July Thunder. Rachel Lee
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to the dinner his new congregation had brought him: cold sliced turkey, salad and slabs of homemade bread. For dessert there was a generous square of crumb cake.
When he returned to his easy chair and settled in the only position that would ease his stiff back, he resumed his absent contemplation. That was when he saw Sam come out of the McKinney woman’s house.
So they were dating.
That was inconvenient, he thought. When he’d accepted the pastorship here, it had never occurred to him that Sam would still be living in this town. Sam was a runner. He’d run away from Elijah more than once in his younger days, and Elijah had just somehow figured that Sam would have moved on when his wife had died.
Regardless, it hadn’t been a possibility that had entered into his decision one way or the other. He’d long since buried his son, emotionally speaking.
Or he thought he had. Judging by the way he was reacting, things weren’t quite as dead as he’d believed.
He felt angry. Of course, anger wasn’t unfamiliar to Elijah Canfield. He routinely got angry at sin. Anger was, in fact, his stock-in-trade. Sometimes he even let his anger spill over from the sin to the sinner, if he thought it might do any good.
But when he thought of his son, he wasn’t angry at sin. He was angry at waste. Sam had wasted himself and his God-given talents. The Spirit had been upon him, but Sam had refused the call.
Belle, his late wife, hadn’t seen it that way. They’d fought bitterly over their son on many occasions, especially after Elijah had disowned the boy. Belle had thought it wasn’t Elijah’s place to determine their son’s calling. Elijah felt that, as a preacher, he was better able to judge that matter than anyone else.
But whatever the arguments had been, it remained that Elijah was still angry. Searingly angry.
And hurt.
Sam had failed him. Sam had turned his back on his upbringing and his faith. He had spat on all that his father believed.
Nursing his pain, Elijah sat on into the evening, thinking about Sam, and about the woman across the street, the woman who had challenged him on the obscene books she encouraged children to read.
His mission here was becoming clear. He knew what he had to do.
The fire, stymied at the heights for lack of fuel, caught between two brooks that stood sentry over the rest of the forest, nearly died. The last flames vanished, and a smoky pall hung over everything, even filling the valley below.
Across the brooks, still unsettled by the smell of soot and ash, animals tentatively tried to resume their routine. But the deer were restless and slept lightly, awakening frequently to sniff the night air for danger. The birds were completely gone, offering no surety of a timely alarm if they were disturbed. Smaller animals, creeping out of burrows and nests, seemed even more skittish than usual as they followed their various habits of hunting and gathering. Pausing more often than usual, they lifted their heads to test the acrid odor of the air.
The fire slumbered. Hot coals, protected by the thick layer of ash, glowed, awaiting their moment. Only hours before a hungry conflagration, the fire bided its time, showing a patience that few imagined it capable of.
Throughout the night, the forest waited, knowing it was not yet safe. Then, at dawn, a breeze freshened. Blowing across the burned-out area, its strength undimmed by the leaves and needles of living trees and brush, it stirred the ash.
Little wisps of smoke began to rise again. The warmth buried in the protective coat of ash grew hotter. And as the blacked acres heated yet again, the rising air sucked the breeze more strongly into the heart of the sleeping fire.
At first only ash lifted on the breeze. Dead, lifeless, it sprinkled itself harmlessly among the still-green trees across the brook. But the fanning renewed the life in the small coals the ash had covered.
And before the sun had fully risen, sparks were swept up on the eddies of the growing wind.
Most fell harmlessly, burned out before they reached the fresh fuel across the water. But at last one made it, finding a welcoming spot among pine needles so dry they ignited instantly.
The fire spread, needle to needle, multiplying rapidly. Soon there was a large, charred circle ringed in flame. A gust of air lifted those burning needles in a shower of orange lights and deposited them among the needles of parched trees, where they grew hungrily.
A dozen trees ignited with a huge whoosh, the hungry fire drawing more wind to its heart.
And the conflagration once again began its inexorable march, this time toward the pass that led to Whisper Creek.
4
Sam smelled smoke again. It was carried on the clear morning air, again just a whiff, gone so quickly it was hard to be sure he’d smelled it. It unnerved him just the same.
Standing in his driveway, he searched the rooftops of the town and saw nothing untoward. Then he scanned the circle of mountains around the valley. Not a thing.
Nothing except, perhaps, the faintest darkening to the west. As if the sky was not quite true blue. He studied it but couldn’t be certain he was seeing anything. Sometimes the sky looked like that before clouds developed, and God knew they could sure use some rain.
He sniffed the air again but detected nothing. His imagination?
Maybe.
“Good morning, Sam!”
He turned and saw his next-door neighbor, Sheila Muñoz, coming out to get her paper. Sheila was an attractive divorcée who lately seemed to have developed the habit of getting her paper just about the time he left for work in the mornings. And lately, when she came out that door, she was still wearing her nightclothes. Nightclothes that were a little too…suggestive. Not indecent. Just suggestive.
“Morning, Sheila,” he called back and slipped quickly into his patrol car. There had been a time in his life when he might have been flattered, but no more. Now he just wanted to escape as quickly as he could.
Gunning his engine, he backed out of his driveway and turned away from Sheila, even though the route to work would be longer.
Coward, he thought almost wryly as he took his alternate route. But he wasn’t interested in Sheila and didn’t want to give her any idea that he might be. The best way for both of them to save face was to avoid any situation where someone might be embarrassed. Especially in a town this size.
But he kind of felt sorry for her, too. Her divorce was new, and loneliness was a miserable thing. Hector had walked out on her only six months ago, leaving her for another woman. Sam had no doubt that part of what Sheila needed was reassurance that she was still attractive. Well, he wasn’t up for that game. She was nice enough, as a neighbor, but there it ended.
“Dinner tonight,” Earl Sanders reminded him the minute he stepped into the office. Apparently he was the first arrival for the day shift.
“I remember.”
“Good. I don’t want you wiggling out again.”
“I won’t.” What was the point? Earl was going to keep on stalking him like a lion after prey.
The thought caught Sam like a hiccup, and suddenly he laughed. A genuine laugh. A feel-good laugh. God, was he really this morose? Or was it just an ugly habit?
“What’s so funny?” Earl demanded.
Sam was still grinning. And for once his face didn’t hurt from it. “Me, boss. Just me.”
Earl scanned him from head to foot. “I don’t see anything funny about you.”
“And that’s the whole problem, isn’t it?” Sam shook his head. “I think I’m getting bored with my own company.”
“It’s about time. Six o’clock. And bring a date if you want.”
“Who,