Free Expectant Father by Melinda Curtis

did give somethin’ up,” Roadhouse admitted,half under his breath. When Maria had left, her mother had taken over the daily duty of raising Aiden and had been adamant that Roadhouse not undermine her authority or spoil his son on his sporadic visits. He’d never gotten along with his mother-in-law to begin with. After Maria had left, things had become unbearable, until Roadhouse had stopped visiting Aiden altogether. Yet, he never stopped thinking about his firstborn.
    If asked, he’d admit he didn’t know how to be a good dad. But he’d always thought fondly of his kids—even wrote them letters.
    He just never sent them.
    He wanted his parental rights back. Forget that Aiden was thirty, Roadhouse wanted to be a part of his life. Ever since his mother-in-law had died, he’d made an effort to be on teams that operated in or near Idaho. He’d told Aiden about his other two children in Vegas, hoping the truth would bring them closer, only to have Aiden seem to resent him even more. Still, he wouldn’t give up.
    But he could tell by the set of Aiden’s expression that now wasn’t the time for bonding, so he let Aiden walk away, back into camp, alone with his thoughts.
    Roadhouse headed to the rise where he’d talked to Sirus earlier. He squatted on the ground beneath the generators, heedless of the noise created by the machinery. From this point, he could see the various areas where fire crews were bedded down for the night and the tents off to the right of the IC and base-camp staff tents. Behind him was a harsh medley of sound—the washers and dryers chugging away in the laundry trailer, metal grinding on metal as Pulaskis, chain-saws and shovels were sharpened for another day of work—battling to be heard over the hum of generators.
    Rummaging in his pack, Roadhouse pulled out a plasticbag stuffed with dog-eared letters. Carefully, he sorted through the envelopes until he found one in particular, pulling it out as gently as if it were a precious piece of antique glass. He withdrew the folded paper from the envelope and started reading the scrawled handwriting slowly, as if every word weren’t already etched in his memory.

    Aiden,
    We saved a family from the fire today. Their little boy had dark eyes, like yours. It made me wonder how you’re doing. Are you behaving for Abuelita? Are you riding the red bike I got you for Christmas? If you were here, I’d ask you to play catch. I’d show you off to my friends and then tuck you into a sleeping bag under the stars. The stars are so close up here at night that you can almost touch them. If you were here, things would be different.

    He’d scribbled “Love, Dad” as illegibly as he could beneath the brief missive. It was the way he signed all of his letters, as if he weren’t sure he deserved the title or the right to express the sentiment after all the mistakes he’d made.
    Ignoring the ache in his knees that had become as painful as the emptiness in his heart, Roadhouse continued to stare at the paper and dwell on the lost opportunities of his youth. He’d never thought he’d end up like this—alone, having nearly outlived his usefulness and with no place to go. He doubted he’d be able to pass the stringent physical exams next year. The time had come to retire.
    Too soon.
    Someone laughed across the compound. Roadhouse looked up in time to see Aiden take off his boots and slide into his sleeping bag on the ground. Weather permitting, HotShots slept out under the stars. Tents took time to pack and space to transport, not to mention they were stifling in the heat. Roadhouse tilted his gaze up to the sky, where only a few stars peeked through the blanket of smoke.
    He’d seen Aiden walking with the pregnant Fire Behavior Analyst. It was unlikely that Aiden saw any action from the woman. But he had been with her. And now he was upset.
    Looking down on base camp, Roadhouse wondered what that might mean.
    A flicker of hope ignited in his chest.

    “C OME