Light My Fire: A Loveswept Classic Romance

by Donna Kauffman

“Of all things,” she said, frowning. A baby llama.

  Jenna shook her head and focused on navigating the gentle slope on her makeshift crutches, but stopped when the howl turned to frantic bleats. It had seen her and was now renewing its struggle to get free, trying to get to its feet and lurching dangerously back, going deeper into the black mud with each attempt.

  “Shhh, it’s okay,” she called out, trying to keep her tone soothing but loud enough to be heard. She redoubled her efforts, moving as fast as she could. The animal was exhausted, and she was afraid it would hurt itself. It took another ten minutes or so, but she finally got within five feet. If she moved any closer, she risked getting stuck right alongside the damn thing.

  “How in the world did you get way out here all by yourself, you silly beast?” she said, her tone sweet and gentle despite her words. The llama stopped struggling.

  A long, fuzzy camellike nose swung in her direction, and she found herself looking into impossibly soulful black eyes fringed with the thickest, longest lashes she’d ever seen.

  “You stupid sweetie,” she crooned. “I bet you’re exhausted, aren’t you?” Its ears came forward, alert to her voice. It continued to stay still, so she kept talking, all the while wondering what in the hell she was going to do.

  She’d never been around llamas before, but it was common knowledge that they had grown in popularity as pets and were also used as pack animals by hiking outfitters. She knew llama ranching had become a viable industry. This one apparently had wandered off, or its owner’s ranch might have been destroyed in the recent wildfire.

  The baby didn’t look newborn, but it probably was at the time of the fire. Where was the mother?

  She swallowed hard as her stomach pitched again. Concentrate on getting this thing loose.

  “Yeah, and then what?” she grumbled. The llama continued to stare, its only reply a slow, long-lashed blink. “Thanks,” she said dryly, but she couldn’t help the smile that teased the corner of her mouth. “You really are a pitiful thing, aren’t you?” Another blink. “At least you know when to keep your mouth shut.”

  It leaned toward her, extending its long neck as far as it could go. Jenna stilled, then took a careful step forward and leaned on one crutch as she bent over and reached out to its soft, fuzzy muzzle. It sniffed at the sock wrapped around her hand as Jenna lightly stroked it. The baby curled the flappy sides of its mouth back, revealing blocky white lower teeth. The resulting expression was an incredibly goofy-looking grin.

  Jenna laughed and stroked it again, surprised and oddly moved when her efforts were rewarded with a rumbling hum inside its long throat. The baby pushed its nose harder against Jenna’s hand and the hum deepened. “You sound like a big cat,” she said, delighted despite her stern determination to remain unaffected. The baby grinned again. Her heart was gone.

  “What am I going to do with you?”

  “Save her.”

  Jenna shrieked at the unexpected deep voice. A second later she joined the baby llama in the mud. Frightened, the baby reared back, splattering black ashy muck all over Jenna’s shirt and face.

  Scraping at the goo, Jenna swung her narrowed gaze back around. “Delahaye! How in the hell did you get—”

  “Duck!” T.J. ordered, cutting her off.

  Jenna turned back to the llama, raising her arm up to ward off the unforeseen threat. The baby had straightened its neck, aimed its head upward, and flattened his ears. Jenna lowered her arm, once again turning to T.J. “What? It’s scared and you yelling at me isn’t helping. I don’t think it’ll bite—”

  “No, but it will—”

  There was a guttural sound followed by a warm, wet splat as a glob of something grossly foul smelling hit the back of her shirt.

  “Spit,” T.J. finished, grinning unrepentantly.

  “Oh, disgusting!” She looked at the baby reprovingly. “Is that any way to treat your rescuer?” The baby’s ears went forward again as it lowered its head, looked at her, and blinked. “Apology not accepted,” Jenna said crossly, but her tone was gentle. She sat stiffly. “Oh, this is so gross.” It was all she could do not to yank the now rank garment off her body. Modesty didn’t stop her—fear of smearing the spit did. “I ought to leave you here.”

  “Same thing is crossing my mind.”

  She didn’t look at him. Her cheeks had flushed as guilt crept through her. He might be teasing, but she’d seriously planned to leave him. “Yeah, he’s some invalid, Jenna,” she muttered under her breath.

