She had never felt so incompetent in her life. It was her
fault the thick gray smoke billowed, the fire alarms
blared and the fire trucks honked obnoxiously in the
distance.
This time it wasn't because she'd burned the Thanksgiving
turkey. No. This time she'd ruined Halloween.
Her eyes watered as the acrid smoke traveled from the
large gym into the elementary-school cafeteria. She could
almost hear her ex-husband's condescending voice over the
clanging fire-alarm bells: "Christina Sanchez Jones, when
will you learn to do something right?" And yet Christina
had graduated with honors from prestigious Harvard Law
School.
"Mama? Are you crying?" a tiny voice asked as the harsh
bells finally ceased.
Christina blinked and glanced down at her eight-year-old
daughter. Bella sported black cat whiskers. A beaded black
headband complete with furry black-and-pink cat ears held
her dark-blond hair away from her face. "We won't have to
cancel the Halloween party, will we, Mama? There wasn't a
fire. Only fake smoke."
"No," Christina said, wiping the back of her left hand
across her eyes. Through the cafeteria windows, Christina
could see that a fire truck had pulled into the parking
lot. "We are not canceling. We still have bobbing for
apples and a craft left to do. We just won't have the
haunted house."
"That's okay! I don't care!" Bella shouted. She turned
back to the other second-grade members of her Brownie
troop. Like Bella, they were dressed in Halloween
costumes. "The party's still on!" she whooped.
"Why don't you all go eat your snacks," Christina
suggested as a group of firemen raced through the
cafeteria into the gym. Their heavy boots thudded on the
freshly buffed floor. "Mrs. Sims," Christina called,
"let's do snack now. Does that sound good?"
"Absolutely," Mrs. Sims replied. Darla Sims was an
unofficial troop leader, and within seconds, she had all
the girls organized at a cafeteria table, eating pumpkin-
shaped cookies and drinking witches' brew — a concoction
of orange juice, lime sherbet and white soda pop.
Christina sighed and entered the gym. The firemen were
checking out what was to have been a haunted house.
There really hadn't been a fire, but Christina should have
known better. She should have realized that a smoke
machine would not only create a spooky atmosphere, but it
would also trigger the smoke detectors and, in turn, the
school's fire-alarm system. She'd known exactly what was
happening the moment the first fire bell pealed. Now her
mother's voice resounded in Christina's head. The good
woman had supported Christina's divorce from Kyle Jones,
but she hadn't wanted her daughter to move to Morris-
ville, Indiana. Too Midwest, too far from Houston, too
small town and simply too far from home and the myriad of
relatives who lived just a short plane ride over the
Mexican border. "If you're such a hotshot lawyer," her
mother had argued, "you should have been able to get
around that seventy-five-mile child-custody restriction in
your divorce decree. You should have been allowed to move
anywhere. Like home. Morrisville, Indiana? Do they even
have a McDonald's in that town?"
The answer was yes. Morrisville did have the fast-food
restaurant, right at the Highway 74 overpass and next to
the town's new gas station —
A deep voice cut through her turbulent thoughts. "They
said you were the one in charge."
Actually, the woman in charge of the Brownie troop's
Friday-night Halloween party was home with the flu. Her
directions had included plugging in the smoke machine. But
that didn't give Christina an excuse. One of her role
models was law-school graduate and thirty-third president
of the United States, Harry S. Truman. To paraphrase
Truman, The buck stopped with her.
Prepared to accept full responsibility, she turned and
looked behind her.
And into the clearest blue eyes she'd ever seen. She
resisted her instinct to step back, and took a deep
breath. "I'm in charge," she admitted.
"So you're responsible for this?" The fireman made a wide
sweeping gesture with his right hand, his serious gaze
holding hers.
"Yes," she replied as her breath lodged in her throat. He
had to be six-foot-one, only a smidgen shorter than her ex-
husband, Kyle. As the firefighter continued to stare at
her, Christina shifted under his appraisal.
She knew exactly what he saw: skin the color of a light
suntan, hair the color of ripened wheat, brown eyes with a
hint of gold, and a genie costume complete with exposed
midriff and curled blue shoes that were fast causing her
feet to ache. At five foot nine, she was model tall, and
she'd long ago accepted that she was the nonstereotypical
one in her Mexican family. She didn't have the cliché dark
hair and dark skin. Instead, her lighter hair and skin
came from genes dating back to the time of Cortez, and
intermingling of Spanish and Aztec blood.
She regained her composure. She'd dealt with being labeled
incompetent and second rate long enough. She'd lived with
not meeting anyone's expectations, and she'd determined
that, with her move to Morrisville, the only ones she had
to live with now were her own.
She was a take-charge woman at this point in her life, in
control of her own mistakes and her own destiny. She would
lace on metaphorical boxing gloves and step into the ring
with anyone who wanted to teach her otherwise.
