July Thunder (8 page)

She had no idea where the fear came from. It was a phobia of some kind, one she'd never had to test. It was the reason, however, that she'd gotten rid of the gas range that had come with the house and installed an electric one. Open flames bothered her.
Even on candles, although she would occasionally light one. When she wasn't alone.

Sighing, she shook her head over the silliness of human nature. How could fears like this grow so powerful, and all from nothing?

Then a thought occurred to her. Suddenly her head snapped up. In her hand were slices of pastrami. She started to turn toward her kitchen door, then realized she was still holding the meat. Putting it down on a slab of rye bread, she wiped her hands on her apron and headed across the street.

Reverend Elijah Canfield answered on her second knock.

“Yes?” he said.

“Can you tell me something, Reverend?”

He smiled and nodded. “Certainly, if I know the answer.”

“Maybe you do and maybe you don't. But how come the women in your church aren't helping feed the firefighters?”

For a few seconds he didn't answer.

“You see,” Mary plunged on, “there are a half-dozen of us who've volunteered to make food for the firefighters. I'm over there making a couple hundred sandwiches right now. And it suddenly occurred to me that more people ought to be helping. So…don't bother to answer me. But it sure would be nice if somebody would make potato salad or macaroni salad, or even some dessert!”

Finished, she marched back across the street and
into her kitchen, where she went back to work. She didn't care what the man thought of her, but it was really bothering her how few people in town were helping. Oh, a lot of men went to fight the fire, but not nearly as many as could. And right now six women were trying to make enough food for an army.

Apparently the town didn't feel all that threatened at the moment. Well, she ought to know, from her years of teaching, how few people stepped forward to help out unless they had a personal interest. It never failed that one or two mothers in her classrooms would do everything. Or that only fifty parents, in a school with five hundred students, ever showed up for the PTA meetings. The same fifty, every time.

She was putting the top slices on the first batch of sandwiches when her kitchen screen door, which opened onto her driveway, swung open. Startled, she looked up and saw Elijah Canfield.

“You're right,” he said simply. “Let me help with those sandwiches.”

She was hardly going to tell him to get lost after making a stink about it. So she smiled, waved to the cold cuts and suggested he start at the other end of the counter.

For a few minutes they worked in a silence that was not quite comfortable. Mary didn't usually have a problem with quiet, but it was different somehow with Elijah, as if a million unspoken things were
swirling in the air around them, few of them pleasant.

It was Elijah who broke the silence as he started slicing the sandwiches. “You know Sam well?”

Mary hesitated. What did he mean by
well?
“Not really,” she said slowly. “He helped me out when someone rear-ended my car. We've talked a few times since.” Which struck her as some kind of fib, when she thought about it, because however short a time she had known Sam, she also knew some very personal things about him. Things such as what Elijah had said to Sam after his wife's death. Remembering that, Mary felt a prickle of strong dislike for Elijah. How could someone be so cruel?

“So you're not dating?”

“Heavens, no!” And what business of his was it, anyway? He hadn't talked to his son in fifteen years or more. But Mary bit the words back, waiting to see where this was leading.

But apparently it was leading nowhere. She started to stuff the sliced sandwiches into plastic bags to keep them fresh, then stacked them in a cooler with an ice pack in it. Nothing more was said for a long time, not until all the sandwiches were put away and she was laying out bread for the next round. Firefighters worked up a real appetite.

“It's good of you to do this,” Elijah remarked. “You're right. I'll ask the ladies at the church to make some food.”

“Ask the men, too. They're not incapable.”

Elijah's shaggy white brows lifted, but he didn't say anything.

Mary realized she had been sharp with him. There was really no reason for her to do that, except that she couldn't forget how he had hurt Sam. And that was really none of her business. On the other hand, she didn't feel at all inclined to apologize for her sharpness.

“I take it,” Elijah said, “that you think men and women are equally capable.”

