Fragile Sanctuary (Sparrow Falls Book 1)

“You sure this drywall has to come out?” Owen asked, his voice raised to carry through his mask.

I jerked my head in a nod. “It’s all gotta go.”

“Fuck, man,” he whined. “It’s gonna take us all day tomorrow. There’s not even fire damage.”

Annoyance ate at me. It was always the same with Owen. He wanted to cut corners or thought he knew more than everyone else. I sure as hell wouldn’t want him working on my house without supervision.

I picked up my crowbar and placed it between the seams of drywall. I freed the panel with two hard cranks and tossed it to the side, revealing the framing. It was covered with soot and who knew what other things from the fire. Leaving this sort of thing behind could mean serious health risks to the residents of the home. Not to mention the fact that we needed to make sure there hadn’t been actual damage to the frame.

Silas let out a low whistle as he crouched low to examine the framing. “I can’t believe the smoke made it all the way to the other side of the house.”

“It’s just smoke,” Owen grumbled.

“Smoke that can mean serious health implications if it’s not cleaned properly,” I snapped.

“Whatever. It’s five. I’m calling it.” He headed for a side door without asking if it was okay.

That was part of the problem with Shep’s company getting so busy. He wasn’t always around, and Owen didn’t follow the rules unless Shep forced him to.

Silas pushed to his feet. “Don’t worry about him. He has a hangover from hell today, that’s all.”

I didn’t care what the reason was. I cared whether Owen did his job. “I want you on treatment tomorrow. Owen can pull drywall.”

Silas’s brows lifted. “He’s gonna be pissed.”

“Don’t care,” I clipped. “He’s proven time and again that I can’t trust him.”

Silas sighed. “Fair enough. You need anything else before I head out?”

I shook my head. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You got it, fire man.” He headed for the door with a half-hearted wave.

I made one last pass through the downstairs. We’d made good progress over the past week or so, but this job was a true marathon and not one we could rush.

After giving everything a last once-over, I slipped out the back door and locked it behind me, pulling off my mask. Now that people in town knew we were rehabbing the place, we ran the risk of more lookie-loos. Locking up was good, but I wondered if I should talk to Shep about installing some cameras.

Laughter caught on the breeze, light and free. The sound was so pure it almost hurt to listen to it. Yet I couldn’t stop myself from searching out the source.

Rhodes sat with her toned legs on either side of a blue pot while her dog danced toward her and then away, something in his mouth. Her head tipped back again, laughter set free as her wild mahogany hair spilled down her back—strands I wanted to sink my fingers into as I took her mouth and swallowed that laughter whole.

I moved toward her without thought, as if she held me in some sort of trance, that laughter her siren’s song.

“Biscuit,” she chided, eyes shining.

The dog just kept dancing, and as I approached, I saw he had a trowel in his mouth.

Rhodes dove for him, but he danced out of her grasp yet again. The exchange only made her laugh again.

That damn sound. I’d never get it out of my head.

As she straightened, she caught sight of me. “Anson.”

I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. Didn’t trust whatever words might come out of my mouth.

She was too fucking gorgeous for her own good, all tumbling waves and tanned skin. Curves peeking out of shorts and a tank top. And those hazel eyes. Witch eyes that entranced with their golden flames.

Her brows pulled together. “Everything okay?”

I forced my gaze away from her face, taking in everything around her—the pots, the flowers. I scowled. “Everything’s so bright.”

Another laugh burst out of Rhodes, but this one was stronger, wilder. It hit me like a freight train, nearly making me stumble back a step.

She grinned up at me, the second blow in a one-two punch. “Says the king of anti-color.”

My scowl just deepened. “King of anti-color?”

That grin morphed into a full smile as she gestured behind me. “Black truck with not even so much as a bumper sticker.”

Of course, there were no stickers on my vehicle. That kind of thing just gave people insight into who you were.

Rhodes drew a circle in the air between us. “Gray T-shirt.” Her hand lowered. “Dark-wash jeans. I guess there is a little blue in there, but barely.” Then she pointed to my shoes. “Even your boots are black. What did color ever do to you?”

“Reminds me of what I lost.” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. I blamed those hazel eyes holding me hostage.

All the amusement fled Rhodes’ face in an instant. I braced for an onslaught of questions, but they didn’t come. Instead, she kept her gaze on me, not looking away from the pain I was sure was carved into my face. “I’m sorry. For whatever you lost.”

So many people were uncomfortable with agony. They couldn’t stand to see others in the throes of grief because it reminded them of what was at stake in their lives. That they, too, could lose everything in a flash.

Rhodes kept those hypnotizing eyes on me as she took a deep breath. “I know it’s hard to have the reminders around. It’s easier to lock them away. But sometimes you need to just take the first step.”

