Table of Contents

Blurb

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

About the Author

By Kim Fielding

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Copyright

Dear Ruth

By Kim Fielding

Dear Ruth,

I’m not in the mood for Christmas. After a romantic relationship went up in flames, I returned to my hometown in rural Kansas. Then my mother passed away. I’m really busy with my job as fire marshal—and now with my mother’s advice column, which I reluctantly took over. There’s a sexy newcomer down the street, a guy with a young daughter and an unfortunate disregard for fire safety. He seems to want to be friends, but that creates problems that may be too hot for me to handle. The last things I need right now are flammable holiday decorations and too much holiday food. How am I supposed to give good advice to others when I can’t seem to get my own life straight?

—Bah Humbug in Bailey Springs

ONE

Dear Readers,

It is with much sorrow that I announce the passing of my close friend, Becky Reynolds. Most of you knew Becky and are aware of the outstanding contributions she made to our community. She made Bailey Springs a better place for us all.

What most of you didn’t know, however, was that Becky was also a beloved columnist for this newspaper. As Dear Ruth, she provided valuable advice for over thirty years. I am sorry to announce that Dear Ruth is now on indefinite hiatus.

Becky is survived by her son, Bailey Springs Fire Marshal Bryce Reynolds, and by a large group of friends, students, and admirers. She enriched us all.

—Alma Bernard, Publisher and Editor-in-Chief

“HOW ARE you holding up?”

Bryce didn’t answer right away. Instead he firmed his jaw, gazed out the window of Louella’s Café, and watched a few intrepid pedestrians brave the slippery sidewalk. He’d been placing bets with himself on the likelihood he’d end up rushing out to administer first aid, but so far he’d remained indoors, enduring Alma Bernard’s sharp scrutiny. Since Alma wasn’t going to grant him mercy, he sighed and turned to face her.

“I’m fine. I’m thirty-eight, which is plenty old enough to survive without my mommy.”

“I turn sixty-five next month, and I still miss mine every day.”

Bryce patted Alma’s hand. “I’m sorry. I’m being… I’m being an ass. You knew Mom longer than I did. Her death hit you hard too.”

“It did. And the stories I could tell you about our teenage years!” She smiled as she sipped her tea. Then she set her cup on the table and peered at Bryce through her purple-rimmed glasses. “I really do want to know how you’re doing, Bryce. Your mother would never forgive me if I let you pine away.”

“She’d probably come back and haunt us both.”

“Probably.”

He rubbed the back of his head while he thought. It was an old habit that his ex, Owen, used to tease him about, asking Bryce whether he was trying to get the circuits firing faster. “I’m all right,” Bryce finally said. “A little… lost maybe. You know? I keep expecting her to call or text me.”

Alma nodded slowly. “Me too. You know how she used to wake up in the middle of the night and send links to random news stories she thought were interesting? I still look for those messages when I wake up.”

“Yeah.” Bryce had saved a bunch of those old texts and sometimes scrolled through them. But since that was morbid and pathetic, he didn’t tell Alma.

Outside, a man in a navy parka, plaid scarf, and gray stocking cap slid five feet and almost went down on the ice but managed to catch himself in time—a good trick, considering he was carrying two bulky bags from Toys and Joys. A bit of early Christmas shopping, no doubt. Bryce couldn’t be sure due to all the winter wear, but he thought it might be his handsome new neighbor. He hoped the guy made it home safely.

Returning his attention to the café, he gazed at the Christmas trees. Bryce thought three was excessive, but at least—after some scolding from him—the owners had replaced the strings of vintage bubble lights. Sure, the lights were pretty, but they were also a big attraction for small children. If one of the lights broke, a child could be cut on the glass or burned by the hot liquid.

“Can I ask about your plans?” Alma’s tone was uncharacteristically hesitant. This was the woman who’d cracked the scandal regarding the mayor’s embezzlements back in ’93, leading to the crook’s tearful admissions and subsequent stint in the El Dorado Correctional Facility. Alma was usually more blunt than gentle. But apparently she thought Bryce required careful handling.

“My plans?” he asked.

“Are you going to continue on here in Bailey Springs? Or pack up and head back to the Wichita Fire Department?”

Bryce shrugged. “Stay here, I guess.”

“You’re not bored?”

“Nah. There are fires to put out here too. And other excitement. Like that wreck out on the highway the other day.”

Alma tsked. “Stupid people driving too fast for the weather.”

“There’s always some of those.”

Bryce had returned to his hometown two years ago, fleeing a failed relationship and wanting to spend more time with his sole blood relative. He’d assumed he’d remain only a short time before moving on to a new city. But he’d discovered that he liked his low-key new job as fire marshal and deputy chief. And Bailey Springs fit him like a favorite pair of boots. Not flashy, not stylish, but comfy and reliable. If he had to drive a hundred miles to get laid and his local romantic thrills involved stealing glances at the sexy stranger who lived at the end of the block? He could live with that.

Alma tapped the table. “You’re coming over for dinner on Friday, right?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

“Good. Gene has a new toy to show you.”

That made Bryce smile. Gene Bernard collected antique nautical navigation equipment, an odd hobby for a man who’d spent his entire life in Kansas. When Bryce was very young, Gene had allowed him to open the carved wooden cases and handle the heavy brass instruments, and even now, Bryce enjoyed admiring Gene’s latest finds. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“And there’s something I want you to think about.”

“I’ve told you, Alma. I have to work on Christmas.” He’d volunteered for the holiday shift so one of the other guys could stay home with his family.

“Not that.” She briefly scrunched up her face. “Okay, that too. We’ll miss you if you’re not there—and we can work around your schedule. But I have a request for you to consider.”

Bryce straightened in his chair. “Request?”

There was the briefest hesitation before she spoke again, and he knew it was going to be something major. He barely had time to brace himself before Alma said the words.

“I want you to take up your mother’s column.”

“I…. What?” He blinked in confusion.

“Dear Ruth. I want you to be the new Dear Ruth.”

“But Mom was Dear Ruth.”

“Yes, sweetie,” Alma replied with false patience, as if Bryce were a particularly dim kindergartner. “Your mom was Dear Ruth. And she was an excellent Dear Ruth. But she can’t give anybody advice anymore.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Bryce mumbled. Had a Ouija board been at hand, he’d half expect his mother to start dictating advice to the lovelorn.

Alma chuckled. “You have a point. But since it’s kind of difficult for her now, I’m asking you to follow in her footsteps. We can change the name of the column if you like, but I don’t think Dear Chief Reynolds has quite the same ring to it.”

“I’m not an advice columnist.”

“Neither was she, at first. Your mother, as you may recall, had a degree in biology.”

Bryce scowled. His mom had been premed at the University of Kansas, but she’d met and married another student and agreed to support him while he was in med school. He was supposed to return the favor once his practice was established. Instead she got pregnant, he dumped her for his receptionist, and Ruth had come back to Bailey Springs to raise her son. She’d eventually earned her credentials and taught high school, and she’d been damn good at it. But she never became a doctor.

“How did Mom end up writing that column?” he asked. “She never told me.”

Alma laughed, then finished the last of her tea. “Desperation. Patty Elverson used to write a weekly piece for the paper, back when my father ran it. Even before, maybe. Hell, I’m fairly certain that Patty Elverson was writing that column back when mammoths roamed the plains. She gave household cleaning tips.” Alma rolled her eyes dramatically.

“And?”

“And completely out of the blue, one day she announced that she’d had enough of that. Never wrote another word. She took up canasta instead and lived to be eight hundred years old. So I needed to fill that space pronto. Your mother was always telling people what to do anyway, so I figured she might as well do some good with it.”

Bryce wrapped his hands around his coffee mug and grinned. Some of his earliest memories involved his mother sitting at the kitchen table with a pad of paper in front of her and a pencil in hand, gleefully solving problems for the good citizens of Bailey Springs.

“It was a good column,” Bryce said.

“It was. She was a smart lady, compassionate but logical.”

“But that was her. I’m… a fireman.”

Alma’s eyebrows rose. “Firemen can’t give advice?”

“Of course they can. I do it all the time. But mostly it’s stuff like check your smoke detector batteries and remember to stop, drop, and roll. I don’t think anyone wants to read that in the paper.”

For a brief moment, Alma’s youthful face looked old and tired. Then she straightened her shoulders and leaned forward. “Here’s the thing, kiddo. Nobody buys newspapers anymore. What’s the need when Russian websites spew crap through your Facebook feed all day? The Bailey Springs Gazette has been operating since 1884, but we’re in real danger of going under.”

Bryce winced. “Jesus, Alma, I’m sorry.”

“Times change, and sometimes the old ways are lost. But I’m still fighting. We still bring in decent revenue from website ads, and do you know which feature gathers the most clicks? I’ll give you three guesses, and the first two don’t count.”

“Dear Ruth,” Bryce said with a sigh.

“You betcha.” She shook her head slowly. “I thought about taking it over myself, but you know how I am. Pretty soon half the town would be gathering on Main Street to hang me in effigy. Tact and delicacy are not my strong points.”

That made Bryce snort in agreement. “Not what you’re known for.”

“But you, my dear, are your mother’s son. You would make an excellent Dear Ruth.”

“But I’ve never—”

“My kids turned to you whenever they were troubled, even though you’re a little younger. True?”

He twitched his shoulders. “Yeah, but—”

“Student body president, as I recall. And Chief Thomas snapped you right up the minute you stepped foot back in town. You make sense, Bryce, and people listen to you. You’ll be good at this.”

“But most of the letters ask about relationships. How am I supposed to give advice on that? My own track record sucks.” His love life consisted of awkward first dates that never became seconds, occasional hookups, and one long-term thing that had spectacularly crashed and burned.

