Through the Fire: Hughes of Hollowell, #3

By Seressia Glass

When secrets burn as fiercely as desire, Through the Fire takes you on an unforgettable journey of love, loss, and the courage to rise from the ashes.

Brandt Hughes (introduced in Three Wishes) is a man consumed by guilt that stems from the deaths of his wife and son four years ago. Every day is a battle for survival; a battle he's not sure he wants to win. When his best friend calls for a favor, Brandt readily accepts, not realizing this choice is about to change his life forever. His journey to Serena Bay is about something more than helping to renovate an old mission—it's about meeting the one woman whose love can save him.

Dr. Willow Zane is a renowned psychologist and self-help author with her own scars—emotional wounds from a painful past that she keeps deeply buried beneath her public persona. She recognizes a kindred spirit in her brother's best friend and vows to help him. As they collaborate on the chapel's restoration, Brandt and Willow confront their inner demons, finding solace and strength in one another. But as they continue their journey of raw vulnerability, deep connection, and the slow, tender build of a romance, can they trust each other to heal and love, or will their secrets burn their chances for happiness?

Warning: contains brief discussions of assault and suicide.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Seressia Creates, LLC
• Release date: Feb 21, 2025
• ISBN: 9798230267188

Seressia Glass

Seressia Glass has always been a voracious reader, cutting her teeth on comics, cereal boxes, and anything else at hand. Writing her own stories soon followed. After winning the national "Living the Dream" essay contest for the inaugural Martin Luther King, Jr. Holiday celebration in her hometown of Atlanta, Seressia realized her ability to move people with her words. Today, her fiction features diverse people realizing the universal dreams of love and acceptance. Stories have appeared recently in Vegas Bites: A Werewolf Romance Anthology edited by by bestselling author L. A. Banks and its sequels Vegas Bites and Vegas Bits Back. She's also published four romance novels, once of which, Through the Fire, was chosen for Black Expressions Book Club. Shadowblade is her fantasy debut. When not writing, Seressia is an instructional designer for an international home improvement company who loves to belly dance and watch anime.

Book preview

Through the Fire

Seressia Glass

Copyright © 2006, 2025 by Seressia Glass

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Contents

1.Chapter One

2.Chapter Two

3.Chapter Three

4.Chapter Four

5.Chapter Five

6.Chapter Six

7.Chapter Seven

8.Chapter Eight

9.Chapter Nine

10.Chapter Ten

11.Chapter Eleven

12.Chapter Twelve

13.Chapter Thirteen

14.Chapter Fourteen

15.Chapter Fifteen

16.Chapter Sixteen

17.Chapter Seventeen

18.Chapter Eighteen

19.Chapter Nineteen

20.Chapter Twenty

21.Chapter Twenty-One

22.Chapter Twenty-Two

23.Chapter Twenty-Three

24.Chapter Twenty-Four

25.Chapter Twenty-Five

26.Chapter Twenty-Six

27.Chapter Twenty-Seven

28.Chapter Twenty-Eight

29.Chapter Twenty-Nine

30.Chapter Thirty

31.Chapter Thirty-One

32.Chapter Thirty-Two

33.Chapter Thirty-Three

34.Chapter Thirty-Four

35.Chapter Thirty-Five

36.Chapter Thirty-Six

37.About the Author

Chapter One

Brandt Hughes sat in the shadows of his living room, searching for a reason not to die.

Photos lay scattered among the wood shavings of his carvings. Photos he didn’t have to see to recall, snapshots of the life he’d once lived. In the last four years memories had deteriorated into nightmares that haunted him and sapped at the innate instinct to survive.

Brady… He hung his head as his son’s name echoed through the remnants of his heart. His son would have been eight years old the next day. That meant that Brandt would have to endure a day of phone calls and visits from his parents, brothers, and sisters. Maya would want to go with him to Brady’s grave, his mother would concoct some home repair emergency to get him to visit, even though his father was retired from the family’s construction business now run by his youngest sister.

It had been bearable the year before, the year before that. But now the grief sat like a stone on his chest as it had those first few days, weeks, months, after Brady, after Sarah. It weighed him down, threatening to sink him. Grief, and anger. Always the anger.

He couldn’t face his family anymore. Couldn’t face his parents and siblings staring at him, pitying him, accusing him. No. He’d have to do something today.

