In the Clear (7 page)

He’d hoped to find Lexie waiting for him at the base of the stairs, but she wasn’t anywhere in sight. Instead, he had to shake hands with a few people, accept their congratulations without making a fool of himself.

“That was a hell of a speech, son.”

Fletcher turned to find a man waiting patiently for his turn to talk. The man was short and squat, with beads of sweat breaking from his over-red brow. He tried to mop them up using a silk handkerchief that matched his expensive suit, but a droplet lingered on the tip of his slightly bulbous nose.

Fletcher immediately understood how the man felt.

The drippy mess part. Not the ten-thousand-dollar-suit part.

“The name’s Barnes. Henry Barnes.” He shoved the handkerchief in his pocket and offered his hand instead. “I saw your picture the other day.”

Fletcher nodded. He still hadn’t quite worked out the appropriate response there. Was he supposed to thank him? Offer to sign an autograph?

“I liked what I saw, so I’ve been meaning to look into it,” Henry continued, relieving him of the agony of response. “Tell me—do you boys operate on a volunteer basis, or is it paid work you do?”

“Most of the men
and
women with the Spokane Search and Rescue are volunteers.” Fletcher corrected him. “Myself included.”

Henry nodded, the sweat droplet finally separating from his skin and splashing into his drink. “And the equipment you use—that’s all donated?”

“Well, sort of.” Most people assumed that small, local SAR groups like theirs were funded either from all public money or all private money. The truth was something a lot less clear-cut than that. “There aren’t any government funds earmarked for small-time search and rescue use, but the sheriff’s office will kick us a perk every now and then. And we certainly take donations when we can get them. But most of the equipment we use—from the ATVs to our packs—comes from our own pockets.”

“I didn’t know that.” Lexie appeared at his elbow, her hand warm on his arm. Her expression, however, was not. “I guess there are a lot of things we’ve never talked about.”

He thought maybe she was mad at him, but she brightened and moved to include Henry in the conversation. “Also, I see you’ve met Mr. Barnes. Henry here is the only reason we’ve been able to hire two full-time case managers this year.
And
he plays Santa every year at the kids’ party. He’s the perfect amount of jolly for the job. You should have seen him last week. There was a line an hour long to sit on his lap—the children adore him. We all do.”

“Oh, now, I don’t know about that.” Despite his modest words, the man flushed under Lexie’s praise.

“Well, I do,” Lexie said simply. She turned to Fletcher. “I wish you’d told me sooner that you take donations. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s putting people like you and Henry in touch.”

“You should probably talk to my Unit Leader.” Fletcher shifted uncomfortably. He hadn’t come here to take advantage of Lexie’s contacts.

“But how much of your own money would you say you put in every year?” When Fletcher paused, Henry quickly added, “Percentage-wise?”

Fletcher glanced back and forth between Lexie and Henry, both of them turning expectant looks his way. “It’s hard to say.”

When it was clear more was required of him, he sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t put in money. It’s just not, uh, possible on my salary.” Great. Now he looked like a penniless loser—something Lexie obviously knew for herself, but still a terrible thing to have to admit out loud.

Henry didn’t blink. “What do you put in then? Aside from your time?”

“And the risk to your life,” Lexie added, looking at him queerly. “I don’t think we should forget that part.”

Fletcher feigned an intense interest in the palms of his hands, still damp from his foray into public speaking. “Well, the thing is . . . ” He took a deep breath and forced himself to meet Henry’s eyes. He’d just admitted to a crowd of strangers that he was nothing more than a scared little boy who missed his daddy. Surely he could admit that SAR needed all the help it could get.

“The thing is,” he repeated, “we can always use money for better vehicles. We have a converted RV that serves as our outpost station and two snowmobiles I was able to get at cost from my boss at the car lot, but our storage trailer is decades old and I have my eye on a new transport truck. I’m partway to paying the truck off with my current hours, but it’s still a long ways away. I’m afraid someone else might get to it before I can.”

Henry nodded and his eyes shifted upward, as if he was doing calculations in his head.

Fletcher glanced at Lexie to see if he’d blown all his chances at ever being invited to another one of these benefits . . . and stopped.

