The Perfect Match (3 page)

He turned, his dark eyes more concerned than threatening. “Can I help you?”

Ellie forced her hand out, complete with a smile. “Ellie Karlson. I’m the interim fire chief.”

She had his full attention now, along with a disheartening scowl.

“I hope Romey mentioned me.” She recalled at least three conversations with the Deep Haven mayor, and in the last one she could nearly
hear
him telling her he’d informed the city police. “I just arrived tonight.”

The man recovered well, took her hand, gave it a solid shake. “Sam Watson, chief of police. And, yes, I guess Romey did mention that he was sending someone my way.” His gaze traveled over her quickly, and when he met her eyes again, a smile hinted on his face. “You weren’t the someone I was expecting, but I’m glad to have you aboard.”

Then he turned to the steamy shell of the Simmons home. “Your timing is uncanny. Did you see the fire?”

Ellie scrambled to unglue her tongue from her mouth. No gasps? No sneers? No “over my dead body” comments? “Yes. I heard it on my scanner. I went with one of the firemen to the hospital.”

The chief nodded. “I heard Dan was injured. How’s he doing?”

She stepped up next to him and buried her hands in her jeans-jacket pockets. Early morning on the North Shore in September carried with it the anxious breath of winter. She shivered. “Had a dislocated shoulder. They set it and I think he’s going to be fine.” Well, his
body
would recover. She wasn’t so sure about his mind. Why had he attacked her? So far, three out of four Deep Haveners had welcomed her with kindness. Did she emit some sort of odorous pheromone that caused the town
pastor to rear up on his hind legs like a grizzly and come out slashing?

“Dan seems to think the fire was set by the victim. He evidently has a history of arson?”

The chief scowled, his lips tight. “Spent two years in county lockup for arson. Got out a month ago on parole.”

“Has he had a hard time fitting back into life?”

Sam nodded slowly. “I thought he’d been pulling out of it, however. Smoky Joe’s BBQ gave him a job, and I saw him in church last week.” He sighed. “Guess we don’t see these things coming, huh?”

Ellie frowned. “Thing is, the typical arsonist has a fascination with fire. A sort of love-hate relationship. A suicide burn doesn’t fit the profile.”

“Well, Leo didn’t fit the standard profile. He was sloppy, and we caught him nearly red-handed, running from the fire he’d set.”

“Strange. Most arsonists enjoy watching their handiwork—even have a sense of disappointment or grief when the fire is extinguished. Running isn’t usually their standard reaction. How was this fire set?”

“He doused some garbage outside the house with gasoline and set it ablaze.”

“Sounds like a crime of passion more than the work of an arsonist.”

Chief Sam watched with a grim set of his jaw as the ME toted Leo’s body to the van. “Maybe the fire was accidental.”

Ellie let herself feel the pain in his voice. An accidental fiery death of a man convicted of arson. The scenario felt . . . convenient. And she couldn’t escape the irony. If it had been accidental, fate had surely enacted its revenge.

That thought felt like a blow right to the sternum. She didn’t want to imagine how fate might repay
her
mistakes.

Thankfully, her life and Leo’s weren’t in the hands of fate. Which, in Leo’s case, pushed this inferno into the realm of suspicion.

“I’m going to swing by tomorrow in the light of day and nose around, see what I can find. Fires usually leave some sort of signature.” Ellie turned again toward the chief, hand outstretched. “Thanks—”

“Hey, you!” The strident voice held fatigue and not a small amount of fire-induced hoarseness. Ellie whirled and saw one of the firemen striding toward her. Being over six feet, he held a fire axe like a toothpick, and his soot-streaked face added menace to his appearance. The look he gave her felt invasive, even predatory. “Don’t I know you?” The way he said it made her glad that he didn’t.

She drew herself up. “I don’t think so. Your name is?”

“Mitch Davis. Captain.” He frowned at her, as if disbelieving her words. “You were at the fire.”

Ellie nodded slowly, pretty sure his words leaned toward accusation.

His face darkened further, defying the impossible. “I don’t know what you were thinkin’, but don’t ever run into a fire scene again. You could have been killed. And the last thing we need is spectators—”

“Mitch, this is—,” Chief Sam started.

“—getting in the way of our job.”

“—the new fire chief.”

