Love Inspired December 2014 - Box Set 2 of 2: Her Holiday Family\Sugar Plum Season\Her Cowboy Hero\Small-Town Fireman (61 page)

Chapter Six

D
ylan watched Karla draw her sweatshirt closer around her. “Aren't there any fish on the river in the afternoon?” Considering what Karla Kennedy planned to do for a living, she didn't seem like much of a morning person.

“Sure there are.” He slowed down the boat's motor so there wasn't so much misty morning breeze blowing in their faces. “But they're hiding and they're definitely not hungry. You want to fish, you have to get up early. Surely your grandpa taught you that.”

Karla clutched her coffee thermos. “I remember predawn seeming a lot more inviting when I was eleven.” Her halfhearted attempt at being cheerful was amusing in its ineffectiveness. Honestly, she looked as if she'd been up all night, but he didn't think that was ever a safe thing to ask a woman.

He chose to encourage her instead. “Oh, it's the best time of day in my opinion. The sun coming up over the river? That's pretty much the finest thing you'll ever see.”

She narrowed one eye at him and sipped her coffee. “I would have been okay taking your word for it, you know.”

Dylan ignored her slip into predawn grumpiness. She had his cell phone number so she could have declined his offer to go fishing even as late as this morning. No, she wasn't delighted to be here—well, not yet—but she was still here by her own choice. Give her the chance to land a great big fish in the fresh morning sunshine, and that sourpuss face would be long gone.

He pulled into his favorite spot; a bit of a cove just beyond the river's bend north of Gordon Falls. As the motor cut, the blissful quiet of the morning wrapped around the boat, broken only by the
plop
of the anchor hitting the water. Gentle, lazy waves lapped against the boat hull and carried a confetti of summer leaves past the bow. Karla yawned and stretched as a half dozen birds rustled the branches that spanned out over the current. Everything was shifting from gray to pink as it reached for the eastern sun. Nothing,
nothing
ever fed his soul like mornings out on the river.

“So this is your personal boat?”

He stepped down off the bow of the
Low Tide.
“The
High Tide
,
the one I use for charter trips, is much bigger. I had this one first, even before I left Chicago. It took me six months to secure the loans and fix up the
High Tide
for charter work.” He removed a pair of fishing poles from the long shelves that ran down the side of the boat. “I like having two boats—helps it not to feel like I'm at the office when I go out for myself, you know?”

“I get that.”

Dylan flipped open a cargo lid and brought out a tackle box. “Did your family have a boat?”

“We had one, but it was tiny. Not as big as this and certainly not as big as the
High Tide.
The place downriver, where my grandfather used to live—where Dad grew up—had a long dock that went out into the river. We fished off that, too, but not as much.”

Clearly, fishing was a mixed memory for her at best—he wanted to explore that, but even more he wanted to fix that. “I'll let you off easy and bait your hook for you.”

He'd expected gratitude—women by and large never seemed too eager to spear a worm and sink it underwater to its doom—but she surprised him.

“What?” Karla woke right up, dark eyebrows arching in defiance. “Don't think I can handle it?” She snatched the fishing rod from his hands. “I can bait my own hook, thank you very much.”

“Hey—” Dylan held his hands up “—no problem. Just wanted to be sure you were awake enough to handle sharp objects.” He found the plastic tub of night crawlers he'd brought and handed it to her before tending to his own rod.

This woman had an independent streak a mile wide. He got that. But what was the story behind her strong aversion to accepting help? When he allowed himself a moment to think about it, what really bugged him was that she seemed easily able to tap into the assistance someone like Jim Shoemacher offered, but she bristled at the simple courtesy of a baited hook from him. He knew his history was skewing that response. The last woman he'd taken out on this boat had been Yvonne, and she'd spent the day hinting she'd have rather been on something larger, more upscale like the
High Tide.
In a backhanded way, Yvonne had planted the seed for his charter company, but he still had no interest in showing any gratitude for that. Some wounds left marks for a long time.

As it turned out, Karla did a deplorable job of baiting a hook, spearing the worm so delicately it disappeared from the line at the first nibble. He wasn't about to point that out, though—at least not until she asked.

