Cash heard Riley say, “I can’t give you your crap back if I never had it in the first place.” His baby sister was an excellent shit-stirrer. They didn’t call her the Kingston Terror for nothing.
Then came the uncomfortably realistic sound of a bullet being racked.
“Don’t worry,” Emmy whispered to him. “You know it’s not real. Just paintball.”
He lifted his eyebrows because paintballs could hurt like a son of a bitch, especially at close range.
“Riley and Evie both have on vests, too,” she reassured him.
Before the negotiator could respond to the latest details, two shots went off in rapid succession. Even though Cash had known it was coming, the sound sent a jolt through his body. Didn’t matter how many training exercises he’d participated in, they still tightened his gut.
Was Emmy testing him by using his family members in this scenario?
Captain Styles’s order came through Cash’s headset. “Wedge formation, heavy right, on west corner of the house. Get ready to breach.”
The SWAT team made a tight triangle to approach the bunkhouse. Just before entry, they stacked up close on one another. They breached the bunkhouse door with a small explosive that took the whole damn thing off its hinges.
“Reid’s not gonna be happy about that,” Cash muttered.
Once the team was inside, another shot sounded. And then one more. In such a small physical space, they’d had no choice but to take out the threat, which meant shooting the shooter.
A SWAT operator called back over the comm, “Three down, and the scene is secure.”
Cash jumped up and was the first of the TMT through the door. He took in the situation with a sweep of the small space. Hostage one—aka Riley—had taken a bullet to the left arm. Her dark hair looked as if she’d stumbled into a wind tunnel, and her blue-framed glasses sat cock-eyed on her face.
Evie, hostage two, was lying still. Too still.
And the subject Shep had been disarmed and was on the floor with a sucking chest wound. As tough as it was to ignore the women, Cash dropped down next to Shep to attend to what looked to be the most life-threatening wound in the room.
“Hostage one appears to have a compressible wound,” he called out, then directed Jackson, “check the second hostage for pulse.”
As if they had their own minds, his hands pulled supplies and executed the actions to pack Shep’s “wound” with QuikClot. His brother’s head lolled to the side as if he were unconscious. He was doing a damn good job at playacting and would’ve fooled even Cash if it weren’t for the tiny smile lifting one side of his lips.
“Enjoying this, aren’t you?” Cash muttered to him.
“Maggie said to milk it for all it’s worth. I don’t know what she expected me to milk.”
Well, there was his answer to the Shep recruiting question. Maggie, not Emmy.
“Did you know that fake blood isn’t actually ketchup like a lot of people think?” Shep asked. “I’m glad because that would be a waste of good ketchup. But not if they used the grocery store kind. That shit is nasty.”
Yeah, Shep was picky about the quality of his diet. When they were kids, their dad started making organic ketchup and soon Shep loved the stuff so much that every restaurant in town stocked at least one bottle for him.
And the few times he ventured outside the Steele Ridge area, Shep carted along a little bottle in some sort of holster cooler he’d come up with.
“Emmy said it’s corn syrup. Did you know that dark corn syrup is a good stand-in for drying blood? I had to give Puck a down command so he wouldn’t lick it all off me.” Sure enough, Shep’s golden retriever, trained as a comfort and service dog, was lying in the corner, watching Cash’s every move. Worry for Shep or interest in the syrup, Cash wasn’t certain. Puck was one crazy-smart animal but had a reputation for eating just about anything. “At first, they weren’t going to let me bring Puck, but I told them—”
“Shep,” Cash interrupted his brother. “I don’t think you’re supposed to be talking.”
Shep went quiet and let his body go limp again. Cash regretted his comment immediately because his head was now full of thoughts of Emmy. He forced his focus back to his work, finishing the wound packing. “This one’s ready for transport,” he called out.
He and Jackson transferred Shep to a plastic litter and lifted it under the close observation of Emmy and three SWAT operators. Once outside, Cash and Jackson slid Shep into a waiting ambulance and closed the back doors. Two other team members were directly on their heels, wheeling Riley and Evie into another rig.
Emmy came jogging out of the bunkhouse, a stopwatch held over her head. “Time!” When she glanced down at the piece in her hand, a frown formed between her eyebrows, which said she was less than impressed with their performance.
What the hell? They hadn’t made a misstep in there.
“All right, everyone!” The captain made a lasso motion indicating everyone should gather around. “Let’s debrief up at Tupelo Hill. Miss Joan’s got coffee for everyone.”
* * *
Coffee on Tupelo Hill’s porch with its colorful Adirondack chairs should’ve made the debriefing friendlier and less fraught with tension, but even Miss Joan’s special pecan blend and cookies couldn’t unite a team that was making it clear Emmy was an outsider.
An unwanted outsider.
Screw it. She wasn’t running this TMT as their friend. She was running it to save lives. And they would’ve lost at least one today.
Emmy set her coffee aside and addressed the group. “Overall, the entire scene should’ve been handled faster and more smoothly. You’re a relatively new team, so some bumps are to be expected.” She held up a hand when Jackson puffed out his chest and opened his mouth as if to object. “But we’re pros out here, not insecure children. Drop your egos the second you’re called out. You should value feedback that can enhance your performance.” With a laser-gaze, she touched on each team member, lingering only a little too long on Cash. “Are we clear?”
Reluctant head nods, but their faces were blank, and a couple of them stood there in a fuck-you stance with their arms crossed.