Alma pointed at him. “Your mother’s romantic life was a disaster too. Just because we’re foolish in our personal decisions now and then doesn’t mean we can’t help others be wise in theirs.”

He wanted to argue. The entire proposition was ridiculous. But the Bernards were the closest thing he had to family. They’d stood by his mother when she’d been a struggling single parent, and they continued to stand by Bryce as her grieving son. He at least owed Alma the effort.

“Let’s not tell people who the new Dear Ruth is, okay?”

She took his hand in both of hers and squeezed firmly. “Deal.”

TWO

Dear Ruth,

I recently became engaged to a really great guy. He works hard, he treats me like royalty, and we have a lot of fun together. There’s just one problem. Almost every night after work, he smokes pot. He says it’s no big deal and it’s just the same as if he had a couple of beers or something. But I’m worried because it’s illegal and might lead to harder drugs. What should I do?

—Stoner’s fiancée

BRYCE SQUINTED at the computer screen and considered telling her to make sure her guy stubbed out his joints carefully and discarded them in a fireproof container. But that probably wasn’t the advice she was looking for. With a noisy sigh, he stood up from the table and plodded across the kitchen to peer out the window. A warm spell had passed through, melting the ice and some of the accumulated snow, but even though the afternoon sun was bright, the temperatures had dipped again. It was cold enough to freeze one’s nose hairs. Still, he’d been sitting around all day. He needed to get out of the house before the few remaining hours of sunlight ended.

Changing into his running clothes took several minutes, and as soon as he stepped through the front door, the cold hit his few bits of exposed skin like a slap. Good incentive to run. He took off at a faster pace than usual, his feet hitting the ground with satisfying thuds.

As he navigated his familiar neighborhood, he acknowledged that this was another thing his mother had been right about. When he moved back to Bailey Springs, he’d intended to rent one of the town’s few apartments, a loftlike space over a couple of shops on Main Street. His mother had persuaded him to buy a house instead. “Less noise during the day, when you might be trying to sleep after a night shift,” she’d pointed out. “And you’ll have people to talk to. Main Street’s dead outside of business hours. Plus a house is a good investment and you get a tax break.”

So he’d bought a little bungalow. It wasn’t in Bailey Springs’ fanciest neighborhood, where Queen Annes loomed like firetraps waiting to happen, but it was within walking distance of downtown and the fire station. He’d spent a good deal of time fixing up the house, making it comfortable and even charming. The neighbors were friendly; he’d known many of them since he was a kid. After his mother died, they’d brought him casseroles and pies and shared kind memories of her.

Speaking of neighbors, when Bryce was nearly done with his run—just rounding the corner onto his part of the block—he caught sight of the new guy. He’d moved in the previous month, but since then Bryce had caught only a few glimpses of him. Enough to see that the man was gorgeous. A few years older than Bryce, perhaps, with silver threading his dark brown hair and neat beard, and with a compact build and a pleasant bit of softness around his middle. Now the new guy teetered atop a ladder propped against the front of his one-story house, while a young girl in a green parka stood on the lawn and looked up at him.

Bryce jogged in place for a moment before sighing and hurrying over. “You should have someone stabilize that ladder!” he called as he came nearer. The man twisted around, which very nearly caused the ladder to topple, but Bryce steadied it just in time. “You’re gonna end up hurting yourself,” he said breathlessly.

Peering down at Bryce, the man made an annoyed grunt. “I was doing fine until you distracted me.”

“No, you weren’t. The ground’s too frozen for the ladder to sink in and give you a little stability. You were one move away from disaster.”

The girl came up close. A red-and-gold scarf obscured most of her face and made it hard to judge her age. Five? Six? Something in that range.

“My dad’s gonna hang Christmas lights,” she announced. “Purple ones that blink. And then we’re gonna put reindeers on the lawn. They have white lights, except one’s got a red nose, like Rudolph.”

“Sounds nice. Santa’s going to be impressed.”

“Santa’s not real. He’s just some guy in a costume.”

Before Bryce could respond, the guy descended the ladder, and Bryce stepped away so he could reach the ground. The man’s cheeks and nose were red from the cold. “I was doing fine,” he insisted. “But thank you.” Then he stuck out a gloved hand. “Noah Costa.”

Bryce shook his hand. “Bryce Reynolds. I live—”

“Down the street. I know. And this is Harper.”

When Bryce shook her hand, she giggled. “Are you a real fireman?” she asked. “’Cause you don’t have a red truck. Firemen are supposed to have big red trucks.”

“We keep the trucks at the station,” he replied, then lifted his eyebrows at Noah.

“Mrs. Foster gave us the rundown on everyone on the block. Does she keep a spreadsheet or something?”

That made Bryce laugh. “Probably. The NSA could learn things from that woman.” He wondered what else their mutual neighbor had told Noah. Not that Bryce had any ugly secrets, but it slightly discomfited him to know that this stranger might be aware of the details of his life.

“Well, ever since then, Harper’s been really excited about the prospect of living near a real-life fireman.”

Harper nodded solemnly. “I’m gonna be a firefighter when I grow up.”

“I bet you’ll be awesome at it,” Bryce said. Then on impulse he added, “If you want, you can stop by the station one of these days and I’ll give you a tour. Maybe you can try out the hook-and-ladder truck, see how you like it.”

Her eyes grew huge, she squealed at such a high pitch that Bryce was surprised anyone other than dogs could hear it, and she took off running across the lawn, pausing now and then to leap into the air. “Wow,” Bryce said.

“She’s a little, um, exuberant.” Noah had an unexpectedly deep voice, the kind that rumbled down low and made Bryce’s heart race.

Now was not the time for a racing heart, however. “I’m jealous. Not a single thing that has ever happened to me as an adult has made me that happy.” Then Bryce blushed as he realized that was kind of a personal thing to admit to a man he’d just met.

But Noah only beamed at him. “Thanks, man. That was a really nice offer. You didn’t have to do that.”

Bryce was two seconds away from saying Aw, shucks and tipping his nonexistent Stetson. “No big deal. I’m usually at the station on Saturday afternoons, if you want to bring her by.”

“Done.”

Harper had finished running and leaping and was now turning somersaults instead. Just watching her made Bryce slightly dizzy. He was cooling down from the run, and Noah still stood close to him, eyes sparkling.

“Do you, um, want some help with the lights?” Bryce asked.

Which was how he came to spend the next hour working closely with Noah—sometimes close enough to touch—while his nose grew progressively colder and Harper danced and twirled around them. Nobody fell off the ladder, and Bryce made sure the outdoor electrical outlets and extension cords were in good condition.

“That’s gonna look awesome,” Noah said when they were finished. “I really appreciate your help. I’ve never hung Christmas lights before.”

“I think we did a good job of it.”

“Yeah. But Jesus, you must be freezing your ass off.” Noah stole a guilty look at Harper, who apparently hadn’t heard him as she pretended to feed dead grass to the decorative Rudolph. “How about some coffee?”

Bryce should have refused. Sixty minutes with Noah, and Bryce was already sliding dangerously into Crushville. Not only was Noah handsome; he was funny too, and slightly awkward in an adorable way. And he had that deep voice, and— Shit. One cup of coffee couldn’t hurt.

The house’s interior was dated, with scuffed paint, threadbare carpeting, and a kitchen straight out of 1972. Cardboard boxes lurked in corners and tottered in piles. “Sorry about the… general state of things,” Noah said as he gestured Bryce to a kitchen chair. “It’s a work in progress.”

“Moving is rough.”

“Yeah. Especially with the kid and the holidays. I’ll tackle some of the renovation after New Year’s, when Harper’s back in school.” Noah nodded toward the living room, where Harper had disappeared as soon as they’d entered the house. The unmistakable sound of cartoons wafted through the doorway. With a quick grin in Bryce’s direction, Noah unearthed a coffee maker from a cabinet, plugged it in, and filled the carafe with water. He mumbled to himself as he searched through drawers. “Where the hell are the filters?”

“If it’s too much trouble—”

“Nope!” Noah held a box triumphantly aloft. “Found ’em.”

While Noah fussed, measuring grounds and trying to find sugar, Bryce found himself staring at Noah’s ass, which was beautifully encased in denim. Bryce looked away and cleared his throat. “So where did you move from?”

“California.”

“Wow. That must have been a shock.”

“The weather part, sure. Harper’s still stoked about snow, but I’m not so sure about it. I’m perfecting my shoveling skills.” Smiling, Noah carried a sugar bowl and carton of milk to the table, then returned to the burbling coffee maker.

“If you want to avoid that particular skill, you can always hire the Patterson kids. They’ll do a decent job of keeping the snow cleared. They can mow your lawn in the summer too.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. For now, though, I could probably use the exercise. You can probably tell that, unlike you, I’m not doing much jogging.” Noah glanced down at his own somewhat squishy belly. It was the kind of belly Bryce would have loved to run his hands over, rub his face over. It was the kind of belly that would have felt good pressed against his back, reminding him he was in bed with someone real and substantial.

Bryce cleared his throat and gazed up at the ceiling. “The cover on that smoke detector is missing.”

“What?” Noah interrupted his coffee pouring to glance over his shoulder. “Oh. Yeah. It started beeping in the middle of the night and I haven’t replaced the battery yet.”

“You should check all your detectors monthly and replace the batteries yearly. I’d recommend picking particular dates so you don’t forget. Or you can get newer detectors that run off lithium-ion power. Those will last ten years. Have you checked your carbon monoxide detectors?”

Carrying over a pair of mismatched mugs, Noah shook his head. “I’m not sure we have those.”

Bryce scowled. “You need to find out right away. Especially at this time of year, when you’re running a gas furnace nonstop.”

“Okay.” Noah set the filled mugs on the table and took the chair opposite Bryce.

