Take a Chance on Me(98)

What he hadn’t known, however, was that Gabe, Joe Michaels’s brother, lived here. In his late thirties, Gabe had lived in the area for over a decade. Joe had introduced Jensen to his brother as “a friend from Deep Haven.”

A friend.

He’d liked the sound of that, probably too much. But the combination of Joe’s words and the memory of Claire in his arms conspired to make Jensen believe it.

The saw bit through the tree trunk, nearly to the other side. He backed it out, then shut it off, leaning hard against the cut tree.

At first, it didn’t want to budge. But he picked up a sledge and gave it a good whack. The tree shivered. Another blow and he heard a sharp crack. Then the tree began to list. He pushed against the trunk, just to give it encouragement, and the pine began to fall, faster as it headed toward the ground. Branches caught in the arms of the forest, ripping other trees as the momentum lashed them until the pine landed with a terrible shudder.

Jensen pulled off his hard hat and dragged an arm across his forehead. Sweat slicked off onto his shirt—long-sleeved and covered in dirt and woodchips. He picked up the saw and tromped back to the perimeter of the property where he’d left his shovel. He’d dug a five-foot swath, as Joe instructed, but it seemed an inadequate defense to stop the onslaught of fire that cracked and shot off flares in the distance.

Jensen was downing the tepid, nearly hot water in his canteen when Joe came up. He looked as exhausted and grimy as Jensen, dirt caught in his three days of beard growth, his jeans dirty and ripped. Jensen recognized Pastor Dan, aka the fire chief, trudging up behind Joe, carrying a map.

“’Sup?”

“We got a call from the NFS. They’re worried the fire is headed this way. They’re recommending we evacuate.”

“We’ve got the sprinkler system ready to go,” Joe said. “And Ruby, the house manager, has the residents packing some belongings.”

“Where are they going?”

“Don’t know yet,” Dan said. “We have calls going around the church prayer line. We’ll find homes for them.”

Joe coughed. “I don’t know, Dan. We had a fire here about ten years ago. We had to ship the residents to group homes around the state until we rebuilt. It was hard on all of them. My brother nearly came unglued.” He shook his head. “Mona is coming to get him, but the fact is, all of them need stability. Something familiar. It would be best if they stayed together.”

“There are twenty residents, Joe. The hotels are full, and they can’t live in the church—”

“How about my house?” Jensen said. The idea formed as quickly as it tumbled out. “I’ve got a big place—five bedrooms—and we could haul in more mattresses. I know the thrift shop has a few in the back room—and blankets and pillows too. There’s plenty of room and they could all be together.”

A slow smile creased Joe’s face. “That’s a great idea. Thanks.”

“I’ll set the sprinklers to go while you load up the residents.”

Joe nodded, and he and Dan headed toward the house.

Jensen picked up his tools, jogged to his truck, piled them in. He hollered at a couple of the other volunteers to add to the pile, just in case they needed to do any more work around his place.

But his house came equipped with state-of-the-art sprinklers, a trimmed boundary that he meticulously maintained in accordance with the NFS, and besides, it was south of Evergreen Lake.

Yes, the residents would be safe there.

Seemed like a better use for the house—a sanctuary rather than a hiding place.

Jensen ran to the Garden house, found a spigot, and turned it on full. Water began to spray the house and the grass to the perimeter of the property. He ran through the spray, relishing the cool water, and turned on the next line of sprinklers at the spigot behind the house.

In the strawberry gardens, the automatic sprinkler system rose from the ground. Joe had repositioned the heads so that they now sprayed to the farthest edges, creating a rim of water.

By the time Jensen reached the final spigot, the residents had packed themselves into the volunteers’ trucks, vans, and SUVs.

Jensen climbed into his truck, Joe sliding in beside him. He backed out, headed south. Smoke drifted across the road like fingers against the beam of his headlights.

“Thanks for doing this, Jensen,” Joe said.

“I’m glad to help.” More than glad, really.

“Well, I know this town hasn’t exactly been kind to you over the past three years.”

Jensen glanced at him, an eerie tightness in his chest. During the days at the Garden, he’d been able to forget, at least briefly, his pariah status in Deep Haven, working in camaraderie with volunteers from the community church. But now . . .