Kathryn Shay's Blog

***NEVER FAR AWAY was originally published as THE FIRE WITHIN. Fully updated, heavily revised, with cameos of Hidden Cove firefighters, the title was changed to reflect the content.

She’s a feisty counselor of troubled teens. He’s the fire department psychologist who’s trying to outrun his demons. They clash at every turn.

Until one New Year’s Eve encounter changes everything.

PTSD plagues Dr. Reed Macauley and he tries to channel the disorder into helping other firefighters with the malady. He keeps the nightmares at bay by distancing himself from his colleagues. But when, in a moment of weakness, he surrenders to Dr. Delaney Shaw’s allure, he finds he can’t put that particular genie back in the bottle.

Delaney has fought her attraction to Reed for a year, ever since she met him at workshops and they clashed on philosophies. When he acts on his feelings for her, she won’t let him go. She can help him, she knows she can.

Tragedy in the Rockford Fire Department throws them together as they must work side-by-side to help the victims cope. She won’t give up on him, and he won’t give in to her.

Will they ever be able to find happiness together?

The horrific consequences of PTSD, edgy firefighting scenarios, and an irresistible intimacy of the main characters haunt the pages of this bittersweet firefighter romance.

Be sure to follow up with the rest of the Rockford Fire Department Series: FEEL THE HEAT, RISKING IT ALL and CODE OF HONOR and catch up with the Hidden Cove Firefighters series, whose characters appear in all these Rockford books.

*** NEW YORK TIMES bestselling author Kathryn Shay spent five years riding fire trucks with a large city fire department, eating in their firehouses and interviewing hundreds of America’s Bravest.

Praise for NEVER FAR AWAY:

“Those of you who enjoy a tender, moving love story will be richly satisfied with this remarkable novel. Shay creates a deeply moving tale of struggle and survival and the torturous pain that results from PTSD.” Winner of the Word Weaving Award of Excellence

“One of the most enjoyable aspects of Shay’s works are her heroes; Reed is no exception. He is bull-headed, stubborn, wrong, and Shay tortures him but still the reader is sympathetic to his plight.” The Romance Journal

“These are special people, and in Shay they have found a sensitive and talented interpreter of their stories.” The Romance Reader

“Kathryn Shay’s latest story offers rich characterization and an emotionally compelling storyline that touches on life’s many obstacles.” RT Book Reviews Top Pick

CHAPTER ONE

“You’re the perfect person to deal with Chelsea Whitmore, Scarlatta.”

Jake Scarlatta stared at Chief Talbot, the Rockford Fire Department’s top man, whom he’d always liked and respected. Still… “I’d rather not do that, chief.”

“There’s already two women in each firehouse, except yours. And you have the setup with Francey Cordaro on another shift.” Fire stations ran four shifts, scheduled for four days on, three days off, three nights on, three days off. “Besides, you fought tooth and nail for Francey’s rights when she came on. Top it off with Johnson’s retirement, you have room in your group right now.”

There had to be some way to convince the chief that moving Whitmore to his crew at the fire station wasn’t wise. “I wish you’d reconsider,” Jake said lamely.

Talbot studied Jake. “This have anything to do with that incident with DeLuca years ago?”

Jake kept himself from flinching at the mention of his one, very public mistake. “In a way. I like to run a tight ship.”

“And Whitmore will rock the boat.”

More like cause major flooding. But women were a fact of life in firefighting, which he welcomed. Over half of those in the RFD had made it to officer’s position, and one would make battalion chief soon. And he knew Chelsea was a good firefighter. No matter what his personal feelings were, it wasn’t fair to smudge her reputation. “Her joining us won’t be easy. My men aren’t as…liberated as Ed Knight’s group. Francey was an easy fit there.”

There was also the fact that a member of his crew, Joey Santori, hated her for what she’d done to a good buddy of his. But Jake wouldn’t call attention to Joe because his bias would reflect badly on the young firefighter.

Jake would just have to suck this up as he had when his guys got wind of Whitmore’s possible transfer. They grumbled to the point that Jake had to put his foot down and tell them to shape up and be professional. Quint/Midi Twelve was a good solid place to work, but sometimes its members needed firm leadership.

Talbot leaned forward. “Bottom line is Whitmore didn’t make a stink about what happened to her over at Engine Four, but she could sue the pants off us if she wanted to. We’ve got to be very careful this time.”

Tales of what had occurred on her last assignment had swept through the department quicker than brushfires. She’d made the classic mistake—dated a fellow firefighter in her group, broke his heart and then the guy went berserk and endangered himself and his entire crew. The woman would never live that down.

And since Jake knew all about making classic mistakes and having them haunt you, dealing with Whitmore must be his penance.

“When would she start?”

“Her leave was open-ended. She wants to come back as soon as possible.”

Jake sighed heavily. “Transfer her to me, then. We’ll manage.”

Somehow.

“I knew I could count on you. We really—”

Jake’s cell beeped with a text, startling him. He was on edge not only because of the topic of discussion, but because his good buddy’s wife, Beth Winters O’Roarke, was expecting their first child any time within the next month, and Jake had agreed to be ready to fill in for Dylan on his shift at the firehouse at a moment’s notice.

He read the text and bolted out of his seat.

Talbot’s brows rose. “O’Roarke?”

“Yep. Beth’s in labor. Gotta go.” Jake was out the door in seconds, and Whitmore was the last thing on his mind.

#

Chelsea Whitmore gazed in the direction of the state-of-the-art birthing room where they’d taken her best friend Beth two hours before, and where the expectant father, Dylan, had flown to when he arrived at the hospital. Worried, Chelsea paced. God, what an afternoon. The surprise, the confusion, the fear…and she hadn’t slept well last night. Again.

She tried to calm herself by checking out the maternity area of Rockford Memorial Hospital. The space was posh, with cushioned couches and chairs, plush carpet, a TV and even a small refrigerator. Late-afternoon May sun filtered through the large windows to the side.

Tired, she sank onto one of the couches, leaned back and closed her eyes. It’ll be all right, she told herself. They’ll be all right.

Though she was a certified EMT—Emergency Medical Technician with advanced training beyond that—she’d struggled to block out her fear as she sped to the hospital, Beth belted into the front seat of her Camaro, in full labor almost a month early. Especially since Chelsea had just learned last year of Beth’s traumatic past and all the loss she’d experienced at such a young age. Chelsea closed her eyes, silently praying.

“Chelsea?”

Her eyes snapped open.

A man loomed over her—Jake Scarlatta, a lieutenant in the fire department and a surrogate brother to Chelsea’s other best friend, Francey. His linebacker shoulders were tense, his gray eyes worried.

“Hi.” She cocked her head questioningly. She knew he was replacing Dylan on his shift when he’d got their call. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s four o’clock. Dylan’s relief heard what happened and came in early, so I headed right over.” He glanced at the door. “Is Beth…is everything all right?”

“I don’t know. She’s been in there two hours.”

He nodded solemnly, then studied her face. His expression softened. “Babies take a while, you know.”

“I know. And the doctor told her last week it weighed at least seven pounds, maybe more.”

“That’s probably why the little rascal’s coming early.”

Chelsea shook her head. “Those two don’t do anything the easy way, do they?”

