Deck the Fire Halls

Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

ROBINSON O’REILLY

I woke with a start and stared at the strange ceiling, wondering what had woken me when I heard it again.

A motorcycle.

A big, loud motorcycle kickstarted to life right outside my bedroom wall, by the sounds of it.

New town, new house, new start.

Which also meant new sounds to get used to.

A Harley Davidson before seven on a Saturday morning was not a great way to start my day, nor was it something I wanted to get used to.

My real estate agent said the house was old but well-loved, that the street was quiet and the neighbors were great.

She was right about the house, but she never mentioned anything about said neighbor owning a Harley freaking Davidson.

I’d arrived in Hartbridge, Montana, late last night, grateful for central heating and that I didn’t have to get a fire started, and also grateful that I’d had barely enough energy to make my bed before I fell onto it and was finally getting some decent sleep. My first decent sleep in far too long...

Until a thundering motorcycle almost rattled me out of my bed at far-too-early o’clock, before it roared off down the street.

Not a great start to my very first day in town.

I threw back the covers and grumbled as I got out of bed, sighing as I shuffled down the hall into my living room. I frowned at the boxes stacked around me, a reminder of the day ahead of me, and headed to the kitchen.

Where I immediately regretted not setting up my coffee machine last night.

After ripping into the boxes on the table marked kitchen , I found my machine and the coffee beans, and a short time later, was gratefully sipping on a double shot of espresso out of a drinking glass.

Once I’d had some caffeine, I could admit that the house was quaint. A two-bedroom, single story bungalow, a small porch at the front, and an enclosed porch at the back. The walls were a tad too yellow for me, and I entertained the idea of having the whole house given a fresh coat of paint. Maybe in the summer... maybe by then I’d know if I had any intention of staying.

I’d looked at renting, but with the holidays approaching, options were limited, so I asked to see homes for sale instead. I hadn’t had any intention of buying again, not until I found the place which I wanted to make my permanent home. But given the price of real estate in Hartbridge, compared to Seattle where I’d just sold my very nice condo, it was just easier to freaking buy something instead of renting.

So maybe I’d have the walls painted, or maybe I wouldn’t.

I wandered out into the living room with my coffee and almost caught myself smiling at the sunlight streaming in through the white lace curtains.

Almost.

I think I’d forgotten how to smile.

Not a fake smile for the sake of pleasantry. I mean an honest smile from happiness.

I think I’d forgotten what happiness was.

I felt beaten down by life, by my job, by the career I’d fought for my whole life. Like the people I’d called friends, my medical colleagues, were excelling and thriving, while I was going under.

I’d almost walked away.

I’d been so close to throwing everything away. Just getting in my car and driving to Canada or Alaska or flying anywhere—the next plane to literally anywhere—just for a chance to breathe, when Alaya Ross took one look at me and pulled me into her office because she was concerned for my well-being.

To cut a really long story short, I ended up taking on a general practice position three days a week at the Hartbridge Medical Center.

If I couldn’t handle that?

Then I’d know I was well and truly done.

I was only thirty-six years old. I was young in this job. Maybe I’d gone too hard too fast. I’d worked insanely long hours; double shifts were standard. I’d been promoted before my peers, my dedication was commendable, blah blah blah.

My dedication had almost killed me.

Which is why I found myself in a very small town in the middle of the mountains in a small but cute house surrounded by boxes that needed to be unpacked.

That was my weekend plans, anyway.

Before going to the clinic for my first shift on Monday morning. I was trying to be optimistic. Maybe this was the fresh start I needed. Maybe it was the change of pace my mental health deserved.

Maybe it would decide my fate once and for all.

I told myself to give it a year, even two. Give it a fair trial run. Even if I was half-convinced I was already leaving.

Doomed before I begin , I thought as I drained my coffee, then put myself to work.

By late afternoon, I was almost done. I had a pile of flattened boxes I had no clue what to do with, my kitchen and clothes were sorted and put away, books unpacked on the bookcases in the spare room, and I had the TV set up.

I tried not to let it bother me that my entire life took just a few hours to unpack.

There wasn’t much of me. My entire life had been my job. I had a few photos of my parents and my sister. A candid photo of me at college, young and carefree, laughing with abandon, so oblivious to the path I was taking.

I wasn’t sure why I kept it. It felt a little self-serving, vain perhaps. But it was a good photo. I didn’t have many, and it was a good reminder to myself that I did use to smile.

God, that younger version of me had loved life. Full of adventure and a heart big and brave enough to take on the world.

Enough.

Stop it, Rob.

Get out and clear your mind.

Before I could let my thoughts spiral and have a full-blown what-have-I-done panic attack, I grabbed my coat and my keys, locked up my house, and walked outside.

Fresh air—albeit a little too fresh—warm sunshine, and a quick trip to the local store for some essentials was a great idea. The Home Mart itself was not much bigger than a 7-Eleven, but I managed to find some almond milk and some of that grain bread I hadn’t had in years. There was a small but decent supply of locally grown fruit and vegetables, which I had to admit... if it was in my closest farmer’s market back in Seattle, it’d have been five times the price.

The woman behind the counter gave me a bright smile. “Good afternoon,” she declared. “Find everything you were after today?”

At first I thought she was a little too over the top, but the way she paused for my answer to greet an older lady as she walked in with—“Oh, Mabel, I was going to call you. We got the yarn in you were looking for. It’s in aisle two, right alongside the others.”—I quickly realized she was maybe just that cheerful.

