The Firefighter's Refrain. Loree Lough

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       CHAPTER NINE

      SAM HAD COMFORTED women before. Not so unusual for a guy in his line of work, especially one with a mom, grandmothers, sisters, an assortment of aunts and nieces and a weepy ex-girlfriend or two. Some wailed, others sniffled, a few hiccupped...over lost loved ones and pets, poignant movie plots, thoughtful gifts. But not one had held on so tight he could feel her heart beating against his chest. If not for the tears dampening his shirt and the quaking of Finn’s petite body, he wouldn’t have realized she was crying.

      His leg was killing him, thanks to hefting and steadying the plywood while Torry, Mark and the guys had nailed it in place. He could go home, elevate it and apply heat, swallow an aspirin or two and feel relief in no time. But he’d rather endure the pain than let her go.

      Common sense told him that useless platitudes were the last thing she needed to hear right now. So he stood quiet and still, and let his presence do the talking.

      Thanks to Mark and Torry, he’d learned a bit about Finn’s history. The terrible accident. Absentee parents. Full responsibility for her sister. Employees who relied on her for a steady paycheck. Sam thought of his own mom and dad, whose unconditional love showed in everything they said and did.

      The contrasts made him hug Finn a little tighter. She’d grown up without any of that, yet she’d taken on the role of mother, father and older sibling to her special needs sister. If she’d been raised by parents like his, how much more terrific would she be?

      Finn pressed both palms to his chest and gazed up at him through long, tear-spiky eyelashes. His pulse pounded when a faint, sheepish grin lifted one corner of her mouth.

      “I’m not usually such a big whiny baby. Sorry.”

      When she looked away, it felt as if someone had flipped a switch and turned out the light in his heart. Sam lifted her chin on a bent forefinger, gently guiding her gaze back to his eyes.

      “You’re not a big whiny baby, and you have absolutely nothing to apologize for.”

      Finn bit her lower lip to still its trembling, and he admired her all the more for the effort at self-control.

      “I meant what I said.”

      Dark eyebrows lifted slightly.

      “You really are safe with me. Safe to cry or stamp your feet or put a fist through a wall.” He grinned. “Although I don’t recommend that last one.”

      “Right...the place has sustained enough damage for one night.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Besides, tears and tantrums are a waste of time and energy.”

      Sam read between the lines: she hadn’t come by that mind-set the easy way. How many other hard-earned lessons had life taught her? He fought the urge to pull her close again.

      “Don’t know about you,” he said, “but I could go for some strong coffee and a slice of pie.”

      She smiled, and the light in his heart went on again.

      “Cherry or apple?”

      “Doesn’t matter.”

      He followed her into the kitchen, where she grabbed two plates from the shelf above the long stainless counter.

      “Sorry it isn’t homemade, but it’s not half bad warmed up in the microwave and topped off with ice cream.”

      Sam considered reminding her there was nothing to apologize for. Instead, he said, “I’d offer to help, but, man, you made quick work of slicing that pie!” Chuckling, he balanced on a wheeled stool. “Remind me not to startle you when there’s a cleaver in your hand.”

      She used the tip of the wide blade to point at a row of knives and scissors stuck to a magnetized strip above the counter. “That’s a cleaver. This is a chef’s knife. It’ll slice, chop, dice, mince or mash—as in garlic cloves. Most useful kitchen tool ever invented.”

      It was good to see her more relaxed. “Aha. So that’s why you have half a dozen of them.”

      One shoulder rose in a dainty shrug. “Rowdy uses them, too. Sometimes we’re in here together, plating up customers’ orders. Nothing less appetizing than for customers to hear the crew bickering over cutlery.”

      He wanted to keep her talking—about anything but the damage out front—so he said, “Ever heard of Aggie Jackson?”

      Finn laughed and slid their plates out of the microwave. “Who hasn’t heard of her?”

      She dropped a scoop of ice cream on top of each wedge. “How do you know the woman whose main claim to fame is that she’s a descendant of Andrew Jackson?”

      Sam thanked her for the pie and reached into one of the bins at the end of the counter, helping himself to a fork. “She’s my landlady. One of these days, I’ll meet someone who doesn’t know she’s the great-great...” He handed her a fork, then cut into his pie. “How many generations back do we need to go to get the right number of ‘greats’?”

      Finn sat on the empty stool beside him. “Gosh. I’d need a calculator—or a time machine—to go back that far in history.”

      Laughing, Sam made his way to the cooler, doing his best not to limp. When he returned with a carton of milk, she nodded toward his leg. “Overdid it tonight, СКАЧАТЬ