Texas Blaze

by Jean Brashear

  How had she lost herself so completely?

  And now she’d lost it all—job, lover, power… What would she have then? She hugged her arms around her middle.

  The side door of the courthouse opened and laughter and noise spilled through.

  Quickly she escaped into the sheltering trees around the spring. The spot where they’d always been told The Lady still walked, wishing for the love that would never leave her.

  Pen laid her head on her knees and rocked her body as she wept.

  Until a light touch on her head soothed. Stroked.

  Pen reared up.

  A wisp of white flitted from the corner of her vision, but no one was there.

  She went very still.

  No way. That was just a story, a fanciful legend.

  She closed her eyes, squeezed. Stress. Too much stress. The strain of the last week was catching up to her.

  But when she opened them again, for a breath of a second something hovered before her, a pale, indistinct shape.

  Gradually a face appeared, lovely and sad. The woman’s hands rose from her long, full skirt and reached out.

  Pen would swear she felt a gentle touch. A little of the ache in her heart eased. She let her eyes close, soaked in the benediction.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  But when she glanced up, no one was there.

  Pen looked around her as dusk deepened. Felt Texas seep back into her bones and in that moment heard another burst of voices and joy float from the building behind her.

  And felt, for the first time in longer than she could remember, a little less lonely. This place wasn’t home anymore, and she had a life to put back together, more peaks to scale, more to accomplish.

  Stay, came a whisper on the wind, and she shook her head that now it was she who was getting fanciful.

  She couldn’t stay long, but right now…she had nowhere else to go.

  Chapter Three

  “Damn it, you blasted…” A string of unrepeatable words issued from Mackey’s lips the next morning, and Bridger grinned. His buddy had a lot of talents, but a hammer wasn’t one of them. “Good thing Eric’s outside with Rissa, giving pony rides. Maybe you should be, too.”

  “Bite me,” Mackey retorted.

  Harley Sykes paused as he walked past with a paint bucket. “Boy’s been hanging around those Hollywood types too long, you ask me.”

  “He’s right, you know,” Case Marshall said from nearby where he was hanging a light fixture. “He and Pretty Boy are off their stride. Need a good pedicure, I guess.”

  Josh Marshall walked past with a load of lumber over one shoulder and not, Bridger noted, feeling the weight of it. “Blah blah blah, Trucker Dude. Get down off that ladder before you hurt something.”

  Bridger could only shake his head and grin. The community work day was well underway, and an amazing amount was getting done on the first floor of this old courthouse, in spite of the sheer amount of bullshit flying around in the air.

  Damn, he’d missed this. The firehouse where he was stationed in Tennessee was, to put it mildly, a little dysfunctional, thanks to a captain who was more about strutting than about building a team. Before that, he’d been part of SEAL Team Nineteen with Mackey, a true band of brothers he missed to this day. It had been the closest thing to family he’d ever experienced since…

  Don’t go there.

  Thinking about Molly and Kathleen and Nathan was a sure path to Crazytown.

  It was too late. He was too late. They’d been scattered to the winds because he hadn’t been smart enough, wily enough, strong enough to keep them together once their old man had gone completely over the edge that fateful night. Sixteen-year-old Bridger had ordered his mother and crying siblings to escape out the back bedroom. His mother had refused, and he’d tried to protect her.

  But he’d failed. The bastard had killed their mother, then turned the gun on himself.

  Bridger had gone ballistic when the cops had separated the siblings, and he’d wound up in handcuffs, violent like his old man.

  He was not his old man. Violence lived inside him, yes, but he channeled it, learned to manage it, put it to work for his country.

  But by then, it was too late. His brother and sisters were lost to him.

  Probably better off, he knew that. He had no home, no life they could share. They weren’t children anymore, he had to remind himself. Even if he had tried, he probably couldn’t have located them. He hadn’t tried, though, and the knowledge was a wound that wouldn’t heal.

  But what, realistically, did he have to offer them at this late date? Nothing like this, a town, family, friends.

  So why couldn’t he forget them?

