Graf took a seat on the sofa and patted the cushion next to him. It was an invitation I wanted to take, so I eased into the nook of his arm.
“How did it go on the set?” I asked. I’d spent a lot of my hiking time imagining what was happening on the set.
“Mostly I heard everyone sing your praises, but I basked in the reflected glory.” He kissed the top of my head. “I saw the screen test, Sarah Booth. You’re amazing.”
“Because of you.” It was true. Graf made me feel safe enough to let myself go.
“Nonsense. We have chemistry, but you’ll be great no matter who you’re playing opposite. By the way, we have to be on the set at nine tomorrow.”
“Let me get dinner finished.” I’d driven down to this wonderful little store where everything was fresh and organic. “We’re having asparagus and grilled tuna steaks. They even had a nice bone for Sweetie. I think she’s already buried it in the canyon.”
I got up and headed to the kitchen. It was a pleasure to cook in a space that was well designed, clean, perfectly lighted. His voice stopped me in the doorway.
“Be careful with Sweetie. There are coyotes in the canyon. Maybe mountain lions.” I turned to see if he was teasing me, but his face showed sincerity. He signaled me back to the sofa, and I eased onto his lap. “And you be careful, too,” he whispered against my neck, his breath sending chills of pleasure over me.
I yearned to kiss him, really kiss him, but I stood up and started back to the kitchen. I hadn’t allowed myself to grieve over Coleman. I’d pushed back all of my hurt and disappointment and loss, because I was afraid if I confronted it, I would fall apart and never find the pieces to pull myself back together.
So Graf was too soon. No matter the physical attraction, if I cared about him, and about myself, I would give my heart a bit of time to heal.
“We’ll be ready to eat in a flash,” I told him. This cooking was so different from the way I’d grown up. I was still getting the hang of it, but I was a quick study when I wanted to be.
The tuna was marinating, and I had begun chopping fresh artichoke hearts for the salad when I heard Sweetie Pie baying on the porch. She had a lovely voice, all deep throat and warble. There is nothing better than the song of a hound, and I paused in my dicing to listen. Her cry went from lovely to aggressive, and I heard the scrabble of claws on the floor.
“Hey! Sweetie! Come back.”
Graf burst into the kitchen. “Sweetie just took off outside. I’m afraid she’s headed down into the canyon.”
I’d never considered the coyotes a real threat-until I saw Graf’s face. He was worried. “Let me get a light.”
I turned off the stove, picked up a flashlight and Windbreaker, and headed outside with Graf. The night was brisk, the wind cutting through the canyon from the beach with the speed of a runaway train.
Beyond us, somewhere along the trail that led down into the darkness, I heard Sweetie Pie’s baying mixed with an angry bark.
“We’ll break our necks trying to get down that cliff at night,” I told Graf.
“She’s on the trail of something. I can hear her going deeper into the canyon.”
Standing beside Graf on the lip of the cliff, I felt him tense. “What is it?” I couldn’t see anything.
“Do you smell that?” he asked.
I inhaled and caught the tang of something burning. Wildfire! I’d heard about the California fires fed by the brisk Pacific breezes. The stories had always terrified me. There was nothing more frightening than the images of hungry flames raging up the ravines and over the mountains of the western states.
“Look!” Graf pointed down into the canyon. A dancing flame devil leaped up a hillside, shooting high in the pitch-black ravine.
“I’ll call the sheriff.” I dashed inside and placed the 911 emergency call, then hurried back out to Graf, who was frantically calling Sweetie.
The smell of burning brush and trees was distinctive on the wind, and far in the distance, I could hear my hound baying as she chased something. It sounded as if she was heading straight into the fire.
“Sweetie Pie!” I put all of my heart into the call for her. As I started down the trail, Graf pulled me back.
“She’s a smart dog. She’ll be okay.” He put his arm around me, offering the comfort of his body and his words.
“She’s a Mississippi dog. She doesn’t know about wildfires and mountain lions.” My heart was pounding while I could only stand helplessly by.
“Dogs are a lot smarter than people give them credit. Especially Sweetie Pie. And remember, wild creatures are afraid of fire. I’d say the only danger she faces now is the threat of being trapped by the blaze. She knows the way back up the trail. She’ll be along any minute.”
He was trying to comfort me, and I tried not to cry as I watched the flames build into a tower and begin to creep toward us.
A local fire station was only a mile below us on the main road. I knew because I’d driven past and seen the firefighters, all buff and tanned, playing volleyball in a court beside the station. I heard their siren as they came to the house. There was really no other place to take a stand and fight the fire. We were in an isolated area with no other houses around for at least five miles.
The truck pulled in along with a green and white patrol car marked with the sheriff’s insignia and a van with a TV camera crew. I spoke with the reporters while Graf told the fire inspector what we knew.
While the firemen worked to stage a fire barrier down the ravine from the house, I answered the reporter’s repeated questions in a monotone. I no longer heard Sweetie’s bark or bay, and a hole the size of Kansas was opening in my heart. I should never have brought Sweetie to Hollywood. I should’ve left her with Tinkie and Chablis, the little dustmop Yorkie who was Sweetie’s best friend.
The camera crew packed up and left, and I rejoined Graf and the fire chief.
“Why don’t you folks go back in?” the fire chief suggested. “The smoke is getting thick here, and if there’s any danger, we’ll let you know in plenty of time to evacuate. It looks like we’ve found a good natural barrier to corral the blaze, though.”
Graf took my hand and led me inside, where we stood on the porch, supper forgotten, and listened to the shouts of the firemen and watched the blaze draw ever closer.
“She’s okay,” Graf said, knowing that my thoughts were on my hound. “Sweetie knows how much you love her. She wouldn’t risk herself.”
I wanted to ask him why it was that everything I loved died, but I knew how terribly melodramatic such a question would sound. “Sweetie is smart.” I said it aloud. Once again I was confronted with my own fears, and I was determined to master them. “She’s plenty smart, and she’ll be here any minute.”
The words were barely out of my mouth when I saw her, framed in the darkness by the orange blaze.
“Sweetie! Sweetie Pie!” I dashed out onto the lawn, causing several firemen to look at me as if I’d lost my mind. I didn’t care. “Sweetie!” She ran into my arms, a scrap of blue material in her mouth.
“What is that?” I took it from her and recognized it as the type of material used in athletic apparel.
Graf had followed me out and he bent to examine it. “Someone must have lost a jacket or something down in the ravine.” He gave Sweetie’s ears a rumple. “What say I finish cooking dinner and we can eat and keep an eye on the fire?”
Clutching my hound’s collar, I nodded. “Sounds like a plan.” Together the three of us walked into the house where we watched until an hour later, when the firemen finished extinguishing the flames.
Sweetie slept in the next morning while Graf and I went to work. Moviemaking can be a tedious affair. Except for the brief times when I was needed in a scene, I was free to roam the sound stage and explore costume potential with Dallas Brown, the designer. I’d been dreading the fitting sessions, but though Dallas tut-tutted at the size of my waist, she was congenial and merry and filled with wisecracks and fun.
Everyone at the studio had heard about the wildfire, and after I repeated my personal experience with it about six times, I’d begun to forget the terror of it and think what a great tale it made. I was beginning to really enjoy my place in the community of moviemakers when my cell phone rang.
“Ms. Delaney?” the male voice was clipped and businesslike.
“This is she.” Aunt Loulane had taught me impeccable telephone manners.
“This is Sheriff Grady King. I’ve just received the fire report on the Lettohatchie Canyon blaze. It was arson. I’d