“What?” He checked around him for signs of imminent danger—a river cracking open or a door crashing into her face. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

She didn’t speak right away, which only increased the sensation of doom pressing on his chest. “I can’t believe it,” she said slowly. “It’s so obvious now. The trucks, the RV, the rescue stuff.
That’s
why you work at the car lot. You get a discount.”

As it was neither a question nor a statement, his only available response was a low-throated rumble.

“You hate that place, Fletcher, and you have since the day you started there. Sean and I could never understand why you insisted on staying somewhere you were obviously so ill-suited and . . . ”

“Miserable?” Fletcher supplied.

“For lack of a better word, yes. And overqualified.” She paused, taking a moment to appraise him. If he didn’t know better, he’d have said there was admiration and—yes, even interest—in her eyes. Was it the rescue that had done it? The speech?
Or is it me?
“How is it that I’ve known you almost my whole life and I’m only just discovering these things? You rescue people even though it scares the crap out of you. You look amazing in a suit. You have a natural gift for public speaking. What else could you possibly be keeping from me?”

His mouth went dry.

She turned her attention to the other man. “Mr. Barnes, if you don’t buy this man a truck for his SAR group, I don’t think I’m going to invite you to be Santa next year. In fact, I’m going to make you be an elf. Stripey tights and all.”

Henry laughed, not the least bit put off by Lexie’s blatant handling of him. “It just so happens I might have a scheme in mind.” He handed Fletcher a business card, taking a moment to scrawl a phone number on the back. “That’s my personal line—none of that wading through secretaries stuff first. You call me next week, understand? I’ve just signed a deal with an aerotech company that might end up being a good deal for the both of us.”

A thousand overwhelming words of thanks hung on Fletcher’s lips, but he couldn’t manage a single one. Instead, he nodded and tucked the card into his pocket.

The familiar vibration of his pager going off gave him an excuse for his rudeness. With an apologetic smile, he checked the number. 27-04-18. It didn’t take him longer than a few seconds to translate it in his head. Mountain, Spokane County, Missing Persons.

“Oh, is that a call now?” Henry’s eyes lit up. “Do you have to go?”

“Yeah. I do.”

Fletcher caught sight of Lexie’s crestfallen face and hesitated. This was her luncheon, her job, her time. But it was the middle of the workday right before a major holiday. Volunteers were always scarcer around Christmas. “I’ll just call in to get the address, and then I should probably go.”

“Okay.” Lexie looked around the room before returning to face him. “I should be able to duck out. I’ve just about hit everybody up for donations. There’s only Beatrice Watson left, but I’m trying to avoid her right now. There was this episode with an almond pastry last month . . . ”

Henry barked out a laugh and clapped Lexie on the shoulder. “Not your fault, young lady. How were you supposed to know the old bat is as allergic as they come?”

Lexie laughed, but Fletcher could see that it was a struggle. “These things always seem to happen to me, that’s all.”

“I’ll talk to Beatrice for you,” Henry said with a wink. “I play squash with her husband. How much do you want me to squeeze out of them?”

Lexie smiled primly. “As much as they care to donate, of course. Though five thousand would get us that new playground equipment. She does have those seven rambunctious grandsons you might want to slip into the conversation.”

Henry rubbed his hands together, clearly delighted at Lexie’s tactics. “It’d be my honor.”

“Let me just clear it with Joan first, Fletcher, and we can be off.”

“Uh, Lexie?” He hated to let her down, especially when she already seemed so upset, but . . . “It’s not really the sort of thing that requires an audience.”

She frowned. “You don’t want me there?”

Oh, I want you there.
He wanted to spend every minute of his life with her near. That was the problem.

“I can’t,” he said. “You don’t have the right training and it’s too dangerous—”

“You think I’ll be in the way.”

The flatness in her voice was hard to ignore. “No, that’s not it. It’s cold and could last for hours and you . . . ”

“Always mess things up.”

“Lexie.” His tone was much sterner than he intended, but he couldn’t stand to see her misconstruing his intent this way. He wasn’t everybody else. Hurting her was worse than plunging into a thousand freezing lakes, more miserable than spending a hundred lifetimes alone. “You have to understand—this isn’t my call to make. I’m not in charge. I’m just a support volunteer.”

