dark hair that curls slightly where it's growing too long. He wears navy blue pants with reflective strips and a Cedar Falls Fire Department t-shirt that's seen better days.

"Morning, Max," the elderly man calls out. "Heard the sirens. Anything serious?"

"Nah, just the Wilsons' garage," the firefighter—Max—replies, heading straight for the coffee. "Space heater too close to some stored paint. Got it before it reached the house."

He pours coffee into a paper cup, then turns, scanning the room. His eyes meet mine for a brief moment—they're strikingly blue against his smoke-smudged face—and he offers a casual nod before returning to his conversation.

I look away quickly, focusing on wiping Amelia's hands. Firefighter. Good to know in an emergency, but otherwise, not relevant to us. No one is, not really. It's just Amelia and me against the world.

At least, that's what I tell myself as I gather our things, carefully avoiding looking at the firefighter again. Just Amelia and me, I repeat. It's safer that way.

But as I lift Amelia from the highchair, she drops Mr. Whiskers, and before I can bend down, the stuffed cat is being held out to us.

"I think this belongs to the little lady," says the firefighter—Max—with a smile.