Colorado Fireman. C.C. Coburn
his nieces and nephews growing up.
Adam had enough guilt to deal with, so he’d agreed to the job, telling himself it was only for a month. He could survive a month without having to get too close to anyone or having to care too much. And then he could return to Boulder, where no one knew anything about his past and no one ever pried into his private business.
“Thank you for saving Molly, mister.”
Adam looked down into the pale blue eyes of the Carly woman’s daughter. Sheesh! Her eyes were brimming, too.
He patted her on the head. “You’re welcome, kid.” And then to deflect the gratitude of the rest of the children who were moving in his direction, he asked, “So where’s Molly?”
“She’s right here, Uncle Adam.” He heard Luke’s middle daughter Daisy’s voice from somewhere behind the crowd in the kitchen. He walked toward it and found her seated on the floor, the dog’s head in her lap. Daisy had always had a way with animals.
As much as it was possible for a basset to look anything but deeply saddened by life, the dog had an expression of bliss on her face as Daisy stroked her ears.
Molly was lying on a blanket. A blanket Adam recognized from his childhood. A blanket he was very fond of.
“That’s my blanket,” he couldn’t help saying, and turned accusingly to his mother.
She flapped the spatula at him and said, “You haven’t used that in years. So I’ve given it to Molly. She needs it more than you.”
“I might have wanted to use it,” he muttered. It was the principle of the thing. He mightn’t have used the blanket for more than twenty years, but it was a well-worn and much-loved childhood companion, and for some stupid reason he felt a sense of possessiveness about it. It sure as hell didn’t deserve to be used as a dog blanket.
“It’s Molly’s now,” Daisy piped up.
His oldest brother, Luke, who ran the family ranch, pressed him down into one of the vacated chairs at the table that occupied the huge country-style kitchen. The table easily sat ten, twelve at a pinch, and today people were rotating chairs as they finished breakfast and made way for the next shift.
He took his seat—beside Carly—and studied the occupants of the kitchen. Although heavily pregnant, Luke’s wife, Megan, was helping his mom prepare and serve. Luke’s oldest daughter, Sasha, was talking to Will’s stepson, Nick, while Celeste, Luke’s youngest, was chatting animatedly with the little girl who’d thanked him before. The two boys who belonged to Carly were bolting down second helpings of oatmeal like they hadn’t been fed in a week. Maybe they hadn’t, Adam decided. Their apartment wasn’t exactly in the town’s high-rent district.
And where was their father? he wanted to ask, not for the first time. Shouldn’t he be taking care of his family?
“Where’s your husband?” Adam blurted, before he could stop himself.
Silence descended on the kitchen and Adam wished the floor would open up.
She looked back at him with a frankness that was daunting and said, “He’s dead.”
CARLY SPENCER TOOK GRIM satisfaction in watching Adam O’Malley’s discomfort as he swallowed her answer and half hoped he’d choke on it. She’d already told Adam’s family that her husband, Michael, was a firefighter who’d perished in a warehouse fire in San Diego. She’d been seven months pregnant with Charlie at the time.
And now she felt bad about her bald statement. She, of all people, having been married to a firefighter, should’ve been more circumspect. But something perverse had made her answer his question as rudely as it had been asked.
What was it with this guy? He had the nicest, most welcoming family, but he was so emotionally distant, it was almost scary.
He’d done the bravest thing yesterday, not only rescuing her son Charlie but defying his battalion chief’s orders and saving Molly. Yet when she’d tried to thank him, he’d been so offhand it bordered on arrogant.
She’d wanted to call him on his behavior, but there was something in Adam O’Malley’s dark brown eyes that spoke of a hurt far greater than Carly suspected he ever revealed to others. So instead of challenging him further, she asked, “Would you like some bacon?” and passed the plate to him without waiting for his answer.
His mother came up behind him and scooped scrambled eggs onto his plate, kissing the top of his head as she did.
Carly didn’t miss the deep blush beneath his tan. That was interesting, the relationship between him and his mom. She got the feeling Sarah irritated him at times. Like now. She was bent over him from behind, hugging him.
“Mom. Please?” he murmured.
“I’m just so happy to have you home. And alive,” his mom said, and kissed the top of his head again before releasing him. The guy was clearly embarrassed by his mother’s display of affection. Sarah, however, seemed to revel in exasperating—if that was the right word—her youngest son, as if she was deliberately trying to provoke a reaction.
She returned with the coffeepot and poured Adam a cup, then went to put cream in it. He took the jug from her hand and murmured, “I can do it myself, Mom.”
“Of course you can, darling,” she said, totally unfazed, “but you’re a hero, and I intend to make you feel like one.”
Carly noticed that her own sons, sitting across the table from them, were transfixed by the exchange. To diffuse their interest, she said, “I don’t believe you’ve been properly introduced to my children. The one who caused you so much trouble yesterday is Alex and the one beside him who’s eating as if he hasn’t been fed in a week is Jake. My daughter is Madeleine. And this little guy,” she said, indicating her youngest, sitting on her lap, “is Charlie.”
Charlie, far from being grateful to his savior, chose that moment to flick a spoonful of oatmeal at Adam. Then he laughed.
TO HIS CREDIT, ADAM didn’t leap from his seat or demand an apology. Instead, he wiped the oatmeal from his cheek with his finger, then wiped his finger on his napkin. “It’s gratifying to be reminded of what the public thinks of we who serve them,” he said, and dug into his eggs.
Will patted him gently on the back. “That’s the spirit, buddy. Nothing like some creative criticism to bring you back to earth. Can’t have you walking around the ranch with a head bigger than a black Angus bull.”
Luke laughed from where he stood beside the kitchen range and raised his coffee mug in agreement.
Carly liked the oldest of the O’Malley brothers. Hey, she liked them all. She was trying to like Adam, too, but he wasn’t exactly making it easy for her. What’s his problem? she wondered.
He was eating in silence. Probably trying to ignore her. Well, that was fine because she didn’t want to make conversation with him, either.
She sipped her coffee, savoring the richness of the blend—a far cry from the budget brand she usually drank. Various conversations flowed around the kitchen and she caught snippets of them and smiled. Maddy and Celeste seemed to have hit it off. They were both in first grade but in different classes and hadn’t met each other before. Carly liked Celeste. She was an angelic-looking child with a sweet temperament and outgoing personality. Maddy was more withdrawn, but Celeste seemed to have struck a chord with her as they shared a love of drawing. The pair were presently giggling over pictures they’d drawn of Adam.
Carly wanted to see how he’d react to them and asked, “What have you got there, Maddy?”
Her daughter held up the picture. She’d given Adam curly, dark brown hair and a smiley face. Carly glanced at Adam. His hair was indeed dark brown, but cut so short, it was hard to determine if there was any curl in it.
Then Celeste held up her picture. She’d given Adam even curlier and longer hair. The child