That Old Flame of Mine (2 page)

“Don’t let those old blowhards bother you or take away from your triumph, Stella,” Tory said when the spectators had started packing up and heading back to their cars and pickups. “You’ve done a remarkable job despite the raw recruits and ramshackle firehouse we gave you to work with. Enjoy the party tonight. You’ve earned it.”

Stella thanked her. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Tory patted her slightly windblown gray hair, which was always pulled back and pinned up tight. Her sharp blue eyes were bright in her creamy face. Despite the smoke, she still smelled of White Diamonds perfume.

“That’s probably true enough. We make a good team, don’t we? Of course, I have an ulterior motive.” She handed Stella an old manila folder that was slightly dirty with time and wear. “Remember me telling you that my first husband died in a fire? Look through this. Tell me what you think. We’ll talk later at the party.”

Chapter 2

“E
veryone on the trucks,” Stella said to her crew. “We’ll talk about this when we get back to the house.”

“I’m sorry, Chief.” Petey’s large helmet hung off the side of her head, sooty smudges on her delicate face. “We let you down.”

“Later.” Stella didn’t want to discuss this here. The appropriate time was back at the firehouse. “This isn’t the time or the place.”

Even Ricky seemed humbled by the experience as they drove back to the firehouse. Stella noted his conservative driving down the twilit roads in the long shadows of the Smoky Mountains.

“I don’t know what happened,” he said. “It seemed like we had it under control until Allen messed it all up. Maybe he’s not right for this.”

“I thought the same thing about you that first day in training,” Stella said. “You couldn’t climb the stairs with the hose, remember? You thought it was enough that you worked on the vehicles.”

“Yeah. That’s right.” He smiled back at her. “Why didn’t you kick me out then? You got rid of some of the others. Did you see my excellent potential?”

She laughed. “No. I’d already lost a few volunteers. I didn’t think we could afford to lose any more. Besides, if I kicked you out, your parents might have stopped letting me eat at the café.”

“That wounds me deeply, Chief. I thought I was your favorite.” He turned the big engine into the recently repaved parking lot outside the firehouse.

“You’re a handful, Ricky. But you’ll make a good firefighter someday. Just hold on to that for now.”

Stella jumped down from her seat on the engine. She’d purposely left her clipboard, full of critiques, on the dash. When she saw the pathetic faces of her volunteers, she knew it was the right thing to do. She could point out errors later.

“What happened?” Bertie Wando hobbled out of the house wearing his Cougars high school letter jacket and jeans. He was a good-looking young man who seemed more mature than his eighteen years. He wore his hair cut close to his head to keep it from being a bother since he played every sport available. “Did you get the fire out? Was everyone impressed?”

The look on his companions’ faces told its own story.

“How could it go wrong?” he demanded. “We’ve been over it and over it. It should’ve been perfect.”

No one seemed to have an answer for that. They hung their heads and mumbled about the group not working out. Maybe it was too much to think they could save lives and make the town a better place. Who were they after all—certainly not the heroes Sweet Pepper was looking for.

Stella took off her helmet and studied her volunteers. She tried to think what Chief Henry would’ve said about this back home. His words wouldn’t come to her, so she had to use her own from her years of experience.

“I think most of you know that the only reason I’m here is because I was injured in a fire.” She smirked a little when she thought about punching Doug.
They didn’t need to know that.
“I’m a ten-year veteran. I can show you lots of commendations and ribbons I’ve received for bravery and doing the right thing at the right time. I can also show you scars from times when I did the wrong thing at the wrong time. Sometimes things don’t go the way they should.”

“Now everyone thinks we’re screwups,” Petey called out. “They’re never going to take us seriously.”

“They will,” Stella insisted. “It’s going to take time. This one event doesn’t make you screwups. You had a few . . . missteps.”

They all laughed at Allen, who took the ribbing with a self-effacing smile. He pulled his fingers through the thick head of tobacco-colored hair he took such pride in. The middle-aged barber was good with people. He knew how to make them laugh. It had served him well in his profession and with the fire brigade. “Hey, I never said I could dance—especially not with Petey leading.”

