The Firefighter's Thanksgiving Wish
Автор
Anna J. Stewart
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Chapter One
“I’M SORRY, FRANKIE. But you didn’t get the job.”
In the days that would follow, the fact that Fire Chief Bud Granger struck Francesca Bettencourt speechless—a feat long considered impossible—would be the talk of the town. Whispers would turn to murmurs of disbelief, which would add to the legend of Frankie Bettencourt that had been building in Butterfly Harbor for the past three decades. Of course, years down the road, Frankie would argue it was her stellar control of temper that was the real accomplishment of the day. That’s what happened, Frankie supposed as she considered sinking into the familiar worn leather hardback chair across the desk from her boss, when one was blindsided.
Her knees shook. Her fists clenched. Inside, deep inside where her dreams had waited sheltered, nurtured and protected, she cracked. But she didn’t crumble. Instead, Frankie did what she always did in the face of adversity: she stood.
She cleared her throat, knowing her speak-first, think-later mentality had gotten her into more trouble than anything else. Now was not the time to lose her cool.
“Frankie?” Bud shifted in the squeaky office chair behind the old, scarred desk and winced ever so slightly. “You did hear me, right?”
“Mmm-hmm,” Frankie managed to say through numb, pressed lips. She nodded, tucked an imaginary loose bit of hair behind her ear and scrunched her toes in her worn work boots. When the tightness in her throat eased and she felt she could speak without spitting fire, she cleared her throat again and clasped her hands behind her back. “May I inquire as to whom the town council has promoted to the position?”
Bud’s wince became a full-on flinch, his small eyes almost disappearing in the wrinkles of age and experience. The chair creaked under his significant weight as his fingers tapped the file folder on the side of his desk. “Frankie—”
“I’d like to know. Sir.” Frankie loathed the tremble in her voice; she loathed any sign of weakness that slipped past her control. But she loathed the pity she saw on Bud’s round face most of all.
“Cut the sir stuff, Frankie. I used to bounce you and Monty on my knees when you were nothing but specks in this world. You think I don’t know when you’re ticked off?”
Ticked off? Frankie arched a brow. Was that how one should feel when everything she’d worked for, everything she’d ever wanted in her life, disappeared with—what had it been? Nine words?
“Sit down.” Bud gestured to the chair she’d ignored earlier. “Please.”
She sat. Not because she suspected he’d order her to if she refused, but because she wasn’t entirely sure her legs would continue to support her.
“Who did they promote?” Frankie asked. “There aren’t a lot of qualified people for the job in town.” Not that Butterfly Harbor ever paid much attention to protocol. A small-town department that ran mostly on volunteers didn’t have the luxury of falling in line with other departments. Of those half dozen volunteers, all of them, as far as she knew, were quite happy with their current employment, and none would have gone behind her back. As far as she knew, no one else had expressed any interest in becoming the new chief once Bud’s retirement became official next week. Everyone had assumed, Frankie included, that her eleven years with the department, a good portion of which she’d served as captain, meant her succession to the position was a given.
“No one’s being promoted over you, Frankie.” Bud’s jaw tensed as if he were gnawing on a particularly tough piece of jerky. “They’ve hired from outside the department.”
Outside the... Resentment collided with anger, ready to back draft its way out of her system. She’d worked her butt off to get where she was, and she took inordinate pride in her accomplishments. Knowing she was a lot of people’s first call when they needed help wasn’t a weight she carried; it was a badge she wore proudly. Not only that, she’d purposely gone to each and every town hall meeting since she’d joined the department, keeping her face in front of the town council, always happy to be the walking advertisement for the Butterfly Harbor Fire Department.
A pang of regret hit her square in her chest. Her father’s monogrammed baseball cap she’d been keeping safe for when the promotion came through was going to continue to reside on the peg by the front door. She’d vowed she wouldn’t wear the BHFD hat until she was officially sworn in. Now chances were good that day would never come. “So who stole it from me, Bud?”
“No one stole it, Frankie.” Her friend and boss sounded tired. No, he sounded exhausted, reminding her why he was retiring in the first place, but Frankie couldn’t dwell on that now. She needed answers. “It was decided with Butterfly Harbor going through such big changes, and given what’s coming down the road, that they’d rather have someone with...” Bud hesitated, and again Frankie arched a brow, silently daring him to finish that sentence. She knew what they wanted the chief to have, and she hadn’t been born with that...chromosome. “More pedigree.”
“Pedigree?” Frankie blinked, more surprised at the word than she had been to learn she was being passed over for someone with a... She shifted in her chair, tried to straighten her spine that seemed to have softened in the last few minutes. “You make this sound like one of those dog shows on cable. So what? I’m a prancing poodle and he’s a rottweiler?”
“That’s not remotely amusing, Frankie.” Bud’s disapproval sounded forced. “Besides, aren’t poodles the smartest of the dogs?”