  “What was that?”

  Without turning, she raised her voice. “I said fine, leave me here. I don’t think I can survive another one of your rescue attempts.”

  The baby shifted nervously at her tone. Not wanting another spit grenade, Jenna quickly reached out a tentative hand. After a cursory sniff, the baby pushed its face closer. Jenna opted for stroking its long neck. “Just don’t breathe on me, okay?”

  “She likes you,” T.J. said.

  Jenna snorted. “Yeah, right. I’m sure she spits on all of her friends. What makes you so sure it’s a female?”

  “Just guessing. Can’t be much more than five or six months old.”

  The rumbling purr returned as she continued to stroke the baby. “Brat,” she said, fighting a smile even as the noxious spit fumes continued their assault on her olfactory senses.

  “Want some help?” he offered.

  A smart retort was on the tip of her tongue, when she finally remembered to wonder how in the hell he’d gotten there. Continuing to pet the baby, she finally shifted around to face him.

  Her mouth fell open. Her throat dried up. It was the first time she’d seen him upright. Standing there in dirt-streaked, torn-up blue jeans, hiking boots, wild wet hair, and a bare chest the size of Mount Rushmore, he looked like the centerfold of Lumberjack Monthly.

  The fact that he’d fashioned a crude brace for his knee out of broken branches and torn shirt strips and was leaning heavily on a gnarly-looking tree-limb crutch did nothing to diminish the aura of raw power he emanated. It rolled off of him in waves.

  His sexy grin knocked the power up a few hundred volts. “Yeah, I know. I’m not much of a bargain.”

  She was tempted to deny his assessment vigorously, but her sanity was mercifully restored when he continued.

  “But I’m all you’ve got.”

  “Thanks, I think I’ll take my chances with the baby.”

  He tried to look offended. The dimples blew it. “I may not be in great shape, but at least I don’t spit.”

  Why her mind chose that moment to recall the feel of his broad chest, all warm against her cheek, or those boulder-size arms wrapped firmly but gently around her she had no idea, but she didn’t appreciate it. The image wasn’t so easy to block out this time. Staring at him wasn’t helping, but she couldn’t seem to look away. “I can handle it,” she told him, not remotely sure of any such thing.

  Being one of only a handful of female smoke jumpers in the country, she’d come across as many wild men as wildfires. But T. J. Delahaye was in a class all by himself. The man looked as if he could stomp out fires. Barefoot.

  “Like I said, stubborn and determined.”

  She scowled and looked away, scanning the mud for her makeshift crutches. With a final pat to the baby’s head, she worked to unearth the branches from the muck.

  Careful to move slowly so as not to alarm the baby, she half clawed, half dragged her backside, thighs, and one foot out of the deepest part of the mud, but her other foot and bad ankle were pushed in too deep. She was going to have to pull hard to get it out. It was going to hurt like hell, and possibly injure her further, but she had no choice. There was no use trying to dig out, the mud would ooze right back in. Clamping her jaw, she tried, then tried again. By the fourth time she mentally concluded that the mud was going to win, unless she asked for help.

  T.J. might tease her, but stubborn and determined had gotten her a long way in life. They’d get her out of this mess.r />
  “Take off your shirt.”

  Surprised by the proximity of his voice, she turned her head. He was only a few feet behind her, at the edge where the scrub brush turned to mud and silt. He moved quietly for a big man, a big injured man. God, but the man was truly a giant.

  The heat was back again, all dark and warm and tempting. There was no use denying the man caused an elemental reaction in her.

  Somewhat unwillingly, she pulled her gaze to his. “I beg your pardon?”

  “The only way to get you out of here is to sit behind you so you can grab onto me, use me for leverage. I’d pull you out, but I can’t bend my knee.”

  “What does that have to do with me stripping?”

  “Well, I like you and all, Jenna, but I’d as soon not swap llama spit with you.” He nodded at her shirt. “If you know what I mean.”

  Eyebrows raised, Jenna looked at him and laughed. “Paul Bunyan afraid of a little muck and mire? You obviously haven’t looked in a mirror lately.”