Unsatisfied with Noah’s cavalier attitude, Bryce shook his head. “Seriously. Look, the station usually has discount coupons for detectors. Stop by for that tour and I’ll find you some.”

Noah gave him a sunny smile. “Really? That’d be great. Thanks.”

The coffee burned Bryce’s tongue, but it also thawed him a little. He wrapped his hands around the cup and, for a few moments, enjoyed the homey company. But when Noah’s quiet, friendly presence became almost too much to endure, Bryce ventured a question. “I bet you miss Starbucks, huh?”

“Sometimes,” Noah said with a chuckle. “But I’m pretty sure I can survive without it.”

“If you don’t mind me prying, how the hell did you end up in Bailey Springs?”

“Everyone keeps asking me that, like Bailey Springs is the second level of hell or something.”

“Not hell. Purgatory, maybe.”

Noah laughed again and sipped his coffee. “It is a little chilly for the inferno. And I’m surprised Mrs. Foster hasn’t given you my life story.”

“Only because I haven’t seen her in a couple weeks. I’m sure she’ll fill me in once I do.”

“Well, I guess I can beat her to the punch.” Noah glanced toward the living room doorway and dropped his voice slightly. “I got fired from my job in California. I was marketing director for a winery.”

“That sounds like a very California kind of job.”

“Hella California.” Noah walked to the counter, grabbed the coffeepot, and refilled their mugs. “It wasn’t a bad job,” he said after sitting again.

“Not a lot of wineries in Bailey Springs. Or marketing directors, for that matter.”

Noah leaned forward over the tabletop, excitement making his eyes gleam. “I know! I’m doing something different. The thing is, my boss and I didn’t exactly see eye-to-eye on politics. Which was bearable for a while, but when the election process got into full swing, well, not so much. He showed up one morning in a red MAGA hat and I sort of lost my shit. He canned me.” He sat back in the chair with his arms crossed, looking pleased with himself.

“Um, if you’re looking for a bastion of progressive politics, Bailey Springs ain’t it.” Bryce was out—had been for years—which hadn’t caused him any problems beyond a few sour looks and mumbled slurs. But he’d adopted a don’t-ask-don’t-tell approach to his neighbors’ and coworkers’ voting preferences.

“Yeah, I got that. But this town has one really good thing going for it. It’s dirt cheap to live here. Marketing was just a way to earn a living, you know? I’ve always wanted to be a writer. I make a little off magazine articles and some other freelance work, but not enough to make a go of it in California. So I decided to take a risk. Sold my house there, bought this lovely estate here, and I still have enough to support us for a few years at least. I’m going to give full-time writing a shot. Plus this way I get to spend more time with Harper.”

As if on cue, his daughter bounced into the room. She’d shed her winter outerwear and now sported mismatched fuzzy socks, torn yellow leggings, a sparkly tutu, and a red Fire & Rescue tee. Bryce wondered if the last item was in his honor. Harper zoomed over to the table and gently head-butted her father until he kissed the top of her head. Then she skipped to the fridge, pulled out a string cheese, and hopped back into the living room. Noah shook his head fondly.

“Your, um, family didn’t object to you moving so far away?” Bryce asked. Which was nosy of him, but he hadn’t heard or seen any indication of a Mrs. Costa, and he couldn’t be blamed for wondering.

Expression unreadable, Noah gave him a long look. Then he stared down at his mug, turning it between his hands for a time before looking up. “It’s just me and Harper.”

Bryce’s heart twinged in sympathy, probably because his own loss was so fresh. Instead of acknowledging that, though, he pasted on a smile. “Well, welcome to Bailey Springs. It does have a few things going for it besides cheap real estate.”

“Yeah?” Head cocked, Noah was charming. Dammit.

“The schools are surprisingly good. We keep some dedicated teachers chained to their desks. Louella’s Café makes the best pies you’ve ever tasted. Walmart never discovered us, so there are still some decent shops left downtown. When the weather turns warm, you can go down to the river and have a nice swim, maybe do a little fishing.”

“And the local fire marshal takes his job very seriously. That’s good too.”

Smiling, Bryce stood. “I have to go. Thanks for the coffee.”

“Thank you for the help with the decorations. Having them up means a lot to Harper.”

Together they walked through the living room, where the walls were still bare and a modern sectional sofa looked out of place. Harper, sprawled on the floor and distracted by whatever was on TV, waved briefly. Bryce put his outerwear back on. Then he and Noah stood in the little entranceway, a slight awkwardness hanging between them.

“I mean it about the firehouse tour,” Bryce finally said.

“Good, because I’m taking you up on that offer.”

Bryce ached to offer a lot more than that, but he had nothing else Noah wanted—except fire safety tips and the ability to hang Christmas lights. Instead he took Noah’s bare hand in his gloved one and gave it a brief shake. “It’s good to meet you,” he said with slightly false cheer.

“You too.”

His pace as he ran home was a lot faster than a jog.

THREE

Dear Ruth,

After getting married, my wife and I moved in with her parents, who have a big house. My wife and I are still paying off my college loans, so this made sense to everyone. Mostly we all get along. But a year ago our first child was born, and it turns out I have a very different child-raising philosophy than my in-laws. My wife agrees with me. But my in-laws keep insisting that since it’s their house, we should follow their rules. I think this problem is only going to get worse as our son gets older. What should I do?

—Frustrated Father

THE THING about the Dear Ruth letters was that they… niggled at him. It had been only two weeks since he’d taken over his mother’s column, yet he found himself preoccupied with the letters during much of his spare time, thinking about the dilemmas and how to answer them. It was a relief, really, because mulling over other people’s dramas kept his thoughts from straying to Noah Costa, to his warm smile and ready laugh, to the solid thereness of his body, to the way his eyes crinkled when he—

Danger, danger, Bryce Reynolds! Here be dragons!

So, yeah. Letters.

The thing was, after sweating through the first two or three, Bryce had found his groove. Maybe he’d simply gained some false confidence because nobody had come pounding at Alma’s door, threatening lawsuits or blood retribution, crying that he’d ruined their lives. In fact, Alma told him that once people realized the column had been resurrected, readership had spiked to new highs. She hadn’t revealed the identity of the new Ruth, so curiosity was probably a major factor. But in any case, no disasters. Yet.

Today he’d worked a day shift, during which he’d done a final inspection on the newly refurbished United Methodist Church, mediated a payroll dispute between one of the firemen and the department’s accountant, and helped extinguish a fire in someone’s garden shed. The cause of that call was easy to find—a teenager who’d thought a wooden structure filled with oily rags and a decade of old newspapers was a good place to sneak a joint. At least the kid wasn’t hurt, although his parents looked like they wanted to murder him.

In the last of the day’s light, Bryce jogged home, carefully not looking at the house with the purple lights and front-lawn reindeer. When he got to his own place, he showered, nuked a potato and then some frozen broccoli, and pan-fried a steak. His belly full, he cleared the kitchen table and settled in with his laptop.

He’d developed a routine for this. He kept a beverage near at hand—coffee or beer, depending—and he played mood music on his Bluetooth speakers. Tonight it was Robert Johnson because most of the Dear Ruth letters could easily have inspired Delta blues lyrics. With his feet warmed by thick socks his mother had knitted and with his mother’s favorite pen nearby, Bryce closed his eyes and thought about the letter.

Dear Frustrated Father, he typed. It was a little like a séance. Not that he believed in those things. But when he set everything up just right and put himself in the correct frame of mind, it was almost as if he could channel his mother. He could hear her voice clearly in his head, using tact and common sense to unknot the personal problems of the citizens of Bailey Springs.

It’s important that you and your wife act as your son’s parents and raise him the way you think is right. Now is the time to settle this dispute, since waiting will only confuse him and cause more havoc in the family. You have a few courses of action you can take, but whatever you do, you and your wife must be on the same page.

First, you might—

A bell rang, startling him so thoroughly that he leapt from his chair. It took a moment for him to realize it wasn’t a fire alarm but rather the doorbell. He swallowed hard. The last time someone had come unexpectedly to his door at night, it had been the local police chief, there to inform Bryce that—

Pushing the memory into the depths where it belonged, Bryce marched to the door and yanked it open.

Noah Costa stood on the front porch, holding a plate covered in foil and looking startled at Bryce’s abrupt demeanor. “Hi,” Noah said after a moment’s hesitation.

“Hi.”

“Sorry if I interrupted. I can—”

“You didn’t.” The frigid air made Bryce shiver. “Come on in.”

Appearing relieved, Noah stomped his feet a few times on the doormat before entering. Bryce closed the door and switched on the living room light. “No sidekick tonight?”

“Not yet. Harper and a friend from school are at the movies. Coco, I’m told. This is the first time Harper’s been to a theater without me, and it’s very exciting for both of us.” He smiled wryly. “It’s also slightly traumatic for me, so I’ve compensated by baking. But then I figured that Harper doesn’t need any more sugar, and I don’t… well, I don’t need any of it. So I’m sharing as payment for services rendered.”

Bryce’s mind immediately went naughty places. He shifted his footing. “Services?”

“Decorating.”

“Ah. That.”

Noah raised the plate. “Chocolate chip.”

In truth, Bryce tried to avoid sweets at home. Food was always lurking around the fire station—donuts, cake, some cheese-and-dough things the chief’s wife liked to make—and those temptations were hard to resist. Almost as hard to resist as the sexy man standing so very close, a light dusting of flour in his hair.

“Do you have some time before Coco ends?” Bryce asked. Damn. He hadn’t meant to.

But Noah grinned. “An hour.”

They ended up on Bryce’s couch, munching on cookies and sipping beer. The combination was surprisingly good, even though the cookies were a bit overbaked. “Does your house have the same floorplan as mine?” Noah asked curiously.

“Mostly. Mine has an addition on the back.”

“So this was some kind of primitive subdivision?”

