Chapter 1

[Brock]

“I’m giving you a leave of absence.”

What? My battalion captain could not be serious but his narrowed eyes glaring at me from the other side of his firehouse office desk suggest he is one hundred percent in earnest.

“Is this a joke?” I still counter.

“You have a bad attitude.”

I do not have a fucking bad attitude.

“You’re angry.”

I don’t have anything to be angry about.

“Since the divorce . . .”

Okay, there is that.

“And your kids headed out.”

Well, there is not that.

“And then Nat.”

What the fuck? Now that’s just hitting below the belt.

“You need a break.”

“What I need is to work,” I bark, possibly giving evidence of that attitude he’s mentioning.

“It’s the holidays.” Battalion Captain Frank Klaus, rhymes with louse, continues.

Aw fuck . No . . .

“And, effective immediately, you’re on furlough until January 6.”

“Why the sixth?” That’s longer than the holidays. Why a furlough at all? It was one simple punch. We were horsing around. Dane and I are like that. Until he had to go shooting off his mouth, and bring up my ex-wife, who is marrying my former best buddy during said holidays.

I wasn’t angry. The divorce was roughly five years ago. I got nothing to be angry about. She made her bed, which happened to be our bed, that we’d slept in together, in our house, that we owned together.

Where I found her with Kenny .

Fucking Kenny of all people.

I swipe a hand over my short hair where new gray flecks appear every other day with all the changes in my life. Melissa leaving. Nick and Eleanor off to college. My younger brother Zebb getting married and having another kid in his forties.

Fuck me. That would be the last thing I’d want. I already have two kids. Two amazing kids. Top of Santa’s list for good kids.

But it’s been strange with them both gone. The house too empty. The nights too quiet.

Working for the Chicago Fire Department—CFD—has been my salvation. Work, and a glass or two of Jameson whiskey every night. Best Irish whiskey there is.

Maybe it was more than two glasses at O’Malley’s the other night. And maybe Dane and I got into that row in public. And maybe I shouldn’t have punched him for running his mouth.

“Because the sixth works with the retreat I’m sending you on.”

“What retreat?” The bite in my tone is as strong as my bark. I’m not going on a fucking retreat, holding hands and singing cum-bye-eye or whatever type of song with a bunch of dudes.

“Mine.”

“Aw, Cap.” He has got to be kidding me. I’ve heard about his retreats. Taking guys into the woods near a place he owns in Michigan. What happens on those retreats stays at those retreats but most men (and women) who Cap takes on them come back changed.

I don’t want to change. I’m happy being my grouchy, grumpy, forty-five-year-old self.

Brock Madison Scroggs does not need reformation .

I’m perfectly fine as I am.

“Two weeks of nothing but fresh air and quiet woods. You need time to reflect. Re-evaluate. Re-group. And change your fucking attitude.” Cap points in my direction with a thick finger suggesting he isn’t taking any more arguments from me.

The physical altercation is my second strike on a record that’s had some shaky moments over the years .

I’m loud, opinionated, and sometimes my mouth gets ahead of my brain. On this particular occasion, my hand reacted first.

“Cap.”

“You report December twenty-sixth, nine a.m. sharp. Account for the time zone difference.”

“Cap.”

Frank sighs heavily, leaning forward in his chair. “Brock. I like you. You know I like you.”

“Cap.” I’m already shaking my head. He’s a touchy-feely kind of guy and I hate that about him.

Okay, I don’t hate it, but strongly dislike it. Feelings make me itchy. Melissa used to say I didn’t have any emotions. Yes, I did. I’d loved her and she’d cheated on me. Now, I hate her. Simple.

“I don’t want to lose you, Brock.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Swallowing hard, my voice softens as much as the rugged tenor allows. I’m sitting right here, taking this crap, because I don’t want to leave the department. It’s all I have.

“You are if you can’t get your hotheadedness under control.”

“I’m not hotheaded.” The rise in my voice followed by the tip of his eyebrow confirms his point.

Okay, maybe I’m a little hot.

Warm.

Just mediocre temperature.

I’d say room temp but sometimes I have trouble reading a room. Like the fact Dane was joking and I’d had too much to drink the other night. The annual Snowball’s Chance fundraiser was held, as it is every year, at O’Malley’s and those of us without wives and girlfriends lingered late.

Pfft . Half these guys weren’t heroes. Didn’t know what it meant to be heroic. To race into a blazing inferno desperate to find your buddy and then watching him fall through a hidden air shaft, breaking him in half and incinerating him.

The vision comes fast and furious, and out of nowhere like it always does. The department shrink said I had PTSD. I didn’t have anything that could be reduced to four letters. I wasn’t sick. Another four letters. And I wasn’t a fucking hero. Four more letters.

Shaking my head, rattling my brains, the memory cools like embers in a strong wind.

“It’s Christmas, Cap.” He doesn’t need the reminder. We’ve had a few calls lately for live trees catching on fire, candles tipped over by cats resulting in blazing curtains, and a couple cookie-baking mishaps. Most are contained situations, but they trigger smoke detectors and set off alarms that result in us rushing to the scene.

“And it’s the perfect time to evaluate your life.” Cap reaches for a pencil and writes on a small pad of paper on his desk. He’s old school and I could tease him about not using his phone to send me a message, but for once I keep my mouth shut.

“Here.” He rips the paper from the pad and holds it out to me between his index and middle finger. “That’s the address. December twenty-six at six a.m. Not a minute later.”

Fa-la-la-la- fuck my life.

