Holiday in Your Heart

by Susan Fox

  Peller’s gaze was fixed on Eric like he was his salvation. This morning, the kid had been joking about how he’d have to quit smoking before he went home, or his pregnant wife wouldn’t let him back in the house. And that homecoming was only a couple of weeks away. Canada had almost finished pulling out of Afghanistan. Back on home soil, Peller would finish out the few months left on his Terms of Service contract, and then he planned to leave the army and find a job where he could be home with his wife and baby. As for Eric, he was a career soldier with no obligations other than to the army. After Afghanistan, he’d have a new posting.

  As Eric dragged himself toward Peller, the sergeant’s lips moved. Eric shook his head, trying to clear the ringing. With the aid of a little lip-reading, he made out Peller’s next words. “It’s bad, Major.” There was blood on the kid’s face; he’d been cut by debris. Peller twisted in pain. He coughed and choked out, “Real bad.”

  Yeah, it was bad, but agreeing with the kid wasn’t going to help. “Hang on, Peller.” Fighting against his own pain, Eric reached the sergeant, pulled out the tourniquet that all soldiers carried, and wrapped it around what remained of Peller’s right leg. The left leg was in bad shape, too, and he got Peller’s tourniquet on it.

  As for his own legs, they’d have to wait. The fire was a hungry crackle, a rush of flames relentlessly consuming the derelict building. Smoke clogged his throat and lungs. His brain, on overload from shock, pain, smoke, and urgency, struggled to form a plan of action.

  No one’s gonna get here in time. Have to get Peller out before this place burns down with us in it.

  The kid shouldn’t be moved, not without a stretcher, but what choice did Eric have? He needed to drag him, and hope the fire didn’t cut off their path to the exit. “Gonna get you out now, Danny-Boy. Get you to a medic.”

  “Wish I could see Ellie,” Peller mumbled, his face white and sweaty, streaked with dirt and blood.

  “You’ll be home before you know it.” It was hard to concentrate on anything but the excruciating pain in his own legs.

  “Not g-going home, Nails.” He forced the words out.

  “Sure you are.” And if Eric had anything to say about it, it wouldn’t be in a body bag. His nickname was Nails because, when he was green, he’d been so dumb that he’d said he was tough enough to eat nails. Well, he was a hell of a lot older now, and damned tough, but the task ahead of him was formidable.

  Damn it, where were the others? He could sure use a little help in here. Even though his hearing had improved, he still couldn’t make out any sounds from outside—not above the noise of the fire. He maneuvered his body into a position where he could try to drag Danny by the back collar of his uniform.

  Soldier up, boy, and get your man out of there! This time the harsh command ringing inside his skull was in his father’s voice. The Brigadier-General had no patience with wimps.

  Eric grabbed on to Danny’s uniform and braced himself to tug, but then the sergeant’s mouth opened again. Eric leaned closer as words came out slowly and clumsily.

  “Tell El-lie . . .” The life faded from Danny’s voice before he could finish the sentence. It was fading from his blue eyes, too, yet Eric saw the plea in them and knew exactly what Danny had wanted to say.

  Shit. The cocky young sergeant was SOL. He was one of Eric’s men, and Eric had sent him into danger. He’d failed to protect him, and now he couldn’t save him. Couldn’t send him home to his wife and unborn kid. All he could do was respect this dying wish.

  “I’ll tell her you love her and the baby,” he said gruffly, resting his hand on Danny’s shoulder. I’ll tell her—if I don’t burn to death or die of blood loss myself. “She loves you, too, Danny-Boy. You know that.” But as he spoke the last words, he realized he was talking to a dead man.

  Eric lifted his hand from his sergeant’s lifeless body and raised clenched fists as he let out a howl of fury. And then—

  He fell, landing hard, fierce pain in his right leg jolting him to awareness.

  What the hell? What now? Another explosion?

  Smoke burned his eyes and clogged his throat, making him cough. Everything was dark, but doing a quick assessment of the situation, he felt a rough texture under his hand. Not concrete, wood, or dirt, but . . . carpet?

