Ring of Fire (18 page)

Mary poured and Eric accepted a mug, as did Quinn, who still sat on the floor. His sister raised it to her nose and said, “Mmm, this smells like . . . August.”

“How can something smell like August?” he asked, sniffing his own tea. He had to admit, it did smell pleasant.

“It's like a bunch of ripe, late-summer fruit,” Quinn said, “and making jam. E, remember how the kitchen used to smell when Mom made jam? But there's something else, too. Like, oh, sunshine on herbs in a garden on a hot, lazy August afternoon.” She sipped, and grinned. “It tastes as good as it smells.”

Mary nodded her thanks, and fixed her gaze on Eric until he, too, tasted it. To his surprise, it wasn't all that bad. “I could see this growing on me,” he admitted.

“It's one of Mom's special recipes,” Lark said. “She has half a dozen special teas for different times of day, different moods. They have healing properties, too.”

Eric wondered if Mary was trying to help him with his post-traumatic stress.

The older woman had again seated herself in the chair. “This one,” she said quietly, “helps with sadness. When I think of my brother, I am sad about the way his life went.” She glanced at Lark. “While you were with Jayden, we were talking about siblings.”

Lark nodded and sipped her own tea. She curled her legs up on the couch and leaned against Eric.

Taking that as an invitation, he put his arm around her shoulders, relishing the closeness. In other circumstances, he'd have wanted a more intimate touch, but Mary's sadness set a definitely nonsexy mood. He didn't regret it, though. He was happy that the self-contained older woman felt comfortable enough with him and his sister to share these feelings.

“Things were hard,” Mary said reflectively, “on the reserve where I grew up. This was in northern British Columbia. There was poverty, poor housing, lack of employment opportunities. Bad leadership. Kids dropped out of school. There was drinking, glue sniffing. It was bad.”

“That's rough,” Eric said. “I'm sorry for children who grow up in circumstances like that.”

“These things shape us,” Mary said. “Like with you two in a military family. But individuals react differently, as you and Quinn know. For me and Norman, too. He was disillusioned and he, like our parents, drank too much. I could see that it was the path of no hope, and could only end badly. I tried to tell him, but why would he listen to me, who was three years younger? He said I was naïve, thinking I could build a better life for myself.”

“And yet you did,” Eric said admiringly.

In a compassionate tone, Quinn asked, “What happened, Mary?”

The older woman's shoulders lifted as if shouldering a burden, and then fell again—like that burden was too heavy to bear. “When I was sixteen, Norman and some of his friends were out drinking, smoking weed, who knows what. It was early winter. They were high and decided to walk back across a frozen river. Except it wasn't frozen all the way through. My brother and another boy fell in. Their two friends managed to rescue the other boy, but not Norman.”

Quinn and Eric both murmured words of sympathy.

Mary shook her head sadly. “Perhaps it was inevitable that he would come to a bad end. But I had always thought maybe one day he would see the light and turn the course of his life around. As for me, I knew that I needed to leave. My father was . . . well, not a nice person when he drank. Without Norman to distract him . . .” She shrugged. “Enough said about that.”

Had he abused his daughter? Eric wondered. He glanced at Lark but her eyes were downcast, staring into her tea. Quinn also remained quiet, this time not pushing for more information.

Noticing that Mary had, as she'd been talking, finished her tea, he leaned forward and refilled her mug. He'd been sipping his own, and it really was nice once he got used to it.

Mary gave him a nod of thanks as he settled back, putting his arm around Lark again.

“I left home,” Mary said, “and went to Prince George to find work. I was a naïve Indian girl from the backwoods, with only a grade eleven education. I got a job at McDonald's. I met this handsome boy several years older and he swept me off my feet. He taught me many things, and for that I will always be grateful. But mostly, I am grateful to him for getting me pregnant when I was seventeen, and giving me Lark. And I am grateful that he left me when I told him I was pregnant. He was not a good man. It took me a few years to realize that, and to understand that he never respected me. To him I was always the dumb Indian girl, the pretty one he could dominate and impress.”

Lark's body, snuggled against Eric, tightened, but she didn't speak.

A corner of Mary's mouth tilted up and humor glinted in her eyes. “He wasn't far wrong. It was having Lark and needing to support the both of us that made me understand that I was strong and resourceful.”

