The Family Man

The last thing he wanted to witness was a female display of emotion—from Wes’s girlfriend, no less. When Deb died, he’d locked his own emotions away so their intensity wouldn’t break him.

But instead of bursting into tears, the woman cried out and sprang forward. “Whizzer, no!”

At the sound of spray hitting something behind him, Logan leaped up and away, with only a brief twinge in his leg. His reflexes were sharp after having dodged many an angry bee fighting fires in the mountains. Bees didn’t like fire and they wanted desperately to take their anger out on someone. Snakes, at least, seemed to have the sense to dart out of the way when they heard twenty firefighters moving toward them.

“Whizzer, no,” she reprimanded the prancing dog before turning those deep brown eyes his way. “I’m so sorry. He didn’t get you, did he?”

Logan just stared at the woman, unwilling to embarrass himself by looking for wet spots on his backside. If the little rodent had pissed on him, he couldn’t feel it yet through his grubby pants and boots.

Rather than back off from his stare, the woman closed the gap between them with a soft ripple of bells, grasped him firmly by the shoulders, turned him around and checked him out.

At least, Logan assumed she was checking out his ass. That’s what most women did. And most of the time, he didn’t mind. Not a bit.

But that was before Deb became sick and died. Before Logan became the legal guardian of his nieces. Before Deb’s lowlife, trucking husband had disappeared with the twins because Logan wouldn’t stop him. Before Logan had sunk into despair because he’d let the most important people in his life down.

The woman turned him one way and another, her touch commanding yet distinctly tender. “He didn’t get you.” Her hands fell away as she stepped back.

Logan blew out the breath he’d been holding. He hadn’t been on the receiving end of an attractive woman’s touch since…last summer. He suppressed a groan. He didn’t even want to think about it.

Logan was selective. Ample assets, that’s what he liked. Lots of blond hair—didn’t even matter if it was natural blond—and full, red, pouty lips that whispered with the promise of a night or two of fun. But this woman…

She was thin, small breasted, with chestnut hair that tumbled past her shoulder blades and dimples that only made those crinkly smiling eyes that much more appealing. He could see the freckles dusting her nose because she wasn’t wearing any makeup, not even lipstick. She was the kind of woman who stayed home and baked apple pies to spoil her man upon his return.

She wasn’t his type at all.

“Where’s Wes?” he repeated irritably, thinking that she wasn’t Wes’s type, either.

“I told you, I don’t know.” She hugged herself against the chill. It was nippy out, yet she only wore that thin T-shirt—bright orange with a yellow sun—and an indigo-blue jean jacket over that almost knee-length red denim skirt. Dressed like that, she had to be from California or Arizona originally. Add the Volkswagen Beetle and she had to be a second-generation hippie.

“Wes stopped paying the bills and we got evicted,” she added. She looked at him tentatively, as if waiting for him to bite her head off.

Logan swore. He’d known it was wrong to let the twins go, but he’d been unconvinced that he was the better alternative. “Are they okay?”

“See for yourself.” She spun away with her bells jingling, striking his nerves as she walked toward the house.

“Whizzer, come on.” She opened the front door as if she, not Logan, lived there.

Whizzer jumped up onto the porch with superdog-like agility.

“Are you coming?” She hesitated in the doorway. Sunlight glinted off the silver threads in her red skirt and the bells on her feet. One shoe continued to jingle.

Whizzer stood on the porch panting, as if peeing were an Olympic sport in which he was competing and which required a lot of effort.

Logan almost smiled at the lighthearted picture they made until he remembered she was Wes’s girl, which meant her friendly, upbeat manner was probably just an act.

“They’ve been waiting to see you,” she added when he didn’t budge.

Logan scratched his grimy neck, more than willing to bet they had. The girls probably blamed him for every crappy thing that had happened to them since their mom died. And they had every right to. If anything bad had happened to them while they were in Wes’s care, it was Logan’s fault.

Guilt and frustration pulsed in his veins. Suddenly, Logan couldn’t face Tess and Hannah.

THEA WAS INCREDIBLY RELIEVED to have food for the girls, a roof over their heads, and to have found the twins’ uncle. Or she had been relieved until Logan stood staring at her as if she’d just landed from planet Mars and might be dangerous.