“In most ways, yes.” Nor was she about to apologize for the idea. Men might have a little more physical strength, but that was their only edge in the world at large. “Don't tell me you hold with the notion that women should submit to men.”

“The Bible says—”

She interrupted without apology. “It also says that men should love their wives the way that God loves us. Amazing how often that part gets lost in the shuffle.”

Elijah stopped spreading mayonnaise and looked at her, his blue eyes as sharp and bright as glacial ice. “You read the Bible?”

Mary slapped a slab of ham on a piece of bread and felt a great deal of sympathy for Sam, who had grown up with this sort of thing. How difficult for a child it must have been. “Of course I read the Bible,” she said tartly. “And what's more, I understand it pretty well. One of the benefits of being an English teacher.”

“But
how
do you understand it? As a piece of literature or as the word of God?”

“Both, actually. Because it
is
both.”

His icy gaze continued to bore into her for a few more seconds; then he returned to spreading mayonnaise on the bread. Mary realized he was trying not to start a fight. Too bad. Because for some strange reason she was in the mood to have one.

Maybe she was just tired. Or maybe, she thought, she was worried about Sam out there fighting that fire. Sam and all those other men. Every night she prayed that no one would get hurt. And every night she added a little extra prayer for Sam.

She wondered if Elijah bothered to pray for the firefighters, then realized she was being utterly uncharitable. She didn't know Elijah Canfield at all. Other than having a strange opinion about censorship, he might be a perfectly decent man. Well, except for the horrible way he had treated Sam after his wife's death. All the rest of the conflict could be put down to a clash of strong-willed, stubborn men. She'd certainly seen that kind of thing before. But that comment, that Sam was being punished for his sins… That was beyond the pale.

None of those reflections were making her any less crabby, however. Maybe, she argued with herself, it would be best to think of Elijah as a perfect stranger, someone about whom she knew nothing. A new neighbor.

Except that she could still remember the pain in
Sam's gaze when he had talked about his father. Oh, hell.

So she didn't say anything at all. The two of them worked in silence, until the coolers were all full and ready to be taken out to the pass.

Then Elijah broke the silence. “I'll take the food up. You look as if you need some sleep, Sister Mary.”

Being addressed that way set Mary's teeth on edge, but she fought to remain pleasant. “Please, just call me Mary.”

He tilted his head and smiled, and she could see the hint of Sam's gorgeous smile there. “Sorry. Old habit. You look exhausted, and I'm not. I had a nice nap this afternoon. So I'll take the food up, and you get some sleep.”

Part of her wanted to argue with him, and she felt an inward twinge of embarrassment when she realized it was only because she didn't want to relinquish control. Because she
did
need some rest. Not as badly as the men who were actually fighting the fire, but badly enough.

“Thank you,” she said.

His smile broadened, reminding her so much of Sam, despite his beard, that she caught her breath. “Sometimes,” he said kindly, “it wounds our pride to accept help. But all of us need it from time to time.”

“Even you?” The words were out before she
could stop them, and she wanted to clap her hands over her mouth, but it was too late.

Instead of taking offense, he chuckled. “Even me, Mary. And it was one of the hardest lessons I ever learned.”

He was, she thought after he'd carried the last cooler out to his car, a far nicer man than she would have imagined. Yes, he made her feel prickly, and she suspected she probably made him feel prickly, too, but at heart he was a decent man.

Of course, Sam had never said his father wasn't decent, or that he wasn't likable. All she knew for certain was that Elijah was rigid. So rigid that he'd created a problem with his son. So rigid that the first thing he'd done when he'd met Mary was bring up the subject of books her students shouldn't be reading.

But how much of that did he perceive as his duty and how much of that was really Elijah? Hard to tell. But her curiosity was piqued, and she decided that she was going to get to know Elijah a little better.

M
ary had just showered and changed into her pajamas when the doorbell rang. Expecting to find Elijah there, she grabbed a terry-cloth robe and pulled it on over her lavender cotton pajamas. She couldn't imagine what he wanted, unless it was to return the coolers.