The story of Lieutenant Dylan O’Roarke of the Rockford Fire Department and Beth Winters, his ex-instructor, had become legend at the fire academy. Eight years of open animosity that rivaled that of the Hatfields and McCoys had ended last winter when they were forced to work together—and had fallen in love.

But they hadn’t had smooth going after that. Though Beth had kept her past a secret for a long time, she’d lost her husband and child when she was twenty. She’d been almost unable to risk a relationship with Dylan, never mind having a baby with him. To make things even chancier, she was forty years old, not exactly prime childbearing age. But she’d accepted Dylan and a baby into her life because of pure, unadulterated love.

Which Chelsea no longer believed in.

Jake cleared his throat. “Mind if I sit?” He was normally reticent and old-world polite, but today his carriage was stiff, his voice controlled.

Chelsea was pretty sure she knew why. “Go ahead.”

The couch dipped with his considerable weight. As a fitness trainer as well as a firefighter, Chelsea appreciated good muscle tone and mass. Jake was a big man, but in dynamite shape.

“What happened?” he asked. “Ed Knight called me to come in and sub like we planned, but Dylan had shot out of there like a rocket and nobody knew the details.”

Chelsea shook her head. “I had lunch with Beth around noon, then we went to my place.”

“Dylan told me you and Francey were trying to keep Beth company when he was working.”

“Well, given what she went through in the past, we’ve all been extra careful.” She smiled. “And let me say you were very generous to rearrange your life to be on call for Dylan this whole last month.”

“Not much to rearrange,” he mumbled. Chelsea remembered Francey saying she worried about Jake’s life revolving around the fire department. “So, what happened?” he repeated.

“About two, her water broke and contractions started.”

“Right away?”

“Yeah, and I was scared to death because they came fast and furious. We got here in time, though.”

Jake nodded reassuringly at the birthing room. “This is a wonderful thing for them and I believe it’s going to work out.” The faraway look on Jake’s face intrigued her.

Interested, she asked, “You’ve got a kid, don’t you?”

“A daughter.” The corners of his mouth turned up. “She’s the light of my life.” Then he frowned, abruptly stood and jammed his hands into the pockets of his light twill jacket.

Chelsea recognized the distancing maneuver—like a colonel who’d revealed too much to his troops and was embarrassed. Though she didn’t know Jake very well, mostly just through Francey and being paired up with him at the wedding, she could tell he was more remote today than usual.

She decided to address his reaction to her. “Jake, I know they’ve talked to you about my transfer.”

For a few seconds, he held her gaze. “They’ll be calling you. It’s official. You’re coming to my group.”

Though she wasn’t surprised, the certainty of the decision unnerved her. Watching him, she couldn’t read anything from his face. “Are you upset about getting me on your crew?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “I’m a big supporter of women in the fire department but integration is always dicey.” He would know this, Chelsea thought, from Francey, who worked on another group in his station. “Don’t get me wrong. Francey’s like a sister to me.”

“But I come with extra baggage that has nothing to do with my gender.”

“If it’s any consolation, I think what the guys at Engine Four did to you is despicable. They deserved the official reprimand. And you deserved the public apology.”

Chelsea cringed. The nightmare at her previous firehouse haunted her even in her waking hours, like a ghost from the Shakespearean plays she’d loved to read in high school. “Some people say I deserved the way they treated me. Because of what happened to Billy.”

“We make our own lives. Nobody’s responsible for the actions of another.”

The expression of sadness on his face surprised her. She wanted to ask him about it, but the door to the waiting room swung open.

Both of them turned to see Dylan, in a green gown and hat, a white mask hanging around his neck. His cheeks were wet with tears. Chelsea bolted from the couch. Dylan crossed to her. “It’s a boy. I have a—” choking on the last word, he grabbed her in an emotional hug “—a son.” Though the standard prenatal sonograms revealed the child’s sex, Dylan and Beth hadn’t wanted to know.

Chelsea’s eyes misted. She bit her lip to keep herself under control. “He’s okay? Beth’s fine?”

Dylan drew back. “They’re just great. She’s breastfeeding him now.” His eyes shone. “It’s unbelievable, Chels.” His face sobered. “And thanks for your quick thinking. If you hadn’t been with her…gotten her here…”

“Well, I was, and she’s fine.” Chelsea’s voice betrayed none of the panic she’d felt when Beth’s pains had come too close together, too fast—and a month too soon.

Drawing in a breath, Dylan shook his head and glanced at Jake. Dylan smiled again, a goofy, I’m-a-father grin. Without a word, the men hugged. Chelsea hadn’t seen that much emotion out of Jake even at Francey’s wedding. “Congratulations, Dad.”

Dylan grinned. “This is a miracle.”

“I know.” Jake’s tone was dry.

The proud father glanced at the door. “You can see them in fifteen minutes.” He scanned the area. “Where are France and Alex?”

“I called them as soon as Beth went in,” Chelsea told him. “They’ll be here by the time we can see her.”

“Good.” Another dumbstruck smile. “I’ll come get you then.”

With his usual flourish, Dylan headed to the door, still grinning like an idiot.

As Chelsea watched him go, a little bit of jealousy sparked inside her. She’d wanted all that once—marriage, children. But no more. That dream had vanished after what had happened with her boyfriend—her ex-boyfriend—Billy Milligan. Right now, the only male she wanted in her life was Hotstuff, one of her cats.

She turned to find Jake staring at her.

Chelsea stared back.

For two people who were going to be spending days and nights together, they had little to talk about.

#

Jake had never seen Beth Winters look quite so mussed, not even after the strenuous Confidence Walks at the academy. Stringy-haired, sweaty, lines of fatigue etched around her eyes and mouth, she beamed at the baby nestled in her arms, then at her visitors. Alex and Francey had arrived within minutes of Dylan’s announcement and had come into the birthing room with Jake and Chelsea.

The space had been designed like a homeowner’s dream bedroom. A big bed with a soft print comforter. Matching throw pillows. A couple of stuffed chairs. Thick carpet. Jake stood behind the others as they crowded around the new mom and baby. Dylan had taken a seat on the bed. Leaning over, he placed his index finger in the sleeping child’s tiny hand. The infant, still mottled and red, grasped it reflexively.

“Hey, buddy,” Dylan whispered. “Don’t you wanna wake up and meet your family? Aunt Francey and Aunt Chelsea are here. So are Uncle Jake and Uncle Alex.”

All four visitors were as quiet as fire hiding in walls, silenced by the aura of absolute joy that surrounded the trio. Jake remembered feeling as awestruck when his daughter, Jessica, was born, though the setting had been a sterile delivery room. It had been, in fact, the best moment in his life.

He glanced at Francey. She leaned her head on Alex’s shoulder. He loved seeing her happy. She and Alex had had a rocky time, trying to reconcile his constant worry about Francey’s safety in her work as a dedicated firefighter. At lunch a few days ago, Francey had filled Jake in on how Alex was faring in his never-ending struggle to accept her job. He was coping better, she’d said, but some tension remained.

Jake’s gaze traveled to Chelsea Whitmore, off to the side and breathing deeply. Hmm…was she trying to calm herself? Her eyes glistened.

“What’s his name?” Francey asked.

Beth looked up and smiled serenely. All signs of anxiety, prevalent during her and Dylan’s tumultuous courtship, were gone. Absent, in fact, during her whole pregnancy. “Ask Dylan. I let him pick the name.”