Mitch stared at Chief Sam like he’d been backhanded. He blinked. And then Ellie’s worst expectation material
ized in his expression. His face screwed up in disbelief and maybe horror.

“What?”

Even the police chief took a step back.

Ellie nearly stuck out her hand in a peacemaking gesture but then guessed she might lose it to the fire axe. “Fire chief. Interim.” Fury gathered at the way this man had reduced her to sentence fragments. Ellie blew out a breath, raised her chin. “I know it comes as a bit of a shock, but, yes, I’m here to fill in until you find your permanent replacement.”

If looks could kill, she’d be a smoking pile right where she stood. Then, lifting his axe in a movement that sent ice through Ellie’s veins, he pointed it at her. “We’ll see about that.” Flicking a death look at Chief Sam, Mitch turned and stalked back to the scene.

She forced herself to exhale. “That went well.”

Chief Sam looked at her, and a slow smile slid up his face. “I think you’re going to fit in just fine here, Miss Karlson.”

Later, as she slowly motored past the tragedy traced by steam in the wee light of morning, the police chief’s kind words cushioned her fatigued brain. Round two with the town law had gone significantly better than the warm-up event with the town’s religious representative. Perhaps she should have gone with her instincts and tried to befriend Dan first, then eased into her announcement with grace and finesse.

Except the pastor hadn’t been the older but kinder chief of police. He’d been a devastatingly handsome fireman who boldly announced she was a dream. Wow, did that feel good. But she’d do well to remember that despite her
deepest, most hidden wishes, she couldn’t afford to let her heart off its leash. Even for friendship. The minute she started investing emotionally into her firemen, beyond professional comradery, was the minute she compromised everything for which she’d slaved. Over the years she’d had her share of offers . . . from marriage to a few proposals that would have made even her father blush. But she’d handled them with the icy demeanor of a woman who knew that the second she let herself fall into a fireman’s arms was the second she put his life in danger. Instead of concentrating on his job, he’d channel his energies into protecting her. She’d attended enough funerals to know she didn’t want to be at the receiving end of a folded flag.

One black dress was enough.

Even her oratory to the town preacher about making a difference could return to haunt her. It sounded a bit too desperate. And, from her limited experience, desperate information was nothing but bait to a man of the cloth. The last thing she needed was Dan donning his pastor garb and peeking inside her soul. Not that she’d let him anywhere near her. His growled threat still rang in her ears.
Over his dead body?
How did a man with the sensitivity of a bullfrog ever get to be a pastor? She’d wanted to slug him. The man sounded like an echo from her past . . . something she’d spent over a decade learning how to dodge.

“Seth,
you
think I’m making a difference, right?” she said into the sky, into the expanse beyond the darkness where the stars still flickered despite the onslaught of morning. Angry tears edged her eyes and she clenched her jaw. Fatigue and two ugly emotional battles had obviously pushed grief to the surface.

She’d simply let Preacher Dan get under her skin. Something about him seemed a little too smug, too invasive. Too he-man. Next time, she’d double her defenses when he walked into her airspace.

She turned onto Main Street, cruised past dark and forlorn houses angled along the shoreline, and finally pulled up next to the Gull’s Roost Hotel. Its wavy, sunken porch hinted at past battles with the lake, and the whitewashed building spoke of anything but elegance and comfort. But the moment Ellie saw the place, complete with a front porch that overlooked Lake Superior and promised a spectacular sunrise, she knew she’d found her home. Temporarily, at least. And pending a serious fire inspection. But for now it was cheap, close to the fire station, and allowed her only friend to bunk with her.

Franklin. She hoped the basset hound hadn’t woken, discovered her absence, and howled out his frustration.

Climbing out of the Jeep, she headed into the lobby. The desk clerk had set out a Ring for Service sign, so Ellie tiptoed up the stairs, grimacing at a loose floorboard that groaned under her clandestine arrival.

She had the first room on the left—the “honeymoon suite.” She eased the door open, locked it behind her, and headed to the bathroom. Thankful that the old hotel had at least updated the bathroom amenities, she stood in the shower, adjusting the spray on the nozzle to all three settings before she felt the stress finally begin to peel off.

After wrapping herself in an old terry robe, she turned off the lights and sat on the corduroy sofa by the window overlooking the lake. Franklin had opened one saggy eye the moment she walked into the room. Now he stood, stretched, and moseyed over to her feet, where
he flopped in a fresh heap and sighed. She smiled and rubbed him behind his ears. “I couldn’t agree more.”