“My name’s Thea Gayle. I’ve been watching the girls,” she managed to say, assuming he was waiting for her to introduce herself. She thrust her free hand in his direction, then pumped his hand vigorously, until she realized how nicely his large hand felt wrapped around hers—callused, warm, comfortable. His friendly grip was at odds with the melancholy expression in his eyes that said stay away, keep your distance, don’t want any.

Against the play of light and green shadows of fir trees, Logan McCall looked magnificent as he hesitated on the porch. Like a young Robert Redford, with soot-streaked angular features and eyes as blue as the cloudless sky above him.

They stared at each other across an awkward bit of silence while Thea struggled for something to say, which was unusual for her. She was seldom at a loss for words. Stories to ease the mood usually came easily to her lips. It had to be those eyes of his, so blue, so sad.

They stepped into the house. The clock ticked on the living-room mantel. Thea could hear Aunt Glen talking to Tess and Hannah in the kitchen. Whizzer circled the hardwood floor behind her before plopping down with a big grunt.

Thea shrugged apologetically, grateful for any break in the tension. “We had quite a time finding you. It seemed like the whole town took us in.”

The gorgeously grim-looking firefighter stared down at her with distant eyes. It was clear that he’d come directly from a fire. He wore a yellow button-down shirt in need of a washing, dark green khakis and grimy work boots. Her fingers itched to touch the Nomex fabric his clothes were made of. It was fire resistant, an advance that she’d explored in a section of her textile studies.

As they continued to stare at each other, Logan’s golden eyebrows hovered low over those attractive peepers, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. She bet women far and wide fell at his feet begging to be lost in the deep blue of his gaze, which was compelling despite his obvious reluctance to smile.

He was the kind of guy who didn’t need anything or anybody. Here was a man who could pick and choose which women he spent time with. And she’d bet Whizzer’s kibble that he was choosy, all right. He was the type who didn’t give her a second glance, with her plain features, plain coloring and plain body. Heck, he didn’t think enough of her to speak to her.

Or it was as Lexie had implied. Logan was too burdened with grief to care about much of anything.

Thea sighed, telling herself it was a good thing that Logan didn’t think much of her, even better that he didn’t need her. She’d fulfilled her obligation to the twins. She had to get back to Seattle and her study schedule.

She slid her cold hands in the pockets of her jean jacket and retreated farther into the house. Thea was so intent on keeping her distance from the man that she missed his question.

“Did Wes treat them right?” he repeated, words heavy with scorn as he pushed his sunglasses back up his nose. “Did you?”

Thea sucked in a breath, torn between an unusual feeling of loyalty toward her employer—even though he’d turned out to be a deadbeat—the need to tell the truth—that Wes was so neglectful it was hard to call him a dad—and indignation that he’d think she’d mistreat the twins.

“If it’s money you want, you’ve come to the wrong place.” Logan spread his hands, palms up, his gaze burning with hurt and accusation. “I’m just a poor Hot Shot.”

There was that temper Lexie had warned her about. Be smart and say as little as possible, she counseled herself. Don’t make a joke of it. Logan McCall didn’t want anything to do with optimism. If anything would work with him, it would be sarcasm, something Thea avoided.

Only, all that intensity directed at her from those blue eyes was disconcerting. And her mouth engaged itself before she had time to heed her own advice.

“A hot-who? Is that like some sort of male stripper?” At his startled expression, Thea continued, rolling her eyes dramatically. “Because I’ve only met one male stripper. His name was Cowboy Temptation, but I don’t think he was a real cowboy. I mean, he wore a holster with pop guns.”

Logan’s jaw worked. “I’m a Hot Shot.” He emphasized each word carefully, then added, “A wildland firefighter.”

Too shell-shocked at herself to answer intelligibly, Thea could only echo, “Wildland?”

“My team fights forest fires. I’m not a city firefighter.”

She smiled as if she’d missed his irritation, as if she didn’t know there wasn’t a city anywhere close to here. Thea wasn’t going to kid herself. Logan, with that icy, wounded reserve of his, wasn’t going to help her get back to Seattle. In fact, she didn’t think she or the twins would be welcome in his house at all.

“Oh, I get it,” she said, playing the dumb brunette because he might be the kind of hero who wanted to come to the aid of a helpless woman. “You put out fires in parks, like Yellowstone.”

“Close enough.” The firefighter chewed on the inside of his cheek.