Dylan reached down and took the child from Beth. Holding up his son in the crook of his arm, he said proudly, “Meet Timothy Dylan O’Roarke. Timmy for short.”

The women gasped. Alex’s eyebrows rose. Jake tried to contain evidence of his own surprise. The beloved husband Beth had lost twenty years ago in a tragic accident was Tim Winters.

She touched Dylan’s arm. The look that passed between them was so intimate that Jake opened his mouth to suggest the rest of them leave the new family alone.

But then Dylan turned to Chelsea with the devil in his eyes. “Now, how long before you can teach him to pitch?”

Chelsea laughed. It was a low, husky sound. “A couple of years. He’ll probably be able to strike out as many of you as I did Thursday night in the department softball game.”

Francey snorted. “We just found out she’s on our team starting next week when she comes to House Twelve, so that’s not an issue anymore.”

“Great, Chels. We’re glad for you.”

The smile on Chelsea’s lips died like fire under foam. Jake guessed she wasn’t any happier about breaking into a new group than his crew was to have her. But they’d all pull through, he’d see to it, mainly because the fire department couldn’t afford any more fallout over her breakup with Milligan.

When the baby began to fuss, the group decided to leave the O’Roarkes alone. After hugs and kisses, the four of them ended up in the waiting area.

Alex put his arm around his wife, who was beaming like a proud parent. “I envy them,” Alex said.

Francey stared at him. “You do?”

“Of course.”

“Well, that’s news.” She scowled. “I’ll think about that later. Right now I’m starved.”

“Surprise, surprise,” Alex said dryly, then dropped a kiss on top of her head.

“Want to come to dinner with us?” Francey looked from Jake to Chelsea.

Jake smiled, surprised at the envy he felt. So many happy people. Happy couples. At forty, he’d missed his chance for that kind of thing, but his emotions were running high today and the armor he kept in place buckled under such obvious devotion. “No, thanks. I’ve got plans.”

Turning away, his gaze landed on Chelsea. He recognized the look on her face—it mirrored his. “I’ll take a rain check, too. I’ve got to be at the gym in an hour.” Chelsea owned The Weight Room, a health club about two blocks from his firehouse. Though he never worked out there, other firefighters did, and they had nothing but good to say about her gym.

As they all headed to the elevator, Jake ended up walking behind the Templetons, next to Chelsea. At the door to the parking lot, they bade goodbye and left. Chelsea looked at him. “I guess I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

“Yeah, Friday morning, right?”

“Right.”

He stared at her. He’d never noticed what an unusual shade of brown her eyes were—light with flecks of gold. This afternoon they reflected a weariness that had nothing to do with fatigue. “Have a nice night.”

She nodded and pushed the bar on the glass door.

“Chelsea?”

She turned. The late-day sun behind her sparkled off the silvery gold of her hair as the mass swung softly around her shoulders. Unsmiling, standing tall, she looked lovely. And lonely. “Yes?”

“It’ll work out at Quint Twelve.” He winced at how inane he sounded.

Her expression was bleak. “Will it?”

He nodded.

She gave him a half smile, opened the door, stepped out and let it swish shut behind her. Jake watched her until she was out of sight.

#

As soon as he crawled through the doorway, Jake could see flames licking the roof of the rickety three-story building. The biocarbons in the insulation created a whirlpool of black smoke, temporarily blinding him and his partner, something even the thermal imager couldn’t help with. Intense heat stilled his movements. Wondering why the ventilating crew hadn’t cut the roof yet, Jake gripped the hose to spray the windowless attic bedroom. He levered the handle forward. No water spurted out the nozzle. He could feel the line buck, so he knew it was charged. Sensing his best friend, Danny DeLuca, behind him assisting with the hose, Jake started to turn.

Then it was there. Flashover. A bed, an old desk, several stacks of magazines and a full bookcase burst into flames of their own volition because of the temperature they’d risen to. The fire breathed in new life. It crouched in front of him, hovered above him, attacked from each side.

In that instant, Jake knew he wasn’t getting out alive.

He pivoted to Danny. In seemingly slow motion, glowing timber dropped onto his buddy’s head. Jake opened his mouth to warn Danny, but his breathing apparatus muffled the sound…

Jake bolted upright. His hands fisted in the light blanket that had fallen below his hips. His entire body was covered with sweat and as taut as a stretched lifeline. From the sliver of moonlight peeking in from the skylights, Jake could just make out the row of bookshelves, the oak desk that had been his father’s, the stacks of magazines he’d been cleaning out the day before. He was home, on the third floor that he’d converted into living quarters for himself. He wasn’t in a fire with Danny. Forcing his hands to unclench, he made his shoulders relax. In a few minutes he was able to move.

He swung his feet onto the thick carpet, rose and crossed to the windows behind the desk. Outside, the street was deserted. A quick look at the clock over the bookcases told him the reason. Four a.m. His heart still pounding, he tried to calm the thud inside him.

Jake had had this dream before, but he’d gotten some help in analyzing the images that haunted his midnights. From Reed Macauley, the department psychologist, whom Jake knew through Dylan and from his own brief stint at the academy. When Jake had recounted his dream to Reed, the psychologist had listened without speaking until Jake had finished…

“From what you tell me, this seems to come when something stressful is happening,” Reed observed. “Your mother’s death. Your daughter’s surgery. Ben Cordaro, who’s been like a father to you, getting hurt.”

Well, the stressful event now was Chelsea Whitmore’s joining his crew. In fact, he’d see her at the fire station in about three hours.

He didn’t need this. He didn’t want it. He wanted the status quo. He wanted his life left undisturbed.

Reed had focused on that, too.

“This nightmare is the tip of the iceberg, isn’t it, Jake?”

Jake had thought about lying, but only a fool sought help and then didn’t tell the truth. “Stuff’s happened to me.”

Reed had waited.

“I was responsible for somebody hitting bottom. Somebody I cared about.”

The psychologist had been the one who’d said the words he’d parroted to Chelsea last week. We make our own lives. Nobody’s responsible for the actions of another.

“I believe that, only not in this case,” he’d told Reed.

“Tell me the story,” Reed had urged.

He hadn’t been able to then, or the second or third time he’d found himself in the psychologist’s office. But after successive bouts with his demon, insomnia, and frankly, after seeing how Reed had helped Dylan and Beth, Jake had finally been able to breach his staunchly erected defenses…

“It was my buddy, Danny. We’d been friends since high school. Played football together, were best man at each other’s wedding, had a kid the same year. We got into the academy at the same time, and after a couple years, wrangled being on the same group in the RFD. It was great until I made lieutenant and Danny…”

The pain had blindsided him, and he had to stop. He still felt guilty that his career aspirations had triggered a rift between him and the man who’d been closer to him than a brother.

After a moment Reed said, “Finish, Jake.”

“He started going downhill. First there was drinking. Then some drugs. I hauled his ass when I found out. His behavior didn’t interfere with work for a long time. Even when it did, I let it go because Danny always had trouble with my being a lieutenant. I didn’t report his screw-ups for several months. By the time I did, it was too late, for him and for me.

“What happened to him?”

“Before the brass could can him, he quit.”

“And?”

“He left town. Left his wife and son without a second thought.”

“And you.”

“Me?”

“He left you, too.”

“Yeah, after calling me every name in the book.”

“You said it was too late for you. What did you mean?”

“I, ah…damn, this is hard to say.”