She turned her smile back to me and I’d almost forgotten she’d asked me a question. “Oh, yes, I did, thank you.”

“Just passing through?” she asked as she rang me up. “Or...”

“No, not passing through.” I wasn’t sure if anyone just passing through town would buy bread, milk, and a supply of fresh produce, but maybe I was out of practice with the art of small talk. “Just moved here, actually, from Seattle. Got a place on Elmwood Lane.”

Her eyes lit up. “Oh, how wonderful! What’s your name, love?”

Love?

I stopped short on the salutation of doctor. “Rob.”

“Well, Rob, I’m Rosie. Nice to meet you. I hope you’re happy here. It’s a great little town. Carl’s Diner on Main Street has some of the best coffee and cake you could ever want. And a whole range of meals, better than anything you could find in the city. Pizzeria, if you’d prefer. There’s a menswear store, Tania at the hairdressers, oh, and a hardware store if you need anything at all for your house. Go in and see Ren, he’ll fix you right up.”

Carl, Tania, Ren.

Right, then.

“Excellent, thank you,” I said, paying my bill. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

I thanked her and managed a smile as I left. It was only a short walk back to my house, but I spent every step wondering if I’d stepped into the Twilight Zone, or if small towns were really like this. Where everyone was on a first name basis.

I was going to have to get used to it.

As I walked up the two steps to my porch, I heard a rumble coming down the road, and by the time I juggled my groceries and got my key in the door, the very loud Harley slowed right down and pulled in next door. Male rider from the size of him—huge bulging biceps, broad shoulders—though he wore a helmet, so I couldn’t see his face. But my god, the sound was so damn loud.

I pushed inside and closed the door. The noise cut off a few moments later, the resulting silence overly loud in its absence.

Or maybe it just seemed so loud because the rest of the town was so quiet?

With an annoyed sigh, I put away my groceries and pretended I hadn’t just bought a house right next door to a motorcycle gang member...

Which was probably a gross exaggeration and an awful stereotype, but as a doctor who’d spent way too many hours in the ER tending to riders of motorcycles and the occasional gang member, it was easy to presume such things.

I was disillusioned with the world. I was allowed to be mad about it.

I tried not to dwell on it though. Made myself my first home-cooked meal in far too long and put myself to bed with a book I’d been meaning to read for years.

I didn’t give my Harley-riding neighbor another thought. He had been quiet all night, thankfully no loud music or parties for a Saturday night, and I’d managed another decent night’s sleep.. .

To be woken again by the loudest, sleep-shattering rumble of that damn motorcycle.

I shoved my pillow over my head to drown out the noise, unsure if I wanted to weep in frustration or yell in anger. The rational part of my brain knew that going outside in my pajamas to yell at the guy probably wasn’t the best way to establish new neighborly relations, especially if he was in some motorcycle club.

But then the ruckus faded as he drove off, leaving blissful silence in its wake. I sighed and tried to doze off again, wondering if the bone-deep exhaustion would ever leave me.

Maybe it was part of me now.

Along with the jaded pessimism and general crankiness at life.

I never used to be like this, and I needed to shake off the mood, the funk. I needed to start looking at the positives. This was a new start, a new life. I’d left the darkness behind me and needed to start appreciating the good things.

Like coffee and sunshine through my living room window.

So with that in mind, and considering I was now very much awake, I threw back the covers, put on my robe and slippers, and headed for the kitchen.

I switched on the coffee machine to warm up, taking a few moments to breathe in the peace and quiet and the first rays of sunlight coming in through the living room window, casting shards of white on the yellow walls and sending dust motes into a spin.

Peace and quiet .

I could get used to this.

I inhaled deeply and let it out slowly, trying to breathe in the serenity.

I made my coffee, almost smiling as I took my first sip...

Until an all too familiar sound came thundering down the street, closer, slowing in front of my house before turning into his driveway.

My neighbor from hell.

Anger bubbled up inside me, irrational and stupid, and with my coffee in hand, I stomped out my front door, across the frosty front lawn, and met my inconsiderate motorcycle gang member neighbor in his driveway.

“Hey,” I yelled. I couldn’t even hear myself over the roar of his stupid motorcycle. “Hey!”

He cut the engine and my voice carried over the silence.

He sat on his huge motorcycle, wearing blue coveralls and a leather jacket. He lifted his hands and took off his helmet. I was expecting a hard face, scars, or neck or face tattoos.

But what I saw stopped me in my tracks.

Short brown hair, sun-kissed skin, smiling hazel eyes and a grin that stole my breath. “Morning,” he said, voice like velvet. Then he looked me up and down, and I swear he chuckled. “Nice pajamas.”

I looked down at myself, horrified to see my robe open and my navy pajamas with pink flamingos and rainbows on full display. They were old. I’d bought them for a Pride Pajama Party at med school, and everything else I own had been packed. I’d kept them out with the intent of throwing them out once I got settled in...

“You okay?” he asked, concerned now. “You just moved in, right? Need help with anything?”

His kindness threw me for a second, not to mention his ridiculous good looks. “I, uh, I’m, um...” I looked down at the cup I’d forgotten I was holding. “Coffee,” I said.

Like an idiot.

Then I noticed the Hartbridge Fire Department logo on the breast of his coveralls, under his leather jacket.

Oh my.

Of course he was a firefighter.

“Hi, coffee,” he said, smiling obscenely. “My name’s Soren. It’s nice to meet you.”