Pain pulsed deep in my chest, the memory of my sister still beating there. Greta’s vibrancy. Her laugh. She would’ve loved Rhodes on sight.

Rhodes patted the ground next to her. “Maybe you start with one pot of flowers.” She shot me a smirk. “I’ll even give you my most boring pot. Least amount of color.”

I scanned the pot between her legs. It was deep indigo blue. Not the brightest of the bunch, but its variegated tones were still more than I was used to. Everything in my life was about necessity and nothing more. No extra comforts or luxuries. Maybe that was part of my self-inflicted punishment.

Even knowing all of that, I couldn’t find it in me to reject Rhodes’ offer, couldn’t quash the hope in her eyes. “You want me to help you pot flowers.”

She smiled full-out again, that punch of light, life, and beauty. “Yes. For your front porch.”

I stiffened. “It’s your pot. Your flowers.”

“Ever heard of a gift, Anson?”

I glared at her. “I don’t need any gifts.”

Rhodes rolled her eyes. “It’s flowers, not a diamond tennis bracelet. I’ve got more of these than I know what to do with.”

I didn’t respond, simply kept staring, caught in the battle between risk and reward.

“Stop being such a grump and sit down. It’ll take five minutes.”

Something about the exasperation in her tone had me obeying. I lowered myself to the patchy grass, but I made a fatal error.

I was too close.

Close enough to smell the mix of sunscreen with the hint of sweet peas. I knew what those flowers looked like because they’d been one of my mother’s favorites. But they weren’t anywhere in the bunch surrounding us. That meant it was Rhodes’ perfume, or worse, her body lotion. Just thinking about her working that into her legs, her arms, her—I shoved the thoughts from my head as I shifted uncomfortably.

A snort sounded beside me, and I jerked my head up.

Rhodes was full-on grinning. “You look like you’re about to be tortured, not plant a few flowers.”

“I do not,” I grumbled.

She grabbed the cell phone lying next to her in the grass, and the shutter sounded. “A picture is worth a thousand words.” She showed me the screen.

I winced. I looked like I’d been sucking on a lemon. Jesus. I needed to get a grip. “It’s been a long day,” I defended.

“Mm-hmm,” Rhodes hummed, not sounding at all convinced. “Maybe these poppies will put you in a better mood. They’re one of my favorites.”

I glanced at the plastic pots next to her, taking in the riot of colors. “They’re pink.”

Rhodes raised her brows in a challenge. “Not man enough for a little pink on your front porch?”

My back teeth ground together. “Let’s just pot them already.”

The dog moseyed over and dropped the trowel next to me as if in agreement.

“Good job, Biscuit,” Rhodes praised, giving him a treat.

“Biscuit?” I asked.

“He’s got a penchant for them.”

“Shouldn’t be giving him human food.”

Rhodes sent the dog a sidelong look. “You hear that, Biscuit? He doesn’t think I should give you any bacon.”

I swore the damn dog understood every single word. His head swiveled around, and he glared at me with accusing eyes.

“Throw me under the bus, why don’t you?”

A soft chuckle escaped Rhodes. She had so many different kinds of laughs, and I was starting to get addicted to finding each new one. Her hazel eyes shone as they connected with mine. “It’s only fair that Biscuit knows who he’s dealing with.”

I shook my head. “Better if you don’t give him a taste of the good stuff. He could get used to it.”

“A little of the good stuff never hurt anyone.”

Not unless you lost it.

As if sensing my shifting mood, Rhodes turned to the flowers. “I already prepped the pot with gravel at the bottom and a good, rich soil. Now, we just have to create space for these babies.”

I picked up the small shovel that Biscuit had dropped. “How many holes do you need?”

“Three,” she instructed.

I got to work moving the soil around to create homes for the poppies.

Rhodes leaned forward, examining my work. I felt her more than I saw her. The shift in the energy in the air, the scent of sweet peas teasing my nose.

“You’re pretty good at that,” she said.

“Done it a time or two.” Whenever my mom had badgered me into it. Maybe I would’ve done it more often if I’d known I’d lose her and my dad along with Greta. My mom wasn’t six feet under, but she might as well be for all she wanted to do with me.

Rhodes didn’t press with questions; she simply placed one of the poppy plants into a hole I’d created. With gentle fingers, she pressed them into the soil, covering their roots with some excess.

“No gardening gloves?” My mom had been religious about wearing them, never wanting the dirt to stain her fingers.

Rhodes shook her head. “I can’t feel what I need to with gloves.”

I frowned as I watched her place the next two bundles of blooms. “What do you need to feel?”

