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“Got
that fire out in no time, he did.”
“I
heard electrical fire.”
“Carp
will know.”
“Don’t
know what we’d do wi’out Carp on the job.”
Félicie
gritted her teeth as she wove through the people on the sidewalk to get closer
to Mama Helaine’s shop. By the way everyone raved about Carpenter Yeary, one
would think he was the only person working the fire. She stopped in front of
the cigar shop next door. Five vehicles blocked the east side of the street in
front of the red-brick building she knew all too well. No flames engulfed the
dressmaker’s shop, no burn scarring on the building either, at least from what
she could tell in the dusk. Only one window broken. The firemen seemed to be
preparing to leave. None of the dresses behind the windows looked burned
either.
That
was a good sign.
While
she knew nothing about fires—barring the ability to start one with flint and a
knife—this one looked to have been small and short-lived. She drew in a breath
to steady her nerves, releasing the tension inside. Rena and Mama Helaine had
to be safe. She had no reason to worry. None. Not at all.
Two
firemen stepped out onto the front steps, both holding axes and lanterns.
“Hot
spots out!” one yelled.
“All
clear!” said the other.
They
stopped at the bottom of the steps and spoke to a policeman. Another set of
firemen worked on pulling down the ladder. Another checked the ladder truck’s
wheels. A half a dozen others lingered about the horse-drawn wagon, rolling the
hose and checking equipment.
The
highly-esteemed captain was nowhere to be seen.
She
would wager Alta and Pearl knew the names of every fireman from Engine 2—which were
bachelors, which ones had girls they were courting—even though Pearl had only
moved to Wichita in December.
If
Pearl and Alta were felines, men in uniforms would be catnip.
Félicie
shivered. Right now, a warm fire would be nice. Once the sun set, the
temperature seemed to remember it was still winter. She blew on her gloveless
hands then rubbed her arms. The threadbare woolen coat she wore over her
uniform only gave the appearance of warmth. Nose and ears red from cold, she
must look a sight. Her cheeks had to be splotchy, too. This was why she rarely
left the hotel in the winter. She stood on her tiptoes to get a better look
around. Rena and Miss Trudy-Bleu were nowhere to be seen. Neither was Mama
Helaine.
Oh, the
ambulance wagon! Perhaps they were in it. It had to be on the other side of all
the emergency vehicles.
Félicie
stepped onto the street and made her way along the crowd’s edge, swerving around
the ladder truck.
A
horse neighed.
She
stopped. Horses? All the other vehicles were motorized. She stared at the two
horses attached to the engine wagon. The brown horse neighed. The white one
shook his—her?—head. In warning? Since her experience with large animals was
non-existent, she took a precarious step forward.
“Do
not bite me,” she whispered, “please.”
She
eased closer.
The
horses continued to watch her as she approached them.
“Nice
horsies,” she muttered.
“You
shouldn’t be here.”
Félicie
froze, grimaced. The man’s voice was hoarse. Likely from yelling, from
breathing smoke. “I know, sir. I am sorry, but I am looking for—” She turned to
her left.
Her
breath caught. No. No, no, no, no, no. Why him? Of all the policemen and
firemen on this street, why did it have to be him?
But
it was.
He
was right there, a few feet from her nonchalantly standing between the ladder
truck and the engine wagon. They had never been this close. Every other time
she has seen him, he had been surrounded by minions, sycophants, or adoring
fans. At church even! Although shaded somewhat by his burn-scarred leather hat,
even with those dark, heavy brows, his green eyes stood in stark contrast to
the soot and stubble on his face. She had forgotten how remarkably beautiful
and intimidating Captain Carpenter Yeary was.
No,
not forgotten.
Not noticed.
She never
had any reason to notice. In fact, she had several reasons not to notice him.
She ought to say something.
Her
mind went blank.
His intense
gaze traveled the length of her before fixing on her face. He frowned, a V
deepening between his brows.
He
was looking at her as if—
“You have no idea who I am, do you?” Félicie
blurted, and then realized how snooty her question sounded, how her words
implied she was someone of importance. Which was not true. She was someone of
non-importance. He had no reason to know who she was. They were not in the same
social sphere. She was the help. He was the town’s hero. He saved lives. She
cleaned toilets.
He gave her a
strange look, as if she were an oddity. In light of her most recent comment,
that was fair. It was.
And then he
shrugged.
Félicie blinked.
Really? Of all the...
With a growl
under her breath, she lifted her chin. He would not get the best of her.
“Shrugs can be an ineffective means of communication. The shrugger assumes the
person to whom the shrug was conveyed will understand correctly what the shrug
means. Sometimes this does occur, especially if people know each other well. In
this instance, sir, I have no idea what your shrug was meant to imply; thus, I
am sorry to say, your attempt at communication has failed.”
