Love Inspired November 2014 #2 (16 page)

She hugged her elbows and shrugged. “It was so perfect.” It was true. She'd grown ridiculously attached to that chair ever since the day she'd brought it home, half hanging out of the hatch of the tiny blue car. It had made him wonder how it hadn't fallen out on the way home and why she hadn't asked him to pick it up in his truck, which would have held four such chairs easily.

“You'll find another perfect one. Maybe a pair this time.” He wanted to swallow the words back—a pair?—what kind of dorky misplaced romantic comment was that?

Opening two more windows, Jesse made his way to the kitchen, taking care not to slip on anything with his crutches. He was due back at the hospital in three hours, where he would have to explain why he had not, in fact, done anything close to “take it easy and keep it elevated.” The last dose of painkillers had worn off and his leg was throbbing.

“Oh.” Charlotte's word was more of a gasp. “It's ruined. It's all ruined.”

Jesse went over to one of the blackened cabinets, which looked like someone had set a dozen cans of black spray paint on the stove and triggered them in every direction. The new stove was a total loss, as were the cabinets directly above and around them. He had kissed her up against one of those cabinets. Every scorched corner of the room held a memory for him.

Even more so for her. Charlotte was pacing around the room, hands outstretched as if she needed to touch everything but couldn't bring herself to do so. “Everything is covered in black.”

He opened one of the cabinets, wanting to show her one thing that hadn't been blackened. The interior wasn't scorched, but the plastic containers inside were slumped into melted, distorted forms. Her teapot lay in pieces on the far corner of the kitchen floor. The mason jar that had held his flowers the first time he'd brought them for her lay cracked with a big chip out of the top. One chair lay sideways on the floor, a leg bent in on itself and smeared in black. Footprints and smudge marks covered the once cheery lemon-colored linoleum floor she'd wanted so badly to keep.

“I did this.” She stood in the center of the room, losing her battle to the returning tears she'd been trying so hard to fight off since the floodgates. “I'm so stupid to have done this.”

She wouldn't hear any argument he might make right now. So Jesse did the only thing there was to do. He leaned against the counter for support, and pulled her to him. He let her cry it out, holding her tight and singing “Jesus Wash Away My Troubles,” with his eyes closed and his heart wide open.

Chapter Eighteen

“C
harlotte! Charlotte, where are you in here?” Melba's shocked voice called from the hallway.

“Kitchen,” Charlotte called out, then sniffed and wiped her eyes with the corner of the zip-up sweatshirt she'd been wearing. Already it had black streaks on it, the fabric beginning to give off the tang of soot and smoke. Her eyes stung from more than the onslaught of tears.

“Look at this place. Thank heavens you're safe.” Melba's hug somehow brought everything into full reality, making Charlotte instantly exhausted. She needed to sit down but didn't have a single clean spot to do so. “Clark told me it wasn't as bad as it could have been, but it looks awful enough to me.”

Jesse seemed to sense her weariness. “Let's go out onto the back porch. There's still a lot of smoke and soot in here, and I could use a dose of fresh air.”

“And Mo. He's yowling in the car, you know.”

“I forgot about Mo!” Charlotte rushed to the car to find a disgruntled Mo protesting his neglect from the backseat. In the emotion of the past hour, she'd not even remembered he was there. She pulled him from the carrier, keeping one hand on his collar. “Oh, big guy, this isn't a place for you to be inside right now. We'll get you set up in a little while, but I need you to stay put.” Guilt over Mo piled on top of her grief and stress over the house. “This isn't much of a new home, is it? It'll get better, I promise.” She found some strong yarn in one of the bags in her trunk and tied it to Mo's collar. “The back porch is the best I can do for you right now. Be nice to Jesse, okay? He's done a lot for us and he even went looking for you.”

She walked around the side of the house, wincing at the dark streaks around the kitchen window and wondering if they would wash off or if she'd have to repaint.

She walked up the back porch steps, Mo still in her arms, to find Melba had pushed open the back door and propped it wide with a sooty box of books. Jesse had maneuvered himself into one of the porch's bistro chairs. He looked exhausted and uncomfortable.

“Clark told me you were hurt in the first fire,” Melba was saying to Jesse, as Charlotte practically fell into the other chair and settled Mo on her lap. “It's broken, huh?”

Jesse nodded, one eye on Mo. His regard toward the animal had softened a bit. Charlotte was so touched that he'd gone in search of “the little beast” before he knew Mo was with her in Chicago.

Melba settled herself on the porch steps. “I was worried sick, Charlotte. I wished you'd called me when you got into town.”

Charlotte leaned back in the chair, fatigue growing stronger with every minute. “You were asleep. You had Maria to tend to. I knew Jesse was waiting.” Charlotte yawned. She'd been up for almost twenty-four hours now, and it was taking its toll.