“It must have been hard,” Eric said, “being so young, without a proper education, having so much responsibility.”

“We do what we need to do.” Her steady gaze fixed on his face. “You know that as well as anyone, Eric.”

In his dad's terms, this woman had stood up better to the “test your mettle” challenge than he had. He must have shifted position, maybe tensed up, because Lark turned her head to give him a questioning look. He smiled at her, trying to make it reassuring.

Mary went on, “I was lucky to find a room in the house of an elderly woman who loved children. I did housecleaning, cooking, and errands for her, and she babysat Lark while I waitressed at two different places.”

“Did you ever sleep?” Eric asked.

“I never needed much sleep.”

Like mother, like daughter in that regard, he thought.

“What about your art?” Quinn asked, helping herself to more tea.

“It was a hobby only, and something to enjoy with Lark.”

“Who doesn't have an artistic bone in her body,” Lark put in wryly. “Much to Mom's chagrin.”

“But I love you anyway,” Mary teased. “No, my art was amateur at that point. I needed work with a decent income.”

Lark uncurled her legs and leaned forward to pour tea for herself and Eric. “But Mom kept doing her art, and taking courses whenever she could.” When she sat back, she lifted her sock-clad feet to the wooden coffee table and took Eric's hand, entwining their fingers.

Such a simple thing, and yet it felt so good.

“It was obvious that art was Mom's special talent,” Lark went on. “Her passion, like Quinn was saying the other night. At a restaurant where she worked, the manager saw some of her work. He hung a few pieces, with price tags that Mom thought were ridiculously high. But there were sales, and eventually she did well enough that she could give up the waitressing jobs. Luckily for me, that was around the time Jayden's father took off. That's when the three of us started living together. Mom's work is flexible enough that she can look after Jayden when I'm on the job.”

“And Lark has the steady income,” Mary put in, “so we never need to worry about paying the rent.”

“It's a great arrangement,” Eric said, squeezing Lark's hand. “I like the way you're so supportive of each other.”

“Yeah,” Quinn put in. “In our family, Dad was the one who counted and we all had to support him.”

Eric pressed his lips together. Maybe he should defend their father, but in truth he agreed with Quinn.

“Mary,” Quinn said, uncrossing her legs, “I think it's so cool that you and Lark both found the work you're passionate about.” She stretched, catlike; his sister had always been flexible. “And I guess it's kind of encouraging for me that it took you that long, Mary, before you could make a go of it.” Quinn settled back, crossing her legs the other way this time.

“Ah, but I was working on it from the time I was a girl,” the older woman said. “The same with Lark, once she decided as a child that she wanted to be a firefighter. She took the right courses at school and worked hard. She trained to build up her strength and her skills.”

“Okay, now I'm discouraged.” Quinn made a pouty face.

“Q,” Eric said, “the point is, they both had goals. Like I did, knowing from the time I was a toddler that I'd join the army.”

She shook her head. “That's different. You had a goal because Dad told you that's what you were going to do. Mary and Lark had goals because they found something they loved. If I found the thing I loved doing, I'd focus on it and work at it. I'm sure of it.”

He wasn't so positive, but his sister had been really good to him in the past couple of days so he said, “Then I hope you find it soon.” Still, he couldn't help but add, “I'm just not sure how going to California and working in a clothing store is going to help.”

She made a face at him.

Lark said, “From what you've both said, your family centered on the army. That might make it harder for you, Quinn, to find another career that resonates with you.”

Quinn frowned as she reflected. “You're not saying I'm looking for a career that my parents will think is as worthwhile as being a soldier? I'm not the one who wants to please Dad.” She turned to him. “That'd be you, Eric.”

“At least I'm focused and doing something worthwhile, not hopping from job to job.”

She sighed. “So what else should I do?”

Decide on something and stick with it. Yet he had to admit to some sympathy with his sister's desire to find a career she truly loved. In fact, if he went a level deeper with the admissions, maybe he had some secret envy for the excitement he saw on Lark's and her mother's faces when they talked about their work.

When he didn't answer Quinn's question, Mary said, “My suggestion, for what it's worth, is that you think about what you love to do and what you're good at doing. Then see what careers involve those things, and research those careers. Visualize yourself waking up in the morning and thinking about getting up and doing your job. Visualize yourself telling your friends about your work. Would you feel excited? Proud? Passionate? Every job involves some drudgery, but overall, would you love what you're doing?”

