Her Hero To Love

Author

Dedication

To the brave men and women who put their lives on the line to battle the wildfires sweeping across the dry landscape of the American west.

And to the everyday heroes who inspire us to keep going when life seems particularly uninspiring. Heroes like the late Christopher Reeve, who left behind these profound words:

A hero is an ordinary individual who finds the strength to persevere and endure in spite of overwhelming obstacles.

Dear Reader,

Guess what? My Big Sky Mavericks series just got a whole lot bigger.

I didn’t see that coming, but when Flynn Bensen, Ryker’s brother (MONTANA DARLING) showed up with a couple of his wildfire hot shot buddies, I knew I had heroes with stories worth telling. So, I invited them to Marietta, Montana, and, they came. Woot!

I hope you’ll come to love Flynn as much as I do. He fits the late Christopher Reeve’s definition of a hero to a tee: A hero is an ordinary individual who finds the strength to persevere and endure in spite of overwhelming obstacles. Sometimes, your best isn’t good enough. Do you give up? Not if you’re Flynn Bensen. That credo applies to his heart, too. A bitter divorce might have soured most men on the idea of love and a family, but when Flynn meets single mom Katherine Robinson, he starts to let hope back into his life.

Kat has a secret—one she has no intention of sharing because she’s fully aware of the pain, embarrassment and lasting repercussions the revelation could cause Marietta’s prominent Zabrinski family. When her ten-year-old son, Brady, who has been diagnosed with Asperger’s—an Autism Spectrum Disorder—springs her secret in a very public and humiliating way, and then runs away into the mountains—alone, with a late spring storm approaching, Kat has no choice but to trust Flynn, the man she’s trying her best not to fall in love with.

I hope you’ll enjoy Flynn and Kat’s story as well as the glimpses you’ll see of Flynn’s pals, Tucker Montgomery and Justin Oberman. Look for Montana Rogue and Montana Rebel later this year, along with my holiday story, Montana Miracle. As always, you can stay abreast of what’s happening with my books, my works-in-progress and my crazy writer’s life by signing up for my newsletter at my website: www.debrasalonen.com. I also tend to frequent Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest and Instagram a bit more than I should. I’d love to connect.

Happy reading, my friends.

Prologue

Mid-January, the San Bernardino Mountains

Flynn Bensen recognized the dream the minute it started in his sleeping mind.

His old frenemy was back. The homestead looked exactly as he remembered it. An authentic log cabin in the High Sierra, aged to a rummy golden brown from dozens of summers. Its metal roof was rusted so poetically you’d have thought God used a fine-tipped paintbrush to add just the right touch of umber. The word bucolic came to mind. A word Flynn never used until that day last September.

He tried to resist the pull. He knew how this story ended. Why subject myself to it again?

I won’t fall into the trap. I’ll turn left instead of right. I’ll ignore the whinny.

But the eerie sound filled his ears, sending a shiver through his body. The horse’s abject fear seized hold and wouldn’t let go.

Suddenly, he was deep in the fire zone. Heat from the hundred-plus temperature made every breath pure agony. His pack felt as if he’d loaded it with lead weights. His legs seemed disconnected from his body as he pushed onward toward the horse pen. Two frightened animals, the whites of their eyes visible at every turn, paced, reared, and tossed their heads. Every whiff of smoke drove them closer to the brink of frenzy.

This time will be different, he told himself. This time I’ll do it right.

This time I’ll save her.

The position of the old woman’s body never changed. Her head rested inches from the watering trough, face turned away, as if she couldn’t bear to watch what was happening to her beloved animals. She seemed smaller in hindsight, fragile and delicate. Spikes of silver hair stuck out like a bad wig. But she was breathing...always breathing. Just enough to give him hope.

Stay with me, now. We can do this, he said, picking her up in his arms like a small child. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? Nobody deserved to be tossed over a shoulder like a bag of rocks as he had done that day. If he’d cradled her to his chest like a child, maybe she would have felt loved, respected, cared for. Maybe she’d have stayed connected to him, to life.

You’re gonna be okay. Just breathe. You can do that. Breathe. Breathe.

Someone shook him. Hard. The woman fell from his arms. He watched her drop into the flames of the fire that had been chasing them. He’d lost her. Again.

He cursed and swung wildly, hoping to hurt whomever it was that made him drop her.

Flynn. Wake up, Buddy. You’re dreaming.

Again, another voice muttered. What’s it going to take to make these nightmares stop? Drugs? I’ll find them. Just tell me what kind.

