She paused at one. Hesitating, she flipped it open and picked up the picture on top. A little girl sat in front of a fireplace. Dark pigtails, freckles, pale green eyes, grinning. To her right, a woman with long light-brown hair and the same smile pulled her in tight for a hug. The tree, all shiny with lights and ornaments, filled one side of the picture. She shuffled through and found a few more pictures—various years, but the same woman, the same fireplace. Same light and love shining in her eyes. Riley’s grandmother had been the closest thing to home she’d had. The only real Christmas she’d ever had.
With a lump in her throat, she pulled out another file. This one contained black-and-white images, clean, sharp. Different places from her childhood. Mountain flowers, city concrete, architecture, people, sky.
Her dad had taken hundreds of thousands of photos in his life. His job had taken them all over the world before landing him in Hollywood, where he became one of the most coveted still photographers in the industry. Riley had learned the art from him, but even as she was learning how to hold a camera, she was also learning to hold a paintbrush.
Painting was where she soared, losing herself in the feel of a brush in her hand, the application of line and color, coaxing out shadow, emotion, light on a blank canvas. Photography faded from her life along with her dad’s presence, and she’d earned several art scholarships with her oil painting portfolio and took that path. She’d been teaching in Colorado for two years when her dad called and offered her a spot on his crew for the newest Paramount picture he was working on. The imagery of the film, her dad said, reminded him of her photographic eye. Their relationship had been tenuous, and he’d called her. Asked for her. How could she turn that down?
Had she known where that decision would lead, she knew exactly how she would’ve turned it down.
Dad. As much as I’d love to rebuild our relationship after so much strain, if I do this, I’ll foolishly fall for the supporting actor so hard I can’t see straight, and then he’ll break my heart for all of Los Angeles to see—and perhaps beyond, although I’m a nobody so the articles only refer to me as “Gavin Darrow’s girlfriend of eight months” and “daughter of famed photographer, Craig Madigan”—but really how many connections do we have in the greater Hollywood area, anyway? Fifty billion? Oh, and you’ll be so angry about the whole thing, you’ll jeopardize your career over it. Thanks for asking, though.
Riley closed the folder and put it away, pressing at the knot that had formed in her chest.
Returning to her desk in the front room, Riley opened her laptop. Her fingers hovered over the keys, and then she typed fireman Mark Rivers Miracle Creek.
Several articles came up. One about Mark’s promotion to lieutenant of his company—the youngest in decades—and more recent stories covering the fire. He’d been in what was called the Chelan Complex Fire, where more than fifty structures had been destroyed. The blaze had charred over 56,000 acres and had forced 1,500 residents to flee their homes. And that was before the fire was anywhere close to being contained.
Mark Rivers, Jay Hendricks, and their crew had been sent up there along with hundreds of other firemen from around the state to help contain the fires raging through the area, including the lake town of Chelan and outlying rural communities.
Riley read through the articles, none of them giving her enough details. But she learned that Mark and Jay had gone after a group of young boys who had run to save their tree fort a couple of miles beyond their homes. The boys were saved, but Jay had died in the rescue attempt, overcome as they made their escape. Mark had been transported to Seattle with severe burns.
Another article titled “Chelan Fire Hero Returns Home” showed a picture of Mark in a wheelchair—the right side of him bandaged—Mark’s dad, and two women she didn’t recognize. The caption named the dark-haired girl as his sister, Stephanie Grady. The tall weepy blonde to Mark’s left was his girlfriend, Caylin Clark.
The article didn’t say much more than what she already knew. Just that Mark would continue his physical therapy in Miracle Creek, and how proud the town was. A memorial fund had been set up in Jay’s name. No quote from Mark. She stared at the image. Mark was nearly unrecognizable, his look somber with half his face covered, his head shaved, but his chin up. The separate image of Jay Hendricks was a stark contrast. Smiling, blond, strong. Twenty-five years old.
She sighed. Tapping the keys, she changed her search.
severe burns, skin grafts, treatment
After reading through several medical website links, she took another deep breath and hit images.
After an hour of study, she closed her laptop. With shaky hands, she picked up her phone and called Mark.
“Hello?” He sounded tired. Groggy.
“Hi. It’s Riley. Did I wake you?”
“No.” He sucked in his breath like he was stretching.
She’d woken him. “Have you talked to your dad about when he wants to meet with me?”
“Um, yeah. I was going to call you after—”
“Your nap?”
“—after I gave you some time. I didn’t want to push things.”
“Arranging time to meet your dad about the paintings isn’t pushing anything. I’ve already agreed to that.”
He was quiet on the line. “We were going to talk about the nativity after, so I didn’t want to push it.