But it wasn't Elijah, it was Sam. A freshly showered Sam, wearing clean jeans and a blue polo shirt.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” she answered, not quite certain what to do. My goodness, how could she have forgotten how handsome he was? Then she saw the burn marks along his forearms and the angry red welt on his cheek. Nervousness and surprise gave way to instant concern.

“What happened to your face?” Without thinking, she reached for his hand and drew him into the house.

“I'm fine,” he protested, turning to close the door behind him. “Really, I'm fine.”

“You don't look fine. In fact, you look burned.”

His finger touched his cheek. “That's not a burn, Mary. Just an abrasion.”

“And your arms?”

“Those are cinder burns. No big deal. Just little singes.”

She shook her head and drew him into the living room, urging him to sit on the couch. “What have you put on them? Anything?”

“There wasn't anything to put on them. Mary, it's no big deal, really.”

She had half turned to go get some aloe from her kitchen when she realized she was treating Sam as if he were one of her students, rather than a grown man who had been taking care of himself for a long time. “Okay,” she said brightly. Resisting the urge to sit beside him, she plopped into the easy chair facing him, suddenly aware of her bare feet. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Water?”

“Don't trouble yourself, Mary. I was just wondering how you were getting on.”

Wondering how
she
was getting on? That struck her as being awfully paternalistic, until she realized that she had been mothering him. And all of that, at least on her part, she realized with pinkening cheeks, had to do with how attractive she found Sam. Maybe he found her attractive, too?

Her heart slammed. No. Of course not. Besides,
he wouldn't like her anymore once he knew the truth about her. But she didn't want to think about that now, not with Sam smiling at her across the mere five feet that separated them. Not with his presence filling her house. My word, she could even smell the soap from his shower and recognized the brand. It was a scent she had always liked.

“So how are you, Mary?” he prompted with that kindness that seemed to come so naturally to him.

“Me? I'm fine. But I'm not fighting a fire.”

“But you're making tons of sandwiches.”

She waved a hand. “That's nothing.” She almost mentioned that his father had helped her that evening but bit the words back. She wasn't sure how Sam would react, and she didn't want to destroy the pleasant warmth between them.

“I guess I got you out of bed.” He nodded toward her robe and bare feet.

The word bed seemed to suddenly thicken the air. Mary couldn't believe it. She hadn't been this sensitive to a mere word since her early high school days. “Uh…I just showered.”

He nodded. Apparently he wasn't feeling as awkward as she was right now. “To tell you the truth, I was hoping to have a little fun.”

Fun?
Fun?
Various definitions of the word fun, none of them in Webster's, ran through her head. She was spending too much time with sixteen-year-old boys, she told herself sternly. But nonetheless, her breath locked in her throat.

“You know,” Sam said, as if he had no idea in the world how that word had struck her, “I thought we could go over to the Silverton Inn for dancing or something.”

“Dancing?” She repeated the word stupidly, unable to believe it.
Dancing?
The man was exhausted from fire fighting, covered with burns and abrasions, and he was talking about going dancing?

“I know,” he said. “It's a bad idea. You look as exhausted as I feel. It just popped into my head before I got here.”

And now he was backtracking as swiftly and politely as a man could. On his face she caught a glimpse of his sudden discomfort, as if his suggestion had astonished him as much as it had her.

Sympathy gave her a reason to beg off. “Thank you, Sam. But I'm too tired.” Not that she wouldn't have loved to go dancing with him. But she didn't want to go, tired or not, unless it was something he really wanted to do. And she suspected he was a long way from wanting to take a woman, any woman, dancing.

“Me, too.” He gave a wry smile, and she felt again a shiver of purely sexual pleasure. Good heavens, what a time for her hormones to wake up from their long slumber. “We'll do it another time. A better time.”