That brought more laughter and some relief to the volunteers’ stress.

“I’m not going to tell you that you don’t need work,” Stella said. “You did okay for your first time. You put out the fire. There was no loss of life. The property couldn’t have been saved anyway. There wasn’t even an injury.”

“Not unless you count Bertie,” Ricky called out.

“We put out the fire.” Kent Norris echoed Stella’s words. He was a muscular, forty-year-old man who was beginning to sport a potbelly from his wife’s good cooking. “We didn’t get killed doing it. I think that calls for a celebration. I know where there’s music, barbecue, and beer waiting. I think we should get cleaned up and head down there.”

A loud cheer went up from the volunteers. They began to strip off their gear.

Stella stopped them. “I think that’s a good idea—after you give the engine and pumper a wash, make sure your gear is clean and ready for the next time, and log your reports on the fire. I want to see them all on my desk first thing tomorrow.”

It wasn’t a popular decision. All the volunteers, except Petey, muttered and complained. Stella’s orders weren’t up for discussion, and they knew it.

“I think I might need a ride to the emergency room,” Bertie said. “My coach is gonna raise hell about my ankle anyway. I hope it’s not broken.”

“I’ll take him,” Ricky said. “Next time, though, you better be able to get yourself dressed without getting hurt, Wando.”

Stella thanked Ricky for his help. She cleaned and stowed away her gear. She wrote her report on the fire, such as it was. The engine and pumper were clean and shining again by the time she got on her Harley and headed up the steep road beside the firehouse to the cabin where she was staying.

She knew it would do all of them good to have some time to reflect on what had happened at the henhouse. They’d done all right, but the next time the fire alarm rang, someone’s life might be in danger.

It was almost dark by the time she reached the cabin. She turned off the Harley and sat there, not moving.

The porch light was on again. She didn’t know if it was someone’s idea of a joke or what. Every time she went out, the porch light came on before she got back.

She knew the people of Sweet Pepper wanted to take care of her. They brought groceries and had someone clean the cabin every week. The counters inside were covered with offers for free meals at restaurants in town, free car washes, free dry cleaning, and even free pet grooming. There were coupons for entertainment at Dollywood and Gatlinburg.

It was great—except for the creepy stuff.

Lights came on when they weren’t supposed to. Doors opened and closed. Items weren’t always where she’d left them. Even the furniture didn’t stay in the same place.

At first, she’d thought it was a prank, like at the station back home when she’d first started. The guys had frequently emptied her shampoo bottle and once put a dead mouse in her bunk.

This was different—more subtle.
Weird.

She’d checked the doors and windows several times. They had been locked tight. There was an alarm, but it was never tripped. She’d even gone to Sweet Pepper and purchased a small camera from the local computer store that would send motion feed to her laptop.

There was nothing
wrong
. But things kept happening.

Stella stepped into the cabin, never quite sure what she was going to find. It looked like an old hunting lodge, made of large, smooth logs that were stained a light brown color. There were three big rooms—living room, kitchen, and bedroom—with a small area off the kitchen that had a rough-hewn table and a few chairs. There was also a second floor. It was obviously used for storage, packed tight with old furniture and other items.

There were deer antlers everywhere, used as a cup holder in the kitchen and as light fixtures throughout the cabin. The living room had a stone fireplace, a large brown leather sofa and matching chair, and colorful Native American rugs and prints. The single bedroom had an oversized log bed in it, along with two dressers and a side table.

Tall windows overlooked the deck in back and the Little Pigeon River. The Smoky Mountains rose up beyond the river, their majestic face changing with each passing hour.

Stella loved to sit out there in one of the handcrafted rocking chairs. It was so different than where she’d grown up. The trees soared above her and the river murmured. No police sirens or squabbling neighbors. Not even any barking dogs.