The phone shrieked. He grabbed for it, clutching it like the lifeline it was. Probably Maya, probably worried. He had to convince her that she needed to look after her new family, not her sorry excuse for a brother, Yeah?

It’s Mack.

Brandt forced his muscles to relax as he heard his best friend’s voice. What’s up?

I need a favor, Mack said in that same no-nonsense tone he’d used when leading their unit. Mackenzie Mack Zane had never been one for beating around bushes or tolerating fools. Why he still bothered with Brandt, the latter had no idea. Can you come down to Serena Bay?

Serena Bay. Brandt remembered that Mack had described it as a small, lazy town on the east coast of Florida. He considered it for half a second. Spending time in a small town during a Florida summer might do him some good. Anything would be better than where he was, what he was doing. When?

As soon as you can, his friend answered, but don’t you want to know what the favor is?

Don’t need to know. Brandt would do anything for Mack, especially since the commander had saved his ass on more than one occasion. Still, curiosity made him ask, You out of deputies or something?

He still couldn’t believe that Mack had traded his general issue uniform for small town sheriff brown. Being brass in Miami, maybe, but Sheriff Andy? On the other hand, if Mack had gotten as tired of the bloodshed as he had, Miami wouldn’t have been the place to go for law enforcement.

Nothing like that, though you know the offer will always be on the table, Mack replied. "An old Spanish mission on the coast is getting renovated, but no one’s got the skills to restore the chapel. I think you could do it.

Brandt failed an attempt at a laugh. Think they’ll let me in the door?

I didn’t get struck by lightning when I went inside, Mack informed him. Besides, you didn’t do anything I didn’t order you to do.

Got more blood on my hand since then. Brady. Sarah.

You know my opinion on that, so I won’t hold my breath, his former commanding officer said evenly. But I won’t lie to you about the mission. The place probably would be better off if they razed it and started over. It’s definitely a challenge. The building’s just waiting for you to bring it back to life.

A challenge, huh? Why not? Getting away would probably do him some good. And maybe, just maybe, restoring the chapel would earn him some brownie points with the man upstairs.

I’ve done work in St. Augustine, so I’m good to go. Give me two days to clear things here and I’ll be there.

Excellent. I’ll text you the address.

They disconnected. Brandt sat back in his chair, relief sweeping through him. It didn’t matter if the construction help Mack needed consisted of building a birdhouse or an outhouse. It would give him something to do and somewhere to go, somewhere where memories wouldn’t stalk his every waking moment and sleepless night. Somewhere where no one knew or cared about his past, his sins.

He didn’t need two days to get things in order, either. He’d had everything in his life settled for years, no loose ends, just in case.

Leaning to the left, he placed his smartphone on the table. He hesitated for a moment, then grabbed his gun and popped the clip out.

Today wasn’t the day.

Chapter Two

Willow sat back from her laptop, rubbing wearily at her eyes. With her creative flow blocked with the seeming permanence of Hoover Dam, her good nature had begun to erode. Honestly, the writer’s block was starting to piss her off. She had a month to get Beyond the Phoenix Principle to her editor, a task becoming more like Mission: Impossible every day. Add to that the never-ending construction of Phoenix Haven, her brother the sheriff worrying about empty threats made against her and the center, answering demands and pleas for help and speaking engagements, and it was no wonder that she couldn’t get a single page written.

She sighed. The last thing she wanted to do was think about something negative. There would always be people who didn’t like her work and what she was trying to achieve. As much as she wished the threats weren’t directed at her personally, she knew there was nothing she could do about them except continue her work. For every negative letter and email she received, there were hundreds more thanking her, and that made all the difference.

Rising to her feet, she left her writer’s block and dark thoughts behind her, moving around her desk to the large table that held her professional dream. The mockup of Phoenix Haven sprawled gracefully across the wood surface. Retaining the charm and serenity of the old church it had been, Phoenix Haven would be a place of rest and rejuvenation, a place where she could help people manage their grief and guilt. A place that would be a haven for anyone who needed it.

Once it was completed anyway.

Renovations on the old seaside mission were progressing at a slow rate. She’d had no idea she’d need so many permits. Even having a brother as sheriff and an old high school friend as mayor of Serena Bay couldn’t slice through all the red tape. Sometimes she believed she needed a permit to breathe.

Enough. She quit her office, sweeping past her assistant. I’m heading out into the gardens, Pattie, she announced. I’m not here for anyone but my brother and Oprah. Okay, Isis too, but that’s it.

