Love, Special Delivery. Melinda Curtis

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      She hadn’t done anything wonderful.

      But Grandpa expected her to.

      * * *

      “CHEAPEST WAY TO fight fires is to prevent fires.” Winded and wheezy, the fire chief stood outside the Harmony Valley Post Office in his navy blue uniform, one sunspotted hand on the wall.

      It didn’t help his lungs that there was a wildfire burning forty miles away on the other side of nearby Parish Hill. Ten wildland firefighter crews were battling that blaze, and it was over 50 percent contained. Smoke from the fire tinged the midday sky gray-brown and would for days.

      “Cheapest way,” Dad repeated.

      Ben didn’t care about budgets. He cared about safety. “The town council should have approved funding for a four-man crew.” He stopped next to his father, scoping the empty street like a burglar about to do business. The fire code required a minimum of four firemen on active fire calls, which left them dependent upon other nearby fire crews. And by nearby, he meant thirty minutes or more away. Harmony Valley was in a remote corner of Sonoma County.

      “You’ve driven around town.” Dad sucked in a shallow breath, as if he were simply winded, rather than coping with lung disease. “Our district constituents are old.” Suck-wheeze. His face lost more color. “We’ll be handling more medical calls than fire emergencies.” Suck-wheeze. “Which is the way of the world now it seems.”

      Kitten and medical calls were turning out to be their charter. Once they put a volunteer program in place, they wouldn’t have to rely on Cloverdale for backup if there was a fire.

      Ben took Dad’s arm. “Why don’t you wait in the truck with an oxygen mask?”

      Dad tugged his arm free. “Because I’m the one who signs off—” gasp-wheeze “—on inspections and citations.”

      “You haven’t issued any citations. Only warnings.” In Ben’s twelve-plus years’ experience as a fireman, you had to operate by the book or have the book thrown at you.

      The post office was a plain, boxy gray building with an air of neglect. It looked in need of about ten citations. There was a small grove of trees behind it. Beyond the trees was a field with waist-high wild grass. Beyond that was a two-story farmhouse that was more tear-down than fixer-upper.

      “I’m almost sorry I raised you in the city,” Dad said. “You don’t understand the role of a small-town fireman. These people are our friends.” Dad’s glare was boss-man defiant.

      Ben had a defiant glare of his own. Too bad Dad wasn’t looking at him. “Friends don’t let friends burn their businesses down. Issue some citations.”

      “A warning will suffice.” His old man lumbered toward the post office door, his breath sounding like an out-of-tune accordion. “You’ll understand someday.”

      “Maybe...” Ben chewed on the tether binding his sarcasm until it broke. “Maybe when I’m old and dotty, like you.”

      Dad mumbled something about ungrateful sons and fire captains who were wet behind the ears. In turn, Ben mumbled something about passing up a fire inspector promotion and fire chiefs who were softies.

      “Walk with a purpose, son,” Dad said as if Ben was twelve and lagging behind at the mall. “We have plenty more inspections to do.”

      They had a list of overdue inspections as long as Ben’s arm. After more than a decade without a fire department, father and son were playing catch-up on safety measures in Harmony Valley. Ben was trying to time the inspections to coincide with the least amount of traffic possible. Why disrupt businesses and inspect them during peak hours? Why not sneak around on little-used side streets until midafternoon when many of the elderly would be having a siesta?

      Reel in the sarcasm, dude.

      Covering for Dad was wearing on Ben. And he’d barely been on the job a week!

      The post office door was unlocked, but the counter window was closed. Classic country music drifted out to them from the back. Ben knocked on the door that said Employees Only.

      There was no answer.

      Dad leaned against the wall, scowling when he noticed Ben looking at him. “I’m old. Get used to it.”

      He’d take old over dead any day. “Why don’t you wait in the truck?” Ben repeated.

      “Because I’m the fire chief,” Dad rasped, a welcome spark of energy in his blue eyes.

      “At least use your inhaler.” Ben pounded harder on the door while his father dug in his pocket for his medicine.

      Again, no answer. The music was too darn loud. It reminded him of Hannah’s mom.

      Erica had lived for the adrenaline rush—fast cars, base jumping, parachuting out of planes. She’d had a soundtrack for every experience, blaring it through booming speakers or her earbuds. If she’d lived to be eighty, she would’ve been deaf. He’d assumed little reserved Hannah was the opposite of her mother. She wasn’t. Erica’s love of life had taken a different tangent with Hannah, a softer, quieter tangent. Right now, he was thankful for it.

      Ben tried the door. It was unlocked. He had to push aside a mail cart to get inside, and even then there were boxes stacked in front of the cart. Other than that, the mail room floor was relatively clear. There was a large rolling door in one wall that presumably opened to the parking lot for mail truck deliveries.

      On the far side of the room a thin, tall woman was clad in postal service blue shorts and a baggy striped shirt. Her dark brown hair was bound in messy ponytails that hung beneath each ear. Back to Ben, she mopped the floor, singing off-key to a crazy tune about drinking too much.

      Dad chuckled.

      Ben found nothing funny about it. A fire to the rear of the building by the loading dock and this woman would be trapped.

      “Fire!” Ben shouted.

      The mop clattered to the floor. The woman whirled, sneakers slipping slightly on wet linoleum. Wide brown eyes landed on Ben with a gut-dropping thud. She wasn’t smiling, but she had the kind of face that carried a smile 99 percent of the time, the kind of face that aged gracefully with few lines because she never had a care. And Ben, who carried cares like other people lugged too much spare change, was struck with envy.

      She switched off the music.

      The sudden silence rang in Ben’s ears as he breathed in cleanser fumes and waited to see if the woman had a frown in her arsenal, some hint that her life wasn’t all rainbows and unicorns.

      “I’m Mandy, the new postmaster.” She blinked, and with that blink her expression seemed to reset. A small smile. A carefree tone of voice. A kick in Envious Ben’s shin. “Is there a fire?”

      “This is a fire inspection.” Dad had drawn himself up to his full height. With Mandy in his sights, he wasn’t wheezing or sagging. He should’ve hired an attractive woman as his fire captain instead of Ben. “Nothing for you to worry about.”

      Here we go again. Letting an offender off with a warning.

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