The Fireman's Homecoming. Allie Pleiter
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a loud motorcycle. Now, his short hair and stunning features were strong rather than wild. He was as handsome as ever, but in a completely different manner. And far too appealing for someone already struggling with more than she could handle.
He stilled for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to say something. The same hesitation she’d seen at the coffee shop when she asked him about his accident. “Not too many people our age here to talk to. Not who get what it’s like to come back. It’s kind of a tight fit to squeeze back into Gordon Falls, don’t you think?”
Melba merely nodded again, the squall pushing harder. Clark felt so easy to talk to. He was an outsider newly forced in, just like she was. It’d be so simple to let it all spill out of her on the quiet of the riverbank. How much she wanted one other soul on earth to know she hadn’t imagined what her father blurted out in his delusion. Clark had no stake in the secret. He’d been a dangerous young man; he probably had a closetful of past secrets himself. Melba ventured a long look at him, noting that his green eyes had a singed quality around the edges. He had secrets and scars. Melba’s forefinger found Dad’s wedding band still on her thumb and tried on the thought of betraying the secret to just one other person.
“It’s hard,” she managed. How many times had she said that phrase lately? “He’s...” She couldn’t think of a way to start, and wasn’t even sure she should start at all. There was an odd, tenuous space between them—too close and yet too far apart at the same time.
“Everybody loves your dad,” Clark said after a moment, his eyes returning to a professional assessment of her ankle as his warm fingers tested muscle and joint. “They were praying for him in church while he was in the hospital and Barney told me people have been by to help.”
“Sure, now. What about weeks from now when he’s still sick? Sicker.”
“The help will still be there. Honestly, you’ll probably get more help than you need, the way folks like to poke their noses in around here.” He looked up at her again as he reached for her running shoe. “It’s going to be okay.”
His eyes were intense, focused, compelling. She had a vision of him reaching a victim in a cloud of smoke, extending a hand, saying those words with the same lure of confidence he exuded now. Trouble was, Clark only saw part of the fire burning around her—the disease, the logistical challenge. He had no idea of the full-blown firestorm licking at her heels. How she wasn’t the least bit sure it was going to be okay ever again.
It wasn’t his problem. It wasn’t fair to make it his problem, either.
Melba took the shoe, stuffing the urge to tell all back down with the same effort she forced her swollen ankle back into its shoe.
Both hurt far too much.
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