Writer’s block again? Pattie gave her a sympathetic smile as she looked up from a stack of correspondence. Sorting through email would come next.

Willow rolled her eyes. Don’t even get me started. Boscoe, are you going outside with me, or do you want to stay inside in the air conditioning?

Her dog, part border collie, part elephant, thumped his tail in an enthusiastic yes. You should register him with the Department of Defense, Pattie said, eyeing the white-and-chocolate spotted hound. That tail alone could be considered a weapon of mass destruction.

Very funny. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with Boscoe or his tail. You’re absolutely perfect, aren’t you, boy? Willow leaned over Pattie’s desk. Whatcha got there?

Oh no you don’t. Pattie, who guarded her age better than the Coast Guard protected the coast, placed her well-manicured hands palms-down on the stack of letters. If you’re not writing, you don’t get to read.

Oh, come on, Willow wheedled. Just one?

Nope. Pattie gathered the correspondence against her ample, and she was proud to say, natural bosom. Not until after lunch. And only if you take your voice recorder out into the garden with you.

Willow heaved a mock sigh of pique. She cherished the other woman for being an efficient assistant, taskmaster, and gatekeeper, and most of all for treating her like a regular person.

I’ve got the recorder with me in case I get struck by divine inspiration, she promised. Patting the bib pocket of her overalls. Which didn’t stick out even half as far as Pattie’s turquoise blouse, she observed with secret jealousy. Though the only thing that’s close to divine around here is what’s left of the chapel. And even it’s seen better days.

With Boscoe loping beside her Willow left the office, passing through a side door that led to the living room that separated the business section of her house from the living quarters. Once the rectory for the old church next door, Willow had expanded it and made it her primary residence. Barring any construction delays, she and Pattie would be able to move into their new deluxe offices in the church at the end of the following week.

After grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, she cut through her Florida room and out the back door. A path of weathered steppingstones cut a stylized V through the thick Bermuda grass, the arm directly in front of her leading through a stand of palmettos and sea grapes to her small but private beach while the other led to a thick wall of ficus trees and a tall wrought-iron fence that separated her quite abode from the bustling renovations of Phoenix Haven.

For two seconds she hesitated, then resolutely chose the left path. If she couldn’t write, she couldn’t play, either. Besides, Pattie would somehow know the instant she stepped onto the sand and would come hunt her down.

She didn’t really envy Pattie her looks. Blonde and buxom wouldn’t go with Willow’s pecan-brown skin and five-seven frame unless she wanted to star in a rap video. What she actually envied was her assistant’s ability to dress to the nines and be left alone. If she dressed up for any reason other than to attend some social function, she received catcalls and invitations to do things she didn’t think were physically possible.

Shaking her head, Willow punched in the code that unlocked the gate between the properties. A new feature, thanks to her overly cautious brother. Ever since her good friend, former college roommate turned TV star Isis Montgomery had interviewed her on Isis’s syndicated talk show, sales of The Phoenix Principle had skyrocketed. Willow was pragmatic enough to know that it has as much to do with being pretty and articulate as it did with having a PhD. And a thought-provoking topic.

Being on Isis’s show had transformed the reluctant Willow into a media darling and working the talk show circuit had sent the hardcover version of her self-help guide into two reprints. Her second book, Living the Phoenix Principle, had been just as successful, especially after a hot Hollywood starlet swore by it after winning a Best Actress award. The money Willow had made allowed her to renovate the old mission its previous owner hadn’t wanted to sell to a hotel chain or developers.

She was a success, and she hated every moment of it.

Carlos Rosa, the master gardener, was already at work. Hola, Carlos, she greeted him, pulling a pair of work gloves out of the back pocket of her coveralls.

Hola, Senorita Willow, Carlos said with a wide smile. The book not going well?

Not you too,’ she groused, eyeing the assorted seedlings he’d stacked in the wheelbarrow. I got enough from Pattie already. How are the landscapers doing?"

He shrugged. You know how they are. Trying to mold the land into their image instead of seeing the natural beauty in it. I thank the Holy Mother daily that you didn’t let them touch the gardens.

Willow snorted. Like you’d say no to the extra sales. Carlos owned his own tropical garden centers and made a healthy living off the landscapers. Willow had chosen him not only because he’d won awards for his custom gardens that enhanced the natural flora, but also because he was local and his enthusiasm for gardening matched her own. It explained why he was here in well-worn jeans and work boots instead of in his office in business casual.

