The Firefighter's Refrain

“Mark didn’t tell you?”

“Nope.”

The comedian sat on a tall stool. “Well, there was a wreck six or seven years ago,” he began. “Bad one. Nearly killed her whole family. Everybody came out of it more or less okay, except for Ciara’s head injury.”

Nodding, Sam pictured Finn’s younger sister. “How old is she?”

“I dunno...twenty-two, twenty-three.” He held up a hand. “Wait. I thought you were interested in Finn. You can’t hit on Ciara. She’s too sweet and innocent for the likes of you!”

“I agree. The little sister is a sweetheart, but I...” Shut up, Marshall. You’ve already said too much.

“Now that you’re management,” Torry said, fingertips drawing quote marks around the word, “you’d better learn how to take a joke.” He leaned forward. “’Cause I’m the comedian, remember?”

Torry studied Sam’s face for a moment, then continued with his story. “Okay, so here’s what I know. Her parents were addicts. Nix that. Are addicts. Which might explain why nobody—not even Finn and Ciara—has a clue where they are most of the time. Pete, who pretty much built The Right Note from the ground up, never married, never had kids—” he gave Sam a playful elbow jab “—that we know of. Anyway, when the Learys split, Pete took pity on the girls and put ’em up in the apartment above the diner. Gave ’em odd jobs to do so they’d feel like they were earning their keep. When he retired, he made Finn his manager, and when he died, he left everything to her.”

“Huh,” Sam said. Under similar circumstances, would he have the backbone and generosity to take care of two nearly orphaned teenage girls?

“Well...?”

Sam looked at Torry. “Well, what?”

“You don’t want to know if she’s married or not?”

“I didn’t see a wedding band.”

“That doesn’t mean diddly. Safety regs and all that, y’know?”

Yeah, Sam had considered that possibility.

“Well?” Torry repeated.

Seemed to Sam he could save a lot of time by just asking, straight out, whether or not there was a man in Finn’s life.

“So is she available?”

“I thought you’d never ask!” The full-bodied laughter echoed throughout The Meetinghouse. He whistled. Flapped his arms. “She’s free as a bird.” And then his expression turned serious. “Not that it’s gonna do you much good. She’s turned down a lot of guys like you.”

“Guys like me? What does that mean?”

“You know. Cowboy types.” He pointed at Sam’s pointy-toed boots and Western-style shirt. His hands formed a rectangle, like a photographer lining up a shot. “More specifically, guys who want to see their names on the marquee at the Ryman and the Opry house. Wannabe singers with big Nashville dreams. She’s antimusician. Big-time antimusician.”

“Oh?”

“Her folks have been in the business for decades.”

The Learys must have done far more than crash a car to inspire her opinion that all musicians were bad news. Frankly, Sam didn’t know if he wanted to learn the details. He already had way too many demands on his time. Besides, how did that old saying go? Take care when trying to fix a broken person, because you might cut yourself on their shattered pieces. Good advice, especially for a person who still bore the scars of saving others.

“Thanks, man. And don’t worry. Mum’s the word.”

Torry got to his feet and made his way down the stage stairs. “I wasn’t worried.” He paused on the dance floor to add, “Except maybe about your sense of humor. Need I repeat, I have a contract?”

Sam returned his smile. “I’m not nearly smart enough to write and deliver jokes night after night.”

“And don’t you forget it...boss.”

He left Sam mulling over an either/or decision: ask Finn for the rest of her story, or find a way to stop thinking about her.

Her likeness flashed in his mind.

An instant—that was all it took for him to realize the latter was next to impossible.

He glanced at his watch. If you don’t lollygag, you’ll have time to head home for a shower and a shave before you go onstage tonight.

Lollygag. One of his dad’s favorite words. It made Sam a little homesick, and he made a mental note to call home first thing in the morning.

“Better come up with some kind of a script before you dial the folks’ number,” he muttered. He needed ready answers for his mom’s predictable questions: “Are you getting plenty of sleep? You’re not eating those horrid frozen dinners every night, I hope?” And his favorite, “Are you seeing anyone yet?”

As usual, he’d tell her that he wasn’t.

But he sure would like to be.

CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_55aedabc-f3b5-5357-95c4-5f55a602fb91)

SAM LEANED INTO the deck rail, marveling at his view of the river. After witnessing the aftermath of the 2010 flood, he considered himself lucky to be on the fourth floor, safe from rising waters should the Cumberland overflow its banks again. He was mildly surprised at how quickly he’d adjusted to life in a nine-hundred-square-foot condo after spending most of his life on a sprawling ranch in the shadow of the Rockies.

The hardest adjustment had been sleep patterns. Back at the Double M, he’d turned in early, bone tired from long days of hard labor. Got up early, too, ready to dig in to the demanding work all over again.

Since injuring his leg, Sam rarely got to bed before three, either because he put so much effort into his lesson plans, lecture notes and handouts, or because of a performance that lasted until two. Lack of sleep was one of the only negatives to life in Nashville.

Except for the occasional bout of homesickness.

Fortunately, the cure was simple enough...

According to his watch, it was six in the morning, Mountain Time. He could picture his folks at the kitchen table, fully dressed and with breakfast behind them, his dad thumbing through the morning paper while his mom scribbled her to-do list for the day.

Sam refilled his coffee mug and carried it to the balcony, leaned back in his deck chair and propped both boot heels on the glass and steel railing.

“You must have ESP,” his mom said. “‘Call Sam’ is at the top of my list today!”

“Oh? What’s up?”

“Let me put you on speakerphone, so Dad can talk with you, too.”

“Hey, son. ’Bout time you touched base. Your mother cries herself to sleep every night, wondering if you’re all right. Sprained her wrist wringing her hands, too.”

He heard a giggle, then a quiet slap. “Clay Marshall, none of that is true and you know it.”

Sam chuckled. He’d always loved watching his parents interact. To the rest of the world, Clay Marshall seemed tough and gruff. But when he gazed at his wife of many years, the rough edges softened. Victoria’s eyes overflowed with indisputable adoration, too. If Sam could find a woman who looked at him that way, he’d—