Fireman Dad. Betsy St. Amant

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      Not that she minded all that much. Over the years, Marissa and her father had reached some kind of silent agreement to disagree, about—well, everything. Sometimes the absence made it easier.

      Even if it did still rub her heart raw.

      Her dad continued, “Owen is seven, not seventeen. He’s going to want to be a cowboy, an astronaut and a pro ball player over the next couple of years. Take it with a grain of salt.” He shrugged. “He’s a boy. Boys have big dreams.”

      “But we don’t have anyone in our family who flies into space or rides rodeos for a living.” Marissa shot a pointed glance at the framed certificates, awards and degrees decorating the office walls. “Your career is already an influence on him.” A fact that kept her up more nights than she liked to admit, locked in fear of the future because of the past. Maybe Kevin’s death was chalked up to an accident, but accidents happened in the world of firefighting.

      A lot.

      Her dad flexed his hands, popping his knuckles. “It’s a career I happen to love, Marissa.”

      No kidding. The bitterness felt heavy on her tongue and Marissa swallowed, looking away as emotion burned in her throat. She wouldn’t get into the past here, not now. It wouldn’t matter anyway—she’d learned that tear-filled lesson years ago. With her Dad, work always came first.

      Apparently it still did.

      “I can’t promise to go out of my way to steer Owen in an opposite direction.” Chief Brady shrugged, one broad shoulder straining against the neck of his white uniform. “I’m sorry, but if he wants to be a fireman one day, there are worse careers to have.”

      “There are also much safer ones.”

      Chief tapped his fingers against his desktop, a tick that meant he’d reached a new level of frustration and was trying to hold it back. She might not have learned the sound of his laughter over the years, but she’d certainly learned his tells of anger. He released a sigh. “Marissa, there’s enough stress around this office right now with the layoffs and negative publicity from the press. This isn’t a big deal, and I beg you not to make it one.”

      Marissa lowered her voice until it whispered through her lips. “In case you forgot, Owen doesn’t have a dad and I don’t have a husband because of your beloved career.”

      Chief didn’t meet her eyes, but the tapping increased as he stared at his desk calendar. A flicker of guilt made Marissa wonder if she’d gone too far, but she pushed it aside. It was impossible to go too far with Chief. He was never around to notice. He might have climbed the ranks in the department faster than most men his age, but at what cost? His desk, organized and neat like his dresser and nightstand had always been at home, lay void of anything personal or resembling family. No photos. No mementos.

      No, some things never changed at all.

      Marissa drew a steadying breath. “Listen, I don’t expect you to understand. I just expect you to treat me with the respect I deserve as a mother—and not warning me about your men doing a presentation for Owen’s class feels disrespectful. Not to mention that one of your men crossed the line by turning a safety presentation into a personal recruiting session. I should have a say in who and what influences my child.”

      “It’s the teacher’s job to notify parents about school demonstrations, not the department’s.”

      “But you’re my father.”

      He flinched, a movement so fast Marissa wondered if she’d imagined it. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have come.” She turned to the door and wrenched it open.

      Chief coughed. “If it makes you happy, I’ll make sure you’re aware of any future presentations. Okay?”

      Her back turned, Marissa nodded with little conviction. It was as much of an olive branch as her dad could offer right now.

      And as much of one as she was willing to take.

      Marissa plastered on a smile as she started down the hallway, stepping back into the comfortable, if not slightly worn, shoes of her role as Mommy. “Come on, Owen! Time to go home.” They were done here.

      Jacob kicked his booted feet up on the coffee table, glad this wasn’t his night to cook at the station. They’d just gotten back from working a wreck involving an eighteen-wheeler, a flipped car and one severely dented guardrail. Two hours in the relentless sun doing hazardous material checks and getting the truck driver transported from mangled cab to gurney proved exhausting. Thankfully the driver of the car was all right and had gone to the E.R. as a precaution. Some nights, that wasn’t the case.

      Some nights, Jacob possessed no appetite for dinner at all.

      “Jacob, Captain said he heard there’s a chance to catch an overtime shift tomorrow. You interested?” Steve Mitchell, driver for their station, hollered from the kitchen, around the corner from where Jacob sat.

      “If they hadn’t let six men go, they wouldn’t have an overtime shift to fill.” Regret coated Jacob’s tongue and he bit back any more negative comments. As much as he struggled to keep business and family separate, the city council was making it tricky. If Jacob wasn’t offended by their actions, then he felt guilty of not being a good brother. But if he clung to the guilt, then he grew afraid his work ethic would crash or his bitterness would be revealed to the chiefs—and then his own job would be at risk if there were more layoffs. But that train of thought carried him full circle back to a new guilt of caring for his own welfare when his brother’s was tossed aside.

      He was getting sick of no-win situations.

      “Couldn’t hear you.” Steve popped his head around the corner, wiping his hands on a dish towel. Whatever he was cooking already smelled burnt, and Jacob’s stomach protested with disappointment. If he had the energy, he would’ve taken over with the wooden spoon, but not tonight.

      Jacob tugged the leg of his pants further down over his boot. “Just think it’s strange they’re offering overtime right now.”

      “Well, they do have a sudden lack of manpower.” Steve disappeared back into the kitchen.

      “Exactly.” It wasn’t the first time Jacob had questioned the political aspects of the department—though it was likely for the best not to know all the details. Maybe once his brother found a new job, Jacob could relax and work would once again be like it used to be. He raised his voice so Steve could hear above the hum of the oven range vent. “Count me out. If you want to sign up for the shift, go ahead.”

      Steve’s head poked around the frame a second time, reminding Jacob of a prairie dog. “That’s weird. You used to always jump at overtime offers. What’s changed?”

      “Nothing.” Nothing other than his meeting with Marissa tomorrow, that is. But that was none of Steve’s business, and if Steve knew, he’d definitely take it out of context. Jacob had his fill of department gossip a few months ago when a woman he took out one time decided to pop in the station the next day with two dozen brownies. Needless to say, she hadn’t taken his gentle rejection very well. He shuddered at the memory.

      “There’s got to be something,” Steve persisted. “Another hot date?” The food on the stove splattered and hissed behind him, and he darted back into the kitchen. “Make sure this one СКАЧАТЬ