The Firefighter's Refrain

CHAPTER FIVE

“IF YOU’RE INTERESTED, make a move!”

Sam tapped the mic to test the amp’s volume. “See, that’s your trouble. You make moves without thinking. I’d rather look a few moves ahead.”

“Your chess analogy isn’t lost on me.” Mark leaned his forearms on the edge of the stage. “But Finn isn’t a game player, dude. I’ve known her a while. Watched her interact with people at the diner. She’s different around you. So I say go for it.”

Yesterday, Sam had complimented her smile, and he still hadn’t figured out if her reaction had been more shock or suspicion.

“Thanks, but no thanks. One trip-up with her is one too many.”

“That’s a sorry excuse if ever I heard one. Broken dishes and stuff spilled on the floor is all part of the restaurant business.”

Maybe, Sam thought, but he’d never been one to repeat a stupid mistake. At least, not if he could help it.

“So you’ll be okay without me tonight?”

Mark nodded. “Yeah, Torry’s gonna open with a comedy set, then we’ll play for a couple of hours and he’ll close the show.”

The comic waved Sam and Mark closer. “Little birdie told me a hotshot Hollywood producer is in town,” Torry whispered. “You’d better believe we’re gonna give it all we’ve got tonight.”

Mark patted his wallet and started walking toward the office. “I’m only interested in making this fatter, so knock yourself out.”

Torry pulled his thick, carrot-red hair into a ponytail. “He’ll sing a new tune when one of us gets signed to costar in the next blockbuster movie.”

Sam chuckled. “Not to rain on your parade, but I thought Hollyweird talent scouts went the way of the dodo bird.”

Torry’s exaggerated gasp sent him backward a step. “Silence! You’ll jinx it!” A mischievous grin lit his dark eyes. “Hollyweird, huh? That’s funny enough to use in my act.” He winked. “I may or may not give you credit.”

He climbed onto the stage and shaded his eyes from the spot. “I hate those things. Why do we need searchlight wattage?”

“So the audience can key into your facial expressions. Besides, the audience can’t distract us if we can’t see them.”

The comedian lifted one shoulder. “See, there’s the difference between what you do and what I do. I don’t need them to see the nuance of my facial expressions. What I need is to see their faces, so I can gauge their reactions to my jokes.”

“How long have you known Finn Leary?”

“Whoa. I had no idea you were an award winner.”

Sam didn’t get it and said so.

“Where should we hang your Change the Subject Fast award?”

“How about right beside your Avoid the Subject plaque?”

Torry narrowed one eye. “This club ain’t big enough for two comics. I have a contract, you know.” He squinted at Sam. “Now, what were we talking about?”

Sam opened his mouth to repeat her name, but Torry beat him to it.

“I’ve been chowing down at The Right Note for as long as I can remember. All the way back to the days when Pete still owned the place. So I’ve known Finn for years. Literally.” Arms folded over his broad chest, he frowned. “Why?”

“No reason, really. Just curious.”

“About what?”

“About what happened to her parents, for one thing.”

“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

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—

“Coming home for Thanksgiving and Christmas?” she asked.

“Don’t think I can manage both.”

“I had a feeling you’d say that. But I wouldn’t be your mother if I didn’t try. Besides, you know if I have a choice, I’ll take Christmas every time. The whole family will be here!”

With the exception of Sam, the entire Marshall clan showed up for every holiday. A few of the family’s celebrations were so grand, they’d earned the attention of local media. The slower pace of Thanksgiving had always been more to his liking, but since moving to Nashville, he’d spent the week between Christmas Eve and New Year’s at the Double M. It gave him plenty of time to catch up with extended family.

“Already booked my flight.” And God willing, he wouldn’t face weather or mechanical delays as he had in years past. “So what’s new?”

“Same soup, different day,” his dad said.

“Listen to him,” his mom put in. “We had another cougar running around here for weeks, giving us all nightmares.”

“Yeah, but we took care of him, same as always.”

He’d talked to Zach and heard all about it. “Too bad she took so many horses and cows before you got her.” But unfortunately, that’s life on the Front Range.

“How’s Aggie?” his mother asked.

During their few visits to Nashville, his parents had met his cantankerous landlady. “‘Same soup, different day,’” he quoted. Then he chuckled. “Still bragging that she’s a descendant of Andrew Jackson. If you want my honest opinion, the reason she never married is because she’d have to give up that famous last name.”

“Hard to imagine any right-minded man popping the question. That woman would try the patience of a saint.”

“Oh, now, Clay, that isn’t very nice!”

“The truth hurts sometimes.” He quickly changed the subject. “How’s your leg, son?”

“Fine.” It wasn’t, but they didn’t need to know that. Funny, the way his dad asked about it more often than his mom. Sam wondered how much of that was due to a fear of the answers...

“Have you talked with your cousin Nate lately?”

Sam heard a smile in his mother’s voice, and unless he was mistaken, it meant she was about to disclose a big secret. More accurately, what she considered a secret. During their last phone call, Nate had told him that he’d asked Eden to marry him...and she’d said yes. But why spoil his mother’s fun?

“We talked a while back. Why?”

“He and Eden are officially engaged, and they’re planning a June wedding. Though why they want to be like every other couple out there is anybody’s guess. At least they won’t have to worry about a venue. A very good thing, since they still haven’t chosen a date.” She lowered her voice to a near whisper. “I’m not supposed to know, so if he confides in you, mum’s the word.”

Sam heard his father’s good-natured groan. “The boy knows better than that, Vicky.”

He considered telling them that he’d bought into Mark’s club, then thought better of it. The announcement would be less confusing when delivered in person.

The sound of chair legs squawking across the hardwood told him his dad was on his feet. The man was a lot of things, but subtle wasn’t one of them. Laughing to himself, Sam said, “I’d better get to work and let you guys do the same.”

