Chapter 2
two
“Where there is smoke, there is fire.” - Proverb
There was little Cole Hauser and his daddy had in common aside from their devotion to their small town and the love of a challenge.
Today’s battle? This damn suit. He’d wrangled himself into it like a possum at a dog show.
Sure, it was the only thing halfway respectable for a day like this—his daddy getting honored in front of half the county—but that didn’t make it feel any less like slow-cooked punishment.
Most days, Cole wore jeans and a t-shirt with The Hammered Nail’s logo on the front, not a three-piece like he was posing for a bank ad.
His only saving grace was having this ceremony in September and not the infamous oven that was Tennessee in July.
That would’ve been his daddy’s pick, no question—though none of this was his doing. Still, he’d have eaten up the heat like molasses on a biscuit. That thick, sticky kind of summer that had your clothes clinging was like sweet nectar to a honeybee for him.
Maybe it reminded his pop of those moments when fire licked at his boots and tugged at his coat, trying its damnedest to take him under in the blaze he’d spent his whole working life beating back as a firefighter.
Until today.
Today, John Hauser was walking away from all of it. No more early alarms or late-night calls, no more soot-stained gear or secondhand smoke in the laundry room. Just a plaque and a podium and a whole town watching.
He didn’t look like he was done, though.
Standing on that stage, John was as solid and sure as ever.
Broad as a barn and sunbaked from years in the heat, he had that same steel in his spine.
And when he found Cole’s mama in the crowd, they shared a look that said more than words ever could.
It was the kind of look you earned after thirty-some years of standing side by side through just about everything.
Usually, those silent communications had to do with Cole—what to do with the son who never quite settled down. But this one? This one was all for them.
It didn’t happen often, but pride puffed up in Cole’s chest instead of that old bitterness as his daddy strode across the stage like he had every right to be there. And hell, he did. The proof was in the number of people in the crowd.
Pop took his plaque and shook Mayor Abbott’s hand, then turned to his audience, cheeks flushed with the embarrassment that came from being recognized for something he’d done out of duty rather than for the accolades.
Folks whooped and hollered as he ducked his head, trying to wave off the mayor’s attempt at drawing him to the podium. Despite his efforts, Mayor Abbott managed to get John behind the mic, and Cole’s daddy stood there like someone had asked him to perform brain surgery.
From behind came a low, slow chant of “speech, speech, speech!”
Cole glanced back, first spotting the fire chief staring forward.
Eric Ward was characteristically stoic in his starched uniform, an extra stiffness in his posture.
Lydia Abbott, his sister, sat beside him instead of his wife—no surprise there.
The divorce had finally stuck this time.
Lydia looked about as happy to be there as her brother.
Her husband was, also characteristically, missing.
It was the group behind them—other crew members from the station—who were getting rowdy and chanting the word with increasing volume and intensity. Despite everything between Cole and his daddy and the urge to tear off the damn suit, Cole couldn’t help cracking a smile.
It disappeared almost as quickly as it came.
His attention snagged on the feminine figure lingering toward the back of the crowd.
Glimpses of a yellow sundress flashed between shifting bodies like heat shimmer off hot asphalt.
He reacted like a man who’d broken down on an abandoned road in the dead of summer even before he fully registered that he recognized her.
He’d seen her face often enough, even if they’d never met. Being five years older meant his circle had never overlapped with hers. But amid the clutter of family snapshots and sentimental knick-knacks, her picture had been a constant on his parents’ mantel the better part of two decades.
The story of why was as familiar as a lullaby. Because Jocelyn Murphy was tied to his family, whether she wanted to be or not. After all, his daddy had saved her life twenty years ago, almost to the day.
She didn’t look like the girl in that picture anymore.
She was older now, more guarded. Beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with softness and everything to do with the flint in her eyes.
Cole struggled to swallow past the dryness in his throat as he cataloged the changes in her since the last photo was placed in the same old frame on the mantel.
He turned to his mama, mostly to keep from staring. “Jocelyn Murphy’s here,” he murmured.
Ellen lit up. “Is she? Oh, I hoped she’d come.” She craned her neck, waving until she caught Jocelyn’s eye.
There was a ripple effect, and several others turned to look, too.
Pink tinged Jocelyn’s cheeks as folks traded whispers, the added color like a punch to Cole’s gut.
The visceral reaction almost knocked him over.
She waved back, then shifted to fiddle with a piece of her dark hair that’d fallen from her updo, clearly uncomfortable with all the focus that had landed on her.
Ellen ignored the whispers of the townsfolk. “I wish she could sit with us.” She bit her lip. “Do you think your daddy can see her?”