As Mary spoke, Eric reflected on her words. He didn't have to visualize being a soldier; he knew that job intimately. The drudgery, boredom, adrenaline rushes, and stark fear. The sorrow; the frustration; the anger. The fun moments like joking with the other soldiers or playing sports with local kids. The sense of accomplishment, of worth. He was most definitely proud of what he did. Passionate about the importance of serving and protecting. So mustn't that mean that, overall, he loved being a soldier?

Lark's thigh, clad in body-hugging yoga pants, pressed against Eric's left thigh. Now that he'd finished the fruity tea, he could smell her light flowery scent, the one that got stronger when she was aroused. Friday night seemed like a long way off.

Quinn said, “Well, E, what do you think?”

He refocused his thoughts. “Mary's given you some good advice. You should listen to her.”

His sister arched her brows. “Yeah, well, the same goes for you, big brother.”

“Give me a break. I know exactly who I am and what I'm doing with my life.”

Chapter Thirteen

Late Thursday morning, with everything quiet at the fire hall, Lark walked over to Days of Your, the thrift shop. If there was a callout, the others could pick her up along the way. She didn't feel bad about taking a half hour off, considering she'd be spending the evening presenting a session on emergency preparedness at the community center.

Days of Your was her go-to store for clothes. She made an okay income as fire chief, but only okay. Mary also did reasonably well with her designs—better during the tourist season and at Christmas. There were government and charitable programs that helped with Jayden's needs, along with the small trust fund his father had set up, but still the expenses of a family with a special needs child were high. Fortunately, the town's thrift shop was excellent. It also supported several worthwhile local causes. Not to mention, the owner, Maribeth Scott, had become a friend.

Outside the store, Lark admired the attractive window display of pretty dresses and autumn clothing. Okay, so maybe she'd had an ulterior motive for doing Jayden's jeans-shopping today rather than waiting until Saturday. She wouldn't mind happening upon a pretty blouse, or even a dress, to wear for dinner with Eric tomorrow.

A couple of women with bagged purchases came out of the store, and Lark went in. The store was colorful and well-organized, more like a trendy boutique than a used-clothing shop. The owner, Maribeth, a curvy and vivacious redhead, stood near the door. She looked as attractive and stylish as always, wearing a cinnamon-and-black patterned top, black leggings, and cinnamon leather boots.

“Hi, Lark.” Normally, Maribeth was cheerful, but today her smile looked forced.

“Hi, MB. Is everything okay?” Lark hoped the business was doing all right.

“Sure.” The other woman straightened some jackets that really didn't need straightening.

“MB?”

She waved a hand dismissively. “It's nothing. Those women just mentioned that Madeleine McMurtry and Randy Hascall are engaged. They only met last month, and they're engaged!” She sounded annoyed, a little upset.

“Madeleine from the bank? I don't think I know Randy.”

“He's a lawyer. He moved to town earlier this summer. I dated him a few times.”

“Oh, Maribeth. Did you like him?”

“No! Well, yes, I mean, he's a nice guy. But there was nothing, you know, special between us. I didn't feel that click.”

“Ah.” Lark wasn't entirely sure what Maribeth meant, though
click
was as good a word as any for what she felt with Eric. But now she was confused, not understanding why the other woman was concerned about the engagement. “So, are you upset because Madeleine and Randy barely know each other, and you think they're making a mistake?”

“I'm not upset.”

“Oh. Okay. Sorry, I just thought—”

Maribeth stopped her by touching her arm. “No, I'm sorry. I'm being envious and grouchy, and that's not like me.”

“Envious?” Maribeth, who was a few years older than Lark, was popular and always seemed to have as many dates as she wanted.

“I always thought I'd meet that special guy,” the redhead said wistfully. “The ‘click' one. And we'd get married and have kids.”

Oh. Now Lark got it. “There's still time.” She tried to sound positive, though, for a woman in her late thirties, there weren't that many years left—although, of course, adoption was always a possibility.

“I know. Women are having kids in their forties these days. But, Lark, I've dated a lot of men, perfectly nice men. Smart ones, good-looking ones, interesting ones, guys with a great sense of humor, sensitive guys, macho guys.” Her eyes narrowed. “Guys, guys, guys! And never the right one.”

