The Fireman's Homecoming - Allie Pleiter Mills & Boon Love Inspired

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justice at the local community college, but I was never the kind of guy to finish things, so I went into firefighting pretty much after that. I worked in Detroit for seven years until I came back here.”

      “The big-city fireman.”

      “Well, Detroit. Maybe not as big as Chicago, but it makes up for it in intensity.”

      She sized him up as she ate a bite of her scone. “I never pegged you for the kind to come back home.”

      It had to come up sooner or later. Clark sighed. He still hadn’t come up with a graceful way to answer comments like that. “It’s not a new story. Bad boy goes off to the big city to find new ways to be bad, hits bottom, comes home a changed man.” Clark pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking that sounded arrogant. “Or hopes he comes home a changed man. I’m still ironing out the kinks, as you already know.”

      She leaned back in the booth, finger running around the rim of her mug. “I think I remember hearing something about an accident. Was that the bottom you hit?”

      Calling that night an accident was like calling an earthquake a bump in the road. Talking about that point in his life was a four-hour conversation, not something for a quick morning coffee. It wasn’t the kind of thing Clark could share with just anyone, despite the warm look in Melba’s eyes. She was dealing with her life tilting in a different direction, and he knew what that felt like. Maybe that was why he felt so drawn to her. But she had enough trouble on her plate. Digging into his own mess with Melba Wingate was not on today’s menu—on this year’s menu—of good ideas. He drank down the last of his coffee and made a show of checking his watch—the only way he could think of to slip out of the oncoming conversation. “Yeah, well, that’s a story needing way more time than you or I have.”

      She peered at her half-empty mug and scone with only a bite taken out of it. “I should probably head on over to the hospital.” Her words lacked any sense of hurry whatsoever.

      Clark’s gut grew a black hole, and it wasn’t from gulping his coffee. He was leaving her hanging—again—and he knew it, but he also knew that the potency of that topic with this woman was a bad combination. He could not get so personal with her and keep it “friendly.” The goal here was to keep his focus on becoming the department’s new chief, and Clark’s terrible track record bore witness that any romantic entanglements would mess up the chance he had here in Gordon Falls. “No, stay, enjoy the sunshine. I just have to go... Appointment... Firehouse stuff.” He wanted to whack his forehead for how lame that excuse sounded. “Hope things go well for your dad.”

      Her smile was polite but hollow. “Me, too. It’s been a rough couple of days.”

      Clark made himself sit still a moment longer. “This is a good town, you know. People know your dad. They’ll want to help, so don’t be afraid to ask for it when you need it, okay? Barney knows everyone and Pastor Allen can have twelve casseroles at your house in under an hour—our deacons’ board is like a SWAT team.”

      He was glad that got a laugh from her. He wanted her to get connected—it was just better if it wasn’t to him. “I’ve been meaning to get settled in a church here.”

      With her words, a memory of high school Melba invaded his brain. A gawky, frizzy-haired teen girl heading up to the youth Bible study he used to make such fun of with his wild friends. How the world had changed for them both.

      Chapter Three

      “Okay, now, you’re settled.” Melba tucked the knitted afghan over Dad’s knees. He looked so old, the recliner’s worn cushions nearly swallowing his thin body.

      “What a lot of work getting up those front steps.” She couldn’t tell if Dad’s remark was in annoyance or admission. Did he have any sense of how frail he’d become? “When did we paint them that awful green?” He glared out the window at them, eyes narrowed in the expression of a man gloating over a vanquished foe.

      She could almost laugh. Maybe it was better if Dad blamed the steps. “Two years ago. And the green’s not so bad.”

      “It’s all wrong. I liked them better when they were brown.”

      The most amazing details from way back would pop into his mind like that. The steps hadn’t been brown for almost ten years—they’d been beige before they were green. Melba took her father’s coat and hung it on the bentwood coatrack by the door. “Maybe we’ll paint them this summer.”

      “I’d like that.” The smile seemed to transform her father’s face, to roll back the years as it lit up his eyes. “I’m hungry. The food in there was lousy.”

      “Nutrition is boring,” Barney declared, waltzing into the room with two sizable slices of chocolate cake. “So I’m banning healthy meals for the rest of the day.” She winked at Dad as she put the fork into his right hand. For a while they’d thought he’d lost his appetite, getting surly at meals, until one supper he let it slip that he couldn’t remember which hand to use. Now Barney slid the fork into his hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Barney was amazing at helping Dad without making him feel “helped.” Melba had run out of ways to thank her.

      “Where’s your slice?”

      Barney rubbed her hefty stomach. “Already gone. Someone had to make sure it was up to snuff.”

      “You’re a doll,” Dad said behind a mouthful of cake. “Delicious as always.”

      Picking up her handbag, Barney tapped Melba’s shoulder. “I’ll be at church for the women’s committee till four. I’ll be back to check on you and put the casserole into the oven at five so you all can eat at six. You all call me if you need anything. Anything at all.”

      “We’ve got cake, we’ll be fine as can be,” Dad said.

      Barney smiled, but caught Melba’s eyes with a silent “You going to be all right on your own?” raise of one eyebrow.

      “Fine as can be,” Melba echoed, banning all sounds of worry from her voice. In truth, she was more than a little nervous, wondering if Dad’s fits of anger or anxiety would soon loom larger than she could handle. Looking back at him now, she saw just a happy old man eating cake in his favorite chair.

      * * *

      They passed the afternoon without incident, Dad napping while Melba formatted half a dozen digital catalogue pages for work and plowed through the pile of emails left unattended during the hospital stay. “I’ll need to learn to give myself wider margins on deadlines,” she wrote her boss, Betsy, in the email that submitted the catalogue pages, thankful that she’d had the cable company install wireless internet a week ago. “Life can get upended on a moment’s notice over here.” It annoyed her that the pages were a day behind schedule—usually Melba managed to get things in early. “On time is late for Melba,” Betsy used to joke. She doubted anyone would say that anymore.

      “Melba?” Dad’s voice startled her, it was so clear and strong.

      “Right here, Dad.”

      “It’s four-thirty, isn’t it?”

      She glanced at the clock above the kitchen table where she’d been working. “Four twenty-eight, to be exact.”

      “Aren’t I supposed to take one of those enormous pills now?”

      Melba pulled the huge, multi-compartmented pill sorter toward her—recently refilled with some new additions—and consulted the list. “Wow, Dad, you’re good. Yep, it’s one of those big yellow ones.” She filled a glass with water and brought him the pill with two others in the “Afternoon” compartment.

      Dad made a face. “These are monsters. They used to be small and white.”

      They did. His memory was still there, peeking out, holding on. “Well, Doc says you need a double dose for the next few weeks.”

      “Let him choke ’em down, then.”

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