“Not exactly. A hundred years ago, folks used to order their house plans from catalogs. You and I have one of Sears’ popular low-end models.”

“Huh.” Noah gazed around the room. “Yours is in way better shape.”

“It was a dump when I moved in, but I’ve had some time to improve it.”

“I understand you left Bailey Springs for a long time but moved back a couple years ago.”

Bryce managed not to sigh. “Mrs. Foster?”

“Of course. Although the guy at the hardware store…. What’s his name?”

“Delmer Stolz.”

“That’s right. He gave me some details too, mostly about what you did to your house. The official word is that you’ve improved it considerably.”

It felt a little weird that so much discussion had gone on behind his back. Not that the locals didn’t gossip; he was pretty sure gossip beat football as the most popular sport in these parts. But why him? Noah had plenty of other people to learn about, most of whom were probably more interesting than Bryce.

“Do you want a quick tour?” Bryce asked. Again without intending to.

“I’d love one.”

They spent quite a bit of time in the kitchen. Noah was intrigued by Bryce’s reworking of the floor plan, which allowed more efficient movement as well as a more open feel. He also liked the idea of the half bath tucked between the kitchen and back door. “That would be a handy place for Harper’s premeal washups,” he mused. “And guests wouldn’t have to use the hall bathroom. It’s Harper’s, so it’s full of bath toys and stuff.”

“I only have the master bath besides this one. But that’s fine since it’s just me.”

They peeked into the small addition that the previous owners had used as a bedroom but Bryce used for storage. They trekked down the hall to a former small bedroom now kitted out as a home gym.

“Impressive equipment,” said Noah.

“I guess. We have a couple of machines at the firehouse, but I like to get a decent workout even on my days off.”

“I’ve never been very good about sticking to an exercise routine.” Noah ruefully patted his belly.

Bryce longed to pat it too but instead fixed his gaze on the weight machine. “Well, you’re really busy, between work and Harper. My mom was a single parent, so I have some idea what a tough job that is.”

“I guess. But I still ought to exercise more.”

They ended up in the master bedroom. Not awkward, Bryce told himself. Nope. Not at all. At least his bed was made, and no dirty underwear or porn magazines were in view. He didn’t actually own any porn magazines, but he still had the guilty feeling that one would somehow manifest atop his comforter along with an array of sex toys.

Noah, on the other hand, seemed pretty comfortable. He admired the room’s layout and nodded at the french doors Bryce had installed to replace a window. “That’s a nice idea. Easy access to the backyard.”

“And an easy emergency exit in case of fire.” Bryce smiled to show he was kidding. Mostly. But when Noah paused to inspect the crown molding, a clear image sprang into Bryce’s mind: Noah naked, spread across the mattress, leering up at him invitingly.

“Are you okay?” Noah asked, after turning around to look at him.

“Huh?”

“I thought I heard you groan. Shit. I’m keeping you from—”

“No! You’re not. I just, um, moved the wrong way. I’m a little sore from work today.” Horrible bald-faced lie.

“Well, I should get home anyway. Harper will be returning soon.”

Bryce resisted the urge to tackle him onto the mattress. They walked back to the front door, and Noah put on his coat.

“Oh, your plate,” Bryce said.

“Return it when the cookies are gone. Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Do you not celebrate Christmas? You don’t have any decorations. No tree or anything.”

“Fire hazard.”

Noah rolled his eyes. “How come no nonflammable decorations, then?”

Bryce scrunched up his face and scratched an imaginary itch on his bicep. “Not in the mood,” he mumbled.

As Noah took a step closer, his expression softened. A man could drown in those warm brown eyes. “That’s right. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to remind you.”

Great. So Mrs. Foster had divulged those details too. Had she informed Noah that Bryce was gay? Probably. He didn’t seem put off by it, though, which was good. But then, he was from California, where people were undoubtedly more comfortable with such things than were the residents of rural Kansas.

“It’s fine,” Bryce said with a shrug. “I’ve never been all that into the holiday thing anyway.” His ex, Owen, had been. He’d dragged Bryce to endless parties and festooned their house with pine boughs, sparkling glass, and tinsel. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he hadn’t insisted that everything look absolutely perfect all the time, like scenes from a magazine. They’d had more than one nasty argument over Owen’s insistence on candles. In the end they’d compromised with the electric kind, but Owen had complained they weren’t the same since they didn’t smell nice. Bitter feelings had prevailed.

When Bryce was a kid, he and his mother loved Christmas. He’d make paper chains and popcorn garlands, and she helped him cut snowflakes from folded sheets of newspaper. They baked cookies and watched all the holiday specials—the Grinch, Charlie Brown, Frosty, Rudolph—and if there was enough snow, they built snowmen on the front lawn. They always had a Christmas Eve dinner, just the two of them, with placemats and fabric napkins and the good dishes. Then they’d meet up with friends for eggnog and mulled cider and for caroling if the weather wasn’t too cold. After opening presents on Christmas Day, they’d go over to the Bernards’ for another feast and lots of good company.

But that had been a long time ago, and now his mom was gone.

Noah nodded solemnly. “I understand. Well, thanks for the tour.”

“And thanks for the cookies.” Bryce wanted to thank him for more than that—for an hour’s worth of nonjudgmental company, for his bright smile and rumbly voice. Yeah, that was a good idea. Scare the poor guy away.

Still, Bryce had to say something. “Tomorrow’s Saturday and I’m on shift,” he blurted. “I mean, if you and Harper want to stop by—”

“Yes!”

They both laughed at Noah’s eagerness, and he shrugged. “She’s been bugging me about it, but I didn’t want to annoy you.”

“You wouldn’t.” Understatement. “My offer was totally sincere.”

“She’ll be seriously thrilled.”

“I’ll see you then.”

Bryce stood in the open doorway, ignoring the cold as he watched Noah walk away. After the door was closed, he leaned back against it like a lovesick teenager.

Shit.

FOUR

Dear Ruth,

I’m 14. I really want a smart phone for Christmas, but my parents won’t buy me one. They say I don’t need one and it’ll only distract me or get broken. I’m a really good student and I do all my chores, and all my friends have smart phones. How can I convince my parents to join the 21st century and get me one too?

—Technology Deprived

SATURDAY MORNING was busier than usual at the station, mostly because of a kitchen fire at the greasy spoon out near the highway. Despite passing Bryce’s inspections and those of his predecessor, the diner had fires on a fairly regular basis. Nobody had ever been hurt, and the mess from the fire-retardant foam was often worse than the fire itself. The restaurant crew, well practiced at cleaning up, would be back to serving gristly burgers and limp fries in no time.

Once everyone got back to the station and cleaned up, it was lunchtime. Most of the guys went a few doors down for pizza, but Bryce stayed up in his cubbyhole of an office with some paperwork and a sandwich. He’d overindulged on cookies the night before.

He was halfway through an endless state-mandated report when a loud male voice called from below. “Hey, Reynolds! You got company!”

It was fortunate nobody saw how eagerly Bryce shot out of his chair.

The entire crew stood looking at Harper and Noah, both of whom were swathed in winter clothing. Bryce marched into the middle of the group. “Hey, guys. This is Harper Costa. In a few years she’s going to be joining us, so I thought maybe we could give her a job orientation today. Whadda ya say?”

Novelty and distraction were always welcome at the station, and it was hard to resist such an eager visitor. Within minutes Harper was out of her parka and scarf and nearly hidden under a helmet and turnout jacket. While the men started her tour, Bryce and Noah hung back near the door.

“This is seriously cool of you,” Noah said. “You’ve made her year.”

“Glad to do it. I wanted to be a fireman too when I was a kid.”

“That certainly turned out well.”

“How about you? What did you want to be?”

Noah huffed quietly. “Not a marketing director, that’s for sure. I dunno. I sort of… floated, I guess. It took me a while to find myself.” His grin flashed. “I’m a late bloomer.”

“Have you, uh, bloomed now?”

The laugh he received in reply echoed through the garage bay. “I’m past the budding stage. And I don’t know if I’m fully in flower yet.”

Harper’s tour was thorough and took a long time. The crew let her inspect all the equipment and explore the ladder truck, including how to work the lights and siren. She looked ready to die of happiness when one of the guys suggested that the truck needed to be taken out for a test run and Noah gave permission for his daughter to ride along. The truck rumbled away, leaving Noah and Bryce alone in the firehouse.

“That’s kind of a waste of taxpayer money, isn’t it?” Noah asked. “And possibly a safety violation?”

“Eh. Take it up with the chief.” Who was out of town visiting family in Nebraska and wouldn’t care even if he’d been in Bailey Springs. “Oh, hey. I have those coupons for you. Want them now?”

Shortly after they arrived in the office, Bryce realized that the space felt far too intimate. Desperate to deflect another wave of lust, he focused on his search through a desk drawer. “Glamorous place, huh? Let’s not let Harper see this little corner of the station.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Bryce saw Noah gazing at the photos that hung crookedly on the wall. “You’re on a baseball team?” Noah asked.

“We play against the sheriff’s department every summer. We kick their asses.”

Bryce found the coupons, but Noah was too busy looking at the pictures to notice. “What’s this one over here?” Noah pointed to one of Bryce in his dress uniform, shaking the hand of the mayor of Wichita.

“Oh. Um, yeah. I was getting a certificate.”

“For?”

“There was this, um, kid.” Scrunching up his eyes and rubbing the back of his head wasn’t keeping Bryce’s cheeks from burning.

“A kid?”

Shit. “Car wreck. A sedan ended up wedged underneath a semi, toddler trapped in a car seat in the back of the sedan, whole mess on fire.”

“Jesus! But the certificate?”

