Chapter 10

The flames were everywhere, red rimmed in black, surrounding her on all sides, boxing her into a flickering coffin made of fire. Get out! her mind was screaming, but her body wouldn’t move. All she could do was lie on her back as the inferno raged around her, getting closer and closer to her vulnerable skin. Frantically, she looked around, trying to find the door, but there was no exit. Even if she could’ve forced her limbs to move, there was nowhere to go.

She was trapped.

There! A dark figure moved toward her, and her heart jumped with hope as she recognized the shape of a fire helmet. Steve was here. He’d save her. She tried to shout, to let him know she needed help, to show him where she was, but all that escaped was an almost-silent gasp.

Despite her inability to call to him, the figure drew closer, and Camille let out a sob of relief when the details of his bunker gear became clearer. The firefighter strode through the smoke and flames, seemingly heedless of the fire that licked at his pants and coat. The reflective stripes lit up red from the surrounding flames, but his face stayed in shadow. Rather than radiating safety, the approaching figure seemed menacing.

Fear and dread filled Camille, extinguishing her brief flash of hope. She struggled to move, needing to escape—not from the flames, but from the person bearing down on her. She’d hoped for a rescuer, but everything inside her was screaming to get away from the menacing figure inexorably closing in on her.

She was too late.

Unable to move anything below her neck, she lay frozen, her breath coming in terrified pants, as the dark shape loomed over her, silhouetted by the roaring flames. As the figure bent closer, gloved hands reaching out, Camille squeezed her eyes closed and choked on a scream that couldn’t escape, waiting for the first bite of pain.

Camille’s whole body jerked, waking her up. She lay still for a moment, her eyes closed, reorienting herself, trying to figure out what was real and what had been just a terrifying dream.

The light was wrong.

There was too much of it, and it turned the insides of her eyelids red, not letting her sink back into sleep. As she blinked them open, she took in the unfamiliar room, and everything came back in a rush—the fire, Steve saving Lucy and then offering them both a place to stay. Oh, but the house and all her things…

She sat up abruptly, cutting off that line of thought before she could tumble into a deep lake of grief. The quick movement disturbed Lucy, who’d been curled against her hip. The cat gave an annoyed grumble before closing her eyes again. Glancing at the clock sitting on the nightstand, Camille saw it was almost noon, which explained why everything was so bright.

The sun-drenched room was such a far cry from the burned wreck she imagined her own bedroom was now that her stomach pitched. All her fear and sadness threatened to seep into her thoughts again, and she firmly pushed them back, swallowing down her nausea. “I’m alive,” she said, and the words sounded loud in the quiet room. “Lucy’s alive. Steve’s alive. That’s all that matters.”

Knowing that she needed to move, to distract herself from her lingering thoughts, she slid out of bed, looking around the room—Steve’s bedroom. He’d had to finish the “mopping up,” as he’d called it, so Ryan had dropped her off. Steve had texted Joe, so he knew the basic details of her situation, and he’d shown her to Steve’s room.

When she’d protested, saying that she’d take the couch, Joe had scowled and said gruffly, “Steve’ll take the pullout in the den. He wants you in here.” Since Camille found cranky Joe a little intimidating, she didn’t argue with him. She did feel bad about pushing Steve out of his room, though.

It was a really nice room, too. The kids’ rooms were bigger—there were two people in each of those, after all—but Camille liked Steve’s the best, and not just because it had an en-suite bathroom. The bed was large, with a simple headboard, and it took up a great deal of the space. There was a large window on the south wall, which was the source of all the sunlight that had woken her, and the east had another with a window seat. The best part was that the top portion of that window was made of stained glass. She could just imagine how the rising sun would splash the room with bright colors.

Despite the light pouring through the windows, the room was chilly. She shivered, hugging herself. After showering, she hadn’t wanted to put any of her smoky, dirty clothes back on, so she’d borrowed a T-shirt and some exercise shorts from Steve’s dresser. They hung off her, so loose that the shorts threatened to fall off her hips, reminding her that the clothes she’d been wearing the previous night were the only ones she had left.

The creeping grief started to sneak back in, and Camille once again shoved it back. “They can be washed,” she said firmly. “Maybe one of the kids has something that will tide me over for a few hours.”