Reed gave him a grim smile. “I know.”

“Before this happened with Danny, I’d wanted to be everything in the department—lieutenant, captain, battalion chief, hell, maybe even chief someday.”

“And now?”

Jake pushed back the sadness welling inside him. “How I handled Danny’s downslide was a black mark on my record. I was formally reprimanded, and a letter was put in my file.”

“From what I hear, that letter’s got company with a lot of commendations.”

“Some.”

“So you could move up the ladder. You could take the captaincy exam this summer.”

“I guess. But I’ve lost the drive, the interest.”

“You’ve lost your dreams,” Reed had said…

Yeah, Jake thought now, he’d lost the dreams. He turned from the window, disgusted with his ruminating, stalked to the spacious kitchen and bath alcove he’d carved from under the dormers and switched on the coffee.

Surveying the area, he thought of Ben Cordaro’s remark. The man who had been like a father to him after his own dad had died had taken one look at this haven and recognized it for what it was. Hell, Jake, you could live in this room and not come out for months. That was true. He’d spent a whole year renovating the third floor of the house he’d grown up in. His mother had lived alone for years after Jake and his sisters had left home. When Jake’s marriage had broken up, he’d taken over this mortgage, moved in with her and stayed after she died, which was five years ago. He’d modernized the other floors with help, but it was the top level he’d lovingly worked on solo.

He’d nailed in every tongue-and-groove oak board of the ceiling, cut through the roof for the two skylights, put up the Sheetrock and painted the walls a deep beige. He’d laid the expensive wood floor and picked out the furniture with care. Its dark tan upholstery and brown plaid pillows accented the wall color and the warm wood. He’d chosen a sofa bed, telling himself the space was for guests, but he knew in his heart he’d live here. No one else had ever slept in the bed, and only Ben, Dylan, Francey and Jessica had been allowed up here.

When the coffee finished perking, he poured some into a huge mug labeled World’s Hunkiest Dad—Jessie’s sense of humor—and trekked to the leather recliner. On the low oak table was a manual he’d been reading the evening before—Sexual Harassment in the Firehouse. Damn.

Ignoring it, he gazed out one of the windows flanking the recliner at his backyard. He remembered playing there with the Cordaro kids, who’d been like brothers and a sisters to him.

His phone shrilled in the darkness.

Firefighter instincts on alert, he bounded off the recliner to the kitchen table and scooped up the cell on its second ring. “Scarlatta.”

“Jake, it’s Barbara.”

Danny DeLuca’s wife. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry to phone so early, but Derek just got in.”

“It’s five in the morning.”

“I know.”

“Why didn’t you call me sooner?”

“I can’t bother you every time my son does something he shouldn’t. But…”

She hesitated, then finished, “He smells like pot. And he’s obviously drunk.”

“What did he say?”

Barbara hesitated again.

“Barb?”

“He asked me why I was surprised.” Her voice filled with tears. “He claimed he’s just like his old man.”

Jake clenched his fist. “I’ll be right over after I shower.”

“I’m sorry to lay this on you.”

“Don’t talk like that. I’ll be there soon.”

After he hung up, he stared at the phone. Did he have time to do this? He was due at the station early, because of Chelsea Whitmore’s arrival.

God, he hoped the rest of the day would go better than his early morning.

As he headed for the bathroom, the memory of the nightmare hovering over him like a black cloud, he somehow doubted it would.

                                             THE HEART OF CHRISTMAS

Start your holidays off right with three new novellas by USA Today Bestsellers Patricia McLinn, Judith Arnold and Kathryn Shay.
 
In Wyoming Wildflowers: The Beginning , discover how it all started in this much-anticipated prequel novella to the bestselling and award-winning Wyoming Wildflowers series by USA Today bestselling author Patricia McLinn. Ed’s and Donna’s worlds couldn’t have been any more different – a rancher from Wyoming and an up-and-coming Broadway musical actress on a national tour. What could have been a momentary encounter sparks desire . . . and more. But can there be anything but heartbreak ahead when they have only days before their dreams pull them apart?
 
In Almost An Angel , Conor Malone manages to hold things together for his daughter Amy after his wife’s death, until someone tells her Santa will bring her mother back for Christmas. How can Conor force Amy to accept reality without ruining her holiday? With help from Eliza Powell, the alluring new school psychologist—and the Daddy School.
In Flashover , Nick Evans, a captain in the Hidden Cove fire department, believes he committed the worst of crimes, even if it was to protect his little sister. He’s not ready for a relationship with Stacey Sterling, a firefighter’s widow who’s determined to help him heal. But on Christmas, Nick learns the meaning of redemption and love.

CHAPTER ONE

“Looks like you’ve been stood up, darlin’,” the bartender drawled.

Stacey Webb peered up at Bobby as she nursed her glass of wine. “Yeah, I guess it does.”

“Think somethin’ happened to Lauren?”

“No.” Mark Dunn probably wouldn’t let her come.

“She’s been in here a couple of times lately with that jerk she dates. She doesn’t look too good.”

“I know. She doesn’t.”

Sighing, Stacey leaned against the high back of the stool while Bobby poured draft beers for two guys at the end of the mahogany bar. She glanced at the clock. Cutter’s Bar and Restaurant was quiet, not unusual for ten o’clock on a Monday night. Nibbling on popcorn, she tried to watch the baseball game on the large-screen TV, but it didn’t distract her from thoughts of Lauren. Stacey was worried about her friend, whose recent unreliable behavior was out of character.

The door whooshed open, allowing in the warm June air, and Stacey turned to see if Lauren had come, after all. But instead, a tall, broad-shouldered man filled the doorway.

Surreptitiously, Stacey watched him as he scanned the room. His gaze landed briefly on her; he nodded in a common-courtesy way and took a seat several feet down the bar.

Cord McKay.

She knew who he was. Everyone in Canfield knew who he was. He’d been in the news about a year ago for saving a four-year-old boy who’d fallen into an abandoned well. McKay had maneuvered himself down the narrow shaft when efforts to coax the toddler into a harness failed. On the way up, with the child in his arms, his shoulders became wedged between the walls and one had been severely dislocated. The injury ultimately forced an early retirement—he was only thirty-six—from the police department he’d joined three years ago after he’d returned to Canfield.

Stacey had been impressed when she’d read about the rescue, and moved by the picture of little Timmy Malone hugging McKay in a death grip as they emerged from the well. But her father had had a strange reaction to the media-touted event.

She thought of Gifford Webb. He’d never have gone on his business trip if he’d thought for one minute she’d be spending the night alone. Especially after all that had happened to her in the past few weeks. She’d promised him that Lauren would be staying at their house tonight.

“What can I get you, Cord?” Bobby asked congenially, as McKay settled onto a stool with the grace of a trained athlete.

“A draft.”

“How’s the shoulder?”

“It hurts.”

“You workin’ yet?” Bobby seemed oblivious to the other man’s clipped tone.

McKay scowled. “No.”

“Decided what you’re gonna do?”

“Nope. Who’s ahead?” McKay asked, his eyes flicking to the screen.

Stacey pretended to watch the game, but stole a few glimpses at the town hero. He wasn’t exactly handsome, more craggily attractive, she decided. His thick hair—growing out from its regulation police cut—was the color of ripe wheat. In profile, his nose had a slight bump, indicating it had probably been broken. There were deep grooves bracketing his mouth; stubble lined his jaw.