Which sounded to her as if he were grateful for being let off the hook. Disappointment and relief filled her, and she gave herself an inward mental
shake. She was acting nutty. She'd seen this man around town countless times since moving here and had thought only that he was a pleasant-looking man with kind eyes. Now all of a sudden she was feeling as if he were the most attractive male specimen she'd ever seen. Why? Because now she knew that he had been hurt, too? That he had suffered?

That was dangerous, and she knew it. Being a rescuer was often a dangerous and thankless task. It led people to base relationships on shaky foundations, the way she had with Chet, her ex. She'd wanted to rescue him, too, to save him from his unhappy childhood and the broken heart some other woman at college had given him. Instead she'd found herself married to a spineless, selfish whiner who, in the pinch, had turned out to be made of gelatin.

“Anyway,” Sam went on, looking more relaxed now, “I got to thinking. Did you get your car back yet?”

“No, they need to order some parts. Maybe three more days.”

“Then I should keep my promise to get you to the grocery store.”

“No, really.” She shook her head and managed a slight smile. “Meg Sanders and I have been going there every day to get food for the firefighters. Trust me, anything I've needed, I've been able to get. You don't have to worry about it.”

“Good.” Then, as if he realized how that might
sound, he added, “I mean good that you've been getting to the store. Sorry. My brain is fried.”

“You really didn't need to come running over here to check up on me, Sam. I'm a big girl.”

He looked at her, and finally a long sigh escaped him. “I'm making a hash of this. I think I've forgotten how to talk to people outside my job. Sorry.”

“You're tired.”

“Yeah, I am. That's still no excuse.”

“Sure it is. Which is why I'm not offended that you invited me to go dancing when it was so obvious that that's the last thing on earth you want to do tonight. That you only suggested it because you were feeling bad about not keeping your promise to take me to the store.”

He winced. “Ouch.”

“Yes. Ouch.”

He sighed once more, rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, then looked at her again. “Why don't we start over?”

“Start over?”

“Yeah. Like this.” Getting up, he crossed the living room and stepped outside, closing the door behind him. The doorbell rang.

Almost in spite of herself, Mary wanted to giggle. She swallowed the sound and went to open the door, struggling to keep a straight face.

“Hi, Mary,” Sam said when she opened the door. “I was feeling like a guilty rat for forgetting to take
you to the store, so I thought I'd stop by and see if you need anything.”

Mary, amused, looked him up and down. “You don't look like a guilty rat.”

“I have a good disguise. Can I come in for a few?”

“Sure.” Smiling, she stepped back to let him pass. “Do you want some cheese?”

He looked startled, then laughed. It was such a nice sound, quiet but mirthful. “Just as long as there's no arsenic on it.”

“I would never do such a thing,” she assured him primly. “But if you're very, very good, I might give you some crackers to go with it.”

It was as if a switch flipped. Suddenly the cool air inside her house became thick, heavy with portent. Oh, Lord, she'd forgotten that high school thing about being good versus being nice. But Sam, clearly, had not. His eyes were suddenly narrow and his face soft.

“Oh,” he said quietly, “I can be very, very good.”

She believed it. Believed it so much that she stopped breathing while her veins ran warm with honey. This had to stop, said some panicked portion of her mind. Now.

He took a step toward her before her alarmed mind could find words to force from her empty lungs. But then he caught himself visibly and shook
his head. “Here I go again. Want me to step outside and try all over, or just leave?”

She managed a jerky shake of her head and finally drew a breath.

“Cheese and crackers would be nice if you don't mind,” he said, then placed himself firmly on her couch. “Just don't go to any trouble on my account.”

Freed, as if silken bonds had suddenly dropped from her limbs, she fled to the kitchen.

Oh, man. Oh, man. How could anyone affect her like that? He'd just been teasing, she told herself. Just joking around the way they all had once upon a time. Filling an awkward moment with an awkward joke. Being a teacher, she ought to know better than to hand out a line like that.

She just hoped he hadn't been able to tell from her expression how strongly she had reacted.