They spent the first fifteen minutes of actual fishing in companionable silence. Dylan found that refreshing. He'd tried not to compare it to Yvonne's exasperating compulsion to fill the silence with chatter, but the differences between the two women kept assailing him. Upscale, blonde Yvonne was about as different from Karla—emotionally, spiritually, even physically—as a woman could get. Under other circumstances, that might make Karla very attractive to him. Knowing she was heading back to Chicago and why, however, did a good job of squelching that notion.

He watched her peer down into the water with that analytical, problem-solving glare of hers, reel her line in, and then turn to stare at him. “I'm not doing this right.”

“Well, you've got the basic concept. You just need a little technique.”

She held out the rod to him. “Show me.”
Well, what do you know? A request for help.

He complied. She yawned and slid over next to him, watching as he showed her what to do. Just as he handed the rod back to her, his own rod bent with a “hit,” followed by the exhilarating whirr of the line being pulled out by a sizable fish.

“You got one!” Karla's eyes popped wide-awake.

“Well, not yet.” He grabbed the line and began to pull up slightly. “Now comes the fun part.”

Two minutes later, it was hard to say who was more pleased at the nice big fish that landed on the boat floor—he or Karla. The fun had begun, sparking that glow in Dylan's chest of which he never hoped to tire: landing a big fish. She pointed at the rainbow of scales, asked questions about the species—and how good it was to eat—all sorts of things. It was a pleasure to watch her curiosity get the better of her. Dylan found himself looking forward to what she'd be like when she caught her own fish.

Just as the sun rose fully above the top of the trees, Karla's line bobbed and whirred, making her jump and yelp with something just short of glee. He laughed, expecting some excitement but not her over-the-top joy. “Okay now,” he coached, surprised by how invested he'd become in her success, “pull up slowly, then reel the line in as you bring the rod back down.” She followed his instructions, her rod bending in so deep an arc that Dylan entertained the thought she might land a whopper. Wouldn't that be fun to watch her waltz into town with the season's largest trophy to date?

“There's a monster on the other end of this line,” she said, perhaps reading his expression of surprise.

“Beginner's luck, maybe.”

“Jonah and the whale, more likely.”

Dylan thought that an odd comment, but didn't pursue it in the face of the present excitement. “Keep going, let him tire himself out so he doesn't snap the line. That's right. He's definitely a good-size fish.”

Karla raised and lowered the line as instructed, reeling the fish closer in. Then some thought struck her—it showed all over her face—and she turned to him. “Hey, how do you know it's a
he
? Don't lady fish put up a good fight?”

They certainly do,
Dylan thought. “Okay, reel
him or her
in slowly,” he corrected, not hiding the amusement in his voice. It was always gratifying to watch a customer land a good catch, but this was enjoyable on a whole other level. The first was work success, while this was just plain fun. Where had all his joy gone lately? Worse yet, until this moment, he hadn't even missed it.

Dylan stowed his own line to concentrate on helping her—this one was not going to get away if he could help it. As she kept reeling the line in, Dylan came up behind her and placed a finger on her line to test the tension. She smelled like coffee and a subtle sort of spice. His mind seemed eager to gather small details like that, adding to the complex picture of her forming in his mind. He'd painted all women with the same suspicious brush ever since Yvonne—his reaction to Karla unsettled as much as it surprised him.

“I'm losing him!” she squeaked when the line bent deeply toward the water.

“No, no you're not—he's just closer.” Dylan pointed to the large shadow curling through the water just off to her left. “Look.” It was, indeed, a very big fish.

“Oh.” Wonder and anticipation and competitiveness all in one syllable.

Dylan's pulse quickened as he leaned over her shoulder to help her hold the rod. “Just a bit more, let him go for a bit and pull up slowly.”

“Look at the size of him,” she marveled as the fish arced up toward the surface, a rainbow of silvery fins and bubbles.

Well, what do you know? “Biggest one this year, maybe.”

She turned to look at him. “No.”

“No kidding. You're about to gain some serious Gordon Falls street credibility when you land this.”

She laughed, then caught her breath as the fish broke the water to flap furiously. “Help!”

He grabbed the net from behind the seats, genuinely thrilled for her. “Steady, you're doing fine. Bring him close to the boat if you can.”