“I got him out. He had a broken leg and smoke inhalation, but he ended up fine.” Which was good, because Bryce could still remember the sensation of the seemingly lifeless little body in his arms, the small ash-gray face splattered with blood. But that image was countered by the sound of the kid crying once he’d had a little oxygen; that had been a sweet sound indeed.

Noah’s eyes were huge. “You went into a burning car wreck and saved a child.”

“It’s my job.”

“You’re a hero.” Noah shook his head. “My marketing copy never saved anyone.”

“You’re a single parent. That’s heroic enough.”

They stared at each other, and for a moment Bryce almost thought…. But then the fire engine rumbled into the bay beneath them, and Noah glanced away. “We probably better go rescue your guys from my daughter.”

As it turned out, nobody needed rescuing. The crew was obviously having almost as much fun as Harper, who was totally wound up with excitement. “I rode on a fire truck!” she screamed to Noah.

“I see that.”

“A really real fire truck! And we did the siren and made the lights go and we drove down the street and I got to wave at people!”

They weren’t supposed to run the siren unnecessarily. Bryce hoped they wouldn’t get any complaints.

Noah took a lot of photos of Harper in gear and on the truck, and then the guys hammed it up for some “action shots” of Harper handling the hoses and wielding an ax. Finally, everyone gathered for a group shot.

“C’mon, Reynolds,” said one of the crew members. “You too.”

“Oh, I don’t think—”

“Definitely you,” Noah said. He winced. “Um, you arranged it, after all.”

So Bryce ended up kneeling beside Harper while his crew made jokes about how he ought to appear in a charity muscle calendar instead.

“Take off your shirt, Reynolds, and we could earn a fortune for the widows and orphans fund.”

Another guy quipped, “We don’t have a widows and orphans fund. But if he takes off his pants—” That earned him an elbow in the ribs from the colleague standing next to him, a reminder that a little kid was in their midst.

Bryce, meanwhile, went as red as the truck behind him, and Noah covered his own face with his hands.

“Time to get back to work!” Bryce yelled.

It took some time for Harper to get her coat, hat, scarf, and gloves back on, even with Noah’s help. After he had donned his own outerwear, he and Bryce stood at the door, Bryce with a renewed feeling of awkwardness.

“Thanks again,” Noah said. He glanced at Harper, who was deep in discussion with one of the crew. “This was… amazing. Truly.”

“Glad we could do it.” And that was true. Aside from the thrilling but dangerous opportunity to be near Noah again, Bryce loved that he’d made Harper so happy. After all, how often did someone have the chance to bring pure delight into someone else’s life? And perhaps cultivate a future firefighter?

“Maybe, um…. I’m sort of a mediocre cook, but I can manage a few things passably well. Maybe I could repay you with dinner sometime?”

Bryce wanted that very much. But he had to be honest with himself—he was developing a thing for Noah, and it wasn’t fair to the guy if Noah’s thoughts were purely platonic. It was the opposite of leading someone on. Was there a name for that? “Sure. Sometime,” Bryce replied vaguely.

After a pause, Noah nodded and patted Bryce’s shoulder. “Yeah. Well, thanks! We’ll see you around.” He took Harper’s hand and led her out the door.

The entire crew stared as Bryce trudged toward the stairs. “Work?” he reminded them, and he didn’t stick around to see their response.

THAT NIGHT, Bryce ignored the cold and dark and went running. Fast. Through downtown—where only Louella’s, the pizza place, and the theater remained open—across the railroad tracks, and past the grain elevator and the pet food plant. Up and down the streets in the expensive part of town and then in the neighborhood of postwar bungalows that had been built for employees of a candy factory. The factory was long gone; it had burned to the ground when Bryce was a baby. Years later, he’d heard stories about the historically spectacular fire from some of the department veterans. Nothing remained but a large flat lot, weedy in summer and now dotted with patches of ice and dirty snow. Bryce ran past that too.

He ran, in fact, all the way to Memorial Bridge outside of town. It was too dark to see the river flowing beneath him, but he could hear it churning along on its way to the Missouri. He turned and ran back toward home.

The weather was a little warmer than it had been in recent days, the sky too overcast to show stars. The forecasters said snow was on the way, and although some people were happy at the prospect of a white Christmas, Bryce was not. A lot of people traveled on Christmas, and slick roads increased the likelihood of holiday mishaps.

As he ran he tried to keep his thoughts in safe territory. But most of the houses sparkled with holiday lights—white, red and green, blue—and front yards sported Santas, reindeer, penguins, and various other seasonal characters grinning away. The decorations, of course, reminded him of Noah. Dammit.

The thing of it was, Bryce didn’t have a lot of friends. Even when he was a kid, he had only a couple of close pals, and that was it. In Wichita he’d slept around a bit but hadn’t really socialized all that much. Then he’d found a steady boyfriend, and they’d had mutual friends, and that was fine. Until they broke up. Back in Bailey Springs again, well, there were the guys at the station, but he was their boss.

Noah was probably just as lonely. He was new in town, after all, and didn’t even have coworkers to hang out with.

Noah and Bryce enjoyed each other’s company. They could be friends, right? Bryce had straight friends. Except… he wasn’t attracted to those men. He didn’t imagine them naked, didn’t picture them when he jacked off, didn’t dream about them. Bryce could either fess up to drooling after Noah or keep his big mouth shut, but that elephant was going to be in the room whether he acknowledged it or not.

Maybe the best thing was to give up on Bailey Springs entirely. Move back to Wichita. Move anywhere. Because there was nothing to tie him to this dumb little town in the middle of a flyover state.

Nothing but history, blood, and memories. Nothing but his mother’s grave, the job he loved, the little speck of real estate he’d painstakingly made his own, and the Bernards—who were the next best thing to family.

Gasping for breath, he reached his front door. The Bernards. Maybe talking to Alma would help. He glanced at his phone and saw that it wasn’t too late, so he turned, jogged down the porch steps, and headed south.

“BRYCE! WHAT on earth!”

“Can I come in, Alma?”

She tsked. “Of course, of course.”

Alma and Gene had decorated lavishly for Christmas, but not the way Owen used to. His décor had said Martha Stewart Living or House Beautiful; theirs said Walmart clearance bin. Not that Bryce minded. In fact he preferred the Bernards’ choices, which were gaudy and cheery and didn’t look like they’d bankrupt anyone. Even better, a lot of them were handmade by the Bernard grandchildren—mysterious conglomerations of popsicle sticks, cotton balls, construction paper, and tempera paint.

Alma led Bryce to the couch and gently pushed him onto it, then stood looking down at him with hands on hips. “Gene’s at his brother’s, playing cards.”

“That’s fine. Wanted to talk to you.”

“Okay. Stay put.”

While he caught his breath, Alma bustled around the kitchen. It looked as if she’d been enjoying a quiet evening at home. A glass of wine sat beside a splayed-open mystery novel on a small table next to her armchair. Flames crackled merrily in the fireplace, and the stereo system showcased Bing Crosby crooning about silver bells. Bryce walked over and peered suspiciously at the fire. “Alma?” he called. “When’s the last time you had your chimney cleaned?”

She came back into the room holding a laden tray. “September. We have it inspected every year.”

“And you always make sure the embers are completely doused before you leave or go to bed?”

“Sit down, Bryce. You’re off duty.”

She’d made him cocoa with little marshmallows, which she served along with chocolate balls that tasted of rum. “I’m going to end up too fat for my uniform,” he protested.

“Then buy a bigger size.” She sat in her chair and, after taking a sip of wine, fixed him with a sharp stare. “What are you trying to run away from tonight, Bryce?”

“I’m not. I was exercising.”

“Uh-huh.” Another swallow of wine, bigger this time. Atop the fake tree in the corner, an angel made of pinecones, lace, and glitter watched them, her pipe-cleaner halo slightly askew. The fire popped and crackled. Frank Sinatra promised to be home by Christmas.

“The column’s going okay,” he blurted at last.

“Which isn’t why you came here, but fine. We can go there for now. Yes, it’s going well. I’ve been getting a lot of emails over it.”

“Complimentary ones?”

“Uh, about 70 percent. Which isn’t bad. Your mother averaged about 80. Besides, even the complaining ones are good. It means people are reading.”

“What do you think of the column?” He popped another rum ball into his mouth.

“I like it. You’re more blunt than your mother, but there’s nothing wrong with that. Your advice is clear and logical. Compassionate too. I was especially pleased with the one the other day—the transgender girl.”

He’d been terrified about that one, actually. The girl was seventeen and not out to anyone in town. She wanted to know whether to tell her parents.

Alma continued. “I liked your emphasis on her safety being paramount and how she’s the best one to anticipate the outcome of her disclosure. You did a good job acknowledging that her feelings are genuine and that nobody has the right to define who she is. The list of websites and phone numbers was helpful too.”

“Do you think she’ll be okay?” Bryce asked.

“I hope so.”

“Do you know who she is?” Not that he harbored fantasies of swooping in to rescue her, but….

“No idea,” Alma replied crisply. “It’s difficult in such a small town, but I try hard not to speculate about who writes the letters. It would be best if you did the same.”

“Okay.” He had burned his tongue on the hot chocolate but took another, more careful sip. It was good—made from scratch, not the powdered stuff.

“Have you reconsidered joining us for Christmas?” she asked.

“I told you. I have to—”

“And I told you. We can work around it.”

“I appreciate that, but this year I just want quiet.” Bryce leaned back into the couch cushions and closed his eyes. He’d spent a lot of time in this house. When he was a kid, his mother would bring him along and pass hours in inscrutable—and dreary—adult talk while Bryce played with the Bernard kids. They had a big video collection, which they were happy to share, or they’d all go out into the big backyard to play ball or run around with the family dogs.

Maybe he should get a dog.

“There’s this guy,” he said, eyes still closed as Nat King Cole proclaimed that Santa was on his way.

“And?”