  He just wanted to erase the last sight they had of him, covered in blood, full of rage and hate. He wanted to know they were all right, that the brutality of their early years hadn’t broken them beyond all repair.

  The Teams had been the making of him. Given him structure and a family of sorts. Discipline without hate. Structure without imprisonment. Steadiness, something none of them had ever had.

  Oh, sure, he’d served in all kinds of upheaval, political instability, war and violence. But his buddies and he were rock-solid. They knew the rules, knew what to expect.

  With a violent drunk you never knew what was coming next. Which was why not one drop of alcohol ever crossed Bridger’s lips. Just in case. Some doors should never, ever be opened.

  “Hey, Doc—where’d you go, man?” Mackey prompted. Doc was his name in the squad. He’d been their medic.

  He shook off the past. “Just wondering where I’d resupply once I finished bandaging all your fingers and thumbs. Put the hammer down, dude. Do us all a solid.”

  “Screw you,” Mackey snorted, though his gaze on Bridger was still narrowed and assessing. “I’m getting good at this now.”

  “Thank God,” Ian said as he passed. “We’re about to run out of unbent nails.”

  Unruffled, Mackey just shook his head. “What can I say? Women and horses are my gift. To each his own.”

  “That’s not what Rissa told us,” Dev Marlowe said. “Well, horses, maybe…jury’s still out on that.”

  An explosion of laughter ensued.

  Then the door opened again to the click-clack sound of that curvy little blonde who apparently set most of the women’s teeth on edge. “Hey, boys,” she trilled. “We brought snacks.” She was perky and pretty, all right, if you went for sparkles and glitz.

  But it was the long, tall drink of water behind her that got Bridger’s attention.

  “Hey, Legs, what are you doing here?” Mackey asked.

  For his part, Bridger didn’t care why she was here.

  He was just enjoying the view.

  “It was either this or be dragooned into quilting. So I’m playing delivery girl again, here with snacks for the hardworking men.” She paused. “Mackey, you can have something, too.”

  Hoots and jeers traveled around the room, but Mackey only shook his head. “Princess, you don’t know the new me.”

  “Don’t have to,” she smirked. “I know your wife.”

  No snappy comeback from Mackey, only a goofy grin along with a quick glance at Ian. “Speaking of wife, I think I need to kiss mine.” As Mackey passed Pen, she slapped a hand to his broad chest. “Oh no, you don’t, Tom Sawyer. No skipping out to play while everyone else works.”

  “Have mercy, Legs, and let him go. We won’t have an unsplit board left otherwise.”

  “You did not just call me Legs, too, Ian McLaren. What are you, twelve?”

  It’s only a home truth, Bridger thought. Even clad in jeans, no stilettos in sight, the woman had a good mile and a half of leg—and sweet mother Mary, that fine behind of hers…

  Then the front door burst open behind her. “Dad!” Eric cried out, eyes seeking out Mackey. “Come quick! Pedro’s grandson Bobby wanted to show Aaron Coleman that he could climb the tower better, only he slipped on the steps and there’s blo
od everywhere!”

  “Sweet hell—” Mackey cursed. “Doc—”

  But Bridger was already on his feet and running. “Tell Kyle to get my kit from my truck,” he barked to Penny as he raced past.

  He thought he saw her eyebrows lift, but to her credit, she immediately followed and peeled off to the left once outside, headed for where his buddies were manning the grill.

  He shouldered into the crowd gathered around a boy of about twelve lying on the ground, his arm leaking bright red through a t-shirt someone had wrapped around the wound.

  The boy’s dad was pale, while his mom was weeping and stroking the boy’s hair.

  “You’re gonna be fine, son,” Bridger soothed.

  Behind him, Mackey talked to the crowd. “Stand back and give him some room. Bridger was our squad’s medic, and he’s fixed much worse than this, Kelly,” he said to the boy’s mother. “Doc, this is Kelly Albiar and her husband Paco. Our foreman Pedro is Paco’s dad.”