She used the bathroom, making a face at the sharp smell of acrid smoke coming from her pile of abandoned clothes. She borrowed Steve’s hairbrush and scrubbed her teeth with a little toothpaste on her finger, adding a toothbrush and floss to the mental list of things she needed to buy. First, though, she needed to talk to her bank and get a new card, or she wouldn’t be able to buy anything—or even withdraw any cash without ID.

She realized that she needed to start writing things down. Otherwise, she’d keep running through her mental list, and that would just make her sadder and more frantic. Gathering up her smoky clothes, she left Steve’s bedroom to search for a washing machine.

The house was so quiet it seemed empty, and she found herself tiptoeing down the stairs, feeling like an interloper. Even though Steve had invited her, she still felt strange to be alone in a house that wasn’t hers, especially while she was wearing his clothes. It wasn’t all bad, though—even though it was obviously clean, his T-shirt still smelled like Steve. The bedding had as well, and being able to bury her face in a pillow bearing his scent had allowed her to drift off into fitful sleep.

The door to Steve’s study was closed, and Camille figured he was still sleeping. She hadn’t heard him return from the fire the night before, so she wasn’t sure what time he’d gotten back. She hadn’t climbed into bed until after 4:00 a.m., so he’d probably been dumping water on the remains of her house until close to dawn. The mental image of Steve and the other firefighters working on the blackened, ruined shell of her house popped into her mind, and she stopped in the middle of the living room and squeezed her eyes closed.

That only made it worse, so she opened them again to find Steve standing in the now-open doorway of his study, looking rumpled and sleepy and incredibly tempting. “Oh! I mean, good morning.”

The greeting struck her as wrong—it wasn’t a good morning, not when her house had just burned down—and she grimaced.

“’Morning.” Glancing at his watch, he amended that. “Afternoon now.”

She clutched her smoky bundle tighter against her chest, feeling awkward and vulnerable in her oversized clothes—his clothes. “Did I wake you?”

“No.” His gaze flicked down to her bare legs before snapping back up to meet her eyes, his face reddening. “I’m just bad at sleeping during the day, even after staying up most of the night on a call or when one of the kids is sick.” He rubbed a hand over the lower part of his face, which was covered in rough stubble that made him even more attractive than his usual clean-shaven look. Camille hadn’t thought it was possible for him to be hotter; obviously, she’d been wrong.

Dragging her gaze off the sexy, scruffy shadow that covered his jaw, she glanced down at the bundle of clothes in her arms. “Would you…” Her voice came out raspy, and she cleared her throat before continuing. “Do you mind if I wash these things? I was hoping to get the smoke smell out of them.”

“Go ahead. The laundry room is off the kitchen. It’s the door next to the bathroom.”

“Thanks.” It was a chicken move, she knew, but she took advantage of the out that doing laundry offered. If she continued talking to mussed, sleepy-eyed, just-rolled-out-of-bed Steve much longer, she knew she’d end up saying something embarrassing—or just standing there and staring at him, which would be just as bad. It was better to run while she had the ability to pull herself away from temptation.

In the archway leading to the kitchen, she stopped. She couldn’t leave without at least trying to express her gratitude for everything he’d done for her in the past twelve hours. “Thank you,” she said, looking over her shoulder to catch him staring at her—her butt, to be exact.

He jerked his head up, quickly shifting his gaze to meet hers, but it was too late for him to pretend it didn’t happen. His eyes were lit with heat. “What?”

In all the years she’d known him, Camille never seen him so off-balance, and it made her like him even more. “Thank you,” she repeated, unable to keep a smile off her face. Steve Springfield had been checking her out. She’d honestly never expected that to happen. “Thank you for everything you did last night, and for letting me stay here…and giving up your bed. You didn’t have to do that.”

“You’re welcome.” He was obviously working very hard to keep his gaze from wandering, and her pulse began to flutter. “I wouldn’t have felt right knowing you were down here on the pullout.”

“Is it awful?” The ever-present guilt floated up again. “Didn’t you sleep well?”

He waved a hand, as if brushing off her worries. “It’s fine. I’ve had that couch for years and know exactly how to avoid the uncomfortable spots.”