Lark eyed her a little warily. She'd never seen her friend so ruffled. “Well, my mom and I both thought we'd found the right one, and he turned out to be the wrong one. We figure we're better off on our own.”

Maribeth sighed. “
You
may be, but I saw how happy my mom and dad were. I want that.” Then her expression lightened. “But what I want most is a baby. Children, actually. You have your beautiful Jayden, and Mary has you. I know I'd make a great mother, and I want that chance. I don't need a man for that.”

“That's true.” She wondered if Maribeth was actually thinking of adopting or maybe finding a sperm donor, but that was an awfully personal question so she didn't ask it.

“Anyhow,” the redhead said briskly, “enough about me. What can I do for you? Are you looking for something for your sweet boy?”

“Jeans. He's grown a size.” Her son had always been small for his age, and Lark was thrilled that he was having a growth spurt. “And also,” she went on, “maybe something for me.”

“What kind of something?”

“Not exactly dressy, but, you know, nice. Going-out-for-dinner nice. I hardly ever wear dresses, but maybe . . . Though I'm so tall, you'd never have anything that'd fit.”

“Come.” Authoritatively, Maribeth forged across the shop to a rack of dresses. She flicked a few hangers. “This one.” She pulled a hanger free and thrust it toward Lark.

The dress was pumpkin colored, made of soft wool, and simple in style like an overly long sweater. The scoop neck wasn't too low, the sleeves were long, and the hem—well, on a woman of normal height, it would probably come to the knees. On Lark . . .

Reading her mind, Maribeth said, “I've seen you in shorts. You've got great legs. Show them off. The sleeves won't come to your wrists, but that mid-forearm length is fashionable.”

Intrigued, Lark took the dress into a fitting room and peeled off her tailored unisex uniform. When she pulled the dress over her head, the soft wool clung to her body. If she'd been carrying an ounce of fat, it would have been visible. Fortunately, she wasn't. She'd have to wear panty hose, which was a definite negative, but it wasn't any worse than lugging a hundred pounds of firefighter gear. Besides, Eric had told her he found her long legs incredibly sexy.

“Let me see,” Maribeth demanded.

Lark stepped out.

“Yes! That's it. That dress was made for you.” Maribeth, many inches shorter than Lark, even in those high-heeled cinnamon boots, circled around her and then stood back, hands on her hips. “Maybe a necklace. Something simple like a thin gold chain to emphasize your gorgeous long neck. Plain gold earrings.”

“My ears aren't pierced.”

“Oh, gosh, I never noticed. I just assumed every woman got her ears pierced.”

“I never did because jewelry's a hassle for a firefighter.”

“Well, it's not like you really need it, with your face and hair. A gold chain and maybe a bracelet? Something a bit fancier, just for one really interesting accent.”

“I can do that.” With her mother's help. Mary sometimes traded work with other artists, including ones who made jewelry. She had a few nice pieces.

“And shoes, of course. You could do black tights and boots, but I think you'd look awesome in flesh-colored hose and high heeled shoes. Do you worry about heels making you look taller?”

Not with Eric. “Nope. I have a pair of black ones I've worn only three or four times in the last few years.”

“You can never go wrong with black.” Maribeth beamed. “You'll be so gorgeous. If this is a date, the guy will be blown away.”

Lark figured that once she and Eric appeared in the dining room at the Wild Rose, word would spread. Caribou Crossing was a small town. This was an opportunity to clarify the situation. “It is with a guy. Eric Weaver. Do you know him?”

“The hottie soldier?”

“That's the one.”

“I've seen him around.” The redhead fanned herself. “Lucky girl.”

“And yeah, it's a date, but only a casual one. He won't be in town long and neither of us is looking for anything serious. Like I said earlier, I'm one of the women who does better on my own than with a man messing up my life.”

“But with the right man, it wouldn't be a mess. It'd be a partnership. A team.”

“Mmm. That sounds tempting, but it's not how it seems to work out for the Cantrell women.”

Lark went back into the fitting room, took off the dress, and transformed herself into a tailored firefighter again. She found jeans for Jayden, paid Maribeth for the purchases, and walked back to the fire hall to eat lunch—a ham, cheddar, and cucumber sandwich and an apple.