The sun now tipped the waves with fingers of rose gold. A flock of gulls slept on the outcropping that rimmed the bay. The smell of lake water and autumn scented the air, despite the hint of a bakery preparing its morning offerings. “Am I making a difference, Seth?” she repeated softly into the silence.

But she heard no answer in the hollow of her soul.

D
an stood in the hallway, dressed in the flimsy gown and bathrobe the hospital provided, staring into the intensive care unit. Tubes, monitors, and IV lines dwarfed the tiny forms of Jordan and Jeffrey Simmons. He watched their chests rising and falling with the life-support systems, and the center of his throat felt raw and thick.

Sighing, he shuffled up to the nurses’ station. Sandra, one of his favorite church members, sat at the desk, a pen shoved above her ear, working on the computer. “Hey, there,” he said softly.

She looked up and smiled. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“Can’t sleep.”

“Are you in pain?”

He didn’t quite know how to answer that question. His shoulder ached as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to it, but that pain couldn’t touch the gaping wound in his heart. It almost eased his inner agony every time his shoulder spasmed. “Where’s Angelica?”

Sandra nodded, as if understanding his artful dodging. “Down the hall. In pediatrics.”

Dan pushed his IV pole ahead of him as he strode down the hall to the pediatric wing.
Please let her be okay.
The four small rooms that made up the pediatric corner of the rural hospital smelled strongly of cleanser, cotton, and medicines. The wall had been papered in bears up to the chair rail, and the nurse for this section, Kelly Peterson, wore a smock in a similar pattern. She looked up from her desk. “Hey ya, Pastor. Are you looking for the Simmons baby?”

He nodded, not quite sure how to read Kelly’s sad expression. Generally, most people wore a sorrowful, accepting look when discussing Angelica. Dan often felt a strange need to sling his arm over the baby’s mother’s shoulder to bolster her brave smile. But now, perhaps Nurse Peterson’s sad expression had to do with Angelica’s dire condition.

He steeled himself as he approached her room. An IV line and the monitor cables draping into the crib seemed odd accessories to the pastel flannel pads and blanket. Angelica lay on her back, eyes closed, a tube taped to her open mouth. Her long lashes and gentle breathing belied the trauma she’d suffered.

“How is she?” Dan asked Kelly, who’d followed him into the room.

“Better. She’s down to 70 percent oxygen, and we’re just waiting to see if any infection sets in. So far, she’s fared better than we hoped and she continues to improve.”

He reached into her crib, touched her tiny, velvety hand. The fingers didn’t close nor did she even twitch.

“We have her sedated so she won’t dislodge her oxygen tube.”

“She doesn’t have much movement as it is.” Although nearly sixteen months old, the baby seemed like rubber, her muscles soft and refusing to propel her into movement. Cindy Simmons had handled the slow development of her Down syndrome child with great courage. She believed that God had gifted her daughter to her, especially since Angelica had been born a few months after Leo’s incarceration. Dan had learned more about faith watching Cindy than he had studying for any of his sermons.

“I’m sorry, little girl,” he said softly. Tears blurred his eyes, and he swallowed before they spilled down his cheeks. “I promise to make sure you’re okay.” Even if I failed your father. He gulped a deep breath. “I’ll do right by your family, little one.” He turned to Nurse Kelly. “Will you keep me posted on her condition?”

She gave him a grim smile and nodded.

He returned to his room and spent the next four hours in restless slumber. Dr. Simpson arrived sometime after Dan’s tasteless breakfast and declared him fit for discharge. Thankfully, Joe showed up during Dan’s exam with appropriate attire shoved into a paper bag. Dan wrestled himself into his shirt, left one arm dangling, and was grateful his friend thought of bringing track pants instead of something with a zipper.

Dan felt like he’d been run over by a cement mixer. Still, he wanted to hit something hard when Sandra appeared with a wheelchair.

“I’ve got legs.”

“So you do,” Sandra answered politely. “Use them to walk over here and plop yourself in this chair.”

“Not a chance.” He stood and made to dash for the door, but Joe stopped him.

“You want your walking papers, you gotta take the ride,” Sandra said, smiling as if she was taking pleasure in seeing him humiliated.

