Betsy Amant - Fireman Dad

Jacob wondered what it would be like to be a father.

He led the way to Marissa’s car, unable to help but picture several more nights exactly like this one—maybe next time holding hands or bringing her son, Owen, along for a ride on the two-story carousal.

If the kid was anything like his mother, he had to be one amazing little boy.

What would it be like to have a family of his own? Jacob wondered. Marissa was a great mom—that much was obvious in the way her eyes sparkled as she told stories of Owen’s antics.

They reached Marissa’s SUV, and Jacob paused beside it.

She checked her watch and grimaced. “I better hurry. I told Owen’s babysitter I’d be back by nine.”

Jacob opened the driver’s door for her and grinned. “Mommy to the rescue.”

He liked that Owen came first with her. He was liking a lot about Marissa.

Dear Reader,

As authors, we’re often instructed to “write what we know.” While I thankfully have not had to experience life as a single mom, I have experienced life as a fireman’s wife and as an unemployed fireman’s wife. If this story was real, I would be Liz. My husband was laid off from our city’s fire department in December 2009 because of city budget cuts, just like in the story. He spent two years in service, missing family events and holidays for the job he wanted to make a lifelong career—for what seemed like nothing. My similarities with Liz stop at the circumstances, however, because she easily reached a level of trust in God that took me nearly a year to obtain. I had days of faith, but had more days when I looked at my toddler and simply cried, not understanding why God would have me reach my dream of becoming a stay-at-home mom only to send me straight back to the workforce nine months later. But like Liz realized early on, God is still God regardless of where paychecks come from. He always provides for His children—sometimes through other people, sometimes through the sweat of your brow and sometimes through mysterious envelopes of cash tucked into your child’s diaper bag at church. He did all of the above for us during our time of need and He’ll do the same for you if you seek Him first. He will never leave you and will not forsake you! Hold tightly to His promises today.

Many blessings,

Fireman Dad

Betsy St. Amant

www.millsandboon.co.uk

I will not leave you nor forsake you.

— Joshua 1:5

To my husband, Brandon, for your heart. You’re my everyday hero.

Acknowledgments

Many thanks to my agent, Tamela Hancock Murray, for your encouragement and for always only being a phone call away. Also thanks to my editor, Emily Rodmell, for your excellent editing skills. I have the best team! Thanks also to my husband, Brandon, and to Kent Hathorn, for answering those endless, “would this be believable?” questions I asked about fire department rank, uniforms, cars, schedules and everything in betweeen. And to all firemen everywhere, but especially in my hometown—thanks for what you do. You have my full gratitude in a job that rarely sees any.

As usual, Marissa Hawthorne was one knight short of a fairy tale.

She stared at the flat rear tire of her well-used SUV, as if her glare might somehow put more air into the rubber. “Great.” Swiping a loose strand of blond hair out of her eyes, she let out a sigh. Just when she thought she’d finally adjusted to widowhood over the years—the empty right side of the bed, the leftovers from dinner, the struggles of single parenting—times like this highlighted the fact that she was truly alone.

Marissa tilted her head and studied the tire. She could probably figure out how to put on the spare, but she doubted her ability to jack up the car by herself. Not to mention the late morning Louisiana humidity had already sent a trail of perspiration down her back, despite the lingering remains of spring. At least she had made it to the parking lot of her event planning office, Your Special Day, before the mangled tire bent the rim and added that expense to the incident. She’d dropped Owen off at school and had turned on Spruce Street to head to work, when she felt the telltale thumping of the wheel.

Marissa braced one arm against the door of the hatch and briefly closed her eyes. Nothing to do but give it her best try—calling her dad was out of the question, nor did she want to shell out extra cash she didn’t have to spare for a road service crew.

God, You know I don’t ask for a lot of favors anymore. But can’t I get a break? Just one? She opened the rear door and tugged at the flooring that covered the spare. Here went nothing.

“Need a hand?”

Marissa jerked upright at the deep voice breaking the silence of the parking lot. A tall, dark-haired man wearing jeans and black sunglasses strolled toward her. She’d been so caught up in her own turmoil she hadn’t even heard his truck pull into a space across the lot. Marissa forced a smile, a polite no ready to roll off her lips, when the stranger whisked off his sunglasses. Pale blue eyes stared into hers, and her heart stuttered. The stranger’s clean-shaven jaw broke into a smile that could have easily thawed winter’s chill if the April sun hadn’t already long done so. She opened her mouth, but couldn’t find her voice.

“I’m Jacob Greene.” He held out his hand and she shook it, mentally kicking herself for the distraction. He’s only a man, Marissa, not a celebrity. Although he certainly could have been, with those chiseled good looks. In fact, he almost seemed familiar—but she couldn’t place how.

She cleared her throat. “Marissa Hawthorne. I own Your Special Day.” She released his hand and pointed to the store behind them.

“Then you’re the lady I was coming to see.” He smiled again, his teeth white and even against his tanned skin. His gaze drifted to her SUV. “And it looks like I was just in time.”

You have no idea. Maybe God was still in the business of answering her prayers after all. Marissa smiled back. “I hate to play the damsel in distress, but I have to admit, this one has me stumped. I’d say I was having a Monday, if this wasn’t Wednesday.”

Jacob laughed. “I know what you mean. We all have those days.” He easily removed the tire from the hatch and set it on the ground. “I can have you ready to go in a few minutes.”

“I really appreciate it. It’s not a big rush, since I’m already at work. I just need to be able to pick up my son later this afternoon from school.” She pushed up the sleeves of her thin, peasant-style blouse, trying to force her eyes away from the tight lines of muscle in Jacob’s arms as he worked the lug nuts loose on the flat.

Jacob’s eyes darted to hers, then back to the tire as he worked. “That shouldn’t be an issue. How old is your son?”

“Owen’s seven.” Marissa tugged absently at the necklace she wore every day—an amethyst symbolizing Owen’s February birthday—her stomach churning at the realization of how quickly her baby boy was growing up. Time was flying fast—too fast. Kevin had been dead almost five years now, and she’d been back in her hometown of Orchid Hill, Louisiana, for a little over a year. Sometimes it seemed as if the last few years were nothing but a dream.

Sometimes a nightmare.

“I have a niece who is about to turn seven.” Jacob wrestled the jack into place and began to hike up the SUV. He grunted with the effort. “She goes to Orchid Hill Elementary.”

“So does Owen.”