Flynn blinked, coming back to the real world.

I think he needs to see a shrink. This could be a classic case of PTSD.

Awareness washed over him like a splash of rainwater from a bucket. He sat up, shaking his head like a wet dog, and looked around. He was on his cot in the tent cabin he shared with Tucker and Justin. His best friends. Brothers-in-arms.

Tucker The Full Mountie Montgomery stood, arms akimbo, in baggie sweats and an army-green T-shirt. His scowl barely put a dent in his heartthrob-handsome face. Even half-awake and pissed off he probably would have had his choice of groupies if any knew he was a wilderness firefighter in his day job.

Justin squatted a foot or so away. His standard issue undershirt and thigh-length gray shorts emphasized his compact muscles—finely honed from his other passion: free climbing.

Flynn swiped at a bead of sweat that rolled into his eyes, stinging. Another nightmare? he asked.

Same one, different night, Tucker muttered. Next time I’m making a YouTube video, I swear.

He threatened that every time. But Flynn couldn’t blame him for being upset.

When he wasn’t fighting fires, Tucker belonged to an elite, extremely well paid troupe of dancers/entertainers that performed for women around the world. He told everybody he couldn’t afford to lose valuable beauty sleep. The Full Mountie’s fans deserved his best.

Sorry, man, Flynn mumbled. His throat ached, as usual. After every nightmare, he’d awaken to a body that somehow actually believed he’d just survived a close brush with death on the fire line.

Justin handed him the metal water bottle sitting on the floor beside the cot.

Justin Oberman—or Goat, as the other members of the crew called him—was the deep one. Ascetic, vegetarian, poet, and death-defying free climber who could scramble up the sides of mountains like his surefooted namesake. Flynn, this isn’t your fault, man. It sucks that your brain can’t let it go, but it’s been six months. Something needs to give, dude.

"We all know—your conscious mind knows—you did everything in your power to save that lady, Tucker added. You’re the hero among us. Ask anyone."

Flynn smiled at that. False modesty wasn’t Tucker’s style. I must be in worse shape than I thought.

Flynn, it was her time, Justin said, repeating an argument Flynn had heard from others. Even the coroner confirmed the victim’s chances had been small to none. The subdural hematoma caused by the impact from hitting the water trough would have been tough for even a healthy young person to survive.

Tucker threw up his hands impatiently. She probably wouldn’t have lived even if you could have predicted the fire would veer away from her place at the last minute. But for all our sakes, we have to find a way to get the message to your subconscious.

Flynn shifted sideways, his feet landing on the dirty canvas floor with a muffled thud. His friends were right. Flynn thought getting back on an active fire line would purge his guilt. The physicality and exhaustion that came from walking four miles from a drop zone to the leading edge of a fast-burning forest fire, then beating Mother Nature into submission, sounded like the answer. Surely after a ten-hour day he’d be too exhausted to dream.

But, so far, that hadn’t been the case. He only felt drained—physically and emotionally. The answer to this problem seemed glaringly obvious in the pre-dawn gloom. I need a different job.

Tucker’s epithet echoed in the stillness, and may have been heard three tents over.

Justin’s sigh seemed to start at the center of his soul and vibrate outward.

Flynn had been wrestling with the idea ever since his brother emailed him a link to a job opening for Head of Operations, Crawford County Search and Rescue, Marietta, Montana. He looked at his friends, soberly. I’m moving to Montana, guys. I just filled out the application online and won’t know for a while, but there’s a good chance I’ll be manning a desk in the very near future. You two will have to keep the Wildfire Hot Shots going without me.

Tucker and Justin exchanged a look.

They have mountains in Montana, right?

And fires in the summer, too, I’ve heard.

Flynn got their meaning. They’d saved one another’s lives too many times not to be able to read what went unsaid. But Tennessee is home base for both of you.

Justin shrugged his broad, powerful shoulders. It’s only a place if your friends aren’t there.

Tucker nodded. Truth.

Flynn looked from one to the other. Ryker sent you the job link, didn’t he?

He thought you might need a kick in the pants, Tucker said, plopping down on the cot, crowding Flynn’s space as he always did. I’ve been looking at property online for awhile and I think I’ve found the perfect spot for Mountie’s Marvelous Montana Zip Line and Enduro Course. He flashed the grin that drove women in his audiences wild.

Justin rolled his eyes. That’s the dumbest name I’ve ever heard.

I like it. So do my investors. They’re lining up as we speak.

