Firefly Duet: New Beginnings and Lasting Love Read online

  Firefly Duet

  A Mercy Mountain Series Novel

  Becca Maxton

  FIREFLY DUET

  A Mercy Mountain Novel

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  Copyright © 2021 by Becca Maxton

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  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereinafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

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

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  Cover Design & Interior Format by The Killion Group, Inc.

  For you. For me.

  For all who grieve and rise again.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Books by Becca Maxton

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  New York

  “Tell me about the day your brother died.”

  Sofia Russo pressed her forehead against the floor-to-ceiling window of her psychiatrist’s seventeenth story office.

  “I don’t have time.” She scanned the Manhattan skyline. “I have to stop at the bank then get to work.” She pulled her yellow cashmere wrap tighter. “Your office is freezing, by the way.” Her tone softened, deadened. “Anthony was always cold once his cancer progressed.”

  Dr. Patricia Platt leaned back in her chair. “We could talk about that on Friday.”

  “Yes.” Sofia crossed the room and picked up her bag from the couch. “Okay.”

  “I’ll make sure the office is warmer next visit.” Dr. Platt walked her to the door, her hand gently settling on Sofia’s shoulder. “We’ll work through this together. You didn’t do anything wrong, no matter what anyone said. He was sick, Sofia. There wasn’t anything you could do, or not do, that would have prevented his death.”

  Sofia tapped the side of her head. “I know that here.” She tapped her heart. “Not here.”

  “Yet,” Dr. Platt reassured. “You don’t know it in your heart, yet. It’s only been six weeks. Grief travels its own timeline, and the path is different for everyone.”

  “Thank you.”

  In the elevator, Sofia placed her bag on the floor and, leaning down, dug through its contents to pull her wallet from beneath her camera equipment. The bank was close, just a short distance across the small courtyard ahead. After the bank, she’d have to take a cab to her photo shoot at the theater to make it on time.

  Outside, the hot, humid August air felt good after the chilly office. She hurried along, her new sling-back pumps forming blisters on blisters with every step. In the vestibule of the bank lobby, she stopped at the ATM and inserted her debit card. With shaking hands, she put Anthony’s last paycheck as football coach at Port Vincent High School in the deposit envelope and fed it into the machine.

  In a couple weeks, Anthony’s players would start a new season. Autumn had once been her favorite — windy days, leaves blowing off the trees, and the scent of apple cider. The best part of the fall was sitting in the stands with her parents and her brother’s girlfriend for Friday night games.

  She shook her head, forcing her thoughts back to the present. Pressing another button, she extracted the receipt from the machine and stuffed it in her wallet. The door to the bank crashed open, slamming into her side and almost tossing her on her ass.

  “Ouch! Take it easy.” Looking up she met dark brown eyes, the only visible features surrounded by a ski mask.

  The man shook his head, as if to say she were a naughty little girl. “Back up. Get on the floor.”

  As she retreated, her hip struck the side of the ATM and she winced, crouching next to it. Two men dressed in black trench coats and carrying bags walked through the door held by the gunman. Not a sound interrupted the men’s precise movements as they passed through the vestibule to the outside.

  Balancing a few feet from the gunman, Sofia teetered on her uncomfortable heels. When she shifted, her bag tilted dislodging the contents. Her camera landed with a noisy thud, sending a lens cap skittering across the floor. The gunman’s gaze met hers for a split second before he turned, firing two rapid shots through the door leading inside the bank.

  Flinching, she fell forward on her knees. Her hands slammed onto the floor, catching her before she landed face first. Her left wrist buckled and nearly gave out, sending pinpricks radiating up her arm.

  A whiz and another loud pop jerked her attention back to the gunman, who dropped to his knees and crumpled onto his side. His fall blocked the door, leaving it open to the inside of the bank.

  Her ears rang with sudden sound – screaming, squealing tires, and sirens. She moved inside the bank, her focus on the security guard’s uniformed body lying still on the floor. A thin strip of black fabric ran along the side of his pantleg. Crimson began coloring outside the line, turning the dark material a rusty purple.

  “Help me!” She motioned to a woman rushing forward from inside the bank. Sofia unbuckled the strap from her bag, slipped it under the guard’s leg, and fastened it tight above the wound as a tourniquet. Her left arm throbbed and burned. Grimacing through the pain, she pulled her lightweight wrap from her purse and placed it over the guard’s gunshot wound. Gasping, she folded her injured arm against her chest and with her right hand, pressed hard against the wound to stanch the bleeding.

  Don’t die. Don’t die. Don’t die on me!

  A small sob of relief escaped her when the guard opened his eyes. Panicked, he tried to sit up, grabbing onto her injured arm. She scooted out of his reach as knife-like pain shot through her wrist. He shook his head from side to side, his eyes wide.