“I… like him.” Jesus. He sounded like he was thirteen.

“Does he like you?”

Bryce opened his eyes to see a small smile playing around the corners of Alma’s mouth. “He’s straight.”

“That sounds like a really bad idea.” She tapped her chin. “Or a decent porno.”

“Alma!”

“What do you want me to tell you, honey?”

“Can I still be friends with him?”

She picked up her wineglass, downed the rest, and looked sorry there wasn’t more. “That’s up to him, I’d think.”

“But that’s the thing. I haven’t told him I have a thing for him. It would be… weird. So do I tell him and watch him back away, or do I keep my lips zipped and hope my libido changes its mind?”

“Wow.” She blew out a noisy burst of air. “That’s a tough one. If someone wrote a Dear Ruth letter with your problem, what would you tell him?”

He whimpered. “That honesty is the best policy.”

“Well, there you go.”

This time he moaned. Then he ate two more rum balls and guzzled cocoa. “It’s going to hurt when he backs away. Maybe I should make the preemptive strike and back away first. Just sort of… stop talking to him. I don’t have to tell him why.”

“If he’s your friend, won’t that hurt him? Or at least confuse him?”

Ugh. Of course it would. And why couldn’t Bryce face this issue like a mature, grown man instead of like a socially stunted adolescent? “I’m going to leave Bailey Springs,” he muttered. “I can go be a fireman in… what’s the opposite of Kansas?”

“Hawaii,” Alma responded immediately, as if it were a question she’d already considered.

“Hawaii. Palm trees. Ocean breezes. Mai tais. Dolphins. There are dolphins in Hawaii, right?”

“I believe so. And I’m sure there are fires that need putting out. But honey, Hawaii might be the opposite of Kansas, but you’d still be the same Bryce Reynolds. You can’t run away from yourself.”

“Can’t even take a vacation from the bastard.”

He had a second mug of chocolate and a glass of wine, then declined Alma’s offer to drive him home. Instead he walked slowly through the dark and the cold, a plastic container of rum balls clutched in his hands.

FIVE

Dear Ruth,

I don’t know what to do. I just finished my first semester at KU, where I’m majoring in chemistry. I like it okay, and Lawrence isn’t too bad. My parents are happy I’m not too far away. But I want to know what it’s like to live in a really big city. So I’m thinking of transferring to CUNY next year. I think it would be super exciting to live in New York City, but my parents are freaking out. What should I do?

—Wish I Wasn’t in Kansas Anymore

“EVERYONE WANTS to escape,” Bryce said to his laptop. Except Noah, who’d come to Bailey Springs knowingly and willingly.

He began to compose a reply:

Dear Wish I Wasn’t,

Run. Run away fast. Don’t look back, because

Shit. If he submitted that response, rioters would show up at the Gazette offices and demand his head. People in Bailey Springs were always worried about declining population, although things weren’t as bad here as in many other small towns. A meat processing plant had opened up a few years ago in nearby Lauper, and many of its employees elected to live in Bailey Springs because the schools were better. And although quite a few young people moved elsewhere, a lot of them—like Bryce—eventually moved back.

“This town grows on you,” his mother had said when he returned.

“Like mold.”

Yet here he was. Still.

Maybe he wasn’t in the right mindset for this particular letter. No problem; he had others to choose from.

Dear Ruth,

I’m really interested in a certain man. He’s sexy, smart, funny, brave, and sweet. I don’t know him all that well yet, but I love spending time with him. The problem is, I’m pretty sure he’s way out of my league, and I don’t know if he thinks of me in a romantic way at all. So I’m afraid to make the first move. What should I do?

—Lovelorn

“Oh, sweetheart. I feel your pain.” Although Bryce empathized with many of those who wrote to him, he related to this woman more than usual. He knew exactly how she must feel while hanging out with her guy friend—smitten, yet afraid to show it for fear of embarrassing herself or scaring him away. At least he could give advice that wasn’t likely to result in civil unrest.

Dear Lovelorn,

He sounds like a great guy. If he’s choosing to spend time with you, then at the very least he must enjoy your company. It’s possible he just wants to be friends, but maybe he shares your feelings and is too shy to do anything about it. Maybe he thinks you’re out of his league. Some men can be a lot more insecure than they let on.

Some men can also be blind to subtlety, so if you want this to go somewhere, you may need to take a more direct approach. With the holidays here, you have the perfect opportunity. Consider giving him a small gift that shows how you think of him, or maybe just invite him to dinner at your place. If he’s really not into you in a romantic way, either of these options would allow both of you to back away gracefully.

—Ruth

It was still a little weird to sign his mother’s pen name to these things, but he sent off the response to Alma with a satisfied smile. It was Friday, which meant the letter would appear in the Gazette’s weekend edition, and if Lovelorn wanted to take action, she had time before Christmas, which was on Monday.

The fact that it was Friday also meant Bryce had to work the next ten days in a row. His own choice, and far better than moping around the house, but still exhausting to contemplate. So what if it wasn’t even noon yet? He was going to take a nap.

Because he stripped as he walked, he was shivering by the time he reached his bed. He dove under the heavy comforter, thankful for the flannel sheets his mother had given him for his birthday in September. She’d seemed perfectly healthy then, a woman in her midsixties who ate sensibly and exercised regularly. She was, in fact, a font of energy—a person who could spend a day wrangling high school kids and then come home to make dinner, clean the house, grade papers, and write an advice column. She spent the summers bicycling in national parks. She sat on the library board, attended meetings of the tiny group of local Unitarians, and on occasion binge-watched 1980s sitcoms.

God, Bryce missed her.

When he tried, he could find some solace in the way she’d died. She’d been out with one of her friends, knocking on doors to persuade people to post yard signs for Democratic candidates. A challenge in these parts, but one she relished. On a lark, she and the friend had decided to cut through the cemetery near the center of town instead of walking around it. Halfway across she’d put her hand to her head and dropped like a felled log. Aneurysm and a massive stroke. She was dead long before the EMTs arrived. At least she didn’t suffer. And since Bryce wasn’t on duty that night, he hadn’t been forced to watch the first responders work on her lifeless body. The fact that she’d keeled over in a graveyard? She would have thought that was really funny.

So her death was a terrible thing that could have been worse. And he was slowly getting used to her absence in his life. But it was still a fresh wound, and it hurt like hell.

Naptime. He should be thinking peaceful thoughts. Although the bedroom lights were off, the weak winter sun snuck in around the edges of the curtains, and he could make out the details of his room. The crown molding he’d painstakingly installed, the pale blue paint that had taken him weeks to choose, the framed photos of mountains. He even had an original painting, a landscape by a local artist. Bryce liked his bedroom; it was an oasis. But his bed was so empty.

“I swear to God,” he said out loud, “if you don’t stop the pity party, I’m going to do something drastic.” He meant the threat seriously, although he wasn’t sure what the drastic thing would be. An extra mile tacked on to his usual run? A Grindr-fueled weekend in Kansas City? Trading in his dependable old pickup for something exotic and entirely unsuitable?

Out of desperation, he pulled out his phone, logged into his favorite porn site, and turned off his brain.

SIX

Dear Ruth,

I’m a part-time bookkeeper for a small family-owned business. My bosses—husband and wife—are fantastic and I love working for them. The pay’s not great, but I get decent benefits, and my hours are flexible so I can pick up my kids after school. But one of the other employees has been coming on to me lately. Nothing completely inappropriate, but he compliments me a lot and he’s asked me out a few times. I’ve told him I’m not interested, but he won’t leave me alone. He seems to think that since I’m divorced, I’m fair game. Normally I’d complain to my bosses—but he’s their son! How can I get this guy off my back without jeopardizing my job?

—Harassed

ON SUNDAY afternoon, Bryce sat in the firehouse, squinting at his laptop screen. A lunchtime feast had been arranged for firemen and cops who’d pulled Christmas Eve duty, and now he was full and drowsy. Too drowsy, probably, to give sensible advice to Harassed—who must surely realize that there was a good chance her employers would read her letter and recognize themselves. Not too many local situations fit the one she’d described. Well, maybe they would read it and the problem would solve itself. If that obnoxious man had been his kid, Bryce would have fired his ass.

Dear Harassed,

I’m sorry you have to deal with this situation. As you probably know, the law prohibits harassment that’s severe enough to create a hostile work environment—and it sounds as if your co-worker may have crossed that line. Talking to a lawyer is always an option. But you don’t have to begin there. Instead, you could sit down with your bosses and explain the situation to them, much as you did in your letter. Concrete examples might help. If they truly are fantastic employers, and if they value you as an employee, they will take appropriate actions. If they refuse to do anything or if they retaliate—

As Bryce hovered his fingers over the keyboard while he considered how to word the next part, one of the guys down in the bay called up to him. “Someone here to see you, Reynolds!”

With a sincere hope that Alma hadn’t followed through on her threats to bring Christmas celebrations to him, Bryce trotted down the stairs. Only to come to an abrupt halt when he spied Noah standing near the door, gnawing on his lip.

“Harper’s ready to clock in for her first shift?” Bryce asked, even though there was no sign of her.

Noah’s laughter sounded slightly forced. “Ah, no. I mean, she totally would. But right now she’s over at her bestie’s house, working on some kind of supersecret gift-creation project. I’m afraid it involves glitter.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Yeah.” Noah glanced at the rest of the crew, who were watching this little interchange with great interest. “Um, do you have a couple of minutes?”

“Sure. Unless something starts burning. Um, c’mon up.” Bryce glared at his men, who looked disappointed to be missing out. Why, he had no idea. Boredom, maybe. It had been a very slow afternoon.

Up in the office, Bryce gestured at his extra chair, but Noah chose to remain standing. He’d unzipped his coat and stuffed his gloves in a pocket, but he still wore a scarf around his neck. He fidgeted with the tassels. “I hope I’m not interrupting you.”