Older women with more cash than sense, Flynn thought. But who was he to criticize? Tucker lived boldly, followed his dreams, and always came out smelling like a rose.

Our independently wealthy friend can dabble in a new commercial enterprise, but I put in for a transfer ten minutes after reading the email. It got approved yesterday. This summer, I’ll be in Yellowstone, which on my map appears to be in your neck of the woods. If that Search and Rescue gig doesn’t work out, I’ll put in a good word for you. Maybe you can get your old job back with the Park Service. His serious smile told Flynn he meant every word. But, for the record, I think this change of venue will be good for you. Hopefully, no more wildfires means no more nightmares.

Flynn agreed. He stood and the two exchanged a quick, manly hug that Tucker immediately crashed. Oh, you guys, Tucker said, wrapping them both in his long and very strong arms. It’s a moment, isn’t it? A fresh new beginning for the MHS.

Flynn gave him a look. The what?

The Montana Hot Shots. We were the Wildfire Hot Shots. I just changed it. We have a Facebook page. Didn’t I tell you?

Justin stiff-armed his way free and headed for the tent flap. Screw social media. I wouldn’t even carry a stinking cell phone if not for you two.

Flynn let out a long sigh. He’d been worried about breaking the news to his buddies. Maybe that tension is what triggered tonight’s episode. His nightmares had been coming less frequently—or so he told himself—since his visit to Marietta last November. Seeing his brother so happy, in love and looking toward the future, made the stark emptiness of Flynn’s life all the more disappointing by comparison. He put in his forty hours and did a little volunteer work with a couple of after school programs in the area, but his social life was nil when Justin and Tucker weren’t around.

Would a change of venue rid Flynn of his nightmares? He didn’t know, but Ryker had made a fresh start in Marietta and found the woman of his dreams—the living, breathing, sexier-than-heck kind of woman. Maybe, Flynn would get lucky, too.

But, honestly? He’d settle for a good night’s sleep.

Chapter One

Mid-March, Marietta, Montana

"Fake it till you make it, Flynn Bensen muttered under his breath as he marched the short distance from his designated parking spot to the front door of the Crawford County Search and Rescue Headquarters. Here goes nothing."

Or everything.

The nondescript prefab building sat a stone’s throw from the Sheriff’s Department, which possessed more gravitas given its brick facade. In the four weeks since arriving in Marietta, Montana, Flynn had spent the bulk of his time in training, meetings, and an inconveniently timed regional workshop in Missoula preparing to take over the job of Commander of Crawford County SAR, a division of the Sheriff’s Department. With three permanent employees, six on-call EMTs, and a volunteer staff of over a hundred during the high season, Flynn would have his hands full.

As he did now. Literally.

He’d bought the biggest box of doughnuts the local bakery had. Bear claws and apple fritters to maple bars and jelly-filled doughnuts. Sugar on steroids. The smell made his saliva glands kick into overdrive.

He dashed up the three-step rise and, balancing the box on the palm of his left hand, grabbed the lever-type handle to twist and pull.

It twisted but didn’t give as he expected. The cold of the metal burned his palm and he let go, cursing under his breath. Gloves. He’d left them in the truck. The cold never felt quite this bitter in Tennessee.

You’re not in Tennessee any more, buddy boy, he pictured his brother, Ryker, saying. But, spring is coming. I promise.

He glanced around at the piles of gritty-looking snow outlining the parking lot. He’d seen a few hardy—or foolish—sprouts of green on the sunny side of a few homes, but in the month since his move from the Great Smoky Mountains, which had been his home for nearly ten years, he’d felt winter’s arctic blast more than once.

The weather was the least of Flynn’s worries at the moment. It would play a huge role in his job, he’d been told. But, his chief goal today was to meet and greet his staff. Something he couldn’t do if he couldn’t get inside.

He noticed a warm yellow light spilling from the two curtained windows bracketing the door. Someone was inside.

He used the corner of the bakery box to push back the cuff of his heavy jacket to check his watch. Seven. The exact time he’d asked everyone to meet him here.

Managing personnel. That was what kept him awake at night lately. He’d been an employee of the National Park Service for most of his adult life. He’d moved up the grades by way of good reviews, not from a burning ambition to call the shots. He’d learned at a young age from his very successful father that work defined a man. Good or bad. His father’s credo had been, If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing to the best of your ability.

That early teaching might explain why Flynn’s younger brother, Ryker, was a world-class photographer, but it didn’t address the reason for Flynn’s reluctance to move into a managerial position...until now. At thirty-two...soon to be thirty-three.