“Well, thank you again for letting me sleep here. Your bed was very comfortable.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, heat flaring in them again, and she shifted her weight, both delighted and a little flustered by his reaction. Despite her borrowed, ill-fitting, very unflattering outfit, he was obviously interested, and her body was responding with corresponding arousal. “Good.” His voice was deep, even gritty.

Her arms squeezed her clothes against her convulsively. “Um. So. These are all smoky and sooty and really pretty gross, but they’re my only clothes left in the world now, so I’d better go put these in…” Her nerve broke, and she darted into the kitchen. By the time she’d found the laundry room and was putting her clothes in the washer, she was already regretting not staying and seeing where her strange conversation with Steve would’ve led. It had seemed so intimate, talking to him after they’d both just woken up, with her in his house, in his bed, in his clothes…

Her cheeks felt like they were on fire. Blowing out a long breath, she added detergent and started the washer. She needed to stop thinking about it, or she wouldn’t be able to look at him, much less have a normal conversation. It was stupid to focus so many of her thoughts on him right now, anyway. Her house had burned down. There were a lot of critical things she needed to do, and they did not include mooning over Steve. Determined to act like a normal person for once, she stepped out into the kitchen.

Steve was standing at the counter, his back to her. Despite her resolution, she had to admire the way his strong form filled out his T-shirt and jeans…especially the jeans.

“Coffee?” he asked, pulling a filled mug from the Keurig and holding it out to her.

“No, thank you. I’m not a big coffee fan.” At times like these, when any normal person would have used coffee as a comfort and a brace, she wished she did drink it. “Could I have paper and a pen?”

After placing the coffee on the table, he rummaged in a drawer and pulled out a notepad. After a few more moments of digging, he offered it to her, along with a pencil, a sparkly blue marker, a black Sharpie, and a broken piece of chalk. “Will one of these work? Otherwise, I should have a pen in the study.”

For some reason, the motley assortment of writing utensils made her smile. It reminded her of how varied—and delightful—his kids were. She selected the blue marker. “This is perfect.”

She sat down at the table and immediately started making her list, writing down the essentials that had been spinning in her head since the fire. Settling into the chair across from her, Steve quietly sipped his coffee.

When she finally began running out of things to put down, she’d covered a full page and part of a second in sparkly blue words. The length of the list made her sag in her chair. It seemed enormously impossible, especially without a vehicle or a phone or any form of ID or access to her money or even a coat—

“Here.” As if he’d read her mind, Steve slid his cell phone toward her. “Call your insurance company first. When you’re ready to go, I’ll bring you into town. You can borrow a coat from me. It’ll be too big.” For a moment, his gaze darted down to her—well, his—T-shirt. “But it’ll keep you warm. We’ll go to the bank, and then we’ll drive to the Target in Ebba. You can get clothes, toiletries, and pet supplies there. There’s a DMV, too, so we can find out how to go about getting a copy of your license. Once we get back, you can use my laptop to order a copy of your birth certificate and do whatever you need to do as far as notifying your customers goes.” Gently taking the marker out of her hand, he made a mark by the first ten or so items on her list. “If you promise not to tell anyone, we’ll get Zoe to hot-wire your Buick so we can drive it to the dealership and get a new key made. That way, you won’t have to have it towed.”

She could only stare at him, so grateful she felt shaky and close to tears.

“If you’re up for it, we’ll stop by Jackie’s office. She’s the fire marshal. You can give your statement, and she has some helpful information about what to do after a fire. You’ll get through this, Camille. It won’t be much fun, but we’ll all be here, doing whatever we can to help.”

Setting down the marker, he picked up his coffee again, as calm and steady as if he hadn’t just taken her upside-down world and turned it right side up again. She was trying to focus on what she needed to do in the next few minutes or hours so that she could ignore the enormity of what had happened—how her home, her haven, had been completely destroyed. Everything had seemed so hopeless and overwhelming and impossible until Steve lined up the first steps for her.

She blinked back tears and took quavering breath after quavering breath, trying to think of the words that would express how grateful she was and how wonderful he was. When she could finally speak, what came out was not what she’d planned. “Zoe knows how to hot-wire a car?”