Frankie couldn’t help it. She snorted. “All the more reason I should have the job. And I should have the job, Bud. You know it. Everyone in this town knows it.” And now everyone in town was going to know she’d been passed over for some outsider! As if losing out on the job wasn’t humiliating enough, she was going to come in second place to some...well, she didn’t know just what he was yet. She could see the headlines in the now-defunct Monarch Gazette, see the guarded gazes when she walked into the Butterfly Diner. Everyone was going to be chomping on the gossip rather than Holly Saxon’s famous homemade pies.
“How about you stop dancing around the facts and just hit me with them, Bud?” She was so tired of politics, so tired of unofficially campaigning for a position that was decided on by the town council. Her grandfather and father had both been chief. Not that she’d expected special treatment that would define her as a legacy appointment; she hadn’t, which was why she’d taken every hard road to get here. No one could argue she hadn’t done what it took to wear that badge.
Bud sighed and pushed to his feet, headed to the ancient coffee machine sputtering away just outside his door. The building itself was one of the oldest in Butterfly Harbor and, sadly, was beginning to show its age. Like most things in town, it had stood the test of time and was a testament to the town and its history. But history was fading fast, even in a small town of just over five thousand. She had so many great plans for the department, for this building. For making sure the legacy and history of those who had served the community would never be forgotten or tossed onto the bonfire of the past. Bringing in someone who didn’t know any of it didn’t just seem like an insult to Frankie, but against Butterfly Harbor itself.
She turned her head, felt tears prick the corners of her eyes at the straight, notated gouges on the office’s door frame. F, age six. M, age six. F, age seven. M, age seven... She rolled her shoulders. Monty had always been an inch or so ahead of her growing up. Now her twin brother was more than five inches taller—just tall enough he didn’t bash his head on the roofs of the boats he chartered to tourists and business groups. She brushed her fingers along the back of her neck. To this day she could feel the hard wood pressed between her shoulders, against the back of her head as her father had notched how much she’d grown. It had become a ritual, one she noted with a pang of grief, that ended shortly after her and Monty’s sixteenth birthday, when Tybalt Bettencourt had been killed fighting a wildfire just south of Napa.
This firehouse had been her father’s second home, had been her second home. Sure, it needed upgrading and some serious updates, but they were working on it. A bit of polish and new paint wouldn’t hurt. She’d done a few things over the years, here and there. New paint in the workout room, which she’d equipped with her own exercise machines. Upgrades, including a new stove in the kitchen, the only place she cooked. She lived in her grandparents’ old house while Monty had set up in their parents’. She was low maintenance, so whatever spare money she had went to the job she loved. It just...made sense. Especially when most of the department’s operating budget had to go to provide the best equipment they could afford. And that was as it should be, Frankie reminded herself. Protecting this town and its residents was her first priority. She didn’t believe for one second some out-of-towner was going to feel the same. He’d be completely clueless about...everything.
“The decision not to promote you wasn’t unanimous, Frankie.” Bud poured them each a cup of coffee strong enough to boost her immune system for a solid year. “In fact, it was a tie and that deciding vote was cast by—”
“Let me guess.” Now it began to make sense. “Our illustrious mayor, Gil ‘The Thrill’ Hamilton.” She knew she shouldn’t have voted for him on election day.
Bud sighed. “The fact you’re the one who gave him that nickname is probably one reason he wasn’t enamored of the idea of you as chief. It’s no secret you two can’t stand each other, and this job requires you to work with him, not be snarky whenever you get the chance.”
Frankie rolled her eyes. Gil Hamilton had been two years ahead of her in school and encapsulated every possible stereotype as the town’s golden boy. Star quarterback, homecoming king, butter wouldn’t melt in his always smiling mouth. The son of the mayor who was the son of the mayor who... Frankie had long lost track of how far back that line of succession went.
Gil wasn’t her favorite person in the world; he could be the poster child for politics and privilege, but she had to admit he’d surprised her the last couple of years with the positive changes he’d been making to the town. His ideas, the people he’d appointed to get things done who had done just that, and now, with a flourishing downtown area and the butterfly sanctuary currently under construction, the town she’d lived in all her life was thriving again. She’d thought the mayor was many things, but to hold a grudge for a harmless nickname? He wouldn’t have rejected her promotion because of that, would he?
She certainly didn’t want to think so. They might not be friends, but they were friendly. Though Bud had a point. She could see the flash of irritation on Gil’s face whenever she let the nickname fly, so...maybe her current disappointment was partly her fault. Railing against the decision wasn’t going to get her anywhere other than fired. Which meant she had to come at this situation from an entirely different direction.
“So does the new guy have a name?” The question itself tasted sour. Ugh.
“Roman Salazar.”
Frankie choked on her coffee. “You have got to be kidding me.” She wiped her eyes and tried not to guffaw. “What kind of name is that? Roman?”
“It’s Italian, actually.”
The baritone behind her had her jumping to her feet. She sloshed coffee down the front of her black T-shirt, the hot liquid scalding her taut stomach as she spun around.