The gardens and arboretum fared better than the rest of this place, Willow said, picking through the plantings. I’m hoping that the renovations will bring Phoenix Haven up to snuff, not to mention code. The chapel has me worried.

The chapel is a special place. Carlos nodded in agreement. You haven’t found a carpenter yet?

Seeing him wipe his dirty gloves onto the seat of his pants caused Willow to wonder what Mrs. Rosa thought about him getting dirt in their Mercedes. Caridad Rosa would probably blame Willow.

I’ve found plenty of carpenters, but no one feels right, Willow said, knowing Carlos would understand what she meant. In the two months that he’d been helping her right the gardens, they’d become fast friends, a fact that alternately pleased and irritated his wife. Mack said he has a friend from Atlanta who’s done some restoration work. Mack says he’s good.

Restoring the chapel is an important job, Carlos said. You want someone who’s not just good, but someone who can put their heart and soul into it. An artist.

Yes. That hole in the roof did a lot of damage to the interior, and it’s going to cost a lot of money to repair. So, I want to make sure it’s done right. More than right.

Carlos took a couple of deep purple seedlings from the wheelbarrow. Caridad and I would be willing to make a donation to the chapel’s repair.

I know you would, but I won’t take it, Willow said sternly. The budget’s there to cover the restoration. I’m just a worrywart. Besides, I know you’re undercharging me for the garden as it is.

The master gardener smiled. "It’s an honor to bring these gardens back to their former glory. It would be a sin against God to charge my normal fee. And you are letting the Home and Garden people photograph it when they interview me, remember?"

Of course. How could she forget? Strangers tramping through the serenity garden hoping to get a peek at her and her home. Another event to be on for. But she didn’t mind as long as they gave Carlos top billing and stayed on their side of the gate. She could list on one hand the people she allowed into her house, and reporters certainly weren’t among them.

When are they supposed to come by?

Two more weeks. They said it shouldn’t take more than two days.

Two days? Her stomach knotted. Surely she could handle two days. If she couldn’t do that, how could she expect to open Phoenix Haven to the public?

She grabbed some plantings off the wheelbarrow before Carlos could respond to her less-than-cheerful words. Well, I’d better get busy, right? We want to knock their socks off when they see another Carlos Rosa masterpiece.

My masterpiece, but your vision, Carlos reminded her. How is that night-blooming jasmine doing on your patio?

They talked more about gardening before Carlos moved deeper into the garden to work on the troublesome water feature. Willow flopped to her hands and knees in the dirt, thinking of nothing more than what flowers, if any, should edge the stone path that wound through the serenity garden. The path was meant to be a meditation walk with stations along the way to pause and reflect. Maybe putting a different colored patch of flowers at each stop would work. No, maybe just a piece of limestone with a single word on it, like Faith or Dream.

Mack here?

The deep, abrupt voice had Willow yelping as she scrambled to her feet, her heart in her throat. Instinct had her backing around the wheelbarrow, her calves coming up against a low stone bench. At once she realized two things: she’d trapped herself, and the stranger could take her out without breaking a sweat.

Chapter Three

Willow found her breath and her voice as Boscoe charged across the grass. Mack’s not here—not right here—but he’s around here somewhere, I’m sure.

That was a lie, but she’d told it in self-defense. Besides, if the man knew her brother’s name, he had to know that Mack was the sheriff.

The man didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge her words, just stared at her. Tall like her brother, standing well over six feet, he had toffee skin and a natural tilt to his storm-gray eyes that had nothing to do with laughter or the hot Florida sun. Muscles crouched beneath the smooth skin on his arms and the gray t-shirt on his back like a pride of lions waiting for a zebra to stray too close before springing into action.

Oh my.

Boscoe must have caught the tremor that moved through her. He growled. The man looked at him—simply looked—and her seventy-pound tower of terror dropped to his haunches with a whine.

Willow managed an inaudible swallow and wrapped her fingers around Boscoe’s collar. Maybe Mack was right. Maybe it was time to hire security. She’d been so deep into her thoughts about the gardens that she hadn’t heard the man’s approach. Mack would hit the roof when he heard about this. If he heard about this.

Sir? Her voice quavered and she hated it.

The man finally blinked, and something less empty seeped into his expression. Brandt Hughes. I’m here about the chapel.