Cole’s gaze swiveled back to the stage where John was reluctantly clutching the edges of the podium, another flush creeping up his neck.
“Probably can’t think beyond whatever he’s trying to cobble together for a speech,” Cole answered with a smirk.
John cleared his throat as if he’d heard his son’s comment. “Thanks, everyone. Really. It’s too much, but I appreciate it.”
His voice over the loud speaker had the side conversations about Jocelyn Murphy dying down, even if Cole’s awareness of her presence did not.
“I never aimed to be anybody special,” John continued, staring down at the podium. “Just showed up and tried do the right thing. Hope I got it right more often than not.”
Straight-forward. Very John Hauser.
He did a little salute with the award and shook the mayor’s hand again as everyone started clapping, a raucous sound that made Cole’s hands itch to do anything else but add to the clamor.
With subtlety in mind, he turned to look for Jocelyn in the crowd, but the crew from the station blocked his view as they filed out of their row to rush the stage.
Dozens of hands patted his daddy on the back, even while the guys razzed him for being so nervous.
He grinned, the ribbing relaxing him, and Cole was reminded that his pop had built himself a kind of family at that station, one he’d never quite got a piece of.
Cole slipped an arm around his mama’s shoulders, guiding her into the aisle as she dabbed at her eyes with tissues, beaming so bright it almost hurt to look at her. That was the best part of it all. Her pride was its own glow.
She waded through the crowd to rescue John from all the attention, which kept a steady tinge of red under his already ruddy complexion.
Cole followed, though he searched for the dark-haired woman who’d lingered in the back so uncertainly.
Like that lost man on the abandoned road, his wish to find her brought the mirage back into view.
The most surprising thing about Jocelyn’s appearance, and the reason he told himself he couldn’t keep his eyes away, was the fact that she was a grown woman now, a walking contradiction to what he’d believed about her for years.
Always relegated in his mind to that little girl in the story, the whispered-about black mark on his town’s history, it felt impossible to match this woman to the image that existed in his memory.
Someone bumped him, breaking his concentration, and he turned to see his daddy reach for his mama’s hand and tug her into his side.
Cole knew the move for what it was—an attempt to deflect the spotlight.
As much as Pop hated it, his mama loved the fuss, and John was letting her bask in the shared accomplishment.
People pressed forward, trying to get closer to shake John’s hand. A few settled on shaking Cole’s or cuffing his shoulder, offering congratulations as if he had anything to do with it. It restarted the buzzing under his skin, and he tugged at his sleeves, trying to fade into the background.
And then there was Jocelyn, closer now even as she still fiddled with the loose lock of hair. She looked like she didn’t want to be seen but didn’t quite want to disappear.
“Is that Bonnie Murphy’s girl?”
The voice was familiar enough, and Cole wasn’t surprised to see Edith Wetzel lean in to Harriet Munson like this was the biggest news since the preacher’s wife left town. Edith flapped a paper fan incessantly, making wisps of her hair flutter around her face.
“Spitting image,” Harriet said.
“Never thought I’d see her around here again, bless her heart.” A judgmental sweep of the gaze sent Edith’s ridiculous spider-leg eyelashes brushing against her cheeks. “I hope she doesn’t ruin the fall festival.”
Harriet gasped as if someone had just spit in her prize-winning potato salad. “Heaven forbid!”
Almost like they knew he was watching, both women looked at Cole with a scheme already brewing. Since he was part of the setup committee for the festival, he’d likely be hearing the plot they’d hatch before the day was through.
He’d have to shut that down quick. Wouldn’t stop the jaws flapping, but it might send a message to anyone looking to drag him into it.
Wishful thinking.
He shifted his attention back to Jocelyn, hoping that was message enough for the old biddies. She was taller than he realized, and he himself was a tall man. Her hands clutched at the purse she held, her nerves becoming more obvious the closer she got to his folks.
If she’d heard the women, she gave no indication.
It was a mild enough conversation, easily ignored.
But Jocelyn had been gone from Cedar Hollow for two decades, and gossip could ignite faster than dry tinder in a small town, and it often burned viciously.
It would take some thick skin if she planned to stay longer than five minutes.
Big assumption on his part, but it seemed damn wasteful to drive the hours it took to get here and only stay for this one event. And just like that, the shrewd glint in her eyes made sense.
He folded his arms across his front as Jocelyn stepped up to his mama, who reached out to draw her in for a hug.
But almost as if he’d televised his inner monologue, Jocelyn’s dark eyes shot straight to his, and he could swear her chin lifted a fraction of an inch, issuing a challenge that was a siren song to the very core of his makeup.
Aw, hell, he was in trouble.