  Bridger gently peeled back the cloth to reveal the torn flesh. Gently he probed around the edges. The boy cried out. “Hang on, buddy. I’m nearly done poking around. Just need to see what’s going on. Anything else hurt?”

  “Mostly my arm.”

  Bridger looked up at the parents. “Who knows what happened here?”

  As he listened, he did a quick check of the boy’s pulse—unsurprisingly fast from fear and pain—and his respirations, also accelerated. His pupils reacted as they should. “Can you move your legs for me, Bobby?” The boy complied. “How about your head?” No sign of pain.

  His kit appeared at his side. He glanced over at the woman who wasn’t out of breath even after making excellent time. “Thanks.” He glanced at Mackey. “Let’s move him inside—not the courthouse. Too much dust flying around.”

  “Let’s take him to Ruby’s house. It’s closest.”

  “Lead the way.” Bridger picked up the boy and looked at Penny. “Will you bring my kit?”

  She only nodded and rose.

  He had to hand it to her, the woman was steady.

  Pen watched as Bridger alternated between talking to the boy and reassuring the parents. Somehow you could just tell that if he was on board, nothing bad was going to happen. He didn’t bark out orders, he didn’t play head games, he simply had this ineffable but unmistakable air of command. Of competence and quiet assurance that he was up to the task.

  A whole lot different than what she was used to. Her life in D.C. was full of machinations and maneuvering, of spinning the facts, of never committing to anything because something better might come along. The lust for power superseded everything else. Even the nicest people still partook of the drug. Power was an aphrodisiac, which was why so few marriages survived unless the spouses—most often the women—learned to turn a blind eye. Most of them did so because they had their own ambitions which were tied to their men.

  As a single woman, she’d had more freedom.

  But at a cost. There was no man to lean on, no one to come home to at night and unburden yourself, no one whose first priority was that you be safe. Cherished.

  She watched the boy’s color improve as Bridger talked to him, could see the hero worship blossoming beneath the pain. The power and command was the real deal, born of a native confidence in what he could do. In who he was.

  And that, she marveled, was unlikely to change. Somehow she felt that. Knew it to be true.

  The man had taken an oath to defend his country.

  Even jerks like Hugh. She snorted.

  His head turned. “What?”

  “Oh, nothing. Seriously. A blast from the past.”

  His tawny eyebrows rose over those golden eyes with the black ring around the iris. “Tell me later?”

  “I doubt you’d be interested.”

  Again the brows. “I’m interested in a lot of things, Legs.” He grinned and turned back to the boy.

  Pen actually felt her heart skip a beat.

  Oh. My. That grin…

  She would not be getting gooey. Pen Gallagher did not do gooey.

  Bridger halted in front of the back door, which quickly opened. Inside stood an older lady.

  “Mrs. Oldham,” Pen said to the caretaker for one of Aunt Ruby’s boarders. “We need someplace for Bridger to work.”

  “So I see. You all come right on inside. First door on the left past the stairs.”

  Behind them she heard an older man’s voice speaking to Bobby’s parents. “Hello there. I’m Judge Daniel Porter. How about you folks join me for some coffee or an iced tea, whatever sounds better to you?”

  “Oh, I—” Bobby’s mother pressed her lips together. “I need to be with—”

  Bridger took a look into the small room that must at one point have been a maid’s room. “Not a lot of space here, I’m sorry to say.”

  Pen glanced back. “I can leave—”

  “I need Ms. Gallagher’s help, Mrs. Albiar. Would you be all right giving us a minute? You’re welcome to stand right outside the doorway and watch or if you’d prefer, you could keep an eye out for the ambulance to come.”

  “Not much chance of that anytime soon,” Mrs. Oldham muttered. She patted Bridger’s arm. “You help him, honey. I’ll take care of the parents.”

  “Bobby?” said the boy’s mom. “Honey, I don’t think I should leave you.” She was clearly holding on by a thread, however.

  But she was his mother.

  “I’ll be fine, Mom.”