  He leaned on his makeshift crutches and lifted one hand, palm up. “Hey, mud and dirt are one thing—”

  “And blood and gravel and grass. Come on, Delahaye, I may be afraid of some things, but a little ash, dirt, and muck are hardly worth worrying about. I’ve spent half my life covered by one or all three of them. Surely a big guy like you can handle a little spit.” She wanted nothing more than to tear the offensive thing off of her, but ribbing T.J. felt too good.

  The sun chose that moment to emerge from the last remaining storm clouds, lighting T.J.’s blue eyes with a crystal gleam. “That’s not a little spit. It’s green, Jenna.”

  “Oh, gross!” She sat up straighter and held out her arms, as if that might separate her even marginally from the slime.

  He laughed. “It’s just a little spit,” he mimicked.

  “That was more information than I needed to know, okay?”

  He moved closer, and Jenna noted he was leaning very heavily on his crutches. Despite his good-natured teasing, which she suspected he’d keep up even under torture, he was likely in substantial pain. “You should be sitting down with that knee immobilized.”

  “I’d like nothing better, so stop whining and take your shirt off. You’ve got more than one on.”

  Yes, she did. But that was all she had on. And both her long underwear and her henley were soaking wet. Suddenly she could feel every soaking-wet inch of her waffle-knit shirt clinging to every damp inch of her skin. Her nipples peaked. And it had nothing whatsoever to do with being cold and wet.

  Modesty, Jenna? Maybe it wasn’t the spit after all. The idea confounded her. She’d spent the major part of her life surrounded by men, doing a job that required living in a dormitory existence that demanded a certain lack of modesty in order for them all to perform their duties. But that had been under harsh, emergency situations, she reasoned, conveniently forgetting the hours of boredom smoke jumpers were forced to deal with in between assignments. Where had her modesty been then?

  She looked away, wiping her suddenly warm cheeks on her shoulder, carefully avoiding looking at the fire-charred mountainside. She looked instead past the baby, downstream into the narrow valley.

  She hadn’t felt modesty because the subject had never come up. She’d made damn sure the men treated her as a firefighter first, last, and always. And they had. She’d told herself it was necessary to ensure their respect and maintain professionalism. Not an easy task. But now she wondered if that’s all she’d been ensuring.

  “Jenna?”

  The teasing voice was gone, replaced by one filled with concern. Caring.

  She straightened her shoulders and carefully pulled one arm, then the other, inside her shirt, then eased the sodden fabric as carefully over her head as she could. It wasn’t until she held the torn muddy mess in her hands that she smiled, then laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  I’m a fool, that’s what. She tossed the shirt on the opposite side of the streambed. A man had finally managed to get past her defenses, get her hormones all stirred up, and get her worrying about things like wet, nipple-clinging shirts and bare breasts and modesty.… And she was sitting in a streambed covered in soot and ash and muck—and llama spit. Oh yeah, Jenna, better not let him see your nipples, you’ll send the man over the edge with lust for sure.

  “Nothing,” she said, a dry smile still curving her lips. He edged closer, and her smile faded abruptly as her body reacted to him, to his proximity. Damn the man. Damn her. She might not inspire lust, but he had. She did not want his hands on her. She felt foolish enough as it was.

  “You know—” The words got all tangled up somehow, sounding deep and even rougher than usual. Still not looking at him, she cleared her throat. “With the sun out, this mud ought to dry up fairly quickly. I don’t want you to risk hurting your knee any further. Why don’t you rest. I’ll work my way out.”

  There was a long pause. She felt his gaze on her. Never had she been more aware of herself. What was he thinking as he looked at her?

  “What about the baby?”

  He was thinking about the llama. She sighed. Reality check, Jenna. “I can help her too.” She reached out to pet the baby’s nose. The llama had been quiet, seemingly content as long as Jenna stayed nearby and didn’t raise her voice.

  She stiffened as the ground vibrated behind her and long legs slowly slid on either side of hers. She would have turned, but strong hands had clamped on her sides. She looked down to see his long fingers spread across her stomach beneath her breasts. Tanned and dirty, they made a stark contrast to her cream-colored shirt, as did the dark hue of her nipples as they strained against the wet fabric.