She lifted her chin slightly to answer the attractive
firefighter who waited impatiently. "Yes, I'm the one who
plugged in the smoke machine. As soon as the alarm went
off, I knew why. I guess the lady who left me directions
for setting up the party thought the gym ceiling was high
enough."
"It wasn't."
"Obviously," Christina said dryly. She would not let this
college-age boy affect her or her newfound empowerment.
However, as he took off his black helmet, she saw he was
much older than she'd thought. Late twenties, perhaps,
judging from laugh lines that weren't showing any
amusement at the moment. But if he smiled….
The man shrugged out of his firefighter's coat. Underneath
he was wearing a long-sleeved navy Morris-ville Fire
Department T-shirt. Suspenders held up his black
firefighter pants. The man's muscular build indicated he
was a strong believer in physical fitness. Bodies were
something Christina noticed — especially after having been
married to a professional football player whose body was
his life. The man in front of her wasn't bulky enough to
play pro football, but the hard, lean lines of his
physique communicated innate strength.
The helmet had flattened the firefighter's dark-brown
hair. Now he tousled the strands with his free
hand. "We'll use fans to air out the gym and cafeteria and
clear away any residual smoke. That's about all we can
do.You'll need to clean the rest up yourselves," he said.
"We will," Christina promised.
He shook his head, obviously still disgusted by her
foolish mistake. He moved aside as a member of his crew
carried in a huge steel fan and proceeded to set it up on
the floor by the gym exit door. "You'll also need to leave
the outside doors open. Luckily for you, it's un-
seasonably warm tonight. It won't get too cold in here."
"Yes," Christina said. She glanced down as a small hand
tugged on hers.
"We want to see the fire truck," Bella said hopefully,
speaking for her friends. "Please, Mama?"
Christina shot the firefighter an apologetic look.
Children, she tried to tell him. "Honey, he's busy, and
you should not be in here."
"I'm never too busy for a group of kids," the fire-fighter
said, surprising Christina. He finally cracked a smile,
one so endearing she suddenly wished he could have
directed it at her, too, instead of only at Bella.
"Come on, now that all you little girls have got us out
here, you must see the fire truck."
"Do you live at the firehouse?" Bella asked as she
followed him, her long black cat tail swishing behind her.
"Nope," the man said as the Brownie troop gathered around
him. "We're all volunteers. We come from our homes
whenever we get the call that someone needs us."
"The smoke machine set off the alarm," announced Megan,
the girl who had become Bella's best friend.
"And that's why we're here," he said with another large
smile. "Now, walk around this big fan — careful now — and
you can all see the fire truck."
The firefighter's grin widened, revealing straight white
teeth. It was a Dennis Quaid smile, Christina decided,
like in The Parent Trap or The Rookie. She'd watched both
films recently with Bella. The grin, complete with
dimples, covered the firefighter's entire face. A lifetime
ago he might have been her type, she thought wistfully.
The Brownie troop dutifully followed him outside, past the
circular fan. Careful not to bump into it herself,
Christina hovered at the door as several firefighters
began to show the girls the equipment on the fire truck.
"Well, that'll keep them occupied for a bit," Mrs. Sims
commented as she approached.
"Yes," Christina said, her gaze never leaving the scene in
the parking lot. "Even though it appears everything's
okay, I should probably go out there and supervise."
"That sounds wise. I'll get the crafts set up. The girls
are pretty much finished eating. At least one thing will
go right tonight. I don't know what Lula was thinking. A
smoke machine."
"What a fiasco," Christina agreed.
"Mistakes happen to the best of us. Don't worry,
Christina, those guys get called out of their homes all
the time and at all hours. They know it when they sign up
to volunteer."
"Volunteer?"
"Yes." Mrs. Sims's brow creased for only a second.
"I forgot that you're not from here. Morrisville's fire
department is an all-volunteer force. No one's paid. Even
Batesville's fire department is entirely volunteer, and
Batesville is a much larger town that's home to a Fortune
1000 company."
Christina winced. She hadn't realized that volunteer fire
departments still existed. Actually, up until two weeks
ago, she hadn't realized quaint little rural communities
like Morrisville, population 4,231, still existed. When
she'd first interviewed with the law firm of Lancaster and
Morris, she'd received a tour of the place, but it had
lasted all of ten minutes — the time it took to drive from
the Highway 74 exit, through the town square, to the farms
on the other side of town.
"Most people around here who aren't farmers work ten miles
away in Batesville at one of the Hillenbrand Industries,"
Reginald Morris, the senior partner, had told Christina
during the tour. "There are several other smaller
manufacturing companies in the area, but none with a large
output. We're hiring you for the case against the
Morrisville Garment Company, a small company located just
on the outskirts of our town. A Title VII class-action
suit is being brought on behalf of a group of Hispanic
women, mostly of Mexican descent. One priority for our
success in this harassment case is having a partner who
can speak Spanish and relate to our clients."