Her voice wavered, rasping over the last word to make it softer than the rest, but she squared her shoulders and continued, undaunted. “I might have a lot to learn as a firefighter. But there’s one thing I do know. For all the mistakes I’ll make being too headstrong or too bold, at least I’ll never be a coward.”
With that, Savannah picked up her bag and walked out the door.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Savannah got to the lobby of Cole’s building before she realized that she had no shoes on, no way to get home, and no reservations about crying in public. She had to be the biggest moron on the Eastern Seaboard. She hadn’t even cried when she’d broken her ankle a couple of years ago—in three places, thank you very much—and now she was going to fall apart over a stupid broken heart?
Be tough, girl. Be . . .
Okay, nope. She wasn’t tough. She wasn’t tough at all.
She was a fucking sucker who’d trusted her heart to yet another person who didn’t think she measured up.
Savannah needed to get out of there.
Gathering her wits even though her wrist was starting to hurt as much as her pride, she pulled her cross-trainers and her cell phone out of her duffel. Fumbling with one while dialing the other, she pulled up Brad’s number and hit Send.
“Girl. Things must be at an all-time low if you’re calling me from your shift.” The sound of her brother’s slow Texas drawl sent a potshot to Savannah’s sternum, and really, what was with the waterworks?
“Actually, I’m not on shift,” she managed, clearing her throat and steadying her voice with all her power. “It’s kind of a long story. But can you do me a favor? Can you come get me and not ask any questions? Please?”
Brad’s concern was an instant, palpable thing over the phone line. “Just tell me you’re safe and not hurt.”
“I’m okay.” She bit her lip at the not hurt part, but Brad was going to see her splint soon enough anyway. Plus, at least that would heal.
How could she have believed that Cole had her back, that she belonged with him and at Station Eight, when all it had ever been was a lie?
“I’m okay,” Savannah said again, forcing herself to believe it, if only for a minute.
“Just tell me where you are. I’m already on my way downstairs.”
When Brad pulled his Ford F-150 up to the curb fifteen minutes later, Savannah had squashed her tears—thank God—but she was no closer to wrestling her way through the ten-car pileup of issues in front of her. Luckily, her arson investigator of a brother was too fixated on her heavily bandaged arm to notice the circles under her eyes or the bone-deep sadness that had to be showing on her face.
“Start talkin’, sweet pea,” he said, getting out of the truck and moving toward the passenger side.
Savannah couldn’t help but let out a microscopic smile, although she couldn’t back it up with any joy. “It’s just a scratch. Looks worse than it is, but I got the rest of my shift off as a precaution,” she answered, reaching for the handle of the F-150.
But her brother reached her first. “I know you’re tough, but Duke would whip my ass from now ’til Sunday if I didn’t open the door for a lady. Sadly for you, badass baby sisters do qualify.”
She gave in and let her brother fuss over her—Brad had to know she’d cave at the first mention of their father, and anyway, she’d be just as concerned if her brother turned up with a splint on his wrist. Savannah got situated in the front of the truck while Brad got back behind the wheel and pulled away from the building. The sun had fully set, although she couldn’t be quite sure when, and all of a sudden, the utter exhaustion she’d been holding at bay hit her like a six-ton wrecking ball. Savannah gave her brother the short and not-so-sweet (it was her, after all) version of how she’d been injured on this morning’s call. Brad’s jaw went granite-wall solid when she got to the part about passing off her mask, but at least he let her slide with a you’re-lucky-you’re-f ine-but-don’t-you-ever-do-that-again instead of the full riot act, which she was sure to get from Captain Westin anyway.
Provided she still had a house to go back to once she figured out how she was going to get out of this mess with Oz.
Brad pulled up to a stoplight, cutting her a look through the soft glow in the front of the truck. “Someone clearly picked you up from the ED, and just as clearly pissed you off good enough to call your old brother for a ride. I know you said no questions, and normally, I ain’t one to pry, but . . . you want to talk about the rest of this?” he asked, hitching a thumb at the duffel between her feet.