“C’mon, Dan. I’ll drive.” Joe gave him a sassy grin.

“Thanks, but one dislocation is enough.” Dan levered himself into the chair and slouched as Sandra steered him out of the room and down the hall. He didn’t look up until he reached the front doors.

“Now, don’t forget your appointment with Dr. Simpson on Tuesday,” Sandra said before she wheeled the chair away.

Dan thanked the nurse and pushed open the door. Less than twenty-four hours in the hospital and he felt like a prisoner on parole. Free at last. A fresh autumn breeze and a sky filled with sunshine and cirrus clouds greeted him like a friend.

His thoughts turned to his to-do list, which could knock him to his knees. He had another wall to build on his house, his sermon to review, and about five telephone calls to make, not including the call to social services about Cindy Simmons. She had been airlifted to a Duluth hospital with burns over 40 percent of her body. Evidently they’d found her in the hallway of the burning cabin, probably scrabbling to find the telephone. Even if Angelica and the boys pulled through, they’d have to have temporary homes until Cindy recovered.

“Do you want to head home?” Joe held the hospital bag full of Dan’s turnout coat, his bunker pants, and steel boots. “How about stopping at the Footstep for a cup of java? We have a new mix in—it’s from Thailand.
And Mona’s trying out a recipe for scones.” He grimaced in playful humor. “I have to confess that the last batch was pretty iffy. I told her to paint them and put them in Liza’s store as Lake Superior rocks.” Joe laughed at his own joke.

“No, thanks,” Dan said, “although the offer is
so
tempting.” He made a face that said otherwise. “Actually, I have to get up to the house. Need to put up the south wall.”

“Not with that shoulder, pal. I heard the doc. No movement for at least five days. You’ll have to wait.”

“I can’t. I need the place roofed in by winter.” Two years ago Dan had acquired a choice piece of property overlooking the lake and just this summer, after trading in his SUV for a cheaper 1974 VW Bug, broke ground for a two-bedroom cabin. Admittedly, the project felt a bit like scaling Mount McKinley on his hands and knees, but he’d laid the foundation and had the two longest walls framed and standing. If he could put the trusses up and nail down the roof before winter, he’d tarp it over and work on the interior while the January wind howled.

Joe tossed Dan’s bag of gear into the back of his pickup. “Tell you what. You sit tight for a few days, let that shoulder heal, and I promise to spend the next three Saturdays as your framing slave.”

Dan laughed, earning a spur of pain in his shoulder. Maybe he should accept Joe’s offer. “I thought you’re in the middle of a new book. I don’t want to cut into your creativity.” He rolled his eyes and lilted his voice as he said it.

Joe glared at him. “Watch it, Dan. I may know how
to weave a few words together, but don’t forget who scored on you during last week’s hockey game.”

“Lucky shot. It bounced off the pipes. Besides, goalie isn’t my regular post.”

“That was obvious.” Joe fired up the truck and backed out. “I don’t suppose you’ll be up for tonight’s game? We’re going to be two short, what with Leo . . .” His voice trailed off into a grim silence.

Dan blew out a breath of remorse that lumped in the deepest part of his soul. Why hadn’t he seen Leo’s desperation? He’d followed Leo to the Lucky Seven only two weeks ago, sat next to him, and drank a Coke while the man washed down three whiskey shots and half a bottle of beer. Dan gently combated Leo’s sour mood with snatches of Scripture or testimony from his own journey through sorrow. He thought his words had found fertile soil, even through Leo’s liquor fog. At least Leo had showed up for their weekly pickup hockey game stone sober and hadn’t headed back to the pub after the match. Moreover, he hadn’t spotted Leo’s gray pickup parked at the town watering hole during Dan’s irregular drive-bys during the week. And hadn’t Cindy reported that Leo had landed a job at Smoky Joe’s BBQ restaurant?

Dan had rejoiced in small victories too early, it seemed. He should have followed his gut instinct and visited the man. Perhaps he’d relied too heavily on the gentle nudging of the Holy Spirit instead of raining down a dose of good old-fashioned fire and brimstone on Leo’s self-destructive behavior.

He should have made sure Leo stayed clean, his thoughts on reality instead of locked in the guilt of the past.

Then again, sometimes reality felt like a hard chop to the knees.