He grinned at her from behind his coffee cup, looking so mischievous and adorable that she fell in love with him a little. “It’s a handy talent.”

“Yeah, it is.” She looked down at her list again. Although it was still painfully long, it wasn’t nearly as overwhelming anymore. Even the items that Steve hadn’t checked off seemed much more possible now. Looking up at him, she said simply, “Thank you.”

He tipped his chin down in acknowledgment, falling silent as she turned back to her list. She made notes on the items he’d mentioned and added a few more things that she’d missed the first time. Now that the list didn’t feel as hopeless, it felt good to be doing something constructive.

A short time later, Camille looked up again. “There. Now I feel like I have a rough—really rough—plan for getting my life back together.”

“Good.” Steve had finished his coffee and was sitting back in his chair, stroking Lucy, who was curled on his lap. The sight of her reminded Camille of how close she’d come to losing her cat, and her eyes grew blurry yet again.

Blinking rapidly, she managed to keep the tears from falling. There was too much to do for her to collapse now. “Thank you again for saving her.”

He dipped his head in a nod. She figured he was probably tired of her thanking him, but that was just too bad, since she had a feeling she’d be doing it a lot more in the coming days and weeks. Besides, he deserved every thank-you—and so much more.

“What…” She paused, not wanting to ask since she really didn’t want to know the answer. It was important for her to find out, though, so she took a deep breath and tried again. “What’s left of the house? Anything?”

He paused before he answered, and Camille’s stomach tightened with anxiety. “Not much. We pulled a few things out that you’ll need to take a look at, see if you want to salvage anything…especially your metalwork. The house itself, though… It’s gone.” He held her gaze as he spoke, not cringing away from sharing the bad news.

Camille, however, did flinch. She’d thought she’d accepted that the house had been reduced to blackened scrap and ashes, but it still hurt to hear it said so bluntly. There must’ve been a little bubble of hope tucked way down deep that her home, her grandma’s home, could be fixed. “Okay.” The word quivered, and she straightened in her chair, determined not to break down over something she’d already known. The second question, however, was even more difficult to ask. “D-do you know…” Her mouth felt uncomfortably dry, and she swallowed hard. Steve’s sympathetic gaze was about three seconds away from making her cry, so she just blurted out the rest of it. “What caused the fire?”

As the question hung in the air, Camille felt her muscles tighten more and more with every second that ticked by. She knew that Steve wasn’t trying to torture her. He just wanted to choose the right words. Still, the waiting was almost intolerable when she was about to find out if it was all her fault.

“The fire marshal’s just started investigating,” he said, and that didn’t help at all.

“There’s a theory already, though, isn’t there?” She tried to hide that her breaths were coming in quick, shallow gasps, but Steve’s concerned gaze showed that he was aware of how emotionally fragile and on edge she felt.

“She’s a stickler about not running her mouth before she’s thoroughly investigated and has solid conclusions,” Steve said, and Camille resisted the urge to protest. She didn’t know how long a fire investigation usually took, but her nerves wouldn’t be able to withstand waiting days, weeks, or even months for an answer. “Just between us, though, her initial impression is that it was an issue with the wiring.”

“What kind of issue?”

He raised his free hand in a slight shrug. “When fires start in an older house like that, it’s commonly because the knob-and-tube wiring gets compromised.”

“Compromised?” she asked.

“Usually by rodents.”

“Oh.” Her mind immediately went to the mice. Even though they could’ve been the reason her house burned down, she hoped that they’d managed to escape. “There were mice. Lucy didn’t seem to have much interest in catching them.” She thought of the one that her cat had dropped on her foot. It had seemed so long ago, even though it’d only been a couple of days. “Well, killing them, at least.”

Smiling a little, he looked down at the cat. “We all have different strengths and interests, don’t we, Lucy?”

She purred, seemingly not at all bothered by their new homeless state. Camille felt a little lighter, but she wanted to know for sure that Steve wasn’t protecting her feelings.

“It couldn’t have been something I did?” she asked. “A stray spark from the torch or forgetting to unplug something or…” Her brain ran over everything she’d done that night before falling asleep, but she’d been so tired and so much had happened since then that she couldn’t remember doing anything that could end up being a fire hazard. She’d been sketching, for Pete’s sake. That seemed like the safest thing she could do in her workshop. “I don’t know. Maybe an equipment short or something?”