  She opened her mouth to tell him what he could do and where he could go do it, but found her breath had vanished.

  “You—you’re getting my shirt dirty,” she managed to mumble, her gaze still riveted to those fingers. Her breasts ached. She ached.

  His voice was a velvet whisper in her ear. “Afraid of getting a little messy, Jenna?”

  SIX

  Damn but she felt good. It was all he could do not to press his lips against the skin below her ear. T.J. chuckled when she stiffened further at his whispered words.

  “Ready?” He took her silence as a yes. She was a handful in more ways than one. And he quite liked having his hands full of Jenna King. “Hold on to my arms and use me for leverage.”

  “You can’t anchor your leg any better than I could. We’ll both slide in.”

  “I’m not going anywhere. Hold on and pull.”

  She didn’t respond for several seconds, then gradually she relaxed and redirected her strength. Her trust, however tentative, warmed him more than the sun now beating down on his back. He felt the slight relaxation of her lower back, the increasing tension across her shoulders and neck as she got ready to pull once again. But when she carefully took hold of his arms, he wasn’t expecting the sharp response of his body. A small moan escaped him before he could stop it.

  She stiffened all over again, dropping his arms. “What’s wrong? I told you you shouldn’t do this.”

  “It’s okay,” he lied. Okay right now would be closing the scant distance between her sweet backside and the tight bulge threatening the seam of his jeans. Okay would be pulling her fully into his arms and working on assuaging this craving he’d somehow managed to develop. He wasn’t sure even that would be enough. “Come on,” he said, his tone a bit harsher than he’d intended.

  She hadn’t missed it either. She turned her head and pulled back a little so she could see him. “T.J., I can get out of here on my own. I appreciate the help, but it won’t do either of us any good if you injure yourself further.” A dry smile kicked at the corners of her mouth. “Trust me, I’m one woman you don’t have to impress with macho maneuvers.”

  He tore his gaze from her lips. He was certain kissing her right then would rate worse than rescuing her on the macho-maneuver scale. He’d rather risk injury.

  �
�I wasn’t trying to impress you. I was trying to help.”

  “Yes, I know. You don’t really make a living at that, do you?”

  “Very funny.” If there’d been a gun aimed at his head, he couldn’t have looked away from her then. For the first time her smile reached her eyes, warming them, lighting them with vibrancy … with life. He hadn’t realized how empty they’d truly been until now. He reached up and tucked one of the drying wispy tendrils behind her ear. “You have a beautiful smile, Jenna King. You should wear it more often.”

  Just like that, the life winked out of her eyes. She turned away, her back to him once again. He regretted his lack of finesse, but he wasn’t going to back away this time. There had been a blink of vulnerability in her expression before anger had shut all other emotion down. He imagined that anger was quite effective in helping her close people out.

  He ignored her anger and focused on the other glimpse of her—the real her—he’d seen. “I’m sorry if getting compliments bothers you, but I won’t apologize for giving you one. I wasn’t trying to impress, I wasn’t trying anything. I was speaking the truth as I saw it. You have a beautiful smile. Especially when it reaches your eyes.”

  “Thank you,” she said stiffly. “Now let’s get out of here.”

  “That doesn’t happen often, does it, Jenna?” He didn’t expect an answer, and she didn’t disappoint him. “I’m sorry for that. Sorry for whatever keeps you from smiling.” T.J. sighed, but placed his hands firmly on her hips. “Grab on.” Even though he’d been prepared for it, her touch still jolted him. His fingertips tingled beneath her breasts, and he found himself staring at the heavy braid that lay along the slender line of her neck. He wanted to press closer, feel it brush his skin. Admiring her strong shoulders, he held the proof of her narrow waist in his hands. She jolted him all right.

  “My foot is anchored,” she said.

  “On three,” he said. “One … two … three.”

  He felt her strong grip on his arms as she pressed herself back. She was grunting under the strain, and he felt her begin to slip forward. He held her tighter as a loud sucking noise erupted from the muck in front of them. When her foot popped free, the sudden shift in balance shoved her backward on top of him.