“Call soon,” his mom said. “And remember, you haven’t heard a thing about the wedding!”

He promised to keep Nate’s news to himself, even though in his opinion, secrets—even small ones—took folks into dangerous territory.

Long after hanging up, Sam remained on the balcony, watching the September breeze rustle going-gold leaves as sunlight flickered on the water’s surface. The shrill call of a bald eagle drew his attention skyward. No doubt it was one of those released along the river a few years earlier. The bird circled as it descended. It had probably hoped for a fat white bass but bagged a crappie.

“Better than nothin’, I guess,” he muttered, getting to his feet. He’d barely had time to lock the slider when the phone rang.

“Hey, young’un!”

He’d recognize Nate’s teasing voice anywhere. “Your ears were ringing, huh?”

“Uh-oh. Who’s been talking behind my back?”

“Just spoke to my folks.”

“Ah. Does Aunt Vicky still think she’s the only one who knows about the wedding?”

“Evidently, ’cause she made me promise to play dumb if I talked to you.”

“I’m not touching that line!” Nate laughed. “Mothers. I think they’re all cut from the same cloth.”

For a reason he couldn’t explain, Finn’s mother came to mind. Not all of ’em, he thought.

“So what’s up, cousin?”

“I was scrolling through my contacts,” Nate said. “When your name went by I said, ‘Give that boy a call.’”

Nate was ten months older than Sam, but to hear him talk, years separated them.

“You guys took down another cougar, huh?”

“Yeah. That’s something those foster kids living in Eden’s grandparents’ house will remember for a long, long time.”

He’d met Eden’s boys twice. Once during a summer visit to the ranch, and again after the fire that nearly killed Nate.

“Will Eden keep her job after you two swap I do’s?”

“Yes and no.”

Sam knew if he waited, Nate would explain.

“We cut a deal. Her greedy landlord sold Latimer House, so she moved them into her grandparents’ place. It beats being homeless, but the house lacks the space they need for classrooms and whatnot. Sooner or later, they’d outgrow it, and those boys need stability. So I made her an offer she couldn’t refuse. Soon as we’re married, the whole kit and caboodle of ’em will move into my house.” Nate chuckled. “They’re over here most of the time anyway.”

“Mighty generous of you, cousin.”

“Nah. It’s the right thing to do. They’re good kids, for the most part.”

For the most part? Something in Nate’s voice told Sam it was best to let that one slide. At least for now.

“How do their parents feel about you and Eden assuming the mom-and-dad roles in their kids’ lives?”

“Most are out of the picture, either in prison or dead. Eden and I are working with the state to become legal guardians.”

“For all of them?”

“All but the one.”

No doubt he was referring to Thomas, the kid who’d set fire to Nate’s barn, nearly killing himself, Nate and four of his horses. If Sam closed his eyes, he could still see how pale and weak his big, burly cousin looked after his release from the hospital. The only time he’d seen him in worse shape had been after the accident that had ended his major league career. Sam would have worried a whole lot more about Nate...if not for Eden.

Sam didn’t ask what had become of the boy. That, like news of the partnership, could wait until he got back to the Double M, and they could talk in person.

“Real reason I called,” Nate said, “was to ask if you’ll be my best man.”

“Of course I will! Does that mean you guys have set a date?”

“No, not yet. But you’ll be one of the first to know when we do.” Nate paused. “Speaking of dates and stuff, are you seeing anybody?”

“Nah.” Finn’s image flashed in his brain, and he slapped a hand to the back of his neck. “No time for stuff like that.”

Nate laughed, but his tone changed when he added, “What was it you told me when I said that?”

“When the right one comes along, you’ll make time.”

“It was good advice then, it’s good advice now.” There was a moment of silence on the line. “What do you want in a woman anyway? Perfection? If that’s the only reason you’re still single, well, you’re old enough to know there’s no such thing.”

“Present company excluded, of course.”

“Well, that goes without saying.”

“To be honest, I never gave much thought to what kind of woman I’m looking for. A hard worker, I guess. Independent. Good sense of humor. Five foot two or three, big brown eyes, dark curly hair...” The words stuck in his throat. He’d just described Finn.

“Whoa, dude. That’s pretty specific for a guy who hasn’t given it any thought. You sure you aren’t seeing somebody? I wouldn’t tell a soul. Not even Zach. Trust me.”

“I trust you, and if there was something to tell...”

He diverted the conversation back to the wedding, and while Nate elaborated on the plans, Sam came to an undeniable conclusion. It was time to figure out why he’d allowed a near stranger—no matter how gorgeous and appealing she was—to dominate so many of his thoughts, and take up such a big portion of his heart.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“MAN. IT IS pouring out there.” Mark shook rainwater from the brim of his Stetson as the door swung shut behind him.

Torry slid a tall black stool to the center of the stage and leaned into the mic. “Weather dude says we’re in for a long, bad night.”

His foreboding tone reverberated through the nearly empty club, inspiring a chuckle from Dirk, the Marks Brothers’ drummer.

“Long as the river doesn’t rise again, I can handle it.” Mark hung the damp ten-galloner on a gooseneck mic stand, and bent at the waist to adjust knobs and dials.

Sam remembered when more than thirteen inches of rain fell during a two-day period, breaking decades-old weather records and sending the Cumberland over its banks and into the streets. The whole town had become a murky water world, and the flood had damaged homes, businesses and historic buildings...including the Grand Ole Opry.

“The leg’s bothering you, eh?”

Until Torry mentioned it, Sam hadn’t realized he was massaging the thigh. “Nah. It’s fine.” In truth, it almost always ached to one degree or another. Complaining didn’t make it hurt less, so he’d taught himself to stay busy enough to ignore it.