  “Don’t be afraid,” she said as calmly as she could. “Lie back. You’re going to be okay.” She resumed her prior position, pressing her right forearm over the gaping hole in his thigh as she listened to his labored breathing.

  A blur of blue drove past her, heading into the chaos inside the bank. A low rough voice penetrated. “You’re doing good. Keep the pressure on. They’ll be here soon.”

  After what seemed an eternity, metal grated on metal as gurney legs were raised, announcing the arrival of the emergency staff. They hauled the ancient piece of equipment across the lobby, rickety wheels wobbling like a defective grocery cart. She continued holding pressure on the wound.

  “We’ll take over,” said an authoritative yet gentle voice as Sofia was lifted beneath her arms and set aside. “Your wrist looks broken. You’ll ride in the ambulance,” the EMT ordered as he bandaged the guard’s leg while his partner administered a shot and inserted an IV.

  “Let’s move.” The e
mergency staff strapped the guard’s lower legs and upper chest with safety belts and lifted him onto the gurney.

  “My bag.” Sofia pointed. One of the bank employees tucked her bag under her good arm. Outside, an enormous crowd of spectators and police officers had gathered. Cameras clicked and people shouted as she walked behind the gurney.

  With the customary two bangs on the door, the ambulance was off, moving in fast spurts with sirens on and lights flaring. Blood dried on her hands and forearms, tightening against her skin. The material of her dress was blotted with red fingerprints, her lap soaked. They wove through traffic, slowing, then accelerating at each intersection before arriving at the hospital, where the guard was whisked away. She emerged from the ambulance and nodded when the police officer told her he’d be back in a moment.

  “You can sit here, miss,” a nurse told her, leading her to an examination area across from the nurses’ station and wrapping a blanket around her shoulders. “Someone will take a look at your arm.”

  “Yes.” A wave of nausea hit as she stared at the golf-ball-size bump forming near the base of her hand. According to the big clock on the wall, it was eight-forty. Her eyes followed the clock’s red second hand as it made a complete rotation. A perfect circle of blood stared back at her from one of her pretty new shoes.

  “Will he live?” Sofia blurted.

  The nurse glanced her direction. “They’re doing everything they can for him.”

  “They’ll keep him warm too? Because he can’t be cold.” Sofia glanced at the empty hallway.

  The automatic doors to the hospital emergency entrance slid open and Dr. Platt ran toward her. “Sofia? Oh my God, are you okay? I saw police cars out my office window right after you left. There are pictures of you on the news. I got here as fast as I could. I called your parents. Thank God you’re all right.”

  “You have to help him. He’s cold. Please.”

  “Who’s cold, Sofia?”

  “Anthony. He’s cold. I let him get cold.” Pulled into Dr. Platt’s arms, Sofia collapsed, sobbing against her. “Please.”

  “It’s okay, Sofia. It’s not Anthony. It’s not Anthony.”

  “For Christ’s sake,” Jim Mannis said to the captain as he ran his hand along the back of his neck, realizing he’d better ask his sister, Kai, for a haircut when he got home. The captain’s rubber-soled shoes audibly gripped the marble floor of the police station. Jim kept stride as the captain spoke.

  “It was a bank robbery with a shooting. You shot the shooter. We have to put you on official leave while we investigate. It’s standard procedure. Tell me what happened first.”

  Jim stopped walking and closed his eyes. “I wasn’t on duty until noon today. We were on our way to get coffee.”

  “You and Rafe?” The captain asked.

  “Right. Rafe needed some cash before his flight, so we stop across the street from the bank. I see a military vehicle.”

  “And?”

  Gripping the back of his neck, Jim sighed. “It’s not really a military vehicle. It’s just a fucking Hummer parked in front of a fucking bank. But my heart starts racing as if Rafe and I are back in Afghanistan. That’s when we see two guys exiting the bank and another holding the door with his gun aimed at someone.”

  “Sofia Russo,” the captain said.

  “I don’t know who the hell it is. Rafe starts adjusting his ball cap low on his head. It’s a nervous habit he got from the Army. He used to do the same thing with his helmet. The next second he starts calling it out just like he’s my spotter again.”

  The captain motioned for them to keep walking. “Go on.”

  Jim replayed the scene in his head, his voice taking on a clipped reporting style. “Woman in a white dress. Movement at the door. Shots fired. I’m on instinct. I stand, aim, fire my weapon. Gunman drops.”

  He followed the captain into his office and closed the door. Lined with shelves filled with every type of Yankees’ paraphernalia imaginable, the captain’s office resembled an eleven-year-old boy’s bedroom.

  “I gave notice two weeks ago. It’s only a few days early,” Jim continued. “If I leave now, I can be on an airplane home to Colorado this afternoon. You’ve done a lot for me, Captain.”