  “Wait—” Pen was speaking to an empty spot in the doorway. Mrs. Oldham had already left. Her gaze whipped back to Bridger’s. “I’m no nurse.”

  “You don’t panic. You’re not fainting or running away screaming.”

  “I grew up on a ranch. Gallagher women aren’t sissies.”

  “I have no trouble believing that.” He turned back to his patient. “You okay with your mom being down the hall, Bobby?”

  “She doesn’t do so good with blood and she’ll just cry all over me,” the boy said, face strained.

  “Moms who care do that.” An odd note in Bridger’s voice. “Well, if you change your mind, you just speak up. I’m not going to pretend this isn’t going to hurt, but before I do any stitching, I’ll numb the area. First, though, we have to disinfect.”

  “Should I go…I don’t know, boil water or something?” Pen asked.

  A quick grin. “We’re good, thanks.” He was already breaking open a bottle and squirting it around the area. He smiled at Bobby. “You’re going to come back and clean up the mess I make on Ruby’s guest bedspread, right?”

  “Me?” squeaked the boy.

  “Hey, I’m not the one bleeding here.” He went on to chat easily with Bobby about whether he had a horse and where his ranch was. What grade he was in and which girl he liked.

  All the while, he was drawing a syringe full of medication, tapping it and letting air and excess medication shoot out the top. Without missing a beat, he injected Bobby so skillfully that the boy barely winced.

  “See, you do better than some of my SEAL teammates. You shoulda heard Mackey squeal when I stuck him.”

  “Seriously?”

  Bridger grinned. “Well, okay, actually he cussed a blue streak, but we’re not doing that here, right? Not with a lady present?”

  The boy’s eyes cut to Pen. “My dad says you can’t cuss in front of girls.”

  “Your dad is a wise man.” Bridger threaded a needle, then tapped the boy’s skin with one gloved finger. “Feel that?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “You’re a clear candidate for the Teams, buddy. Nothin’ gonna get you down, right?”

  “So did you kill terrorists?”

  His reaction was there and gone so quickly she might have missed it.

  Haunted was the only word for that expression.

  “Part of the job. You like to hunt?” Skillfully Bridger deflected the conversation into deer hunting and on to Bobby’s horse, then to the little sister Bobby conceded wasn’t too bad
for a pesky girl.

  All the while, Bridger’s hands were rock-steady, the needle winking in and out of the boy’s skin, his patter so casual, jumping from one topic to the next, managing to keep the boy’s eyes on him and not the arm he was suturing.

  Then Bridger tied a knot and cut the thread. “All done, buddy. Just need to put a dressing on and you’re good to go.” He cocked his head. “Might not be a bad idea to swear off challenging anyone for a few days, okay? Even SEALs need time to recuperate.”

  “Seriously, you think I could be a SEAL?”

  “It’s one option. Smart guy like you, I figure you have plenty of others. You might rather be a rancher like Ian and your dad. Sounds to me like you have a feel for the land.”

  “Maybe. You like horses?”

  “I do. Always wanted to own one.”

  “But you’re a fireman now.”

  “I am. Not a lot of room at the station for a horse.”

  The boy grinned, but his eyes were drooping. “I’m a little tired.”

  “I’m thinking Penelope here could go get your folks and maybe they’d stick with you while you rest a bit.”

  “Don’t want to miss anything…” His voice was already slurring with sleep.

  “You just close your eyes for a few minutes and take it easy, you hear?” Bridger gave her a look, a nod toward the door.

  Pen rose and went to find the parents, who informed her that the ambulance was a good hour away. Medical help was an issue in Sweetgrass, always had been. Thank heavens Bridger was here, but that was not the permanent solution the town needed.

  Bridger met them outside the door. “I don’t think he needs a rush trip. How about you just let him rest a bit, then take him over to the hospital so they can check my work and prescribe him some antibiotics?” He squeezed the mother’s shoulder and looked reassuringly at the dad. “He’s gonna be fine, I promise. He’ll need something for the pain for a day or two, and he’ll have to take it real easy for the next week with that arm, but he’ll be good as new in no time.”