“Carp?” A
policeman strolled up. “Is there a problem?”
He said nothing.
Not at first. He stared and stared and stared at her. Then—
“Nah, Seth. I got
this.”
Félicie kept her
face bland. Rolling her eyes at him would not be good form.
The police officer’s
brown-eyed gaze shifted in her direction. The corner of his mouth quirked
upward creating a dimple that, she was sure, he knew caused ladies to swoon. Or
at least pledge undying devotion. “Well, now seeing how it’s my job to keep
watch over the civilians—this time, my friend, I got this.” He tipped his hat
then struck his hand out. “Sergeant Seth Beaufoy.”
Beaufoy? She
seemed to recall Rena attended last year’s Flower Parade with a policeman named
Beaufoy. Delightful had been Rena’s
summarization of the parade. Flatteries
as polished as the brass buttons on his dark uniform had been her
summarization of the officer.
Sergeant Beaufoy
looked at her quizzically. “Can I help you, Miss...?”
Félicie shook his
hand. To not do so would be rude on her part. Thankfully, etiquette did not
require she share her name. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Sergeant Beaufoy.
Could you direct me to the building’s owners?”
“Are you friends
with Miss Laurent?” he asked, still shaking her hand. “Or family?”
“I know her.”
Félicie smiled because, in her experience, a smile distracted people from
realizing she had not answered their question. Smiling rested nicer on her
conscience than lying did.
Yes, there was
that, too.
“I have business
with Madame Laurent,” she explained.
“Oh, yes, of
course.” Sergeant Beaufoy flashed her another one of those swoon-inciting grins
that, strangely, made her want to chuckle. “They make clothes, you wear
clothes, et cetera, et cetera.” He waved at nothing in particular. It struck
her that even if he realized the clothes she wore were not items Madame Laurent
would make or sell, he would not care. Why that made her sad, she had no idea.
“Seth, let her
go.”
“Carp, be honest.
Does she look like she wants me to let her go?” Sergeant Beaufoy winked, and
her cheeks felt as warm as the hand he continued to hold. “I think she
doesn’t.”
Félicie looked to
Captain Yeary. Unlike Sergeant Seth Beaufoy, he wore no smile. He looked down
his perfectly straight nose at her. What was that supposed to mean? If she were
she Pearl or Alta, she would know how to respond. Rena would know how to
respond. Rena knew how to flirt and be coy and how to interpret a man’s
glances, winks, and shrugs. Even Mama Helaine could, and she was fifty!
But for the last
twelve years, Mama Helaine and Rena had not lived in a hotel or spent their
time cleaning a hotel room like Félicie had—alone. Except for church on
Sundays, her interaction with men—really, with people—was limited.
Both men looked
at her in expectation of a response.
Félicie pasted on
a smile. When in doubt, smile.
“Seth, let go of
her,” repeated Captain Yeary.
“Alas, my dear.”
Sergeant Beaufoy raised her hand to his lips. “Until tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” she
echoed, tightening her coat around her chest.
“The Leap Year
Day festival. I’ll look for you at the concert in the park.”
Oh. That. The
last Leap Year Day festival she attended had been in the previous
millennium—1892, to be precise. Back when her twelve-year-old self still
believed in fairies, good luck, and love conquering all. Nothing in the world
could convince her to attend tomorrow’s festival.
Félicie indented
the corner of her mouth. “You may look for me.” There. She could be coy.
“Yes, indeed I
will.” After a slap to Captain Yeary’s shoulder, Sergeant Beaufoy walked off.
“It was nice
speaking with you,” Félicie said to be polite. “To you both. I shall leave
now.”
Captain Yeary
stepped forward.
Félicie stepped
back...and then stepped again to put even more distance between them.
His gloved-hand
grabbed her arm. “Wrong way.”
Félicie said
nothing as he gently pulled her out of the middle of the street. She hurried to
keep pace with him. She did, however, noticed the number of people looking
their way. She could only imagine what they were thinking: There goes our Carp
gallantly rescuing another stray. Another orphan.
Another cast-off.
“I am not a lost
pet needing rescue,” she muttered.
His hand
readjusted its hold on her. He kept walking, giving no indication of having
heard her. If he had, he clearly felt her comment needed no response. Best
course of action was to say as little as possible to this man.
Félicie looked to
where his grip encircled her forearm. Even if she tried to free herself, she
knew he would hold on as long as he felt necessary. How could she know that?
How? She did not know him. She did not know his character. She only knew what
she had heard about him and how she had seen people at church adore him. So
much was hero worship. She did her best to keep her distance, so no one would
take her for being a part of the fawning crowd.
Why did everyone
think he was a prince among men? He was just a man. Flawed, human, and alone
like everyone else.
SIX LITTLE SUNFLOWERS is available on Amazon!
