The Fireman's Son. Tara Taylor Quinn

up into the truck. Buckled herself in. And allowed herself to take a deep breath.

      Reese Bristow had not only become the fire investigator and chief he’d always said he’d be, but he’d grown into a man who gave second chances.

      Her plan might just work out fine after all.

       CHAPTER TWO

      THE SCOPE OF the fire was a ten-yard diameter. Ashes composed one yard of that. The rest of the fire had been caused by a burn-off of gasoline. The fuel stopped just a few feet from a dry field leading directly to an abandoned house. Given the abandoned home’s distance from other residences on the private beach, it was likely no one would have been hurt, but considerable damage might have been done.

      The first fire, set almost a month ago, had been a three-yard diameter. Set down by the water. The arsonist had only been testing his tools then.

      What Reese didn’t yet know was why. How. Or who.

      What he really didn’t understand was what in the hell Faye Browning...Walker...was doing working for his department. Or in Santa Raquel, period.

      He measured. Took notes.

      She hadn’t been surprised to see him. She’d been surprised that he’d been surprised to see her.

      What was it she’d said? “I thought you’d at least call.”

      Why in the hell would he have called her? Ever again?

      She’d been his girlfriend, through high school and two years of college. His lover during the college years. In his mind, there’d been no doubt that they were going to marry, raise a family, grow old together. No doubt that she was his one and only.

      And then in one weekend, it had all shattered. She’d gone out with another guy. And the very next day had called Reese to tell him they were through. No talking. No chances. Just done.

      With gloves on, he handled, bagged and tagged the ashes that he’d be taking to LA. He was using the forensic lab where he’d studied during college. Doing a lot of the work himself.

      The fires felt personal.

      Santa Raquel was his town now.

      She wasn’t a nurse. Why? It was all she’d ever wanted to be. Just like his passion had been fire investigations. Firefighting. On the front line protecting his home state from the wildfires that threatened it during the dry season.

      That’s why, even when she was awarded her scholarship to UC Berkeley, he’d gone to Southern Cal, LA. Because their fire management program was the best in the state.

      And now she wasn’t even a nurse?

      She’d married. Her name was Walker.

      She was married. Walker. Did the guy know his wife had just moved to the town where her ex-lover had settled? Did he know she was working for him?

      The audacity of that one burned his blood.

      Did she know he’d been married? Did she think that somehow made them even?

      Not even close, lady. Not even close.

      He walked the beach, his state-of-the-art flashlight leading the way. If the guy had so much as spilled a drop of gasoline, he wanted to find it. It would tell him which direction he’d come from. Or left by. He checked the dried brush on the other side of the fire.

      He searched for three hours but found nothing of significance.

      Was no closer to discovering his arsonist.

      But he had a solid plan for Faye Walker.

      She was going to be axed. Immediately.

      * * *

      “ELLIOTT?” LEAVING HER son’s bedroom, Faye searched the apartment. She’d rented the upstairs of an antebellum home just two blocks from the beach. The rooms, with their high ceilings, new paint and pristine wooden floors, were beautiful, but the clincher on the deal for her had been the landlady.

      Suzie Preston, a widow in her sixties, lived on the first floor and had offered her services as babysitter anytime Faye was called into work. Suzie volunteered in the library at The Lemonade Stand, a unique women’s shelter in Santa Raquel. The place had become Elliott’s current daytime habitat.

      “Elliott?” She glanced into the bathroom to make sure her eight-year-old hadn’t sleepwalked to the toilet to relieve himself and stayed there.

      Suzie had met her on the landing as she’d walked up the second flight of the wide, winding, bannistered staircase that could have been in any number of old films. She’d said the boy hadn’t made a peep during the hour and a half Faye had been gone.

      “Elliott!” Not sure whether to be pissed at her son’s deliberate lack of response or worried about finding him before he hurt himself, she sped toward the living room and kitchen.

      Her son, thick sandy hair askew, looked up at her with eyes as blue as hers. His expression as dark as Frank Walker’s had been the last time he’d left bruises on her arm with his strong grasp...

      “Why didn’t you answer me?”

      Elliott spooned another mouthful of cereal between his lips, slurping. Dripping onto the small Formica table, too.

      She sat down next to him. He didn’t acknowledge her presence. Not all that unusual when he was in a mood, but there was always a tell. A flinch. A tightening around his mouth. He was only eight. Not yet capable of completely sealing himself off.

      Unless he was asleep. Like now. Hard to believe that a child could sit at the table with his eyes open, eating a bowl of cereal and be asleep—but such was her life.

      Looking out through the thin black bars on the large window overlooking the gorgeous, flowered backyard, Faye issued a silent thank-you.

      For them. The bars. They were the second reason she’d chosen this home. Suzie had told her the bars had been put on the upper windows by her great-grandmother, after a child had almost fallen out one hot summer day.

      The bars were tasteful. Decorative, expensive wrought iron that matched the fencing around the house and the rails on the front porch downstairs.

      They were what let her sleep at night. Elliott was locked in. There was an alarm system on the front door in case he did manage to find a key and get himself out of their door. And the bars kept him from throwing himself out as he’d tried to do the first night after they’d left his father.

      They’d been in a hotel. On the fourth floor. She’d awoken to the sound of the balcony door opening, and she’d had to rip him from a deathly clutch on the balcony rail. The next morning, he’d wondered how his forearms had gotten bruised. He’d remembered none of it.

      She’d checked both of them into a women’s shelter. She’d had nowhere else to go, no one to turn to, no idea what to do. That had been in Mission Viejo, where she’d fled when she’d left Frank Walker.

      Almost two years had passed since then.

      Elliott was fine with the divorce. Never asked to see his father. Never spoke of him.

      But he was still sleepwalking.

      And he was still angry with her.

      Because she hadn’t stopped his father from hurting her, because she’d stayed.

      For starters.

      So here they were in Santa Raquel. Elliott had been referred to The Lemonade Stand as one of two choices for daily education with domestic violence counseling and emotional supervision. Technically he was homeschooled at the shelter.

      Reese Bristow had made the town the only choice. For her own healing.

      And perhaps for Elliott, as well.

      The boy finished