For just a second, the whole story burned bright on Savannah’s tongue. The truth needed to be told, and confessing all to Brad would definitely fast-track an investigation into Oz’s wrongdoing.
So it was really a surprise when her instincts made her shake her head and say, “Not really, no.”
“Okay,” her brother said. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
Savannah knew she needed to find a way to bring the facts to light. She was certain Oz was involved in this string of arsons, even if she couldn’t prove it, and a man had nearly been killed this morning. But no matter how much her blowout with Cole stung, she couldn’t deny that he’d been right about one thing.
Telling anyone what they’d uncovered was a massive risk, with life-altering stakes. And Savannah couldn’t act on boldness alone. She was going to have to think long and hard to figure out how to proceed without destroying her career or Cole’s. With no one at her back but me, myself, and I.
This time, she made it all the way to the bathroom in Brad’s postage stamp of an apartment before the tears started to fall.
* * *
Cole rolled over and blinked the sleep from his eyes for a full ten seconds before he realized he’d never actually gone to bed. Technically, after about five hours of relentlessly searching for answers that he was fairly certain didn’t exist, he’d tried to get some shut-eye. But Savannah’s fresh-laundry scent had lingered all around him, and even after he’d changed every stitch of bedding including the comforter, he hadn’t been able to loosen the thought of her from his mind long enough to actually drift off.
Forget a strategy. Cole was going to need a full-blown miracle to forget about this woman. Not to mention the fact that the lieutenant on the rescue squad he’d desperately wanted to be a part of was covering up arson, and there still wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it that would stick.
Happy fucking Monday.
Cole’s cell phone buzzed with an incoming text, and for a stupid, impulsive second, hope swelled in his chest. But he’d forgotten that Donovan had promised to return his Jeep today. At least the heads-up “I’m on my way” text would give Cole some time to slap together a pot of coffee and do a little damage control on his probably haggard appearance.
From the look on his best friend’s face when Cole opened the door ten minutes later, one out of two was going to have to cut it.
“Damn, brother.” Alex handed the keys to the Jeep over with his blond brows notched sky-high. “You look like pulverized shit.”
“Thanks,” Cole said, putting the keys on the small table in the entryway. “Is Zoe downstairs waiting to give you a ride home?”
Donovan shook his head, and not even the sight of his buddy’s loopy grin could kick Cole’s mood out of the basement. “Nah. She’s on breakfast service at the soup kitchen, so I’m going to run back to the firehouse from here to get my bike. It’s only six miles.”
Leave it to Donovan to go big or go home. Or in this case, go big while he was going home. “You want some coffee before you hit the bricks?”
“Is that even a question?” Donovan asked, following Cole into his kitchen. “Listen, all kidding about your appearance aside . . . I know yesterday’s call kind of rattled your cage. We were all a little off after what happened to Nelson, but I didn’t realize you were this jacked up.”
“It was just a long day. I’ll be good by next shift.” Cole reached for a pai
r of mugs from the cabinet, stamping out the ache behind his breastbone and reaching for his focus. But in his bid to get his shit together once and for all this morning, he overcompensated with the coffee carafe, and most of the splash meant for his cup ended up on the hem of his T-shirt.
“Ah, shit.” Cole slid the carafe back over the burner, grabbing a dish towel to soak up the mess.
“Whoa, look out. You okay?” Donovan asked.
“Yeah, I just . . .” Cole tried to make his mouth form the rest of his sentence, to tell Alex that he just needed to grab another T-shirt and he’d be set, no harm, no foul.
But he’d snagged the very last one out of his drawer this morning. All of the others were MIA. Stolen by a determined, beautiful Southern woman who had snuck up on him and done the same thing to his heart.
And Cole had pushed her away—fuck, he’d completely shut down, just as he had nine years ago when he’d left Harvest Moon—because he’d been too damned scared to let himself take the risk and really feel.