He reached for his keys, which he’d clipped to a belt loop—a practice he’d gotten into after leaving them in his truck once too often. Unhooking the clip one-handed stretched his balancing abilities but he finally had the cluster of keys in hand. He located the one he thought fit the front door of the building.

He’d just inserted the key in the lock when the door suddenly burst outward, making Flynn step back. The heel of his boot hit the metal threshold between the ramp and the porch. The big box wobbled as he reached out to keep from cartwheeling backward.

Oh, shit, a woman’s voice said.

No shit, he silently seconded. He didn’t recognize the voice or the woman in the doorway but his first impression hit hard and fast. Pretty. Amused.

Save the doughnuts, he barked, juggling the box in her direction.

Oh, hell, no.

She reached out and grabbed his right forearm and held on with a strength that surprised him, since she was half his size. The box tipped and fell, but given the short distance between them, it only dropped as far as Flynn’s waist before his rescuer pulled him to safety.

The box lodged vertically between them. His left arm automatically wrapped behind her back. His right clasped between her hands. The top of her head, which reached just about to Flynn’s chin, was pointed down.

Wow. Good catch. You brought doughnuts?

She let go of his arm to take hold of the box before looking up.

Green eyes.

Oh, I am so screwed.

Laughing green eyes. Intelligent, too. Full of piss and vinegar as his mother might say. The kind of eyes that had proven to be Flynn’s downfall more than once in the past—especially the recent past.

Yes. From the bakery.

Cool. She stepped back and spun around, box in hand. Guys, he brought doughnuts. Ken never did that.

Flynn figured out her name by process of elimination. She wasn’t old enough to be Janet, the main dispatcher, and the third woman designated for that task couldn’t make the meeting because her child was sick. She’d called at five to tell him.

That left Katherine Robinson. She goes by Kat, the County Personnel Director told him. Single mom. Moved here from Texas. Started as a relief dispatcher. Got a permanent spot when Margie Crain retired at the first of the year. She’s good. Only thing keeping her from applying for your job was her son. She didn’t want to take time away from him.

Flynn hadn’t asked for details. He believed in letting people tell their own stories. And he had a feeling Katherine Robinson’s story would be one he’d enjoy hearing.

He stomped the slush from his boots, re-clipped the keys to his belt loop, and then stepped inside.

Good morning, he said, unzipping his jacket. He’d dressed to impress—khaki cargo pants and long-sleeve red T-shirt with the SAR logo on the chest pocket. The color combo of SAR’s official uniform, he’d been told.

He glanced around. Not a single other red shirt among them.

Thank you all for coming in early. I’d hoped to connect with each of you before this, but the Sheriff had other plans for me. He kept his tone light with just a hint of irony. He knew how the system worked, as did these seasoned veterans, he was certain. But you’ll be happy to know we are now the proud owners of the complete 2015 Emergency Response Handbook and FEMA’s Emergency Response to Terrorism, volumes I and II, if you need a little light reading.

Welcome to our world, a tall, skinny guy with a shaved head and trim goatee said. Dressed in a standard issue navy blue paramedic jumpsuit, the fellow took a giant bite of a powdered sugar doughnut he’d plucked from the box Kat Robinson passed around. Residual white granules snowed across his broad chest.

After shoving the final bit into his wide mouth, he advanced toward Flynn, dusting sugar from his hands. Brad Johnson. EMT.

The other five paramedics, one in uniform and four in street clothes, followed suit. Four men, two women.

Flynn had read the performance reviews of every member of his team. It had become clear within a few pages that his predecessor had obvious favorites. Katherine Robinson was not one of them. Flynn wondered why.

After shucking his coat and hanging it up on a designated hook, Flynn shook hands with each of them. He tried to fit a face to the names he’d studied last night. Brad, Jeff, Kermit, Mike, Brenda, and Kerry. The ambulance service was contracted with the County Sheriff’s Department and didn’t fall under Flynn’s control, per se, but since the two teams worked closely together and space in the jail was at a premium, the EMT crew used a section of the SAR building for their base of operations, too.

I look forward to getting to know each of you. If you have any ideas for making SAR run more smoothly, I’d love to hear them.

Just let us do our jobs, Kat Robinson piped up from a spot behind the dispatch desk.

That’s the whole point, isn’t it? Flynn asked.

He felt the tension in the room as he walked to the coffee station that had been set up