  Gradually, he came to his senses. He’d had another nightmare. A flashback to the IED explosion that had taken Danny Peller’s life.

  Eric used the tricks he’d been taught for coping with PTSD flashbacks. Ground himself; orient himself in the present.

  “I’m Eric Weaver and I’m not in Afghanistan. This is not the f’ing sandbox. I’m in British Columbia, in Caribou Crossing.”

  Repeating those words didn’t make the smoke go away. He coughed as he rubbed the floor again and felt the well-worn carpet. “I’m in the master bedroom of the farmhouse I rented.” And, damn it, he’d fallen out of bed again.

  His right leg hurt fiercely. “It’s phantom limb pain,” he muttered, coughing. “That leg’s long gone.” Was there some kind of justice or divine irony in the fact that he, the major who hadn’t been able to save Danny after the sergeant’s right leg was blown off, had lost his own right leg? Eric curled his body so he could massage the stump where his leg ended midthigh. Sometimes that helped ease the pain. His left leg, which had undergone multiple surgeries, didn’t feel a hell of a lot better than his phantom limb.

  Smoke still choked his nose and filled his lungs, and he coughed again, struggling to expel it. “There’s no smoke. I’m not in Afghanistan. It was a nightmare.” Except . . .

  Oh, fuck, that smoke was no dream; it was real. So was the roar and crackle of flames. The house was on fire.

  And had been for some time, he realized, while his fucked-up brain had been back in Afghanistan.

  Call 9-1-1.

  Damn it, he’d left his phone downstairs in the kitchen. Besides, from the noise and smell, he wasn’t sure the Caribou Crossing fire department would be able to reach the remote farmhouse in time. Might any distant neighbors be awake in the middle of the night and have seen the glow of flames in the sky? He sure as hell wasn’t going to wait around and see if rescue came.

  Disoriented by the darkness, smoke, and the lingering effects of the flashback, he tried to get his bearings. Reaching out, he found the side of the bed. He’d thrashed around so much in his sleep that he’d fallen out on the side farthest from the door.

  His T-shirt was at the foot of the bed, where he’d tossed it when he racked out. He grabbed it and held it to his face, trying to block the smoke. He’d already inhaled so much while caught up in his flashback that his burning lungs and throat kept him coughing, and his eyes watered.

  He did a quick situation analysis. The bedroom was on the second floor. If he shut the door—that sturdy wooden door—it’d hold the fire back. But there was no fire escape outside the window. Though the bedroom was on the second floor, the way the house was situated atop a hill meant that it was a three-story drop from the window to a concrete patio. He was strong enough to pull himself up onto the roof, but the fire could trap him there if rescue didn’t arrive soon. If he donned his prosthesis, maybe he could find a way to climb down, or he could take his chances on jumping. No, wait. Shit. The batteries that operated his high-tech leg were in the charger.

  He was running out of time.

  The only other exit was down the hall and stairs to the front door—if the fire didn’t block his path. Deciding on that course of action, Eric crawled lopsidedly around the bed, using his good knee, his stump, and one hand. Clad only in cotton boxer briefs, he kept his head low, using his other hand to hold his tee to his nose, but smoke filtered through the cotton. Deep, wrenching coughs racked his body. There was crap in this house, toxic crap. Smoke inhalation messed with your body and your brain. He didn’t have a moment to spare.

  He made it to the door into the hall. The smoke was even thicker, and orangey-yellow flames engulfed the end of the hall directly above the kitchen.
How the hell had the fire started? Faulty wiring in the kitchen, maybe? It was an old house; when he rented it, he hadn’t cared that it was run-down.

  The fire ate its way toward him, but didn’t cut off his escape route to the top of the staircase. Coughing into his T-shirt, he crawled as fast as he could. His coordination was getting worse, a side effect of smoke inhalation.

  Stairs were good exercise. He’d been drilling himself running up and down them, getting used to his fancy prosthesis, building his strength, striving for a balanced gait. Improving every day. Now, without that leg, he’d have to “bum it down” as patients referred to it in rehab—plopping on his ass and bumping down step by step the way a toddler would. It’d only take a few seconds, and then the door would be right in front of him.