Not anymore.
“No.” The single syllable was all it took, and Cole’s emotions rushed up after it like water flowing through a three-inch attack hose. “I’m actually not okay. I’m not even in the same universe as okay. I’ve been seeing Savannah for a couple of weeks now, and I’m pretty sure I’m in love with her, except Oz found out, and I think he’s involved in arson. Only I can’t prove it and I’m pretty sure he’s going to destroy my career and now Savannah hates my guts and I don’t really blame her.”
Donovan’s jaw unhinged. After a long second, he popped open the cabinet over the sink, grabbing two glasses and a bottle of Jameson from the shelf.
“It’s eight o’clock in the morning,” Cole pointed out, and it was kind of dumb that he’d blurt out his most intimate secrets in one ridiculous, rambling go, then be all rational in the next.
Guess old habits were gonna die hard.
“Yeah.” Donovan didn’t let that stop him from cracking the bottle open and pouring a few inches of whiskey into each glass. “But you’ve had the whole calm, cool, and collected thing going on ever since I met you nine years ago. Since it looks like you’re going to kick that shit to the curb today . . . I figure we might as well drink while you tell me what the hell is going on.”
Fair enough. It wasn’t as if a little early-morning Jameson was going to elbow out all the other things threatening to level him. “It’s kind of a long story.”
“Oh, I got that,” Donovan said, handing over one of the glasses as he parked himself at Cole’s kitchen table. “You should probably take it from the top.”
Cole paused, waiting for the instincts that had kept his feelings on lockdown for the last nine years to grind his feelings into dust.
Only instead, he started talking, and he didn’t stop until both glasses of whiskey had been drained twice over, and all the details of the last five weeks—along with the story of his emotional departure from Harvest Moon nine years ago—had spilled out from the bottom of his chest.
“Jesus Christ, Everett.” Donovan sat back in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck with one palm. “I don’t even know where to start. You and Nelson have had a thing since the Fireman’s Ball?”
A pang worked its way past the whiskey, and Cole nodded. “We didn’t intend for it to happen. I swear I never treated her any differently at the house than I would’ve any other rookie.”
“Oh, I know. I was right there with you two the whole time and I never had a freaking clue anything was going between you,” Donovan said.
Cole’s stomach clenched around all the Jameson and the dread filling it up. “Well, I don’t think it’s going to be an issue from here on in, since she’ll probably never speak to me again unless she absolutely has to. Not that it’s going to matter to Oz or anyone else who sees those pictures.”
Donovan traced the rim of his empty glass with one finger, the suddenly serious expression on his face warning Cole that nothing good was on the way. “Yeah. Oz having proof of your relationship definitely jams you up, and not a little. Tell me something. You really think he’s involved in these fires?”
Cole’s frustration flared, and he crossed his arms over the front of his coffee-stained T-shirt. “It doesn’t matter if I can’t prove anything.”
One corner of Donovan’s mouth ticked upward, but he still didn’t relent. “Would you stop being a Mr. Spock pain in the ass for one second and just answer the question?”
“Fine. Yes. I absolutely think these fires are arson, and that Oz is covering them up.”
“Okay, then. That’s really all you need.”
He stared at his best friend, certain the guy had lost his fucking faculties. “Are you insane? Oz is going to bury me and Savannah if I say one word about this to anyone.”
Donovan’s blue eyes turned glacial. “I’m sure he’ll try. Look—” He broke off to take a long breath in, his expression softening a few degrees. “I know the job is more than just a job for you, and I hear that. I really do.”
Of everyone Cole knew, Alex was probably the best equipped to understand. The men and women at Station Eight were the only family either of them had, although for very different reasons.
Donovan continued. “The fact that you’d do nearly anything to defend your career makes sense. But for all that strategizing you’ve been doing over there, you’re forgetting your two biggest cardinal rules.”
“Which are?”