+ + +

Unfortunately, I am twelve minutes late on December twenty-sixth.

My tardiness could be attributed to any number of things.

Twinge of a headache from too much whiskey last night.

Trouble finding the freaking piece of paper with an address written on it. Use your phone and text me!

Turning in the wrong direction once off the highway and having to reroute.

Eventually, the sign for Paradise Farms came into view, faded and worn but surrounded by evergreen garland and a string of holiday lights which visibly twinkle on this dark and gloomy, not to mention god-awful early, morning.

Cap’s farm tales are notorious. No one understands why a battalion captain for a fire department in one of the largest cities in the United States would want to own a farm in some small, rinky-dink town in southwest Michigan.

Cap claims the land is his retirement, but he doesn’t appear to be jonesing to retire anytime soon. He’s a pillar of physical health and still ball busting in his sixties when most guys get out of the department around the twenty-five-year mark. Not Cap.

Not gonna be me, either. I’m a lifer.

When I turn up the lane, gravel crunches beneath the tires of my Ford F-150. I immediately notice a ranch-style house and a giant faded-brown barn in the distance. My pickup truck isn’t the most practical vehicle for city living. The beast would look more appropriate on this land, surrounded by trees, and there are lots of them here.

The lane I travel leads straight through rows and rows of fruit trees. Southwest Michigan is famous for apple orchards, and I remember our family visiting an orchard when the kids were little. I wasn’t a farmer, God bless them. I was perfectly happy seeking fruit in the produce aisle of a grocery store. Then again, fruit wasn’t always my first choice. I was a meat and potatoes guy.

The lane ends in front of a one-level house which matches the faded brown color of the barn. A long, low, covered porch runs the length of the front of the home, with a roof supported by thick square pillars in more dark wood. Garland wraps around each post and lights twinkle among the greenery. The large barn is opposite the house across the drive and another building comes into view behind it with a split rail fence beside it. I park, noticing there aren’t any other vehicles present.

After scrambling around my place to find the scrap of paper Cap wrote his address on, I copied the address into my phone for the GPS.

Did I copy it wrong?

I tossed the piece of paper into the cup holder in the console of my truck, and presently lift the rumpled scrap I originally crumpled into a tight ball in my fist to double-check the address.

Nope. I have the digits and the street correct.

Plus, the Paradise Farms sign gives it away .

Hesitating another second, I glance out the side window at the weathered wood of both the house and barns. Against the heavy sky backdrop, the image is like an old black and white photo. One emanating exhaustion and melancholy. The irony isn’t lost on me.

I pop open my door and step out into the crisp, cold December air. Inhaling deeply, it smells like snow with a hint of cow shit. I glance up at the sky again worried that snow might be on its way. The weather people predicted flurries but what do they know. Growing up in Chicago, I’ve always been taught stick around a minute, and the weather changes. Sometimes we can have all four seasons in one day. It’s ridiculous.

Still, I zip up my heavy padded jacket and walk around the back of my truck, my heels crunching on the gravel drive breaks the eerie silence around me. I’m wearing an old pair of construction boots I bought when I first fixed up my house which eventually led to side jobs installing kitchens, hanging trim, or just general construction work.

A Brock of all trades. That’s me.

I’m rounding the truck, turning for the front door of the home when I hear the distinct sound of feet rhythmically charging over pebbled stones. Spinning around to see who is approaching, I stall.

My mouth goes dry. My eyes go wide.

Stalking toward me is a curvaceous woman, wearing white leggings, a thick, white three-quarter zip outerwear, and running shoes. With her in a popular brand of athletic wear and those tight workout pants, she clashes with the rustic, sad barn behind her. A contrast of modern and classic. The thought is just . . . weird.

She looks like she’s been out for a run—breathing fast, chest heaving, face flushed from exertion. My Neanderthal brain instantly imagines a few other scenarios where she might appear the same way.

“Who are you?” Her sharp voice is tight, almost accusatory, like she can hear my thoughts about what I’d like to do to her. She stops running a good seven feet away from me.

“Excuse me?” My tone is just as sharp.

She tugs off the ivory-colored knit mittens covering her hands and pulls the matching cap with a ball on the top off her head, and fuck me, sleek black hair tumbles down her shoulders and curls near her breasts. Her porcelain cheeks are rosy, emphasized by the exertion of running outside. She looks like a shimmery snowflake. Or a devilish delight.

She also looks pissed.

“I asked . . . Who are you?”

Squinting, I check her out again, top to toe, and then decide I wouldn’t chase a woman with an attitude. Been there. Lost that.

“I’m Brock Scroggs. And I’m looking for Frank Klaus.”

The woman stares back at me, and for a second, I wonder what’s taking her so long to introduce herself or even be remotely polite.

“Okay then. I’m supposed to meet him here at Paradise Farms.” I pull the slip of paper from my pocket, prepared to hold it out to her as proof I’m in the right location, although something is clearly wrong here.

She quietly mutters, “Who the hell writes something on paper?”

My head pops up and I feel the corner of my mouth tick upward. My thoughts exactly, snowflake .

“Anyway, I work with Cap and—”

“You missed the bus.”

“What bus?”

“The bus for the retreat. I’m assuming you’re one of Dad’s guys needing restoration.” She rolls her eyes, but I’m stuck on one word.

“Cap is your dad?”

I couldn’t chase this girl even if I wanted to taste her sass on my tongue and hold those hips in my hands.

Cap would use my balls for fire extinguishing practice. My balls being the burning item.

Yeah, fuck me.