  He forced himself onward. Both his legs—the one that had been seriously injured and the missing one—hurt fiercely. What with the smoke and his coughing, he could barely catch his breath. His head ached so badly he had trouble thinking, and he was dizzy, disoriented, and nauseous. Did he hear a siren, or was he hallucinating?

  At the top of the stairs, a coughing fit brought him to a stop. It was so severe he couldn’t catch his breath.

  Mind over matter, soldier.

  Yeah, Dad, I know.

  Peering downstairs through burning, watering eyes, he saw that it was less smoky there, but that flames and smoke were spreading down the hallway from the kitchen. He’d left the heavy kitchen door closed and it had blocked the fire for a while, but now the monster had breached it. He had to get to the first floor before fire blocked the front door.

  Goddamn it, he’d survived an IED in Afghanistan. He wasn’t going to die in a house fire out in the middle of the Cariboo. Dizzy, fighting nausea, he struggled to stop coughing, to breathe shallowly through the protective barrier of his cotton tee, to focus, to push onward.

  Downstairs, there was a crash. Breaking glass. Had the fire blown out a window? An instant later, the front door slammed open and two firefighters dashed into the smoky hallway. “Fire Department,” a voice yelled. “Call out!”

  He tried to respond, but instead coughed like he was hacking up a lung. A haze swam across his eyes, through his brain. He was fading, losing consciousness.

  But one of them had seen him. A figure clad in bulky turnout gear raced up the stairs. The other manned a hose, aiming a powerful stream of water down the hallway, attempting to hold back the fire.

  The first firefighter knelt beside Eric, reaching for something in the pocket of his turnout pants. “You’re okay,” he said, his voice muffled and distorted by the face mask. “Is there anyone else in the house? Nod or shake your head.”

  Eric, still hacking, shook his head while the firefighter pulled out a strap.

  “Got an adult male,” the firefighter reported to someone. “He says that’s all.”

  Through the visor of the mask, dark brown eyes stared into Eric’s. “We’ll get you out,” the man said. Despite his wonky vision, Eric read confidence and reassurance. A sense of peace stole over him. The hand that held the tee to his nose dropped away. He began to fade . . . His last conscious thought was, I’m safe.

  His lapse in consciousness didn’t last long. When he came to, he was being pulled headfirst down the stairs. The firefighter had wrapped the strap under his armpits and was tugging him, supporting his head and neck. Eric’s lower body bumped each step. Pain jabbed him. His body struggled to expel smoke, but he tried to hold still, to not make the rescue more difficult. He hated being helpless, being somebody’s burden. Making this other man risk his life to rescue him. Eric was the soldier, the one who was supposed to be tough and self-sufficient.

  He was aware of the second firefighter still spraying water, and then his rescuer was pulling him through the open front door. Other hands were there, ready to take him. Fresh air touched his skin. Red and blue lights swirled; water arced from a hose pointed at the house; voices called out.

  He was on a stretcher, an oxygen mask being hooked over his face. Needily but cautiously, he sucked air through his scorched airway. Someone draped a blanket over him and fingers checked his pulse. Paramedics, he realized. A man and a woman in blue uniforms.

  His rescuer was still there, too, addressing him. “You said there’s no one else in the house. Nod if that’s correct.”

  He nodded confirmation.

  “Any pets?”

  He shook his head. Damn it, his prosthesis was in there. The high-tech one designed for soldiers to help them be fully functional—and to return to active service if they chose to do so. It was his mobility, his freedom; it was his chance to reclaim his career, his life. But he couldn’t ask firefighters to risk their own lives for a damned leg. The prosthetist would make him a new one, but it would take time. Another setback. It was the fucking story of his life these days.

  Dimly, he was aware that his rescuer was relaying Eric’s report to the other firefighters. Oddly, the man’s confident voice had an almost feminine sound.

  Eric wanted to lift the oxygen mask and thank the guy, but the firefighter was hurrying away to help the others who were trying to control the blaze.