Within seconds, Melba had her “mother face” on. “Have either of you slept at all?”

“Not exactly.” Jesse yawned the words, although they had more of a wince quality to them. He hadn't said anything about the pain he was in, but it was obvious he hurt. Badly. The bandage on his leg was starting to grow pink at the center.

Melba stared at Jesse's bandage and splint as well, coming to the same conclusion. “Clark's dropping Maria off with JJ and Alex. He'll be here in ten minutes. Charlotte, you're coming home to shower and sleep at our house while Clark takes you to your apartment to do the same, Jesse. Clark's dad is skipping church to come pick you up for your hospital appointment at ten-thirty and deliver you back home. I should tell you, Chief George has orders from Clark to tie you to your couch if that's what it takes.” Melba's father-in-law was fire chief before his son took over the job, and Charlotte knew George now served as an unofficial guardian of sorts to the firehouse. Jesse could use that kind of support right now.

“I don't think I have the strength to argue with that,” Jesse said, shifting his weight tenderly. “Charlotte needs to sleep.”

“So do you,” Charlotte added, a surge of gratitude for all Jesse had done in the past hours welling up and threatening a new bout of tears. “You've probably done a million bad things to that leg in the last eight hours.”

“I haven't exactly kept it rested and elevated, if that's what you mean.” He held Charlotte's eyes for a long moment. “I had other priorities.”

“These firemen,” Melba chided. “They think they're invincible.” She walked over and stood over Jesse. “Where are your pain meds? Your antibiotics?” She was on full mother alert now. Charlotte had seen it when Melba was caring for her ailing father. It was not wise to mess with Melba when she was in caregiving mode.

“Back at the apartment.” He had the good sense to look sheepish, like a kid caught skipping his chores.

“A fat lot of good they're doing you back there.”

“Yes, I hurt. Everything hurts. I need my medications. I'll go home with Chief and I'll keep my doctor's appointment—after some sleep. Okay, Mom?” His half-exaggerated pout told Charlotte he was nearing the end of his good humor, and so was she.

“It isn't like we can do anything right now except air the house out anyway.” Melba planted her hands on her hips. “I'm going to go see how many windows I can get open.”

“You'll need my help on some of those.” Jesse made to rise but Melba pushed him back down.

“I'll do just fine. And what I can't get open, Clark will. You sit tight, both of you.” She fished around in her handbag until she produced a pair of granola bars. “Eat something.” Then she disappeared back into the house, a few expressions of her dismay echoing from the mudroom and kitchen.

Jesse sighed and tore open the wrapper. “She's a total mom now. Like someone threw a switch inside her, you know?”

“She's always been the caregiving type. It's why she came here to take care of her dad.” Charlotte tied the other end of Mo's yarn leash to the porch railing and went over to kneel at Jesse's feet. “How are you, really?”

Mo, after giving Charlotte a “you gotta be kidding me” glare and swatting once at his makeshift leash, sauntered over to brush against Jesse's good leg. With a small “harumph,” Jesse reached down and ran one hand over the cat's fat back. They were making friends after all. “I wasn't kidding. I hurt. Everywhere, it seems.”

Charlotte noticed a bruise on his forearm and some scrapes on his knuckles. The risks of what he did clashed with the care she felt for him. It was an awful tug-of-war inside her, and she was too tired to endure it. She couldn't think of anything to say other than “I'm sorry.”

He ducked his head down to meet her eyes. “It's not your fault.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Tears welled up in her eyes and she nodded back toward the house. “Oh, this most definitely is my fault.”

“The usefulness of that debate right now aside, my leg is not your fault. Firemen get hurt. It comes with the territory. Always has.”

And that was the problem, wasn't it? “Have you been hurt before?”

She watched Jesse start to give her some wisecrack answer, then stop himself in favor of the honest truth. She was glad he didn't try to brush this matter off—it was important. “Not this badly. Mostly cuts and bruises. I chipped a tooth once. Usually I'm a pretty careful guy.”

“What happened, then?”

A hint of a smile reached the corners of his eyes. “I had an argument with someone I care about. Something about Vermont, but it's all kind of fuzzy right now.” He leaned down toward her. “I meant what I said, Charlotte. I don't want you to go. I know it's not my decision and I can't tell you what to do, but I don't want you to go to Vermont. Even for a year. Even for a month.”

Charlotte touched the bandage, the splint. “I don't know if I can do this. I told myself I'd never do this.”

“I told myself I'd never do church, but I prayed so hard tonight I thought God Himself would drop His jaw in surprise. Maybe it's not as hard as we think.”

Charlotte let her head fall on Jesse's lap, feeling Mo curl up beside her. “Maybe it's harder. Maybe we're kidding ourselves.”

She felt Jesse stroke her hair. “I'm not saying God allowed your house to burn, but what if He knew it would take something this drastic to get us together?”

