Free July Thunder by Rachel Lee

but…”
    â€œI always thought it was good they put those tapes out of sight where the kids can’t find them.”
    â€œMe, too. It shows some responsibility, without interfering with people’s choices. And it’s all soft-core, anyway.”
    A little giggle escaped her. “You’ve checked it out?”
    He sent her a sour look. “Only in my official capacity. Somebody complained that they were renting child pornography.”
    â€œWere they?”
    â€œOf course not. The woman who complained hadn’t even been in the store. She’d heard it from someone, who’d heard it from someone else. You know how that goes. Anyway, the stuff they’re renting is pretty much on the level of an R-rated movie, just more of it.”
    â€œWell, I’ll be the first to admit I don’t understand the fascination for those things. But then, I’m a woman.”
    â€œI’m a man,” he said, stating the obvious. “I don’t read girlie magazines, either.” Then, unable to resist, he added, “Why settle for pictures if you can have the real thing?”
    He heard her gasp; then a deep laugh escaped her. “You are wicked, Sam Canfield. Wicked, wicked.”
    â€œSo my father always said.” But this time he said it without bitterness. Somehow Mary’s laughter had taken the sting out of her teasing words—and the sting out of remembering his father. He wished it would last.
    As they approached her house, she said, “Why don’t you come in for breakfast?”
    â€œI don’t want to trouble you.”
    â€œIt’s no trouble. I’m an old hand at fast breakfasts. I can microwave bacon and some sausage biscuits, and make coffee in a jiff. And you need to eat something.”
    He couldn’t argue with that. Nor, he realized, did he want to. Exhausted as he was, he was still too wound up to hit the hay. He figured it might take him an hour or so to wind down from working all night. It always did.
    â€œThanks, Mary. If you’re not too tired.”
    â€œI’m as wired as can be. I got my second wind along about 5:00 a.m. And I’m hungry, too.”
    So he parked in her driveway. For an instant hewondered if his father was watching from across the street, then told himself he didn’t care. It made him uneasy, though, that Mary had intimated his father was showing interest in him. In Sam’s experience, Elijah grew interested only when he believed his son was messing up.
    The air in town was hazy now, not as bad as up in the pass, but the effects of the fire were reaching here, too. The morning sun, heralding yet another dry day, looked pale through the smoke, and yellowed.
    â€œIt smells smokier than a frigid winter night,” Mary remarked as she unlocked her door. He knew she was referring to the number of woodstoves that burned around there when it got cold.
    But the smoke hadn’t penetrated her house, at least not yet, and Sam noticed a delicate scent of lilac on the air. “Is that lilac I smell?” he asked.
    â€œYes. I love it. It’s in the carpet freshener.”
    Almost in spite of himself, he smiled. “When I was about six, we lived for a while in Michigan. My dad was pastor of a small church up near Saginaw. And we had this huge lilac bush at the corner of the house, just covered with blossoms. I used to like to suck the nectar out of them. And I used to hide under it. Nobody could find me there. I seem to remember spending entire afternoons daydreaming, surrounded by lilacs.”
    Mary led him into the kitchen, shucking her flannel shirt and hanging it over a chair back. “Did you have to hide often?”
    He found himself looking into her green eyes. Sinking into her green eyes. And he saw a gentleness there that made his heart slam. Gentleness wasn’t something Sam had experienced very often in life, not even in his marriage. It had an unexpected effect on him, an