Rescued By The Firefighter. Catherine Lanigan
broken. Nothing else. She was fine.
But an investigation...? Her hero apparently came with a double-edged sword. When he wielded it on the side of the law, would she and her camp survive the blow?
BY THE TIME Beatrice returned to camp at dawn, reality was crashing down on her. Pain was the first of her comprehensions of change. The ice water in the boot was warmer than her body temperature now. Dressing, bathing and asking Maisie to come to her cabin to redress her burns added another twenty minutes to her morning routine. Pain accompanied all these tasks that just yesterday she’d taken for granted.
Just yesterday, I wasn’t under investigation, either, she thought.
But after agonizing about it for the last couple of hours, she’d steeled herself for whatever Rand could bring. She tried not to think that an investigation could be the worst thing that could happen to her. The camp was old, and when she’d bought it, the list of repairs and necessary maintenance had been three sheets long. Two sheets longer than she could afford to fix, even with a small inheritance she’d received from her aunt Elizabeth.
She’d done much of the work herself. The repainting, the gravel for the driveway. She’d pulled every weed, and torn out the unproductive old rosebushes. She’d relaid the heavy stones around the gravel driveway. She’d hauled 52 tons of rock that first spring to create pretty flower beds and garden “islands,” where yard-sale benches mingled with Victorian iron arches that she’d also found at junk shops along Red Arrow Highway. She’d begged and bartered for all the used commercial kitchen appliances that their cook, Amanda, made the meals on.
Beatrice had suffered through one building inspection after another as she readied the camp for opening. She’d bought twice the liability insurance required. She and the camp had passed every building, plumbing and electrical wiring inspection required. Even her little lake was considered safe for all activities because it was only three to four feet deep. Safer than a swimming pool.
She’d obtained her state license as a caregiver. She limited the number of campers to ten and hired three counselors so that her counselor-to-child ratio was better than the one required by the state, which was four to one. She knew children with special needs required one-on-one care, and Beatrice, with sixty clocked hours of training and a child-development-associate credential, took care of those children herself.
The camp and the positive influence she had on the kids’ lives was more than just rewarding for Beatrice. It was her reason for living.
So if Rand came at her with his sword clashing, she’d strike back with a blade just as mighty.
She stood, then winced as pain shot up her leg.
“You okay?” Maisie asked as Beatrice eased her way on her crutches out the door and to the front porch.
“Fine.”
“Yeah, sure. I’m not buyin’ that one.”
They gazed out at the scorched woods, the felled trees and the blackened ground.
“It looks as bad as your hair,” Maisie mused.
“My hair? I just washed it.”
“Okay, but those burned chunks still look bad. Cindy is good with scissors. Maybe she can whack it off.”
“Yeah.” Beatrice closed her eyes. Her long, natural-blond hair had always been a source of pride for her. Pride before the fall, she couldn’t help thinking. “I figure six inches will need to come off.”
“And that would just make it even.”
Beatrice gasped. “And it would be shoulder-length.”
“An improvement.” Maisie grinned, touching her chin-length cut. “Cindy cuts mine. Saves me lots of money compared to what I paid my stylist in Chicago.”
“I’ll ask her to do it this morning.”
“Good,” Maisie replied. “So, look, the kids are at breakfast. I’ll meet you over there.” Maisie started running backward, then twirled and took off toward the dining hall.
Beatrice was nowhere near close to being able to twirl. She was still navigating her new life with the awkward contraption on her foot. She’d come home with a pair of crutches, which were a hindrance inside her little cabin. She’d knocked books off her small, rickety bookshelf and nearly tripped on the rag rug next to her bed when the crutch caught on an edge. That was when she tossed the crutches down and decided to wing it without them. Fortunately, she’d been told she only needed the crutches for this first week. Then she would start rehabilitation. Exercises. Writing the alphabet with her toes.
The very idea made her wince.
Right now, she needed ice water for the interior of the boot to keep the swelling down. She grabbed the crutches and slowly made her way down the three steps of her porch and onto the gravel path that led to the kitchen.
In the kitchen she greeted the cook, Amanda Reynolds, who was turning Mickey Mouse–shaped pancakes on the griddle. Amanda was sixty-five years old, and had recently been forced to retire as a paralegal from a large law firm in Chicago. Amanda had been nowhere near ready to retire. She had enough energy to run rings around both Maisie and Cindy, from what Beatrice had observed. A widow whose only daughter lived in London, Amanda had always loved to cook. Though she preferred gourmet fare for herself and her guests, what she served for the kids was pure home-style family food at its all-American best. The kids loved it and, better still, they ate it.
“Pancakes? It’s not Sunday,” Beatrice said as she entered the kitchen by the screen door.
Amanda jumped. “Good heavenly days! You scared me to death! Don’t do that!” She flipped a mouse head. “I thought you’d take the day to rest.” Amanda walked over and gave Beatrice a big hug. Amanda was tall and slender, and wore very tight jeans, expensive running shoes and a camp T-shirt. Her dyed chestnut hair was clipped up on her head, and her makeup was immaculate, all of which confirmed her stylish Chicago career days. There was nothing “down home” about Amanda.
“After that ordeal last night, I thought the kids and the counselors needed something happy. I’ve got blueberries for the eyes, cherries for the nose and whipped cream smiles.”
Beatrice gave Amanda a smile of her own, the first one that had creased her face since she’d whiffed smoke. “You’re an angel.”
“No. I’m a cook, honey. You’re the angel for going in after those boys.”
Beatrice drained the warm water from the boot, went to the freezer and scooped ice cubes from the bin. She filled the boot resevoir. “Ah. Better already.”
Amanda scooped the pancakes off the griddle, placed them on plates and started decorating.
Cindy came through the swinging kitchen door. “Beatrice! You’re up!”
“Wobbling, but upright, yes.”
“Good. I could use you out here.”
“How so?”
“Would you talk to the kids? They’re upset, and Bruce and I are at our wits’ end. They need—”
“Leadership,” Amanda interjected. “Like the kind most of them don’t get from their parents.”
Beatrice stared at Amanda, who always spoke the truth sans varnish. And didn’t care when she said it or to whom. Sometimes, Beatrice wondered if that was the real reason she’d been pushed into retirement.
Cindy glanced at Beatrice’s air boot. “That’s just so intimidating. To a kid, I mean. Possibly scary. But hey, if anyone can pull this off, you can.”
“It can’t be that bad,” Beatrice replied and hobbled past Cindy and out the kitchen door into the large, vaulted-and-beamed