Relief almost unhinged her knees. Oh, you’re Mack’s friend! He told me that you’re an excellent carpenter. She brushed her hands off using the seat of her overalls as she forced herself to relax. If her brother claimed this guy as a friend, he couldn’t be all that bad. Why don’t I show you around? Mack might show up around lunchtime.

He stood his ground, tan work boots planted solidly in the gravel, and she had a feeling that if he wanted he could stand there all day in worn jeans that clung to his muscular legs, and there would be nothing she could do about it. Except maybe climb into a mini-dozer.

Not interrupting, am I? he asked in a tone that said he didn’t care one way or the other. Just like he didn’t seem to care that he’d scared the crap out of her. His eyes held dark secrets yet they didn’t sweep her from head to toe like so many men seemed to have a need to do.

Point for him.

I don’t mind taking a break, she said cheerily, slipping into her PR persona. And walking the property is good exercise.

He didn’t say anything, just fell in beside her as she started down a worn path. The church has been here since Spain owned most of Florida, she explained, trying not to babble as they headed along the western path to the main entrance. The man beside her moved silently and easily, and she wondered if Mack had met him in Special Forces. Her brother didn’t talk much about what he’d done but considering some of the places he’d been sent to, she knew it hadn’t been all sunshine and roses. How did one go from the military to carpentry?

She pulled open one of the ornate doors that she’d spent hours polishing, leading him inside to the relative coolness of the grand entry. Despite the small size of the mission, the sounds of construction were muted, although the smell of plaster and paint pervaded everything.

There’s a wing off each side of the mission, added about fifty years ago, she explained, automatically lowering her voice as she pointed to the right. This wing holds meeting rooms and the administrative offices, and the northern wing is being converted to dormitory rooms, a kitchen, and a dining hall. The part we need your help with is the chapel.

Though he remained silent, Willow was all too aware of the man standing behind her, claiming space and most of the air. Her hand shook a little as she reached for the tarnished brass handle on the dark paneled door that led into the chapel. He’s not going to hurt you, she chastised herself, but she didn’t breathe easy again until she stood back to allow him to precede her into the chapel.

He moved into the center of the room, taking in everything. She bit back an apology for the state of the sanctuary she’d loved since childhood. The chapel had seen better days. Dust motes danced in streams of sunlight coming through a clear pane of glass at odds with the remaining stained-glass windows. The pews were in varying condition; some just needed cleaning and polishing while others were destined to become firewood. The floor faced the same fate, and she didn’t dare tell him about the condition of the rooms behind the pulpit.

He ran his hand over one of the better-preserved pews. It had taken her days to scrub years of neglect off it. Once she’d got it clean, blistering her hands in the process, she’d made the decision to hire professional help.

The salt air and time have done a number on most of the wood, she said quietly, appreciative of the peace that still lingered in the room. But if you’re hired, I hope you can save most of the pews and the floor. I know the pulpit will have to be rebuilt, and the ceiling and the roof are a mess. There’s a large room behind the pulpit that you can use as a workroom.

She watched him step carefully around the chapel, gauging the work to be done. She couldn’t shake the feeling that he seemed like some sort of predator. Her mind likened him to all sorts of animals, lions and panthers and wolves.

He turned back to her and she felt the weight of his stare, heavy and thick. Oh my.

Is there anything else? he asked.

Not much, she said, resisting a nervous shuffling of her feet. Behind the church is a natural arboretum of sea grapes and palms that leads down to the ocean. The path we met on, that’s the meditation garden and it joins the walkway down to the sea. Beyond the wall of ficus and the fence is a garden of the rectory, which has already been reclaimed. If you come with me to my office, I can show you the mockup of the completed project and we can talk more about what the job entails. Then you can show me your references and pictures of your work.

He walked back up the center aisle. I should talk to Mack first.

Oh really? You can if you want to, she said easily, but since this is my project, you'll be working for me not Mack. Do you have an issue with that?

He looked her over, measuring her capability and not her physical features. Unless you're a master carpenter, this restoration will be my project. I don't need an architect or a GC breathing down my neck while I'm working.

Are you that good that you don't need a general contractor over you? She tilted her head, curious about his answer.

Yes. He said it simply as if she'd asked him if the sky was blue. "There's a reason the chapel's been kept separate from the other construction. This place deserves special care to bring it to life and I'm the one to do that. I've done a GC's job in Atlanta and