She shrugged, the action sending some of that wild hair into her face. “The give of the soil. Whether there’s resistance or not. If the plant works where I’m placing it.” A small smile played on her lips. “Might sound woo-woo, but I swear the soil talks to me. There’s an energy to it. I never want to miss what it tells me.”

Rhodes lifted her head, brushing the hair out of her face and leaving a smear of dirt behind.

I lifted my hand without conscious thought, my thumb swiping across her cheek. “It is fucking woo-woo. But it’s you.”

Our gazes locked, and those golden flames swirled in her mossy green depths. Rhodes’ breath hitched, making her chest rise as her lips parted.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I jerked my hand back as if I’d been burned. I didn’t think I’d ever gotten to my feet faster, and that included when a suspect unexpectedly started shooting at my team. “I gotta get home.”

I expected to find rejection, even hurt in Rhodes’ eyes, but there was something entirely different. Understanding. She just smiled easily and inclined her head toward the pot. “Don’t forget your poppies. They need full sun. Water them about once a week. You can stick a finger in the soil to see if it’s dry.”

I didn’t waste my time arguing with her. I didn’t trust my restraint. I just bent, grabbed the pot, and took off for my truck without so much as a muttered thank you. God, I was an asshole. But what else was new?

I took a pull of my ginger beer and glared at the pink flowers on my porch steps. Having them there made me realize just how devoid of color the rest of the cabin was. It had come furnished but without linens. Apparently, everything I’d bought had been in shades of gray. Even the damn Adirondack chair I was sitting in.

Forcing my gaze away from the accusatory blooms, I returned to my crossword. It wasn’t cutting it today. I’d gotten too many too easily. Five-letter word for pirate’s woman. Really? Wench wasn’t exactly a stretch.

I shifted in the chair, setting down my bottle. Rho’s face kept playing in my mind—such light, even though she’d walked through so much darkness. What was it that allowed people to keep that light? Whatever it was, it was clear I didn’t have it. But it only made me more curious.

It also made me realize why people called her Rho. Rhodes, as pretty as the name was, was too formal. Too, fancy. Rho felt more salt of the earth. More her.

With an annoyed grunt, I dropped my crossword book and pen to the ground and reached for the laptop on the table next to me. I flipped it open and signed into my virtual private network. The bureau had some of the best hackers in the country on their payroll, and I’d picked up a thing or two from them over my years there. I wished like hell I’d heeded their warnings back then, but I took it seriously now.

You left breadcrumbs in your wake every time you ventured onto the internet. Now, I made sure the path I left could never be traced back to me.

Opening a browser, I typed in fire, historic home, Sparrow Falls, Oregon. A slew of articles populated the screen, and it didn’t take me long to find one that hit.

Stirling Family Killed in Blaze.

My brain kicked into focus, that speed-reading class I’d taken as part of my training coming in handy. People didn’t think about the amount of research in profiling. Reading crime scene reports and case files, not to mention shrink records. It wasn’t always chasing bad guys in dark alleys. In fact, it rarely was. Because the bad guys were often the people you least expected.

A few sentences stood out in my perusal.

Thirteen-year-old daughter in critical condition.

Fire started by faulty wiring.

Victims killed by smoke inhalation.

There were small mercies in the fact that none of them had been burned alive. Everything about it seemed fairly typical. Accidents happened. But something didn’t sit right with me. Why hadn’t a smoke detector woken them in time? At least enough time for the parents to get a call out.

That prickle of warning scratched at the back of my skull. I opened a different browser window and typed in a new search. Fire, Sparrow Falls, Oregon.

Countless results popped up. I narrowed them to the few years before and after the fire that killed Rho’s family. A bunch of the hits were for a wildfire the year after. I added wildfire to the negative search terms.

Bingo.

My gaze narrowed on the refreshed results. I clicked on one that caught my eye.

Series of Downtown Dumpster Fires Remains Unsolved

I quickly scanned the article. Half a dozen fires had cropped up over a series of weeks a few months before Rho’s fire. They were always at night, and they’d had no luck in catching the perpetrator.

Security cameras weren’t as prevalent fourteen years ago, especially in small communities like this one. There was no way shops and restaurants would’ve been able to afford them.

I navigated back to the search page, skimming over the results again. My gaze halted on another article from the local paper. My gut churned as I clicked on it.

Fire at Middle School, Prank Suspected

Reading the article as quickly as possible, I gleaned a few important facts. It had started in the girls’ locker room while various sports teams were practicing. It was quickly contained but looked to have been started by fireworks lit in a trash can set on one of the benches.

The prickle of warning turned into an inferno. Something wasn’t right here. What if the fire crew had missed something in Rhodes’ house all those years ago? What if it hadn’t been an accident? What if someone had set that fire?