“Oh, I understand.” She sniffled once and backed away. The distance felt like miles, but something about the gleam in her eye made him realize that sadness wasn’t her ruling emotion right now. That was the exact expression she gave Sean when she was planning some kind of retaliation. “But you’re forgetting one small thing. You didn’t drive here today.”

Fletcher groaned inwardly. She was right. “Do you think maybe I could borrow your car? Someone here could give you a ride home, right?”

“Nope.”

“Are you joking?”

“Nope,” she repeated, firmer this time. “My car. My rules. Unless you plan on hitchhiking your way to the scene, it looks like you’re going to have to depend on little old Lexie Sinclair for a change.”

Before Fletcher could try to rationalize further, she turned on her heel, giving him a full view of her back. Her dress plunged in a deep vee to the smallest part of her waist, the delicate line of spine leading to the untold wonders of her backside.

He gulped and loped to catch up with her. She had no idea how badly he wanted to catch a glimpse of that backside. She had no idea how badly he wanted to depend on little old Lexie Sinclair for
everything.
His happiness. His future. His heart.

But getting over his fear of blood and danger was one thing. Getting over his fear of public speaking was another.

Getting over his fear of losing her?

He wasn’t sure that would ever happen.

Chapter Seven

“It’s like we’re having a baby.” Lexie watched as Fletcher grabbed an oversized backpack by the door and shoved his feet into a pair of heavy-duty boots.

He whipped to face her, an unnatural shade of white taking over his face. “What did you just say?”

She laughed and leaned on the doorframe, glad to have finally discomposed him. Ever since Fletcher’s pager had gone off, he’d been like some kind of robot, clicking into action and refusing to look her in the eye. Even now, moving efficiently through his freakishly neat house, he barely registered her presence.

She gestured at the backpack. “A bag at the door, double-checking to make sure you have everything, an overriding sense of panic. I’ve always assumed this is what happens when a husband and wife get ready to head to the hospital for a baby. It’s like that. You know, minus the baby. Or that whole husband-wife thing.”

The white in Fletcher’s face was quickly replaced by a blossoming red. In Sean, red signaled his short temper. In Fletcher, it was more likely embarrassment.
Great.
She was at it again.

“We should probably get going,” she said, attempting to play it off. “What’s in the baby bag, anyway?”

“It’s just my gear. Supplies and stuff.”

Despite their rush, Fletcher took the time to hold open the door for her as they exited, and even made sure she was settled in the driver’s seat before buckling in next to her. They weren’t big gestures, but they were gestures that mattered to Lexie. Small kindnesses had a way of hitting her right in her sweet spots.

“What kind of supplies do you have?” she asked as she started the car. “You mentioned to Henry that you provide your own stuff. All that is yours?”

As she moved out of the driveway, she peeked at the backpack.
Backpack
was hardly the right word for it—the thing was huge, one of those enormous metal-framed things people hiked up to the tops of mountains with, right down to the sleeping bag rolled up and tied on the bottom.

How odd, imagining Fletcher making his way to the top of a snowy cliff. A tingle moved through her. Odd
and exciting.

“Oh, you know.” He shrugged. “Mostly outdoor basics. Flashlight, overnight gear, extra gloves and socks, first aid kit. My compass.” This last one he said almost reverently.

“Just like a good boy scout, huh?”

“It was my father’s.” He ducked his head. “My mom threw away a lot of his stuff when she remarried, so it’s one of the few things I have of his.”

She stopped and stared, flooded with the same sense of panic she’d felt during his speech, as if he was slipping away from her. As if maybe she’d never really known this man at all.

She’d always been aware that his father’s death had affected him pretty deeply—Fletcher wasn’t the sort to get over a loss like that easily—but she’d had no idea how much it had shaped his life, his decisions, his past. That such an important part of him, so much pain, could be hidden away like that . . . Frankly, it made her want to cry.

She’d failed him. As one of the people who’d known him the longest—as his
friend
—she should have been a part of his struggle to overcome his fears. She should have offered a helping hand every step along the way. Instead, she’d spent the past eighteen years of her life feeling sorry for herself because he and Sean didn’t invite her to the arcade with them.