Oddly, the thing on her mind wasn't her upcoming date with Eric but her memories of being pregnant. Maribeth's comments about wanting a child had taken Lark back to those days. It had been such a weird and wonderful time. Her body, normally hers to control, had quite literally taken on a life of its own and done the most unexpected things. Likewise her emotions. She had felt—well, there was really no other word for it—expectant. And then she'd given birth to Jayden and experienced a sense of completeness, like something that she'd never realized was missing or empty in her life was now filled up with love.

In a perfect world, she would have loved to have had another child. To go through the experience of pregnancy again, to give birth to another beloved baby, to give Jayden a little brother or sister. He would make the best big brother in the world. And Mary would love—

The alarm blared, cutting into her thoughts. She leaped to her feet and was running as the loudspeaker announced a suspected stroke at the seniors center.

* * *

Though Eric was impatient to get on with his Friday evening date with Lark, he understood why she preferred a latish dinner. It gave her an opportunity to spend some time with Jayden and Mary.

The temperature was chilly at 1945 hours on this early October evening, and Eric wore a dark brown leather jacket over a pale blue dress shirt, black pants, and a tie striped in blue, black, and silver. Since losing all his admittedly few possessions in the fire at the Hoppington house, he'd bought items as he needed them. He'd had the jacket three or four weeks, since the beginnings of autumn had put a chill in the air. The pants, shirt, and tie were brand-new today.

He had offered to pick Lark up in his Jeep, but she'd suggested that they walk. That way, they could both have a couple of glasses of wine. Since he normally walked or ran, that made him happy.

And now, as he strode toward her house, he was glad to walk vigorously and feel crisp air on his cheeks. He needed to clear his mind after a rather strange day. First, he'd driven Quinn to the airport to catch her flight to Carlsbad, and he'd felt kind of emotional about seeing her go. In his mind she'd always been his kid sister, with the emphasis on
kid,
but now she really was a grown-up. Sure, she hadn't sorted out her own life, but then he hadn't sorted out his PTSD. They were helping each other. Like friends as well as siblings. He would miss her, and definitely stay in closer touch than before.

Just when he'd got his mind around all of that, and was ready to shower and dress for the evening, he had received a phone call. It was from Sergeant Bartholomew “Black Bart” Smith, one of the men from his old unit. And it had thrown him off balance as much, if not more, than Quinn's departure.

Passing the fire hall and walking toward the Cantrell house next door, Eric tried to push that conversation out of his mind and concentrate on the woman waiting for him.

As it happened, when Lark opened the door to him, thoughts of anything but her flew straight out of his mind. She wore a belted trench coat, a garment that he'd always found intriguing. Did every guy have an erotic fantasy about a woman unwrapping a trench coat to reveal sexy lingerie? Below the coat he saw stockinged legs and black pumps with medium heels. Man, did she have amazing legs.

She stepped outside to join him on the front porch. In her heels, she was his height, maybe even a touch taller. Damn, but he found that sexy.

“Hey,” he greeted her. “Nice legs, Chief.”

“Nice tie, Major,” she returned. “You dressed up.”

He was taking a special woman to her favorite restaurant for dinner. Of course he had dressed up. When he leaned over to kiss her, she met him halfway. That kiss was hot enough to make him want to strip off his jacket and loosen his tie. It almost made him want to take her straight back to his place. But he'd promised her dinner, and he actually wanted to do it. He wanted to go out with her in a public place, a restaurant with a nice ambiance and great food, to make leisurely conversation. To flirt across the table and build the anticipation.

So, when they broke the kiss, he did the gentlemanly thing and offered his arm. She hooked hers through it, they went down the steps, and with matching long strides they headed the few blocks to the center of town.

“You do pretty well in those heels,” he commented. “I figure walking in them's got to be harder than walking with a prosthetic leg.”

“They do take some adjustment. A different use of muscles, different weight balance. But I like them. They make me feel feminine, and that's something that's pretty much missing when I'm on the job.”

“You're feminine in the right way.”

“There's a right way and a wrong way?” she teased.

Trust Lark to call him on a dumb comment. “Okay, I guess not. Just for me, I mean. The wrong way is all fluffy and fragile and game playing. The right way is—” He broke off, trying to find words to express what he meant.

“Yes?”

“I don't know how to say it. Female versus male, but a strong female, one who can look after herself. And look after others. Yet sometimes also let someone look after her, because that's something a guy likes to do on occasion.”