“Want another one, Stacey?” Bobby asked when he came down to wipe the counter in front of her.

“No, I’ll just sip this and wait ten more minutes for Lauren.”

“The police ever catch the guys who slashed your tires?”

Stacey wasn’t surprised at the question. There were no secrets in Canfield, a small upstate New York town in the Southern Tier, but she loved the place, anyway. She’d always felt safe here. Until now.

“No. It was probably just some prank.”

“Your father didn’t think so. Heard he raised a ruckus at the police station.”

What Bobby hadn’t heard about was that she’d been followed, and gotten strange phone calls where no one had spoken when she’d answered. But Stacey had assumed they were all coincidences and hadn’t reported them to the police.

“Well, my father overreacts sometimes.”

“Your daddy just cares about you.”

And, Stacey thought with reluctant affection, as CEO of Canfield Glass Works, her father was used to getting his way. Like insisting someone stay with her tonight.

Well, she’d tried.

Glancing down the bar, she saw Cord McKay take several long swigs of his beer, then stand up. His navy blue T-shirt rippled across his muscles, and Stacey felt a little jolt in her stomach. She tore her gaze away from him and fingered the ring on her left hand. She hadn’t looked at another man since she’d gotten engaged to Preston Matthews six months ago. She was annoyed at herself for noticing McKay’s body tonight. If there was one thing she believed in, it was fidelity.

Unlike her mother, she thought bitterly.

Just then, Stacey heard the door slam. She waited a few minutes to ensure she wouldn’t run into McKay as she walked to her car, then got up to leave, too.

o0o

“Damn!” Cord McKay bent down to rescue his car keys from the mud puddle where he’d just dropped them. It was dark on Bridge Street, so he fished around for a few seconds until he came up with them. He’d been thinking about Stacey Webb and hadn’t been watching what he was doing. Wiping the keys— and his hands—on his denims, he pictured her sitting alone-on the bar stool, waiting for her friend. She’d looked worried. And what the hell was that about slashed tires?

He scrubbed his hands over his face. The last thing he’d wanted tonight was an encounter with her. He’d seen her around town a number of times. She was easy to spot, with her dark sassy hair, knockout body and wild clothes. He’d made a point of keeping his distance. Though she seemed blissfully unaware of his tension when they met, it coiled within him like a snake ready to strike whenever he simply saw her. Thank God there hadn’t been many encounters.

Tonight, he’d only stopped at Cutter’s to take the edge off his restlessness. He’d been up for three consecutive nights with his daughter, Megan, who had a raging case of chicken pox. And his shoulder was giving him trouble again. He’d been too tired to sleep and needed to get out of the house for a while. So he’d left Megan with his mother and gone for a beer.

Just as he jammed the keys into the lock of his truck, Stacey exited the bar and headed straight for her small, metallic blue Miata without noticing him. He eased open the door and was about to climb in, when he glanced over his shoulder and saw a figure leap from the alley and dart toward Stacey. The man was dressed in dark clothing, with a ski mask over his face. About Cord’s height, and as muscular, the guy quickly overtook her and slammed a hand over her mouth.

Pivoting sharply, Cord reached behind his back for his gun. He cursed when he remembered he no longer carried it. Unarmed, he bolted across the sidewalk.

Before he could get to her, Stacey twisted her body and elbowed her attacker in the gut.

“Bitch,” the man snapped just as Cord hurled himself at them.

Headfirst, he clipped the assailant behind the knees.

“What the fuck… “ The guy released Stacey and whirled toward Cord, but lost his balance and smashed face first into the concrete with a bone-crunching thud.

Cord straddled his prone body and twisted the man’s arm behind his back. With a knee on the guy’s spine, Cord yanked the attacker’s head up by the ski mask. Though the position strained Cord’s shoulder, he pressed and pulled mercilessly. Suddenly, a car screeched to a halt at the curb in front of Cutter’s. Its headlights illuminated another dark-clad figure bounding from the alley.

Without warning, Cord felt something slam into his temple. His head exploded with bright colors and blinding agony.

Then the world went dark.

o0o

Stacey watched Cord McKay toss his head on the utilitarian emergency-room pillow and listened to him moan low in his throat. After the doctor and nurse had tended to him and left, Stacey had suffered a delayed reaction and had been shivering for at least ten minutes. She was just now getting herself under control. Though there was no way she could rid herself of the ball of fear that had settled in her stomach like a dead weight.

She shuddered again at the thought of what could have happened if McKay hadn’t been at his truck when she’d left Cutter’s. She tried to stifle the panic that came when she realized tonight’s attack probably meant the incidents of the past few weeks were not coincidences. Oh, God. Someone was after her!

Stacey forced herself to concentrate on her knight in shining armor. She picked up the ice pack the attendant had given her with instructions to apply it to Cord’s head—ten minutes on, ten off—and gingerly placed it over the lump on his right temple, which was already turning purple around the raw spot where the gun butt had broken the skin. His body jerked at the touch, and his left arm flailed, socking her in the stomach. Recoiling, Stacey clutched her middle until she could take in more air. After a moment or two, her breathing evened out and, restraining his arm with her other hand, she reapplied the cold compress. He twitched, but was unable to strike out again.

While she held the ice pack to his head, she studied the curtained cubicle. Canfield’s hospital was only about twenty years old, but its emergency ward was small, cramped and understaffed. Tonight, the ER was packed with victims of a highway accident. The white drapes that isolated them from the other patients were opaque and tattered with overuse. The smell of antiseptic, along with other acrid odors Stacey chose not to identify, stung her nostrils.

“What the hell…”

Stacey peered down at the source of the curse. Blue ice stared up at her.

He watched her for a minute, then said, “Would you mind letting go of my arm? The angle you’re holding it twists my shoulder.”

Surprised by his clipped words, she scooted back. “Sorry, but you hit me in the stomach when I put the compress on your head.”

Dark blond eyebrows knit together. “Oh.”

Not, I’m sorry. Not, thanks for the help.

Of course, she was the one who owed him, she reminded herself. Big-time.

Stacey watched him brace his good arm on the mattress and push himself up. His biceps flexed beneath his T-shirt, and the tendons in his hand tensed, but he was sitting up in seconds. Leaning against the wall, he winced as he rubbed his shoulder.

“The nurse said to keep ice on that,” she told him, indicating the goose egg.

He closed his eyes and grunted.

She leaned over and applied the compress again.

“Thanks,” he said, not opening his eyes, but taking the ice from her.

As he relaxed fractionally, Stacey watched him. He was silent, breathing deeply, fighting the pain, she guessed.

“Why are you playing nurse?” he asked, still not looking at her.

“They’re overcrowded and understaffed here.”

“As usual.”

“There was a huge pileup on Route 17 just before midnight and lots of people were hurt.”

He grunted again.

His attitude was abrasive. To be expected, Stacey thought, given the amount of pain he must be in. But she sensed something deeper. His responses to her were almost angry. Was he annoyed that she’d caused trouble for him? “Um…thanks for what you did,” she said hesitantly. “Though I’m not exactly sure where you came from, or what happened.”

Cord opened his eyes and scanned the curtained room, then looked at her. “I saw the guy jump you outside Cutter’s.” He scowled. “Last thing I remember is tackling him.”

“But you’re not a cop anymore.”