Seconds later Dylan scooped up what surely was the largest catch of his season so far—a trophy-worthy nine-pound walleye that pounded against the boat floor and sent droplets flying over the both of them.

The only thing larger than the fish was the size of Karla's grin. That, and the defiant cord of affection that was untangling inside Dylan despite his every effort to stop it.

* * *

It was just a fish. Granted, it was a big fish, and Dylan seemed about to burst with pride that she'd landed it, but it wasn't as if she'd never caught a fish before. She'd just never felt this way about catching one before. It was hokey, really, the giddy way she held up the thing for Dylan's photograph. As if some switch had turned her back into her five-year-old self, back before she could catch on to the tension between her father and grandfather, back when the world was perfect and full of wonder. Maybe the world was turning back to perfect and full of wonder—the past twelve hours sure had been filled with both.

Karla pulled the string on the bakery box of cheese Danish—after a hefty dose of hand sanitizer, of course—and unscrewed the lid on the thermos of cinnamon-hazelnut coffee she'd brought. This wasn't the most elegant breakfast she'd ever served, but it was fast turning into one of the most pleasant. The sun had come up fully, bathing the boat in warmth and scattering sparkles on the river around them. Birdsong poked through the peaceful quiet, and the gentle rocking of the boat soothed out tensions Karla hadn't even realized she was holding.

She stared at the enormous fish—
her
enormous fish—now iced in a cooler at the end of the boat.

“Wow,” Dylan sighed behind a mouthful of Danish. “You are so good at what you do.”

Karla nodded at him. “Evidently, so are you.”

“I think we'll make a pretty good team.” He said it carefully, tentatively, as if broaching the subject of their pairing was dangerous territory. “For the anniversary thing, I mean.”

“It's worth celebrating,” she offered, hoisting the coffee in a toast. “Firemen are important.” After pouring herself what must be her sixth cup of the morning, she asked. “Did you always want to be a fireman?”

“Well, I think all little boys want to be firemen. Or astronauts or whatever. I came on the department because of my uncle.”

“Is he a fireman?”

“No, actually, he's a missionary in Nigeria. But after my—” he chose his next words carefully “—exodus from Chicago...we had a few long phone conversations while he was home on furlough. I needed ways to make my life about more than it had been.”

He'd brought it up, so Karla decided it was safe to ask. He'd only mentioned what he did in the most basic of terms when they'd spoken of his time in Chicago before. “Which had been what?”

Dylan sat back and put one foot up on the side of the boat. “You know those guys from the first catch? The power dudes all shouting their accomplishments at each other over breakfast?”

She wouldn't categorize the men quite that severely, but she knew the stereotype. She'd studied them, in fact; they would be the ideal customer for her place once it opened. They were Perk's target clientele, which was what made the Clifton internship such a prize. “Jim Shoe?”

“You might say I was on the Jim Shoe track. Suit, tie, car I could only barely afford, all the trimmings. My own little cubicle in one of those great big glass boxes.”

He'd mentioned that before, but Karla still couldn't transplant the rugged outdoorsman in front of her into such a slick setting. If he'd been “upwardly mobile,” he'd left it far behind since then. “Jim Shoe's a nice guy.”

“Some of them are. I'm not saying it's a bad way to be, but only if you want it.” A muscle in his jaw tightened with the last two words. He'd either stopped wanting it, or never wanted it in the first place. Before she could ask, he answered for her. “I didn't. Well, not really. I only thought I did. Or someone had me thinking I did.”

“Who?” Karla was amazed she had the nerve to ask; it was clear the subject was touchy for him.

Dylan shifted and stared into his coffee. “Her name was Yvonne. We met through a friend of hers. She had more drive than anyone I'd ever met. A real powerhouse, you know? When Yvonne walked into a room, everyone knew. I felt like the luckiest guy in the world to have her pick me out.” He braved a glance at Karla, and she felt her whole body react to the pain in his eyes. “Only I didn't end up so lucky. I loved her, and I think, in her way, she loved me. She had all these plans—big, amazing plans that made me feel like the two of us would be unstoppable. One of those power couples you read about.”