The town had even put in a hot tub on the deck for her after she’d arrived. It was a dream compared to her cramped apartment back home that overlooked an alley.

She walked up the stairs to the small porch. The door opened before she could touch the handle.

“But crazy things like this don’t happen at home,” she muttered, stepping inside.

The cabin seemed to sigh, as though her words had made it unhappy. She knew it was only the wind—at least that’s what she told herself. Unusual sounds happened frequently. There was no rational explanation for them.

Out of the corner of her eye, Stella saw something move.

It almost looked like the shadowy figure of a man standing next to the hot tub outside on the deck. She shivered and looked away. Obviously she hadn’t realized how tired she was.

She’d stopped undressing in the bedroom after her very first shower at the cabin. Usually, being naked didn’t bother her. She’d had to get dressed and undressed with twenty men when she’d first started as a firefighter.

Here, she had the odd sensation of being watched even though there was no way anyone could see into the cabin from where it was, isolated on the side of the mountain.

In the bathroom—with the door securely closed and locked—she threw off her smoky-smelling clothes and jumped into the shower. She toweled off and dressed quickly in a different pair of jeans and a red Sweet Pepper VFD T-shirt. She’d packed light when she’d left Chicago. No reason to bring much and very little room in her motorcycle saddlebags to put it.

She’d gained some weight since coming to Sweet Pepper. People were always trying to feed her, and the food was delicious. There was no gym here to work out in either. She’d had to be content with running and training. That might have been enough when she was in her twenties, but at thirty-two, she felt like every biscuit went right to her hips.

She heard a knock at the front door as she was combing her wet hair. “Just a minute!” She slid her feet into slippers, always careful of the southern scorpions her new friends had warned her about, and rushed to the kitchen.

No one was there.

She looked around outside. No one was hiding behind the bear-proof trash cans or on the other side of the cabin. There was a steep drop-off to the river that would have made it hard to get down to the water from there without being seen.

This had to be a practical joke. Maybe Ricky Junior, or even one of the guys she’d let go at the beginning, was responsible. She was tired of it but didn’t want to complain to the police.
Yet
.

She didn’t want them to think she was some stupid woman who made things up to get attention. Like Mrs. DeAngelo back home who called in fires once a month and met the firefighters at the door with chocolate chip cookies.

She’d never complained during her first months at the station back home either. Eventually the harassment had stopped. She was sure it would this time too.

There was no more time to think about it. She was missing the big party. It was both a congratulations party for the fire brigade and a fundraiser for the upcoming Sweet Pepper Festival. The festival, three days celebrating all things pepper, was in October. People in town had been out putting up signs and getting things ready for months. The excitement was contagious.

Stella had agreed to play her part during the festival filled with contests, games, and music. She didn’t know yet what that part would be. The little town was famous for growing and selling the hottest, sweetest peppers in the world. Even the water tower was painted to look like a giant hot pepper.

She’d heard stories of pepper recipe contests too—chocolate-covered peppers, candied peppers, and stuffed peppers. Stella had never been much of a hot pepper eater, but some of the recipes she’d tried had been really good.

Ignoring the open door to the bedroom that she was sure she’d firmly closed, she pulled on her boots, got out of the cabin, and climbed back on her father’s Harley.

The bike was like an old friend who’d come with her on the three-month working vacation. Her dad had helped her rebuild it a few years back after she’d found it in the garage hiding under a big, black tarp.

This was the bike her dad had traveled across the country on when he’d gotten out of college. It came with dozens of stories that she’d heard hundreds of times growing up. It was more than just a ride.

Stella kick-started the bike—it was one of the last Harleys made with a kick start. The motorcycle came to life, ready to run down the road. The transmission needed some work and clunked into first. The chrome was pitted in a few places, but she wouldn’t have taken a million dollars for it.

She saw the porch light come on in her rearview mirror as she started back down the mountain. Whoever was doing the pranks was really good at it—she had to admit that. She let it go, like she always did, and kept riding until she reached Main Street in Sweet Pepper.