“No, I’m not.” His tone could have cut glass.

“Why didn’t you just call the police? Why did you get involved?”

A storm of emotions passed through his eyes. “Beats me,” he said flatly. “Look, tell me what happened when I passed out.”

Stacey leaned against the chair and shivered again, remembering. Rubbing her arms up and down her thin windbreaker, she said, “Another guy jumped out of the alley after you grounded the first one. He hit you on the head with the butt of a gun. By then, some other people had come out of Cutter’s, and I was screaming and yelling and kicking. The two men dived into the car that pulled up and got away.”

Cord frowned.

Stacey stared at him. “I’ve seen you around town, but we haven’t formally met. I’m Stacey Webb.”

“I know.”

“How?”

“Small town.”

“Yeah. So things like this aren’t supposed to happen.” Surveying the room, Stacey bit her lip.

“What’s wrong?”

Her eyes came back to his. “Nothing.”

“You bit your lip. What were you thinking?”

She waited a moment. “I was going to ask you what you think happened. Was it a mugging?”

“No, not with the car all set up. They were probably trying to kidnap you, though my guess is they were amateurs. They bungled it pretty bad.”

Swallowing hard, Stacey clutched her hands together. She didn’t want to start shaking again, especially in front of him. “I was hoping it wasn’t so… premeditated.”

“You suspected it wasn’t just a one-time attack?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Stacey told him about the other incidents, trying to keep her voice calm.

Cord arched a blond eyebrow. “Any idea why someone would want to kidnap you?”

“Daddy thinks it’s probably to get to him. There’ve been a lot of layoffs at the plant, for one thing, and this could be retaliation. Plus, in his position, he makes enemies for all sorts of political reasons. And he’s got money.”

“Sounds pretty serious. You need to work with the police.”

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry you were hurt trying to help me.”

“Yeah,” he said derisively. “Me, too.”

Unexpectedly, he swung his feet to the floor.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“What does it look like?” He swayed before standing on shaky legs.

“You’re hurt,” she said as she stood. “You shouldn’t be up. The nurse said…”

Cord wavered and reached for the first support he could get—her arm. He gripped it painfully. Bigger and stronger, he unbalanced her and they both tumbled to the bed, his body covering hers.

His weight felt…strange. He was a lot heavier than he looked. She’d grabbed his shoulders when they fell and his muscles strained beneath her fingers. His legs were much longer than hers. Originally, she’d guessed him to be her father’s height, about five-nine. But he was closer to six feet. His chest was like a solid brick wall against her, except she could feel his heart thumping inside it.

For a moment, he stared into her eyes, something akin to pain flashing through his. Once more, the look was gone before she could categorize it, and he eased off her to the side of the bed. “Sorry, I’m weaker than I thought.” Sitting back, he leaned against the wall a second time and massaged his shoulder.

“That’s okay.” Stacey’s reply was a little breathless. She scrambled off the bed and into the chair. “Sorry about your shoulder.”

He nodded and waved his hand absently.

“So, you’re a hero again!” Both turned to see two uniformed policemen standing in the doorway.

Joe Ferron, the officer who’d made the comment, was a former classmate of Stacey’s. He’d been the all-American boy in high school, but Stacey still found it hard to believe he was a cop now.

Wayne Valentino, Canfield’s chief of police, took the lead. “How are ya, Cord?”

“My head hurts like hell,” Cord said irritably.

“Well, you’re just as ornery as ever, so you must be okay.”

“Hurt the shoulder more?” Ferron asked.

“Some.” His curt reply cut off any further concern from the men.

Pulling out a pen, Wayne took Cord’s statement.

While the chief was writing his report, Stacey made small talk with Joe. The young cop fidgeted like a boy at a high school dance. His too-wide grin and his puppy-dog eyes clearly revealed his crush on Stacey Webb. She thought it was cute.

When Wayne finished, he called to Ferron, who turned to Cord. “Geez, you can’t help playing hero, can you?”

“Just do me a favor. Keep it out of the paper this time.”

“You kiddin’? The Leader’s already got the story. By tomorrow night, everyone in town will know about how you rescued a damsel in distress.”

Cord moaned audibly and Stacey mimicked it silently. By tomorrow night, everyone in town would know that she’d almost been abducted.

She sighed. Well, since keeping quiet about the other incidents hadn’t helped, maybe public exposure would do some good. She hoped so.

Because for the first time since her mother, Helene, had left, Stacey was really afraid.

o0o

“What time is it?” Cord asked as he awakened in the dim, unfamiliar room and saw Stacey Webb sitting next to him.

She blew her thick, chestnut bangs off her forehead. “Two in the morning.”

“Why are you still here? They said I had to stay a couple of hours for observation, not you.” He didn’t try to control the edge in his voice. He wanted this woman gone.

“Because it’s my fault you were hurt. I’m not leaving you here by yourself.” She scanned the cubicle. “I wouldn’t want to stay here alone.”

“Why not? Afraid of the dark?”

“Of course not,” she murmured.

Her face was a dead giveaway. He’d only been with her a few hours, and he’d been dozing off and on, but already he could read her like a book. It gave him a slight twinge to think about how vulnerable she was. An innocent. Just like–he cut off the thought before it formed.

“Where’s your father? Why isn’t he here after what happened to you tonight?”

“Out of town on business. I didn’t call him.” They were silent again, then she broke it by adding, “Besides, you should be glad I’m here. You scared the hell out of all the nurses with your surly disposition.”

“No sass, lady.” The edge slowly drained from his voice. Her pert features, scrunched into a mocking smile, were hard to resist.

He studied her outfit.

Tonight she wore hot-pink leggings and a long striped top, which emphasized her compact curves. She’d thrown on a purple jacket. She looked as if she’d just walked off the set of an MTV video, but he didn’t comment. Best to keep this as impersonal as possible.

“You really should leave,” he said gruffly. “You should get some rest.” Again, the worried frown marred her face. “Isn’t anybody home at your house?”

“No. Lauren, my best friend, was supposed to spend the night, but she never showed up at Cutter’s.”

“So you’re afraid to go home by yourself?”

Her chin lifted. “Of course not.”

“Sure.”

She sat up straighter. “I’ll admit that I don’t particularly like being alone in that big house, but I can certainly handle being there on my own when I have to. You don’t have to be so sarcastic about it.”

He lifted the ice pack to his temple. “Look, my head hurts like hell and my shoulder’s sore. You’re right. I’m a grump. Actually, I’ve got a knack for sending women scurrying at the best of times.”

“That’s not what I heard.” Her full lips twitched. “Seems you had quite a reputation as a lady’s man before you left Canfield all those years ago.”

His hand froze, and at the same time, sweat broke out on his forehead. She couldn’t know, he told himself, or she wouldn’t be this civil to him. He forced himself to relax the way he did every time he’d faced a criminal at gunpoint. “Don’t believe everything you hear.”

As he closed his eyes, fatigue washed over him. How bizarre, he thought. He was a big believer in irony, but being thrown together like this with Gifford Webb’s daughter was a colossal example of the fates at work.

Images whirled through his brain. At the moment, he was trying very hard to block out thoughts of Megan. If he didn’t make it home soon, she’d wake up this morning and not know where he was. She’d cry, until his mother calmed her with hot oatmeal, just as Nora McKay had done for him on those many mornings when he’d awakened missing his father. And worrying about the old man’s safety. At four years old, Meggie’s concern would be nebulous. But by thirteen, thoughts of what could happen to her dad would be terrifying for her. He knew because his own father had been a cop and Cord had experienced the fear. He’d come back to Canfield so that Megan would be spared all that.