“No.” The bald answer made Camille’s muscles go limp with relief. The vague guilt she’d been feeling since the night before drained out of her as he continued. “We do know for sure that the fire started inside the north wall of the workshop. It wasn’t anywhere close to your workbench.”

She mentally ran over everything that had been close to the north wall. All she’d had on that side of the workshop was a set of shelves holding wood and metal that had been too big or too fragile to be tossed in her scrap bin. Nothing had even been plugged into any of the outlets on the north wall.

Another wave of relief coursed through her. “Good.” The word seemed so small for the huge weight that had been lifted off her. “Stupid mice, though.”

Steve huffed a quiet laugh as he continued to stroke Lucy. “I’m surprised she’s willing to get near me,” he said, his hand continuing its regular movement, stroking Lucy’s back over and over. Camille found it mesmerizing. “She wasn’t that thrilled with me last night.”

“She’s forgiving.” Camille made a wry grimace. “When she first showed up at my house, she had pretty much every medical issue known to vets. The number of pills I’ve forced down this cat’s throat… She still lets me love on her, though. Well, if she’s in the mood.”

He chuckled, rubbing under Lucy’s chin, and the cat closed her eyes in bliss, purring loudly.

I don’t blame you one bit, Lucy girl, Camille thought. If Steve had been rubbing her, she was pretty certain she’d be purring, too. Just the thought made her cheeks heat, and she quickly ducked her head, pretending to add to her notes until she could get her reaction under control. It’s the fire. That was the reason her emotions were jumping around all over the place—from grief to hopelessness to gratitude to lust.

As much as she enjoyed staying with Steve, she hadn’t even begun to process the loss of her house. It had been the only safe shelter she’d ever known, her sanctuary since her grandma had brought her there as a child. Now, that was gone, and she felt raw and naked and utterly vulnerable. All the physical mementos of her grandma and even her mom were gone, and it felt as if she was truly alone in the world. No family, no house, no workshop…just memories.

Clearing her throat, Camille stood abruptly. “My clothes are probably ready to go into the dryer.”

After gently placing Lucy on the floor, Steve got up as well. “There’s a plastic bin in the shop that would work for a litter box, at least to tide Lucy over until we get back. I’ll go grab it. Figured we’d have lunch while your clothes are drying.” He gave her a quick up-and-down. Instead of being offensive, his almost bashful manner made the gesture seem sweet. “You can’t go outside like that. Your legs would freeze.”

Now that her spinning thoughts had been mapped out with Steve’s help, her stomach had settled down enough for her to realize she was actually really hungry. “That sounds good.”

Giving her legs a final, quick glance, he went into the entryway. As she turned toward the laundry, she heard him talking. His words were quiet, so she didn’t think he was directing them toward her. Curious if someone else was there, especially since she hadn’t heard the door, she moved to the entryway.

Steve was the only one there. His back was to her as he pulled on his boots, stomping his feet into them almost angrily. “Get yourself together,” he muttered. As Camille realized that he was talking to himself—lecturing himself, more accurately—she started to smile. It was something she always did, and seeing strong, calm, and confident Steve exhibit the same quirk made her feel like less of a dork. “You’re not a sixteen-year-old kid. Quit talking about her legs. Quit looking at her legs. She’s going to think she’s living with a creeper.”

Covering her mouth with her hand to keep her laughter from bursting out, Camille tiptoed backward into the kitchen. It wasn’t until she was in the laundry room with the door closed that she let her giggles escape. Underneath her amusement was a tickled sense of pride. She’d never thought about her legs much or considered them one of her outstanding features. Her hair and her full lips were her favorites, and the rest she thought to be fairly average. Steve, however, had apparently been entranced by them. She’d spent so much time getting distracted by how good-looking Steve was that it was nice to know it wasn’t a totally one-sided admiration after all.

Once her clothes were in the dryer and her pleased laughter had settled, she returned to the kitchen and headed for the fridge. One thing she’d decided while making the list was that she was going to do her best to pull her weight at the ranch, whether that meant cooking or cleaning or barn chores or even working at the store.