In her refrigerator she had three kinds of cheese: brie, gouda and cheddar. She warmed the brie briefly in her microwave, then prepared a tray with all three and assorted snack crackers.

“Do you want anything to drink?” she called to him. Easier than going back into the living room just yet. She knew the minute she got out there, she was going to feel awkward again.

“Coffee, if you have any. My caffeine tank is reading empty. But don't go to any trouble.” That seemed to be his favorite line, as if Sam Canfield felt unworthy of even the barest courtesies.

“No trouble.” How much trouble could it be to scoop coffee and pour water into her drip coffee-maker? It wasn't as if she had to go down to the river and pound laundry on the rocks.

She took the tray into the living room and placed it in front of him on the coffee table, using napkins, utensils and coffee as an excuse to dart back into the kitchen.

This was terrible. She hadn't been this uncomfortable around a man since she'd been fifteen or sixteen. A woman of thirty ought to be well past this.

She looked down at herself and was suddenly torn between a sigh and a laugh. Her lavender pajamas, cotton, were relatively new, but her terry-cloth robe was an old favorite, shaggy with pulled threads and bare at the elbows. Sam
had
to have been joking.

Oddly the realization that she looked frumpy made her feel better. The moments past were nothing but a mental aberration on her part. Reassured, she was able to return smiling with the coffee and utensils.

“You make great coffee,” Sam remarked with satisfaction. He'd already tucked into the cheese and crackers.

“Thanks. But I think that's a matter of taste, don't you?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Okay.
I
think you make great coffee.”

She felt her cheeks heating. “Sorry, I'm an En
glish teacher. I guess I've picked up a few bad habits.”

“Which is why I should be more careful about how I say things.” But he was smiling, with the hint of a laugh in his voice. Holding his mug in both hands, he settled back on the couch. Just then, a crack of thunder disturbed the quiet night. “God, we need the rain,” he remarked, glancing toward her window. “But we don't need the lightning.”

“I know.” A worried frown creased her brow. “I repeatedly feel amazed by how hard it is to extinguish that fire. I never really noticed before. Forest fires were always something that was background on the news for me, so I never paid much attention.”

“It feels like magic.” He sipped his coffee and gave another satisfied sigh. “Black magic. Every time we start to control it in one place, it springs up in another. A little bit of wind, just enough to blow a few embers, and
bam—
there's a new one. I have to admit, I hadn't really thought much about it before, either. Not in any detail.”

Another crack of thunder sounded, loud enough to make Mary jump. She was glad she wasn't holding a coffee cup. “I hope that's not hitting anything.”

“Me, too.”

Through the window curtains, she saw another flash and started counting.

“Five miles,” Sam said. Since storms came in from the west, that didn't sound good.

“I wonder what the men out there are doing,” she said. “It can't be safe for them to be in the woods during this.”

“I don't know. Probably ignoring it. The fire's a bigger threat.”

Mary nodded slowly, wondering how many families were listening to those cracks right now and worrying. “What about Joe and Louis?”

“Joe and Louis?”

“Those two painters who live in the valley.”

“Oh, they've been evacuated. Everybody over there has been told to get out. Maybe a dozen families.”

“Thank goodness. I can't imagine what it must be like to have to leave everything behind and wonder if any of it will be there when you come back.”

“Not pleasant. But most of them got enough warning to get the really precious stuff out. That's a blessing.”

Thunder boomed again, a hollow, rumbling sound that seemed to bounce off the mountains all around. So loud that Mary's windows rattled. “I don't like this.”

“Me, neither. Mind if I get some more coffee?”

“Go ahead.”

Feeling stiff and edgy, Mary walked to the window and drew the curtains back. The street was still dry, her lawn still looking nearly lifeless. Her flowers grew bravely, a miracle of constant attention and regular dousing with her dishwater. Lawn watering
had been forbidden for the last month, and except for a few hardy weeds, there was little green out there. Nor was anything moving. Not even a breath of air.