I will not dwell on Megan, or the Webbs.

What was the old joke—trying to clear your mind of unwanted thoughts was like trying not to think about a pink elephant?

An hour later he dozed, and Stacey was resting in the chair next to him, when the harried doctor reentered. He checked Cord’s vital signs, then said, “Well, looks like you’re okay. I think you can go home now.”

“Good.”

This time, Cord eased himself to the edge of the mattress, rose slowly and let his equilibrium adjust.

He reached for the jacket that had been thrown over his bed, then looked at Stacey. “Ready to go?”

She stood and stretched. He caught himself noticing the way her top strained across her breasts. Hell!

“I guess,” she answered. “You need a ride somewhere?”

He stared at her. “Level with me, Stacey. You don’t want to go home alone, do you?”

Averting her eyes, she picked up her purse.

“Is it because of what happened tonight?” he asked.

“No,” she said, but didn’t look at him.

“Most women would be nervous.”

Her head whipped toward him, sending her short hair falling in soft curls around her face. “I’m not like most women. I’ve never been like most women. I’m twenty-three years old, and I’ve had to grow up fast and deal with a lot of things on my own.”

“Easy.” Cord was stunned at the vehemence of her statement. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”

“Come on, I’ll take you to your truck,” she said, forestalling further analysis. “It’s still at Cutter’s. We left it there when the ambulance came. I followed you here in my car.”

Ten minutes later, Cord started his truck as Stacey maneuvered her little sports car away from the curb. He’d known all along what he was going to do, but that didn’t make it any easier. Cursing himself—and fate—he followed her across town, toward The Hill, the name given by town residents to Canfield’s most upscale neighborhood.

They turned left onto Woodview Lane. She drove up to a house, and he pulled into the driveway behind her. His heart hammered in his chest as he took in the huge, brick home, with its big white pillars and a row of tall birch trees standing guard on the lawn. In the shadows, the place loomed before him like a ghost from his past. Gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles were white, he willed away the memories.

Stacey was at his truck before he had time to panic. Pushing open the door, he got out.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I came to make sure you’re safe.”

From the halogen light over the three-car garage, he could see her skin pale. Her lips parted slightly and her eyes widened. “They wouldn’t be stupid enough to try again, would they?”

“They might. I’m surprised the police didn’t follow you home.”

“They were short on officers, just like the hospital, because of the highway accident earlier.” She glanced at the dark foreboding house and shivered. “All right. Since you’re here, maybe you should come inside with me. I’ll check the alarm—make sure it’s still on. You can leave after I get in and reset it.”

A strong drive to protect her and an equally powerful urge to run like hell battled within him as he trailed her to the double front doors. Unlocking the dead bolt, she stepped into the foyer. He followed like a man going to the gallows. Memories swamped him, but he pushed them back and tried not to take in his surroundings.

After Stacey dealt with the alarm, she turned to him. The foyer was dimly lit, casting her face in shadows. Her smile was genuine and it tugged at his heart. “Thanks,” she said. “I feel better now that I’m inside. I’ll be okay.”

Cord glanced to the left into the mammoth living room, then to the oversized dining room on his right. Everything was black and silent.

Jamming his hands into his pockets, he sighed heavily. “Listen, my mother lives with us so she’s with my little girl, and it’s 3:00 a.m. Why don’t I just stay here for the rest of the night?”

“Why?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.

“Relax. I’m only trying to help. I’m not coming on to you.”

Stacey’s chin lifted. “Of course you’re not. I’m engaged.”

To Preston Matthews. “I know.”

“Small town again?”

“Something like that. Look, just grab me a blanket and pillow. I’ll bunk on the couch in here.” He tilted his head to the left.

Stacey bit her lip again, then whispered, “Okay. I guess I am a little afraid.”

Giving him a half smile, she disappeared upstairs. He walked into the living room. Same high ceilings. Different carpet. Same silk couch and chairs. The wood smelled familiarly of furniture polish. He stood stock-still, staring at the walls. Before the memories suffocated him, Stacey returned with a fluffy pillow and two blankets.

Carelessly, he tossed them on the couch, then kicked off his battered Dock-Siders. “Go to bed, Stacey.”

She stepped back and crossed her arms over her breasts. “All right. I just wanted to say thanks again. For saving me—and for this. Seems you’ve got a real hero complex.”

“Don’t give me credit for things I’m not.”

Her expression was puzzled, but she turned and left the room without further comment.

Some hero, he thought as he pulled his T-shirt over his head and sank onto the couch. He closed his eyes to block out the house that reminded him of how wrong she was.

Four hours later, Cord was startled out of sleep by the angry rumble of a man’s voice. Through bleary eyes, he looked into the mottled, enraged face of Gifford Webb. “What the hell are you doing in my house again, McKay?”

I recently read Eckhart Tolle’s book, A NEW EARTH. In it, he discusses why people tend to think about the past and worry about the future. He’s very concrete about why we do this, and also about how to live in the present. It’s a cliché, really, telling ourselves to appreciate the here and now. But I believe it’s the key to happiness.  I liked the last part of the book best because the author does give good suggestions on how to be in the moment.  We should approach everything we do by 1) if we don’t like what we’re doing/have to do, to accept it and just do it because it’s a necessity of life.  If we can’t abide by that then we should get out of the situation. My first thought was he never changed a messy diaper, but then again I guess accepting that distasteful task is part of being a mom or dad. Or 2) we should enjoy the moment, stay in it, and appreciate it.  I think staying in the moment is the key. How many lunches have you eaten and not really been there with the food because you were thinking about the next thing on your agenda?  And finally 3) to do what you’re doing with enthusiasm, which usually means you like what you’re doing and you do it to reach a goal.  I think this is where writing comes in.  An author can be really enthusiastic while writing and want to finish the book, not to get on to the next thing, but to send the manuscript out so people can read it. Tolle calls it enjoyment with a goal.

 It’s always been amazing to me that many writers talk about how hard the act of writing is for them, using the words excruciating, mind-bending, depleting.  They say they sit at the computer from 8 to 5 and don’t enjoy it.  I wonder why they do it. Yes, I know people have to make a living and take jobs that aren’t fulfilling so they can earn needed money.  Though teaching was a vocation for me, and I took great pleasure in working with the kids until the day I retired, I knew teachers who hated the profession and were miserable.  I felt bad for them, as I do others who are stuck in jobs they abhor. But it’s mindboggling to me why anyone would choose to be a writer if it was so difficult for them.  I guess I’m lucky in that I’ve had two careers, both of which I’ve loved. 

On a related note, I have a little Yorkshire terrier named Hattie.  Every morning when one of us goes down to get her out of her crate, she runs outside to do her business then rushes back inside and bolts up the steps. She catapults into the master bedroom and hurls herself onto the bed to greet whoever didn’t get up with her.  She licks and nuzzles as if we’ve been gone for weeks, not overnight.  It’s a joy to watch, and a joy to have her in our lives.