  “Are you sure you still want to leave New York? You’ve built a solid reputation here in just three years. It’s impressive.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’m sure. My dad, he’s getting up there.” Jim tapped his fingers on the edge of the desk, unsure about saying more. “He asked me a few months ago to consider coming home this year. I said no to him once before when he wanted help and stayed away eighteen years just to make sure he got the point.” He straightened his shoulders as the captain nodded.

  “Making up for lost time. I understand. And I am sorry you can’t go immediately. You’ll need to remain available and here a little longer. You’ll get paid.”

  He didn’t care about pay. With his decision made to leave, he just wanted to shower and go home. Home meaning home, and not one more day in New York City.

  “There’s another thing—you’ve been requested down at the courthouse tomorrow to meet the witness. Her family will be there. They know you’re coming.”

  “What for?”

  The captain cleared his throat. “Sofia Russo. She’s the woman in the white dress all over the Internet. She wouldn’t leave the hospital last night until we promised she’d get a meeting to thank the man who saved her life. That’s you. Funny thing, she’s the one who saved the bank guard. The media is all over her story. Here. Take a look at these.”

  The captain moved around his desk, settling closer to Jim as he swiped through photos on his phone. “These are pictures taken at the scene by news photographers and bystanders. You were there. She singlehandedly put a tourniquet on the guard’s leg, stanched the wound, and that’s a picture of her holding the guard’s hand before the EMTs took him to the ambulance.”

  Jim studied the first photo. Yeah, he’d been there all right, but more like a world away. He’d caught a glimpse of her. Another photo showed her gazing at the injured man. Is she smiling? He took the phone out of the captain’s hand and held it closer for a second and then farther away. Jesus, he needed his eyes checked. Rafe is right—all the parts start failing after thirty-five. “What’s with her weird smile?”

  The captain shrugged. “In the last twenty-four hours, she’s established quite a reputation for herself as a sexy Florence Nightingale. I told you, the media can’t get enough of her.”

  “Who’s Florence Nightingale?”

  “A famous nurse in history. Sofia’s sweet, you know?”

  Jim raised his eyebrows.

  “What?” the captain said with an embarrassed glance. “She spent the night in the hospital comforting the guard’s mother. Oh, and the kid you shot —is still in a coma. We can’t speak to him.”

  Jim put his hands on his hips and hung his head. “Kid?”

  “Nineteen, so technically, not a kid. In any case, son, you saved that woman’s life. You’re a fine officer. We wouldn’t have hired you otherwise. Or brought in your buddy Rafe to help with training our guys.” He clapped his hand on Jim’s shoulder. “She was lucky you happened to be there. More important, we don’t want the lovely Miss Russo to miss her chance to meet her hero.”

  Why is there never a window or an escape hatch when I need one?

  “Listen, this is the third robbery in the last six weeks,” the captain continued. “The FBI is on it. Assistant D.A. Nader wants this meeting bad. Take attention off the city looking like dipshits because we haven’t caught these guys.”

  “Have Rafe meet her.”

  The captain walked back around his desk and sat down. “He’s already on a plane.”

  His buddy knew when to make an exit. He was loyal, not stupid.

  “Rafe wasn’t the one with the gun. Besides, he’s not NYPD like you. He’s just a contractor. Another great contribution you made when you suggested him, by the way. Anywa
y, a few more days, that’s all I’m asking for.”

  Fantastic.

  Jim examined the photo of Sofia Russo again. She was a mess—but pretty. He hadn’t been on a date in a year. Make that laid. He hadn’t been laid in a year. He adjusted his stance. His sex life, or lack thereof, was irrelevant to this situation. “Hell.” Jim shook his head.

  “Quite a looker, isn’t she?” The captain grinned when Jim handed his phone back. “By the way, Lieutenant Kincaid will be at the courthouse tomorrow too.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He knows the family. I guess his daughter is Sofia Russo’s best friend.”

  Chapter 2

  Late afternoon the next day, Jim opened the door to a small windowless conference room at the courthouse. The meeting with the Russo family was already in full swing. Except for a nod from Lieutenant Kincaid, he entered the room unnoticed. All the chairs were occupied, so he leaned against the back wall and surveyed the group.

  It didn’t take more than a five-minute search on his laptop last night to find photos of the whole family, including a son, Anthony, who died recently. Mr. and Mrs. Russo and Sofia sat at one side of the table, Assistant District Attorney Sharon Nader and Lieutenant Jack Kincaid on the other side.

  “No, thank you,” Sofia Russo said as she sat back in her seat.

  Sharon Nader adjusted the buttons of her boring brown suit jacket straining against rolls of barely contained heft. “Miss Russo, you have been through a traumatic event, no doubt, so surely you can understand why it may be best to consider some precautions.”