His Only Wife. Cathy McDavid
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Aubrey was about her age and looked vaguely familiar. Before she could place the face, the woman said, “You’re Aubrey Stuart, aren’t you? I heard you were back in town.”
“That’s me,” Aubrey said, wishing she could remember the woman.
“You don’t recognize me, do you?”
She smiled apologetically and shook her head.
“It’s been a long time.” The woman returned her smile. “I was Eleanor Carpenter. I’m Eleanor Meeks now. I used to live about a half mile up the road from your grandparents. You played sometimes with my younger sister, Beth. When you weren’t playing with Gage, that is.” Eleanor’s eyes remained warm and friendly, but her smile turned impish.
“Of course.” Aubrey was surprised by the delight she felt at running into a former acquaintance. “Nice to see you again.” She shifted the box of food to her hip. “Are you volunteering here?”
“Yep. When I can arrange for someone to watch the kids, that is.” She took Aubrey by the elbow and led her toward the kitchen located in the rear of the huge room. “Let’s find a place for this food and then we can talk.”
“Is your husband a Hotshot?” Aubrey asked.
“Was.” Eleanor’s smile faded. “He was killed two years ago in a burnover incident when the wind suddenly changed direction.”
“Oh, my gosh! I’m so sorry.” Aubrey instantly flashed on her parents’ late friends, Jesse and Maureen. “I didn’t—”
“It’s all right.” Eleanor reached into the cardboard box and removed one of the covered dishes. She placed it in an empty spot on the counter. “I won’t lie and say things are always easy. But me and the kids, we’re doing okay. Volunteering with the Hotshots helps.” A shadow of grief crossed her face. It lasted only a moment and then she was smiling again.
Aubrey couldn’t help thinking of Gage. Was he all right? Was he in danger? How long until he returned?
Some of the Internet Web sites she’d visited the previous night portrayed wilderness firefighting as a glamorous and exciting profession, the men and women as heroes. They were, but as an E.R. nurse, Aubrey knew better than most the not so glamorous and exciting side of firefighting.
“Hey, Eleanor,” someone called. “Can you give us a hand? This idiot fax machine won’t print.”
“I’m the local Jane-of-all-trades.” Eleanor sighed wearily, though she acted more pleased than put out. “Hang around, why don’t you? If you’re not in a hurry.” She started off, then stopped and turned. “It’s good to see you again, Aubrey. Welcome home.”
Welcome home.
The phrase echoed in Aubrey’s head. Though she had lived most of her life in Tucson, Blue Ridge had been home to her, too. Certainly the home of her heart.
“Thanks,” she told Eleanor. “I think I will hang around.”
Whatever malfunction had struck the fax machine, it perplexed not only Eleanor, but several others. While the group of workers stood over the machine—reminding Aubrey of surgeons and nurses in an operating room—she finished unloading the food dishes and went wandering the community center.
As she neared the front door, it flew open. A large group of Hotshots entered, dressed in dark brown pants, black T-shirts and heavy work boots with thick rubber soles. They were covered in grime, and the smell of smoke clung to them, nearly overpowering Aubrey.
She couldn’t avoid hearing their conversation as they passed.
“I’m going to grab a quick bite to eat,” said one of the tallest of the group. “What about the rest of you?”
Most concurred.
“I’m gonna hit the sack for a while.” The speaker yawned noisily. “I haven’t slept in two days.”
The taller man slapped his buddy companionably on the back. “Take care of that arm first.”
“This?” He held out the affected limb, and Aubrey noticed an ugly gash running the length of his forearm. “It’s just a scratch.”
“I don’t care if it’s a pinprick,” the taller man said. “Take care of it.”
“Yes, sir.” The injured man veered away from the others and went behind a U-shaped station, where he dropped down into a metal chair and rolled up his sleeve. The cardboard sign taped to the table read First Aid.
Without stopping to think, Aubrey went over to him. “Can I help you with that? I’m a nurse.”
He peered up at her, and his face brightened. “Sure.”
She came around the tables and conducted a quick inventory of the available medical supplies. Then she took the man’s arm and examined the cut. It was long and inflamed, but not deep.
“How did this happen?”
“A tree branch attacked me.” His smile widened and took on a new appearance—that of a man interested in a woman. “You got to watch out for those fellows. They’re sneaky. Catch you when you’re not looking.”
She released his arm, giving him the kind and helpful smile she reserved for patients. “I’m going to the kitchen for some water to wash this. I’ll be right back.”
“And I’ll be right here.”
In the kitchen, she found a small basin that she promptly filled with warm water from the faucet. She also found a stash of industrial paper towels and grabbed a handful. Not the best for cleansing wounds, but they’d do in a pinch.
True to his word, the man was waiting for her when she returned.
“You’re back.” He didn’t mask his delight at seeing her.
Aubrey set the basin and paper towels down on the table near him and donned a pair of latex gloves. While she treated his wound, he engaged her in lively conversation. He was a good-looking man, despite the dirt and grime. And he didn’t come on so strong that he offended her with his mild flirting. Another woman would probably flirt right back. But not her.
Aubrey met, and subsequently dated, any number of available, attractive men. With every one, she waited for that telltale flutter of awareness in her middle. It rarely came, and the relationships tended to fizzle out, some sooner than others. Yet one glimpse of Gage bent over a circular saw cutting planks and she’d had enough flutters to lift her three feet off the ground.
“Are you a volunteer medic?” The injured man’s question jarred Aubrey from her musings.
“No. I really just came by today to drop off some food donations.” Aubrey had finished cleansing the wound and was applying an antibiotic ointment to the affected area.
“You live here?”
“Uh…yes and no.” She opted for the condensed version, not wanting to go into her life story. “I’m staying with my grandmother for an extended visit. She’s recovering from a broken hip. How about you?”
He shook his head. “Sacramento. Born and raised.”
“And you belong to the Blue Ridge Hotshots?”
“No way,” he scoffed and pointed with his free hand to the emblem on his T-shirt. It bore a resemblance to the one on Gage’s truck. “I’m with the Sierra Nevada Hotshots.”
“Really? I didn’t know there were other firefighters here.”
“There are four crews working the fire right now. Us, Blue Ridge, Albuquerque and the Tucson Hot Shots. More are scheduled to arrive tonight if the fire continues to spread.”
“I just learned yesterday that Hotshots traveled to different states.”
“We go wherever we’re needed. Kind of like the marines.” A dimple appeared in his