“No, I’m going to make myself a Denver omelet and work on my sermon,” Dan said quietly. Maybe some time in the Word would give him both perspective and comfort. Lately he sometimes felt as if he’d be more effective slapping a puck around or fighting fires or even sweeping floors in the local pub than preaching the Word of God. He should spend his Friday praying for help—maybe a new spiritual insight into the health of the souls in his congregation. Why couldn’t he be more like Oswald Chambers or even C. S. Lewis—inspiration pouring from every sentence?

Maybe he needed a helpmate. That thought had nagged him more than once over the past year. Weren’t women sensitive to the needs of a congregation? Suddenly the image of Ellie Karlson, local interim fire chief and porcupine, flashed through his mind. Oh yeah, she was a regular June Cleaver.

He still had to take a deep breath whenever Ellie’s sooty face, filled with worry and framed against the orange glow, leaped into his mind. Something about her made his stomach churn, or perhaps it was his chest. He couldn’t believe he’d actually called her his dream. He’d wanted to dive under his hospital bed about ten seconds into their conversation. Dream. Right. So she had an incredible heart-attack smile and freckles across her nose that stirred his heart. She certainly wasn’t dream-girl material. Especially for him. He needed a woman sold out for God. A woman passionate about serving her Savior, with a heart for ministry. He needed a woman who wouldn’t need adventure to keep her happy.

A woman for whom he was enough.

Oops. Perhaps Charlene had left a deeper scar than he realized. That agonizing reality should have been obvious the second he’d threatened Ellie like the town ogre.

First Leo and now Ellie. His abysmal pastoral skills had reached new depths.

“What are you preaching on this week?” Joe turned his pickup toward the church and Dan’s adjoining two-bedroom parsonage.

“I’m focusing on John fourteen verses five through fourteen about having faith in Jesus and doing great things in the name of God.” Dan tried to ignore the sharp twist of those words in his soul. Had he ever done great things for God? “I’ve been reading
Fox’s Book of Martyrs,
and the things those saints suffered for the sake of Christ would send you to your knees.”

Joe nodded. “I met a man on a flight to Alaska who was a missionary in China. His stories still give me nightmares. Sometimes I wonder if I know what it means to sacrifice for the sake of the gospel. I wonder if I’ve even gotten dirty reaching out to the lost, let alone suffered.” He sighed and shot Dan a wry look. “All my close friends are Christians, and I can’t drive more than fifty miles without finding a church. I go round and round the Matthew 28 great commission, and I have to ask what exactly does God want of me here, now, in Deep Haven, Minnesota?”

Dan looked out the window, Joe’s words skimming the open wounds in his heart. They pulled into the parking lot of Grace Church. The compact building, with its pine-paneled sanctuary and groomed, carpeted rooms seemed like home. Comfortable. Easy. The church
groundskeeper had raked the lawn, and a delivery of fresh flowers sat in front of the door, the altar bouquet ready for Sunday’s service. Neat. Pretty.

“Good question, Joe,” Dan murmured quietly. “What, exactly?”

“Over your dead body? Fine with me!” The wind snatched Ellie’s voice and quickly devoured it as she pedaled down the Gunflint Trail toward Deep Haven late Friday afternoon. It was probably a good thing that no one could hear her. It wouldn’t win her any points in the town for someone to hear her waging loud, emotional arguments with thin air. Any psychologist worth her salt would agree, however, that a good old-fashioned verbal brawl brought catharsis.

Even if it was only with a memory.

Although, as the wind filled her ears, Ellie couldn’t decide if she was fighting with the man she’d seen last night in the hospital or a younger, more tempestuous smoke jumper who had done his dead-level best to make her quit her job as a forest firefighter.

Whomever she fought with, she was going to win. She’d worked too hard, too long to let a man, living or dead, get in the way of her goals.

Ellie applied the brakes and brought her mountain bike to a stop along the road. Still a good three miles out of town, her perch on the steep highway overlooked Deep Haven like a king on a hill overlooking his kingdom. The endless blue of Lake Superior, the largest of the Great Lakes, started at the far horizon and ended in rolling
white waves against a bouldered shoreline. Her mother had used the adjectives
cozy,
quaint,
and
safe
when she’d written about Deep Haven after her vacation last summer. Since then some unexplained urge to explore the town tucked in the woods had spoken to a dark and quiet place inside Ellie.