She cringed at the thought of the last one. Crowds of demanding customers weren’t her favorite thing, but she’d deal with them if Steve requested it.

By the time he returned from the shop, she’d fed Lucy some leftover chicken and had two cheese sandwiches in a skillet on the stove.

“That’ll be perfect,” she said, seeing that he’d half filled the plastic bin with fine wood shavings. “Thank you. Lucy thanks you, too.” The cat was, in fact, rubbing around Steve’s ankles.

“I put some stall bedding in there,” he said, tucking the bin into an out-of-the-way corner of the kitchen before washing his hands. His cheeks were ruddy from the cold, and Camille felt much better admiring how great he looked all wind-tossed now that she knew he had similar thoughts about her. “Think that’ll work? I thought about using chicken grit for cat litter, but I worried it might be too rough on Lucy’s paws.”

She was quickly finding that when Steve was sweet to her cat, her insides turned to goo. “This is perfect.”

Giving one of his short nods, he glanced at the grilled cheese sandwiches. “Smells good. Want some soup with that?”

“Sure.” She flipped one of the sandwiches, pleased that it was a perfect golden brown. Her cooking skills were limited, but she could make a mean grilled cheese. “I was going to heat some up but didn’t see any in the pantry.”

He grinned proudly as he opened the freezer. “Micah’s our chef. He’s even better than Nate, and that’s saying something. Micah went on a soup-making binge a few weeks ago when we had that cold snap. We ate so much soup that we finally said enough and froze all that was left.” Pulling out a plastic container, he held it up so she could see. “Tomato basil.”

“He made soup? From scratch?” It had never occurred to her to even try. “I’d never thought about soup coming from anywhere except a can.”

As he popped the frozen soup in the microwave, Steve gave her a conspiratorial smile. “Me either, until Micah started putting soup bones and cooking wine on the grocery list.”

With a laugh, she pulled two bowls and two plates out of the cupboard. “Your kids are sort of amazing.”

“Yeah.” He sounded proud but baffled. The microwave dinged, and he poured the soup into a saucepan, placing it on the stove to finish heating. “Growing up, I was so average, kind of doofy, even. Don’t really know what I did to deserve such incredible kids.”

Camille gave a little snort as she flipped the sandwiches onto the plates. “Please. I was there. You were not average, and you were definitely not doofy.”

“That’s because you were, what…four years younger than me? You were too young to notice the doofiness.” He leaned a hip against the counter as he stirred the soup, one corner of his mouth creeping up into a teasing half smile. Once again, she was struck by the homey intimacy of the moment, cooking together as they talked about his kids. It was wonderful and surreal at the same time.

“Three years younger,” she corrected him. “I was a freshman when you were a senior, and I was well aware of any doofy qualities in everyone else. Jeremy Dill, for example.”

Steve groaned even as he laughed. “Dilly! I’d forgotten about him. Yeah, he was doofier than I was.”

“By far, and he still is. He sells insurance in Ebba, but he still lives in Borne, and I run into him far too often.” Putting the plated sandwiches on the table, she got two bowls from the cupboard and then filled a couple of glasses with water. “I’m still not convinced you have any doofy qualities.” As she put spoons next to their plates, she realized that she hadn’t taken into account whether his brothers would be there for lunch. “I forgot to ask if anyone else would be eating with us.”

“Just us. Nate and Ryan are working the store and lot today. Weekdays tend to be quieter, so they’ll swing by one at a time when they can grab something to eat.” The soup started bubbling, and Steve hurried to lift it off the burner. “I’d be in trouble with Micah if he saw that. I’m not supposed to let it boil.” As he divided the soup between the two bowls, Camille hid a smile. It was so obvious how much he not only loved his kids, but also liked them like crazy. “What?” he asked.

Guess she hadn’t hidden her smile well enough. “You’re such a good dad,” she answered honestly.

His cheeks darkened, and he concentrated on getting the soup into the bowls. “Thank you. That means a lot. Now that they’re older, it’s gotten harder. I worry that I’m doing it wrong, that I’m going to mess them up somehow.” He sounded so sincere that she felt a tight squeeze in her chest. If she wasn’t careful, Steve Springfield could very easily put a serious dent in her heart.