“You’re not. My choices so far have been eating or paperwork. I think I’ve done enough of both for one day.”

Noah, his boots loud on the old wooden floor, wandered over and stared at the photo of Bryce receiving that damn commendation. Everyone had made such a big deal out of it, but any of his colleagues would have done the same thing. Bryce just happened to be first on the scene.

“Harper is still going on about our visit here last week,” Noah said without turning to face him. “I’m pretty sure we’re going to be reliving the details for some time.”

“I’m glad we made an impression.”

Noah glanced over his shoulder. “You did.” His hair was sticking up from either static electricity or the jacket hood. Bryce was so tempted to smooth it down that he shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. But that gesture didn’t change the fact that Noah was right here, right within reach, and when Noah spun around, Bryce jumped back a foot or two.

“Tomorrow’s Christmas,” Noah said.

“Yes.” Ooh, nice response, Reynolds. Very suave.

“Harper and I—it’s just the two of us. We’re used to that. But I always make this bigass ham anyway, with a killer pomegranate maple glaze. It’s one of my few star dishes. And Harper likes brussels sprouts because she’s a weird kid, so I make those too. And I have those frozen bread roll things, you know? So they taste kinda homemade.”

A heavy silence fell. Bryce frantically tried to figure out what Noah was getting at. Oh! Maybe he wanted to ask another favor but felt uncomfortable about it. “Did you want me to stop by to make sure your oven’s venting properly?”

Noah goggled at him. “What? No! I just thought—I mean, I’m sure you have Christmas plans already, but if you maybe wanted to stop by….”

Oh. “You don’t have to repay me for the station tour, Noah. I was glad to do it.”

“That’s not….” Noah sighed noisily.

“Thanks so much, though. It’s really nice of you to offer. I have to work tomorrow.”

“Ah. Yeah, I guess firemen have to stay on duty even on holidays.”

“Especially then. Lots of fires this time of year, plus idiots driving drunk. And it’s starting to snow.”

Noah looked down for a minute, then up again. “Well, have a merry Christmas anyway.”

“Yeah. You too.”

Noah began to walk toward the stairs. But it was a small office, and he had to pass very close to Bryce. When he did, he stopped suddenly, grabbed Bryce’s shoulders, and pulled their bodies close.

Noah’s lips were surprisingly soft, and he tasted like spearmint gum. When he let go of Bryce’s shoulders, his hands felt strong and warm as they cupped Bryce’s cheeks. Then he spoke, his deep whisper felt as much as heard. “Uninterested, Bryce? Or blind to subtlety? For the life of me, I can’t tell, and it’s killing me.”

As soon as their bodies had touched, Bryce’s entire nervous system had gone into overload, sending his brain completely offline. He could barely process Noah’s words, let alone formulate a coherent response. Then his mouth kicked in without his brain’s assistance. “But you have a kid!”

“She’s not here. Anyway, she adores you. From what I understand, she spent a good chunk of her firetruck ride asking the crew whether you could marry me.”

“Oh God.” Not a single one of the men had mentioned that little tidbit, the bastards. That was a matter he’d deal with later. Right now he had a handsome man in his face.

“Are you gay?” Bryce asked. Wow. Good one.

“I can’t think of a good reason why I’d be kissing you if I wasn’t.”

“But… Harper.”

“She’s always known, and it’s totally no big deal to— Oh. You know, gay people have kids too. Harper’s adopted, if you must know.” He was still pressed to Bryce, his palms still warm on Bryce’s cheeks.

But Bryce’s head continued to whirl. “Did you write that letter?”

“Yep.”

“Did you know I’m—”

“Ruth? Also yep.”

“Nobody’s supposed to know that.” Even Mrs. Foster didn’t know. Surely Alma hadn’t spilled the beans. Bryce didn’t think she knew Noah, and even if she did, she wouldn’t have said anything about the column.

“I, uh…. Remember when you gave me your house tour? I sort of peeked at your laptop. You need to use a screensaver, dude. Anyway, I saw what was there and made a few inferences. Sorry.” He stepped back a little, and Bryce stifled a protest.

“It’s no big…. Jesus.” Bryce briskly rubbed the back of his head. “Man, I totally didn’t expect this.”

Noah winced. “Yeah. A couple times I kind of thought you might…. But then you didn’t, and I didn’t….”

“You don’t honestly think I’m out of your league, do you?”

“Look in a mirror lately? Or taken a good look at me underneath all this… down?” Noah patted his coat.

Time for honesty. “The first time I saw you, I thought you were dead sexy. Still do.”

That brought a slight flush to Noah’s cheeks, along with a shy smile. “Yeah? But I’m just an unemployed marketing schlump, while you… you’re only a cape and tights away from being Superman.”

Bryce was opening his mouth to respond when the alarm blared. “Dammit! Gotta go!” He cast a desperate look at Noah before hurtling down the stairs.

SEVEN

Dear Ruth,

It turns out the man I had a secret crush on is gay and had a secret crush on me. And he kissed me and it was fucking amazing and I never wanted it to stop. But even now that I know my feelings are reciprocated, I’m still confused because God, he’s really great, and I’m the whiny guy who screws relationships up and

And writing an advice-seeking letter to himself wasn’t helping one bit. Bryce deleted the whole thing.

The Christmas Eve fire had turned out to be a big one. Someone in one of those ancient Victorian heaps in the ritzy part of town had let their Christmas tree dry out. Not only was that house engulfed in flames, but the fire had spread to the place next door, a larger heap that had been vacant for years. Firehouses from neighboring communities contributed manpower and equipment to manage the blaze. Fortunately nobody was hurt, but both structures burned to the ground, and the family with the neglected Christmas tree lost everything. By the time it was all over and the basic cleanup complete, it was late. Bryce took a long hot shower at the station and collapsed into a deep sleep on one of the cots.

Christmas Day dawned with a skeleton crew on shift. The other guys were playing cards in the firehouse lounge, but Bryce had hidden himself in his office. He wasn’t ready to confront them over the whole Noah thing—not when he didn’t have his own mind straight on the matter. Mostly he found himself staring out the tiny window, where huge white flakes drifted down, adding to the thickening blanket on Main Street.

“A winter wonderland,” he murmured.

On a whim he picked up his phone and called Alma. “Merry Christmas,” he said when she answered.

“And to you. Did you get any rest last night?”

“Yeah. I crashed at the station.”

“Any official word on the cause of the fire?”

“Christmas tree.”

She clucked her tongue. “Too bad. Well, considering that the Shaffers own an insurance agency, I’m sure they had decent coverage.”

“Do they have a place to stay?”

“I hear they’re with family in Lauper. Have you eaten today?”

He laughed. “We still have tons of leftovers from yesterday. Your feast is all set for tonight?”

“It is. Jennifer and Bobby are already here with their families, so nobody’s out driving, and we’re cozy as bugs in a rug. You’re positive you won’t join us? We always have room for more.”

He was surprised to find himself tempted. But he said, “No, thanks. God knows whose tree is going to cause an inferno tonight. Give everyone my love, okay?”

“Will do. Merry Christmas, honey.”

His heart felt a little lighter after he hung up, and if there was an afterlife, he imagined his mother nodding in approval. “Miss you, Mom,” he whispered. This time it hurt only a bit.

After staring some more at the falling snow, he decided to leave things be with Noah for the moment. Let thoughts settle until after the holidays, and then… then everything would magically make sense and he’d have all the answers. Maybe Santa would bring him solutions to his personal dilemmas. That should all fit down the chimney. Too bad Bryce hadn’t thought to hang a stocking.

Dammit! He had to take some action! And suddenly he knew exactly what to do.

The crew looked up from their card game when he appeared. One of the men, a guy named Perry, leered at Bryce. “Hey, Reynolds, are you and that guy—”

“Don’t. Don’t even start or you’re going to be coiling hoses until your arms fall off.”

“But are you coiling your hose, Reynolds?” Perry asked with a chortle.

“Ha. I’m glad to know your fireman-related innuendos are as good as any twelve-year-old’s. Do we still have that old gear lying around someplace?”

“Most of it, yeah. The chief hasn’t figured out what to do with it. I suggested the landfill. Why?”

Bryce nodded briskly. “The chief won’t notice if a helmet goes missing, will he?”

“Nope. And a safe fireman always wears a helmet, right?”

Ignoring the laughter, Bryce glanced around. “Where’s the old gear stored?”

“That closet,” Perry answered, pointing.

The space was dark and smelled like mildew and feet. But Bryce pawed through it anyway, grunting with triumph when he unearthed a helmet, an intact belt, and a flashlight. The helmet and belt were dirty and the light had a small crack, but he figured that only added to their authenticity. He stuffed them in a canvas gear bag that was probably older than he was, and then he stepped back into the lounge. “I don’t suppose anybody has some ribbon?”

That question was never answered because the alarm began to blast. The crew abandoned their cards, Bryce dropped the bag, and everyone hurried to gear up. “Two-car injury accident. Seventeenth and Monroe,” Perry called.

That was just two blocks from Bryce’s house.

Technically the whole crew didn’t need to muster out for this call, but nobody had anything better to do. The engine roared out of the bay with the rescue truck right behind. The slick streets slowed their progress, but from the fire engine’s front seat, Bryce admired how the red emergency flashers illuminated the falling snow, as if adding to the holiday cheer.

Three squad cars had already arrived, and cops in heavy winterwear swarmed the scene. A big pickup truck appeared to have T-boned a sedan. There was no smoke or fire, but pieces of metal and plastic were scattered widely over the area. One cop leaned toward the sedan window, apparently talking to the driver, while another three provided first aid to a figure lying flat in the snow. A few bystanders stood in their front yards, ignoring the falling snow as they watched. Mrs. Foster waved at Bryce, who waved back.