  “You’re going to be okay,” the female paramedic, youngish, with blond hair pulled back from her face, said calmly. “We’ll get you to the hospital and they’ll treat you for smoke inhalation.”

  He nodded his understanding.

  She glanced toward the house. “It’s fully involved. You’re a lucky man. Lark got you just in time.”

  Lark? An unusual name, especially for a guy.

  The other paramedic, a stocky guy with graying hair, said, “Caribou Crossing’s sure lucky to have her.”

  Her? Well, shit. He’d been rescued by a woman.

  He had nothing against women. He’d served with a few; they were as capable as the men. But now, for whatever reason, discovering that he’d been saved by a woman felt like the final blow to his ego. Grateful as he was to be alive, could he be any more humiliated?

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Award-winning, international bestselling author Susan Fox (who also writes as Savanna Fox and Susan Lyons) is a Pacific Northwester with homes in Victoria and Vancouver, British Columbia. She has degrees in law and psychology, and has had a variety of careers, including perennial student, computer consultant, and legal editor. Fiction writer is by far her favorite, giving her an outlet to demonstrate her belief in the power of love, friendship, and a sense of humor. Visit her Web site at www.susanfox.ca.

  HOME ON THE RANGE

  In this exciting new series, author Susan Fox welcomes you to Caribou Crossing, a small Western town made for love and adventure . . .

  For Evan Kincaid, the best thing about his dusty hometown was watching it fade into the distance. Jessica Bly was the only one who didn’t treat him like an outsider, and their friendship ended with one mind-blowing night of young passion. Now they’ve both got the lives they planned—Evan in New York, Jess with her beloved horses in Caribou Crossing. But business has brought Evan back to Jess’s Crazy Horse ranch on a mission that could destroy whatever’s left of her trust.

  Ten years ago, Jess wanted one perfect night to remember Evan by. What she got was a broken heart and a secret that’s kept them strangers ever since. The boy she knew was sexy and sweet; the man he’s become leaves her breathless. And no matter how much she tells herself that country girl and city boy don’t belong together, in her heart she wants to believe his home has been right here all along...

  Also features the full-length prequel novella “Caribou Crossing.”

  GENTLE ON MY MIND

  In her latest contemporary romance, Susan Fox welcomes readers back to Caribou Crossing, the ruggedly sexy Western town that seems made for starting over . . .

  Brooke Kincaid knows second chances don’t come cheap. She’s spent five years repairing past mistakes and making her life in Caribou Crossing steady and predictable. But now a stranger’s Harley has shattered her fence and her peace of mind
in one swoop. Because Brooke is drawn to everything about wounded undercover cop Jake Brannon . . .

  By rights, Brooke should curse Jake for complicating her life. Instead she’s offered him a place to heal and a cover story as he searches for a wanted man. Jake knows she’s vulnerable, but she’s also strong, kind, and hotter than hellfire. It’s a combination that could make even a die-hard loner long to put up his boots and put down roots at last, and show her just how good a second chance can get . . .

  LOVE ME TENDER

  International bestselling author Susan Fox returns to the big-skyed Western town of Caribou Crossing, where an unlikely couple forge a future more hopeful than they’d ever thought possible ...

  Karen MacLean is a hardworking, well-respected corporal for the Caribou Crossing detachment of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Though she secretly longs for marriage and a home like the one she grew up in, she’s made her job her top priority and grown accustomed to being alone. But a handsome sergeant whose will is as strong as her own could change everything she thought she believed . . .

  Sergeant Jamal Estevez is often trusted with undercover work, but his greatest challenge has been to conceal his true identity as a recovering alcoholic. A city guy who’s never had a real home, he’s starting to find peace riding the country roads of Caribou Crossing—with beautiful Corporal MacLean. As the attraction between them grows, Jamal may discover that the life Karen has been hoping for is exactly what he’s needed all along . . .

  Also features the full-length prequel novella “Stand by Your Man.”

  LOVE SOMEBODY LIKE YOU

  With its breathtaking terrain and welcoming people, the Western town of Caribou Crossing is the perfect place for a heart to heal, and for love to blossom once more . . .