Wow. The man standing there had to be a mirage. No one was this good-looking in real life. Heck, not even the heroes in her weekly TV binges came close. It was as if a travel brochure had fallen open long enough for him to walk off the pages, bringing with him all the dark-haired, dark-eyed, muscular intensity found in the men of the Mediterranean. Normally she preferred her men clean cut, but she had to admit, the thick, dark hair and five o’clock shadow notched him up another fifty points on the testosterone meter.
She had to inch her chin up to get the full picture of him and felt her face flush in feminine appreciation of the six-foot-plus frame, wide, sturdy chest and biceps she’d bet could lift a small building. “I should probably call him my hero behind his back,” she muttered under her breath.
“Shut it, Frankie.” Bud elbowed her as he passed. “Roman. Good to put a face to the name and voice. You’re early. We weren’t expecting you until Friday.”
“I’m not one to sit around waiting, so I got into my car and drove on out.” Roman accepted the handshake offered before his gaze flicked to Frankie.
“Ah, right. Roman Salazar, this is Captain Frankie Bettencourt.”
“Pleasure,” Frankie lied as she shook his hand. The earth didn’t move. Completely. But the warmth that shot through her palm certainly tilted her off her axis.
“Pleasure’s mine, Captain. And for the record, I know my way around homemade pasta and bocce ball tournaments, in case it ever comes up.”
Smooth, she thought. Smooth and confident. Not a good combination in her experience.
Roman lounged against the door frame and slipped his hand into the pocket of jeans she’d swear had been tailor-made for him.
“Well, welcome to Butterfly Harbor,” Bud said when Frankie didn’t respond. “I was just about to fill Frankie in on your—”
“Pedigree.” Unable to stop all the snark, Frankie leaned against the edge of Bud’s desk and drank more coffee. “Where are you from, Salazar?”
“Orlando. By way of Boston and before that Chicago.”
Frankie rolled her head to the side to look at Bud. “What is it about Chicagoans that they’re ending up out here? He’s what? Number four? First Luke, then Jason, then Xander?”
“Jason has a restaurant in Chicago, but he’s from New York,” Bud corrected her. “Sorry—” He returned his attention to Roman. “She has a bit of a point. Luke Saxon, the town sheriff, arrived a few years back. He’s settled down now with a local girl, Holly Campbell. Just had twins this past May. Boy and a girl. And of course there’s their older boy, Simon. With affection, we call him our town supervillain. Smartest kid you’re going to find out here.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Charlie Bradley could give him a run for his money,” Frankie argued. “Jason Corwin’s our town celebrity chef.” Frankie figured Roman might as well get used to the small-town tendency for gossip and information overload. “Owns and operates Flutterby Dreams over at the Flutterby Inn. You might also catch his food truck bustling around.”
Roman blinked as if processing the information. “And Xander would be?”
“Xander Costas.”
“The architect?” Roman’s eyebrows disappeared under his too-long hair. “His family’s pretty well known back east. My grandfather and his worked on a project together, restoring one of Chicago’s historic firehouses. I’ll have to be sure to introduce myself.”
“You’ll find him up at the construction site for the butterfly sanctuary or at Duskywing Farm. And before you ask, yes—” Frankie gave him the widest smile she could muster “—you will be tested later on all these names.”
“I’m excellent at tests.” That glint in his eye only brightened.
Frankie bit the inside of her cheek. She’d just bet he was.
“So, who feels like giving me the nickel tour?” Roman moved in a way that made the leather of his jacket creak. “I’d like to hit the ground running come Monday morning.”
“Wow. And your predecessor’s not even out the door yet. Happy holidays. Nice.”
“Frankie—” Bud warned again.
“No, she’s right.” Roman nodded. “I apologize. New job and all. Anxious to get started, get everything set in my mind, see how things operate around here.”
“Figure out what you’re going to change?” Frankie fluttered her lashes like a Southern debutante at a cotillion.
“Change can be a good thing.” Roman inclined his head as if trying to puzzle her out. Well, good luck with that, hero, Frankie thought. Tougher men than you have tried.
“Can be. But I doubt it will be.” Frankie finished her coffee and three-pointed the paper cup into the trash. “If it’s a tour you’re looking for, Bud’s the expert. And as I have a few hours left on my day off, I’ll be going. Ozzy should be here in about an hour,” she told Bud as she squeezed between the men.
“It was nice to meet you, Frankie.” Roman stood up straight enough to let her pass. As she did, she caught the scent of sandalwood and heat, an odd and intoxicating combination for these early-winter days. “I’ll see you tomorrow, I’m sure.”
Frankie walked backward past the solitary engine, gave him her brightest smile and waved. “Count on it.”
She took her time, pricked her ears and felt her bad mood shift when she heard Roman’s low whistle.
“Why do I feel like I should be apologizing for something?”
“Because that’s Frankie Bettencourt,” Bud told him. “And because you took her job.”