 My husband remarked later in the day that he wished he was more like Hattie.  He wished he’d bound out of bed ready to start each day with that kind of enthusiasm. He wished he greeted his loved ones as if he hadn’t seen them in a long time, even if it had only been eight hours since he was last with them. He wished, basically, that he saw the day as something bright and shiny each time he opened his eyes.

Hmm, who knew Eckhart Tolle and my little Yorkie had so much in common?

I’ve seen five Oscar nominated movies for best picture. My feelings:

Best Actor: I love Hugh Jackmann in anything and thought he was terrific in LES MISERABLES. Bradley Cooper stole my heart in SILVER LININGS PLAYBOOK, but I’d pick Daniel Day-Lewis in LINCOLN. I was totally absorbed in him as a character.

Best Actress: I didn’t like Sally Fields in LINCOLN. Maybe I just didn’t like Mary Lincoln.  But far and above, Jennifer Lawrence is my top pick for best actress. She was stunning. Actually, I thought she should have been nominated for THE HUNGER GAMES, too. I hope she wins.

Best Supporting actors: Phillip Seymour Hoffman in THE MASTER (though I didn’t like the movie) and Ann Hathaway in LES MISERABLES. Both were very good. 

Best Picture: in order

1. SILVER LININGS PLAYBOOK is my number one. The entire movie and acting and directing was stellar. I really enjoyed its quirkiness.

2. LES MISERABLES–As good as the Broadway Play, which is saying a lot.

3. ARGOS–I was sitting on the edge of my seat and I KNEW what was going to happen. I’m glad Ben Affleck got Best Director in the Golden Globes.

4. LINCOLN–loved Lewis, liked the movie, but not as much as above.

I’m probably not in sync with Academy of Arts and Sciences, but this is what I think.

I have great kids. For Christmas, the presents from each of them included monetary gifts to RAIHN, a shelter for homeless women and one to Alternatives for Battered Women, where I voluteer. (They know their Mom.)

Another gift was a set of notecards, created by my daughter, with quotes about living life well, written in India Ink and brushed with water colors. Here are the quotes:

We make a life by what we give.  Winston Churchill

Just to be is a blessing. Just to live is holy.  Abraham j. Heschel

We are never called by the Spirit to move backwards.  Ed Townley

We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection.  Anais Nin 

The cure for anything is salt water–sweat, tears or the sea.  Isak Dinsen

Wine is living proof that God loves us and wants  us to be happy. (I think this one was made  up by her.)

I’m feeling very lucky to have these children in my life this 2013.

Happy New Year.

 

On Christmas Eve, a man set fire to the house he shared on Ontario Lake with his sister. He waited for the firefighters to arrive and then ambushed them. Two were killed and two more wounded. His sister was in the house, and died. He shot himself.

It’s hard to believe this kind of act can be perpetrated on people. It’s even harder to imagine he set a trap for firefighters so he could kill them. Unspeakable! Obscene! Irrevocable!

I’m trying to wrap my head around this because it happened in my home town. Because firefighters are SO unselfish and rush to fires to save others. Because I’ve written so many firefighter books and have an affinity to these wonderful heroes.

I guess all we can do is pray for the families, and hope for society to better itself. (He used the same gun the shooter in Connecticuit used.)

I’m writing this blog to pay homage to all those women and men who run into burning buildings and risk their lives every day for others.

In the wake of yesterday’s tragedy, we are all rendered mute—and immobilized, if you’re like me. I heard from many of my family, friends and acquaintances who were shocked and leveled by what happened in Newton. I myself had to go to bed with a stomach and head ache I couldn’t tolerate any longer and sleep for hours. The horror of yesterday will stay with us for a long time. Will anything help society, other than what will now be a heated debate about guns? Will anything help the parents, the siblings, the survivors of the event? Yes, I do believe in prayer, and I think prayer is appropriate today. But I’ve always been a woman of action and I have a suggestion that I posted on my Facebook page this morning. Here it is:

This is the only thing I can think of that will make the world a better place today, tomorrow and in the short term. It won’t help those people above, at least not directly, but it WILL, I promise you, create a better world, at least for a little while. How to implement this message? Make a special holiday gift for someone instead of buying a tie or a game. As I said in my post, one Christmas my daughter gathered 52 slips of paper, wrote about special times she’d had with us each, then put them in a mason jar and gave them to each of us, to open every Monday throughout the year.  What a delight that was!

Have you been thinking about forgoing the soup kitchen, or the shelter, or the food bank that needs help and donations because you’re too busy right now? (I have.) Don’t do it. Go to those places and give the people there a bit of happiness.

Do you have family members or colleagues whom you don’t particularly like that you’re planning to ignore this holiday season? I suggest you reach out to them in a positive way: bring cookies, invite them for coffee or even just send a card.

Bite your tongue when you want to snap at someone because you’ve got so much to do. Remember that we learned yesterday that we aren’t always going to have those we love around us.

Do something special for your immediate family or close circle of friends. Yesterday, when I had to go to bed, my son cleaned up the whole house that I left a mess after having a preplanned holiday get together. In the midst of such darkness, that action shed a tiny ray of light and hope on my heart.

Are these things too little to make any difference in the world? Of course not. Perhaps, in a time of political posturing, inept congressional movement and a society that doesn’t seem to care unless a tragedy unfolds, these are the ONLY things we can do to make our world a better place.

I invite comments from anyone who has other suggestions in line with the above.

Why can’t I put together a chair?

Today, on our last day at our condo in Florida before we head north for Christmas in the snow, we tried to put together a table and chair set for the patio. We bought it the last time we were here, and it never got assembled. So assemble it we did. Or tried to, anyway.

Once we figured out how the nuts and bolts and screws went (literally, I had to remind myself which was which), I couldn’t manage to nudge together the three pieces that were to be held with ONE screw. I didn’t have the strength. Then, the decision on which hole to put these in looked different to me, in the picture on the box, but he was right. The table was a snap, and we kept trying to finish one chair. “The screw is big enough,” I said. “ “No, it isn’t,” my husband contended. Again, he was on target.  Finally, we figured out a piece of one chair was bent the wrong way. Nothing to do about that but find another screw. Which was not in the house, of course.

What would have taken an hour turned into a two and ½ hour deal. Geez.

Afterward, I kept thinking, “Why couldn’t I do that assemblage?” I wasn’t strong enough, I didn’t see the spacial differences correctly, and the screw thing just didn’t make sense to me.

I have other talents, I know. I can wake up in the morning and have a full chapter outlined in my head—and then write it. I’m great with people. I can listen, counsel and basically, help them. I guess I’m a good wife, mom and friend. But this inability really ticked me off.  I SHOULD be able to put a freaking chair together.

Then I thought about what was important to me. Recently, I had my website redone by a professional, and I vowed to learn how to create a new page, update my blog, add pictures and wrap text around it. (I won’t tell you how long it took to do the latter. Did you know that the text wraps in the actual website page, and not on the working page?) Anyway, my point is, I did teach myself how to do all this. (Widgets—not conquered that one, yet.) So I guess I can learn. I suppose if I spent as much time on putting chairs together as I did learning how to update my website I’d be able to do it—except for the strength thing, maybe.

My point? Know your limitations, and don’t resent them. (Maybe I’ll feel that way tomorrow about the chair.) If something is really important to you, you can find a way to learn it if you take enough time. But mostly, set your priorities. What do you really want to be doing? Not chairs for me, I guess.

I think I’ll go write another chapter.