He was about to start shouting orders when he caught sight of the last cop, a guy he’d gone to high school with. He was kneeling on the sidewalk next to a standing child. His hand rested on the shoulder of a familiar green parka accessorized with a red-and-gold scarf.

Oh, fuck. No no no no.

“Harper!” Heart racing, Bryce turned to Perry. “You take over, okay? Please. I need—”

“Got it. Go to her, man.”

Harper saw Bryce running toward her and rushed to meet him, throwing herself into his arms with a noisy wail. He tried to look at her as he held her. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

Instead of answering, she buried her face in the crook of his neck and sobbed.

The cop stood and joined them. “She was in a car seat. She’s fine. Scared is all.” He patted Harper’s back, but she didn’t loosen her grip on Bryce.

Although Bryce was enormously relieved to know she was unharmed, his heart still felt like a chunk of heavy ice. “Her father?” he asked quietly. He wanted to shout.

The officer pointed at the sedan. “He’s shook up a little, a few cuts and bruises probably. Way better off than that unlucky bast—” He glanced guiltily at Harper. “—gentleman.”

Bryce’s legs went slightly wobbly, and he took a few steadying breaths. “Good. Good” was all he could say. He was trying not to puke.

Seemingly oblivious to Bryce’s stormy mental state, the cop shrugged and shook his head. “Looks like the guy in the truck ran a stop sign, probably speeding. No seat belt. I’ve cited that SOB twice over the past couple years for DUI. I bet he’s blitzed.”

“Crap. Look, I’ll take charge of Harper, okay? I know her.”

“Sure thing.”

Bryce carried Harper to the idling fire engine and sat her in the passenger seat. By the time he’d draped an emergency blanket over her shoulders, her tears had stopped and she was looking around with interest. “Can I do the sirens?” she asked.

“Not right now, sweetheart. We don’t want to disturb everyone while they’re working.” He’d calmed himself enough to speak steadily and soothingly. That was good.

“We crashed.”

“I know. But it’s going to be all right.”

“I think our car’s broken.”

He shot a look through the windshield. Broken, oh yeah. Totaled most likely. “Your daddy will get it fixed, or else he’ll get a new one. Don’t worry. Where were you guys going, anyway?”

“Daddy burned the ham and we didn’t have any dinner for Christmas, so we were going to the gas station ’cause they got pizza. I like pizza.”

Bryce chuckled, and the lump of ice in his heart slowly thawed. The convenience store gas station by the highway was probably the only business open today. Noah must have been attempting to salvage what he could of holiday cheer. “Does your daddy have a lot of kitchen disasters?”

“Lots and lots.”

“Well, as soon as this mess is cleaned up, I’m sure he’ll get you something to eat.”

“Okay.”

An ambulance took the injured truck driver away. A few minutes later, Noah finished with the police officer and walked toward the fire engine. He limped a little and had a Band-Aid over one eyebrow. When Noah drew close, Bryce helped Harper down from the cab, and she ran into her father’s arms. He scooped her up, holding her tightly.

They made a vivid tableau, their clothes bright against the snow, the emergency lights flashing, cops and firemen and tow truck drivers moving around behind them. Noah and Harper were oblivious to it all—at the moment, they were a universe unto themselves.

“Family,” Bryce said through a tight throat as he watched them. “Such a beautiful family.”

And a funny thing happened. As the snow continued to spiral down like giant confetti, Bryce knew with certainty that he wanted to be a part of that beautiful family. He even believed they might want it too.

And he knew, so clearly, what his first step should be.

Noah approached the engine, still carrying Harper. Bryce hopped down to meet them. For a long moment, he and Noah simply stared at each other.

It was Bryce who spoke first. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“I could take you to the hospital and have them check you out.”

“The paramedic already did, and she said I’m good to go.”

Bryce gave a jerky nod. “You’ll be stiff in the morning. Your muscles.”

“I can live with that.”

Another long moment of silence while Bryce tried to gather his courage. Noah set Harper down, and she immediately scrambled over to converse with an idle member of the fire crew.

“Look,” Noah finally said. “It’s cold out here. I need to get Harper home and find something to feed her. There was an incident with the ham.”

“I heard.” Bryce took a deep breath. This was scarier than running into a burning building. “How about if you guys join me for dinner at a friend’s house instead? They’re nice people. I’m sure they’d love to meet you.”

“I thought you had to work.”

“I did. But there’s someone I can call to cover my shift. He’ll be happy for an excuse to escape his in-laws.”

“I don’t want your pity!”

Bryce held up his hands. “I don’t pity you. Actually, I envy you.” When Noah looked incredulous, Bryce sighed. “Look. I can be kind of slow on the uptake. Obviously. And yesterday when you— Well, you really took me by surprise. I don’t deal well with surprises.”

“I’d think that would be a liability in your line of work.” A hint of lightness had appeared in Noah’s eyes, and although it was hard to tell with the parka, Bryce thought Noah’s shoulders seemed slightly less tense.

“If the surprise involves towering flames and screaming sirens, then I’m okay. But when it involves kisses from the man I’ve been dreaming about, I stumble.”

“Dreaming about?”

“All night. All day. Fantasies, reveries. You name it.”

“What’s included in those dreams?” Definitely the start of a smile on that handsome face.

“Well, to begin with, this.”

Echoing Noah’s move from the previous day, Bryce surged forward, took Noah in his arms, and kissed him. But this kiss was different. Today Noah grabbed him back, and despite the frigid temperature and drifting snow, this kiss was heated. Scorching. An air-fed propane torch burns at thirty-six hundred degrees Fahrenheit, but this kiss felt hotter than that. The first kiss had been a shock, a test, but this one was a promise, a pledge for all the bright things to come.

And it was also accompanied by the hoots and applause of the entire on-duty emergency personnel of Bailey Springs.

Audience notwithstanding, Bryce would have happily swooped Noah into a fireman’s carry and taken him to Bryce’s house—to his bed. But when they momentarily parted to catch their breath, Harper dashed to them and tried to embrace them both at once.

Yes, Bryce decided. This was definitely what family felt like.

“Why don’t you guys go home and get ready for dinner?” he suggested. “I’ll catch a ride to the firehouse so I can drive my truck back here.” And pick up a present—but he’d surprise Harper with that later. He didn’t have a gift for Noah, but judging from the blaze in Noah’s eyes, they’d find something to exchange after Harper was asleep.

“And when you get back here with your truck?” asked Noah, smiling widely.

“We go to the Bernards’ for Christmas dinner and good company. Then we return to my house and watch holiday movies until we can’t stand them any longer. Maybe I can massage some of the aches out of your body.”

“I have the feeling you’re going to alleviate a lot of my aches.” Noah briefly laid a hand over his heart. Then, with Harper still clutching their legs, he pulled Bryce’s forehead against his own. “Merry Christmas, Bryce.”

“You know what, Noah? It really, really is.”

EIGHT

One year later….

Dear Bailey Springs,

This column will be on hiatus for two weeks while I’m on vacation with my husband and stepdaughter. They’ve promised to show me California’s many delights. If all goes as planned, we’ll be celebrating this Christmas by hanging out with a giant mouse and his friends and then dipping our toes in the Pacific Ocean.

Here’s some unsolicited advice to last you while I’m gone.

Make sure your Christmas trees stay well-hydrated and your electrical circuits aren’t overloaded. Check your smoke detector batteries. Practice escape routines in case of emergencies. Don’t burn wrapping paper or pine boughs in your fireplace. Drive safely, especially on slick roads. And hug your loved ones often and tell them how much you care.

Happy holidays to you all!

—Ruth’s Son

KIM FIELDING is very pleased every time someone calls her eclectic. Her books have won Rainbow Awards and span a variety of genres. She has migrated back and forth across the western two-thirds of the United States and currently lives in California, where she long ago ran out of bookshelf space. She’s a university professor who dreams of being able to travel and write full-time. She also dreams of having two perfectly behaved children, a husband who isn’t obsessed with football, and a house that cleans itself. Some dreams are more easily obtained than others.

Blogs: kfieldingwrites.com and

www.goodreads.com/author/show/4105707.Kim_Fielding/blog

Facebook: www.facebook.com/KFieldingWrites

Email: kim@kfieldingwrites.com

Twitter: @KFieldingWrites

By Kim Fielding

Alaska

Anyplace Else

Astounding!

The Border

Brute

Dear Ruth

Grateful

A Great Miracle Happened There

Grown-up

Housekeeping

Motel. Pool.

Night Shift

Once Upon a Time in the Weird West (Multiple Author Anthology)

Pilgrimage

The Pillar

Phoenix

Rattlesnake

With Venona Keyes: Running Blind

Saint Martin’s Day

Speechless • The Gig

Steamed Up (Dreamspinner Anthology)

The Tin Box

Venetian Masks

Violet’s Present

BONES

Good Bones

Buried Bones

Bone Dry

The Gig

DREAMSPUN BEYOND

#8 – Ante Up

GOTHIKA

Stitch (Multiple Author Anthology)

Bones (Multiple Author Anthology)

Claw (Multiple Author Anthology)

Spirit (Multiple Author Anthology)

Contact (Multiple Author Anthology)

LOVE CAN’T

Love Can’t Conquer

Love Is Heartless

Published by DREAMSPINNER PRESS

www.dreamspinnerpress.com

Published by

DREAMSPINNER PRESS

5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886 USA

www.dreamspinnerpress.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Dear Ruth

© 2017 Kim Fielding.

Cover Art

© 2017 Alexandria Corza.

http://www.seeingstatic.com/

Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or www.dreamspinnerpress.com.

Digital ISBN: 978-1-64080-288-9

Published December 2017

v. 1.0

Printed in the United States of America