She angled her head up to look at him. “Are we together?”

“That depends on whether or not you need to go to Vermont.” There was a cautious pleading in his eyes that broke Charlotte's heart wide open.

“I don't know,” she admitted. “I want to stay here, but I don't know if I can.”

“We can find a way. I believe that.”

She let his confidence bolster her own. “I believe you.”

Clark's voice came from the mudroom doorway. “Okay, kids, it's time for bed.”

Jesse frowned. “And
he's
become a total dad.”

* * *

Jesse held up his hand as he sat on the exam table. “Don't start on me, please. Chief George has been laying into me for the last twenty minutes.” Chief George hadn't been fire chief for over a year now since his son Clark took over, but no one had ever stopped calling him by that name.

Dr. Craig crossed his arms over his chest. “Let's just say I don't agree with your definition of ‘keeping off it.' You didn't help yourself last night.”

“Well, no.” George, after his brisk lecture, had been amazingly supportive once Jesse opened up about what happened to him in the heart sense, and yes, in the soul sense—although it felt weird to talk about his own soul—during that long wait on the curb outside of Charlotte's cottage. Truth be told, Jesse was still grasping for ways to understand what had happened last night and this morning, much less explain it. He just knew his life had made an important turn.

He was glad Chief George seemed to understand. The former chief had unofficially adopted every single guy in the firehouse—and many of the married ones. The GFVFD was his family, even though he was only Clark's actual father. More than once in the conversation, Jesse had been stung by the thought of what his life might have been like if he'd had a father as supportive as George Bradens. He was pretty sure his own dad loved him; it was just that Dad's love came with so many requirements before it was paired with approval. Jesse always felt as if he had to earn his father's affections, whereas George seemed to be so generous in giving his—even if it came with a lecture or two.

“He didn't help himself at all, medically,” George asserted, placing a fatherly hand on Jesse's shoulder. “But let's simply say the evening evened out.” George offered a wink. It made Jesse wonder if Clark had sent his dad for this task by convenience or by design. He'd tried to give Clark a sense of what the night had been for him, but he was far too tired to make much sense. Explanations and talent-show serenades aside, Jesse was pretty sure Clark could have been fast asleep and still have sensed the bond now strung between himself and Charlotte.

And what exactly was that bond? That song at the talent show had shown him Charlotte was different from any other woman. Even as he'd taken steps not to single her out, his gut was telling him he wanted to single her out.
Exclusive.
That wasn't a term Jesse had ever cared to apply to women before Charlotte. Did that mean he was in love with her? Maybe. Whatever it was, Jesse knew it was powerful and worth whatever last night had cost him. That didn't change the worry in the pit of his stomach at the doctor's scowl. His leg looked awful and felt terrible.

“It's gonna be okay, right, Doc? I mean, I didn't do any real harm.” He knew he was fishing for reassurance.

Dr. Craig seemed in no hurry to give it. “I can't say for sure. You broke it on an angle. Any weight you put on it last night could have shifted the bones and made things worse. How's your pain today?”

He didn't want to admit how badly it hurt. “Well...”

“Son,” George cut in, “there are three people you should never hedge your answers to, ever. One's your lawyer and the other's your doctor.”

“And the third?” Jesse felt the punch line of a bad joke coming on.

“Yourself.”

Okay, that wasn't so funny. “All right, it hurts a lot. The medicine takes it down to a dull roar, but I'm dying before I get to the next dose. And...I sort of skipped a dose overnight. I was out at the fire site and I left all the prescriptions back at my apartment.”

Was the pop-eyed shock from the doctor really necessary? “You went to a fire scene last night?” His face went from surprise to annoyance to dismissal in a matter of seconds. “You hero types make my job a lot harder than it needs to be.”

“I'd classify last night as extenuating circumstances, if that helps,” George cut in. “Jesse did what he had to do. We can't change that, so can we just move on from what we've got here?”

It seemed as though Dr. Craig dropped any pretense of gentleness as he bent to examine Jesse's throbbing shin more closely. His leg had turned a startling shade of purple, among other pessimistic medical appearances, and Jesse fought the nagging sense that the night had cost him far more than he realized. Personally and professionally, he could take an enormous hit here.

“We'll need another set of X-rays to see if the bone has shifted, but given how it looks—” the doctor doubled his scowl “—and from what you've told me, I'd say we're looking at surgery. Maybe even pins or a plate.”

Jesse slumped back against the examining table, all his bleary-eyed wonder at last night giving way to a rising dread. “It's just a break. People break their legs all the time.”

“It's a bad break that you put weight on—all night long, evidently. I've half a mind to schedule you for surgery just so I can admit you right now.” Straightening up, the doctor put his glasses back in his lab coat pocket. “Mr. Sykes, would your cooperation be too much to ask for here?”