Chasing Fire

again.”
    “Some car.”
    “I’m happy with it.”
    “What’ll she do?”
    “Theoretically, or in practice—with your daughter along?”
    “That’s a good answer, without answering,” Lucas decided.
    “Do you want to try her out?” Gull offered the key.
    “Hey!” Rowan made a grab for them, missing as Gull closed his hand. “How come he rates?”
    “He’s Iron Man.”
    Rowan hooked her thumbs in her pockets. “He said I had to sleep with him before I could drive it.”
    Gull sent her smirk a withering look. “She declined.”
    “Uh-huh. Well, I wouldn’t mind giving her a run. I’ll take a rain check on it since I’ve got to get along.”
    “Can’t you stay awhile?” Rowan asked. “We can hang out a little. You can stay and mooch dinner.”
    “I wish I could, but I’ve got a couple of things to see to, then I’m meeting a client for a drink—a meeting. An appointment.”
    Rowan slid off her sunglasses. “A client?”
    “Yeah. Yeah. She’s, ah, got some project she wants to talk to me about, and she’s interested in trying for AFF. So I guess we’re going to talk about it. That. Anyway . . . I’ll get back over soon, mooch that dinner off you. Maybe try out that machine of yours, Gull.”
    “Anytime.”
    Lucas took Rowan’s chin in his hand. “See you later.”
    She watched him get in the truck, watched him drive away.
    “Meeting, my ass.”
    Gull opened the nose to maneuver the hamper out. “Sorry?”
    “He’s got a date. With a woman.”
    “Wow! That’s shocking news. I think my heart skipped a beat.”
    “He doesn’t date.” Rowan continued to scowl as her father’s truck shrunk in the distance. “He’s all fumbling and flustered around women, if he’s attracted. Didn’t you see how flustered he was when he talked about his appointment ? And who the hell is she?”
    “It’s hard, but you’ve got to let the kids leave the nest someday.”
    “Oh, kiss ass. His brain goes to mush when he’s around a certain type of woman, and he can be manipulated.”
    Fascinated with her reaction, Gull leaned on his car. “It’s just a wild shot, but it could be he’s going to meet a woman he’s attracted to, and who has no intention of manipulating him. And they’ll have a drink and conversation.”
    “What the hell do you know?” she challenged, and stomped off toward the barracks.
    Amused, Gull hauled the basket back to Marg.
    He’d no more than set it down on the counter when someone tapped knuckles on the outside door.
    “Excuse me. Margaret Colby?”
    Gull gave the man a quick summing-up—dark suit with a tightly knotted tie in dark, vivid pink, shiny shoes, hair the color of ink brushed back from a high forehead.
    Marg stood where she was. “That’s right.”
    “I’m Reverend Latterly.”
    “I remember you from before, from Irene and Dolly.”
    Catching her tone, and the fact she didn’t invite the man in, Gull decided to stick around.
    “May I speak with you for a moment?”
    “You can, but you’re wasting your breath and my time if you’re here to ask me to try to convince Michael Little Bear to let Dolly Brakeman back in this kitchen.”
    “Mrs. Colby.” He came in without invitation, smiled, showing a lot of big white teeth.
    Gull decided he didn’t like the man’s tie, and helped himself to a cold can of ginger ale.
    “If I could just have a moment in private.”
    “We’re working.” She shot a warning glance at Lynn before the woman could ease out of the room. “This is as private as you’re going to get.”
    “I know you’re very busy, and cooking for so many is hard work. Demanding work.”
    “I get paid for it.”
    “Yes.” Latterly stared at Gull, let the silence hang.
    In response, Gull leaned back on the counter, drank some ginger ale. And made Marg’s lips twitch.
    “Well, I wanted a word with you as you’re Dolly’s direct supervisor and—”
    “Was,” Marg corrected.
    “Yes. I’ve spoken with Mr. Little Bear, and I understand his reluctance to forgive Dolly’s transgression.”
    “You call it a transgression. I call it snake-bite mean.”
    Latterly spread his hands, then linked them together for a moment like a man at prayer. “I realize it’s a difficult situation, and there’s no excuse for Dolly’s behavior. But she was naturally upset after Miss Tripp threatened her and accused her of . . . having low morals.”
    “Is that Dolly’s story?” Marg just shook her head, as much pity as disgust in the