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- Herausgeber: Buchman Bookworks, Inc.
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016
-a Firehawks Hotshot romance story- Heavy equipment driver Sheila Williams got blown up one too many times. The Army kicked her loose for that idiot reason. How the hell she ended up in a tourist town for the holidays makes even less sense. Hotshot Randall Jones fights wildfires for a living. The adrenaline fits him like a fire in the forest. They both feel the heat in A Hotshot Christmas.
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A Hotshot Christmas
M. L. Buchman
Buchman Bookworks, Inc.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
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Excerpt
About the Author
Also by M. L. Buchman
1
Sheila inspected the heavy dark beams and white plaster of the restaurant. A hostess—in a bad Bavarian costume of ruffled sleeves, low-cut above blousy, cotton-cupped breasts—smiled at her as she sashayed across the hardwood floor in incongruous heels.
“Table for one?” Just one notch too perky for her to swallow.
“No, thanks. Just looking in.” Sheila turned abruptly and nearly trampled a couple and their kids coming in the door. Civilians! Too close! She kept the epithet to herself and stepped around them and back out into the crisp darkness.
To her left was the snow sprinkled faux-Bavarian town of Leavenworth, Washington, so perfect it was like a goddamn life-sized snow globe. To her right was a McDonald’s with a wood and plaster Germanic facade. She’d promised herself that she’d do better than McD’s for a Thanksgiving Day dinner, but crowds were kind of a problem for her and the town was packed.
Saddle up, girl.
She didn’t even bother raising her camo jacket’s collar as she turned to tromp through the snow—even the damned falling snow was picturesque—and into the heart of the town. Somewhere there had to be a bar with a burger, a brew, and a minimum of Bavarian.
She’d been driving to…well, nowhere. She’d been driving away from the family Thanksgiving in Seattle. Five hours through packed city roads and over slick mountain ones.
Not a soul understood what it meant that she was out of the Army. No one got that a TBI diagnosis didn’t mean she was nuts. Traumatic Brain Injury meant that she’d been blown up one too many times for the Army to trust her at the wheel of her big transport truck. Didn’t meant she was crazy. Please let it not mean she was crazy.
Which totally explained why she was in a resort town, that looked about as inauthentic as most of the ones in the real Bavaria did, looking for a quiet place to get drunk on Thanksgiving night.
A polka band playing out on the town’s square made her wonder how the tuba player’s lips didn’t freeze to his mouthpiece. Children skidded around despite all the salt and sand laid down on the sidewalks. One ran into her legs hard enough to fall back on its butt.
She stopped, knelt down, and picked up the kid to put it back on its feet. See, acting perfectly normal. Helping out.
It took one look at her, burst out crying, and raced away.
Sheila closed her eyes for a moment…before standing and continuing through town. She crossed the street to get clear of the square.
Bavarian Bistro. Not a chance.
Soup Cellar. O Tannenbaum playing on the juke because Thanksgiving was over in another half dozen hours. She didn’t even make it halfway down the stairs.
She closed her eyes to get past the garish Christmas store and let the tourists bounce off her until she was clear.
King Ludwig’s. The Mad King. Not a freaking chance.
She jostled and was nudged along until she fell out the other end of the town. Four blocks. She’d survived four blocks. Sometimes the victories are small. She hated when the psychs were right, especially when it felt more like defeat.
At the far end of the tourist strip, the town collapsed back into small American town. Dimly lit, cold. She leaned against the concrete wall of a closed warehouse and did what she could to catch her breath.
“Been following you,” a deep male voice.
She really didn’t need this shit right now. She rested her hand on her sidearm, but the Glock 19 wasn’t on her hip where it should be. Where it used to be.
“No need for that,” the voice continued as she started a hand up to her concealed shoulder carry. Her back was turned, he shouldn’t have been able to spot her motion.
Sheila risked a glance.
Big guy. Ten feet back. Standing planted on the sidewalk. No one behind or to the sides. Alone. She recognized the stance.
“You got somewhere to be?” His voice was soft, steady. She could deal with that. “I can help you get there.”
Sheila could only shake her head. No, she had nowhere to be. Might never again.
He waited a while before continuing, like he was studying her and thinking.
“What?”
“Got a place you might like.”
“Shit! Not looking for a goddamn roll in the hay.”
“More like snow, this time of year,” he said it with barely a hint of smile. “Besides, it’s not that kinda place. And my wife would kick my ass.”
“Must be some tough wife to keep you on a short leash.”
He shrugged, “Works for me.”
Sheila stared at him, but he just waited. Military recognized military. She could do worse. She offered him a shrug. Didn’t really matter anyway.
He pointed past her.
She waved for him to lead the way.
Being a smart man, he also saw that he should circle wide out onto the empty street rather than try to come by her on the sidewalk.
2
Randall sat close beside Jess and Jill. They were about the funniest damn couple on the whole team and who better to sit with while Thanksgiving dinner was cooking. The two Js met on a wildfire in the middle of last season and Jess had somehow swept her up before she’d even hit the damned fire line. Or maybe she’d swept him up. Randall had long since learned that being five-four, blond, and cute as hell had nothing to do with Jill’s skills. The woman totally rocked it, offering her sunny smile the whole time.
“Sure you don’t have a twin sister?” He asked for the hundredth time.
“Nope! My moms only had the one kid.”
“Crap!” They shared a smile. He’d met her moms at the wedding, two of Seattle’s finest firefighters.
A cold gust of air crawled up his back.