“Your gut is the most important tool you’ve got, my brother. And if it is telling you something this loud and this strong, you can trust everyone at Eight to have your back enough to at least hear both sides of the story.”
Cole’s shoulders hit the back of his chair with a graceless thump, realization pumping through his brain. Savannah could’ve been killed yesterday—hell, any of them could’ve. Defenses or no defenses, emotions or no emotions, photos or no photos, he had to go to Captain Westin. The beating his career would take was going to hurt, maybe permanently, but if Oz was guilty, he needed to go down for this. Period.
Cole needed to take the bold risk. No matter how high the stakes.
“I’m going to need one hell of a blueprint for how to do this just right,” Cole said, and Donovan clapped him on the shoulder, his grin spanning from ear to ear.
“There’s a shock. Let’s trade in this Jameson for coffee and see what we can come up with.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Cole sat back against the red leather banquette at Scarlett’s, his body perfectly still even though his pulse was clocking in at conservatively Mach 2. Dark gray clouds darkened the stretches of sky visible through the large picture windows along the diner’s perimeter, promising a late-afternoon thunderstorm that looked like it would have as much bite as bark.
Talk about going out with a bang.
The front door at Scarlett’s opened with a jingle, and Captain Westin stepped inside. Cole had seen him from a half a block away, having scanned every bit of his surroundings on a continuous loop for the last twenty minutes. If Oz was still taking the scenic route through Cole’s off-time, he was either doing it with a high-powered telephoto lens or an invisibility cloak. Not that it would change Cole’s plan if the lieutenant was still keeping tabs on him.
Oz would find out about this conversation soon enough anyway.
“Captain Westin,” Cole said, standing as the man approached the booth where he’d been waiting. “Thanks for agreeing to meet me on your day off, and in such crappy weather.”
Westin shook his head, sliding across from Cole to get comfortable on his side of the booth. “No problem at all. You had a hell of a day yesterday with that nightclub fire. You feeling all right?”
Westin’s light brown eyes creased at the edges in genuine concern, but Cole nodded to set his mind at ease.
“I’m fine.” Now or never, and never isn’t an option. “I do have something that I need to discuss with you, though, and it couldn’t wait until next shift.”
; “Sounds serious,” Westin said, putting a hold on saying anything further while a waitress came by to fill both coffee mugs on the table, then leave the carafe at the captain’s request.
Cole took a deep breath, but he didn’t hesitate. “It’s a bit of a long story, but it’s one you need to hear, and it’s one I need to share, regardless of the consequences.”
Point by point, he told Westin everything he’d discovered in the last five weeks, outlining the details from first the warehouse fire, then the blaze at the restaurant, complete with what he’d uncovered at both scenes. The story grew decidedly more difficult to tell when he admitted his relationship with Savannah, then more challenging still as he revealed Oz’s threat along with the details of their heated argument at the hospital yesterday. Westin listened carefully, not interrupting even though his facial expressions very clearly ran the gamut from shock to anger to disbelief. Finally, when the whole story was nearly out, Cole pressed his palms into the Formica in front of him, his throat knotting up with emotion as he put the last piece of the truth into place.
“I know that Oz has been a firefighter for a damn long time, and that his side of the story is going to contradict mine. I also know that he’s going to raise some pretty serious counterclaims, some of which are true. In fact, I know it so well, I damn near didn’t have this conversation with you at all. But I was trained to trust the chain of command and do what’s right above all else. So even if it costs me my job, I’d like to respectfully request that the FFD be called in to conduct a formal investigation on these fires and on Lieutenant Osborne’s involvement in them.”
For a minute, then two, Captain Westin remained quiet. When the two minutes doubled yet again, Cole began to silently panic. Westin had always been a fair man, one Cole had respected since he’d met him on Day One. But Oz’s Day One had preceded Cole’s by an entire generation, and Oz had proof of his allegations where Cole had squat in black-and-white.
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