Cash spoke up. “If we rush the scene, it impacts patient care.”
“I never suggested that you rush the scene,” she said mildly. “But you need to run it like a tightly choreographed dance. And you were leading in there, Kingston. You should’ve kept a better eye on everyone—”
“I was treating my own patient!”
“I get that, but if you’re the lead medic on a call-out, then you don’t get the luxury of concentrating on a single patient. You have to keep the entire scene in mind. Jackson made a big mistake, and I hold you partially responsible for that.”
“That’s complete bullsh—” Jackson started.
Emmy rolled right over him. “You didn’t thoroughly check your patient for other wounds. You missed a gunshot wound in the underarm. Your patient bled out en route to the hospital.”
“But—”
“No buts,” she said, staring him down. “You either listen to my feedback or you’ll be removed from this team.”
Jackson took an aggressive step toward her. “It’s not like you haven’t killed a patient or two, Doc McKay.” On his lips, her name sounded like a slap. “Why don’t we talk about your recent mistakes?”
Emmy met him head-on even though his words shook her. He couldn’t know about David Hernandez and how his death haunted her. “What matters is I didn’t make any today, Jackson. You did.”
Slowly, the man backed off, but his stormy expression clearly said he thought she was less worthy of this position than his pal Cash Kingston. And from the tightness blanketing Cash’s face, he wasn’t ready to get on board the Emmy train either.
5
Later, Emmy was still thinking about the debriefing as she pushed inside Hoffman’s Grocery and caught a glimpse of the same candy machines that had been there for years. How many times had Cash shove
d a quarter into one of those, pulled out a plastic bubble filled with some trinket, and presented it to her as if it was a priceless treasure?
To her, they had been priceless.
She reached into her purse for a quarter, but stopped herself. A bauble that made her think fondly of Cash wasn’t what she needed right now. What would she do with it—place it in the box with all the others she’d kept from high school?
She grabbed an empty shopping cart and manhandled it down the condiment aisle. Trinkets be damned, she needed to concentrate on the TMT.
The rest of the team had obviously felt at least a shade of what Stan Jackson did about Emmy usurping Cash’s place as head of the TMT.
Wahoo! Come home, Emmy. You can do good things here and get the hell outta Baltimore.
“That wasn’t the only reason you came back,” she muttered to herself. “You came to chill out a little and have a personal life.”
“Huh?” A teenager with shaggy aqua hair looked up from where he was stocking jars of olives. “Can I help you with something?”
Excellent. Now it would be all over town that Emmy had lost her marbles since she left North Carolina. Hell, they all thought she lost her mind when she turned down Cash all those years ago. What did a few marbles matter?
Still, she reached past the kid and snatched a random jar from the shelf. “Just needed to grab this.” She dropped the jar—filled with cocktail onions she detested—into her cart with a clink. Her heart bumping, she ducked her head and made for the end of the aisle even though she had mayo on her list.
List.
If she just stuck to her list, everything would be okay. She unfolded the piece of paper she’d typed up of essentials she needed in her new, albeit temporary, apartment in the Murchison building over Grif Steele’s office.
Milk
Rice
Cleaning supplies
Chicken
Fresh veggies
Veggies. She could handle those. None of them would frown at her or make her feel as if they’d just as soon shove her onto the first plane headed north. They wouldn’t get their fragile male egos wounded by taking direction from a woman. Sweet potatoes were simple that way.
Head down, she beelined her basket toward the lefthand side of the store. Still, it felt as if everyone she passed was staring or whispering.
Just your imagination. You’re not that big a deal.
She made it to the tomato bins without incident, but tomatoes were more complicated than sweet potatoes. Hothouse, cherry, grape, Roma, heirloom. She spied a handful of purple-skinned beauties. Cherokee Purples. She hadn’t seen one of those since… since she and Cash were dating and his dad served them with his famous free-range chicken.
Could these be Ross Kingston homegrown? Emmy’s stomach growled at the thought.
She was just reaching for a particularly pretty one when someone behind her said, “Why Emmy McKay, I’d heard you were back!”
Oh. Oh, this could be good. Or very bad.
Allowing herself one quick breath, Emmy turned to face the woman she’d worked for in high school. “Mrs. Southerland, what a surprise.”
“You’re the surprise, being here in Steele Ridge. We all heard you were marrying some hotshot doctor up in Boston.”
“Baltimore,” she corrected automatically. Silly because Karen Southerland never forgot a detail, which meant she’d made the mistake on purpose. And some folks would consider Emmy herself to be the hotshot doctor.
Stop thinking with your professional ego and be social. You wanted to be part of a community again. This is your chance.
Mrs. Southerland smiled at Emmy, but the contraction of her zygomaticus major and minor was a strain at best because the orbicularis oculi never jumped on board. Apparently, Emmy was still persona non grata. Mrs. Southerland said, “And you were working…”
“As a physician in the Baltimore General ER.” She wouldn’t be reduced to ticking off her many accomplishments since leaving her hometown. “But I’m excited to be back in Steele Ridge. I’ve missed it.”
“That also surprises me. You were always so ambitious. Maybe the most ambitious student to ever graduate here.” Mrs. Southerland stepped closer. “You know, there were some around here who thought you’d never make it. Not after…”
Nope. Emmy would not pick up that dangler.
Mrs. Southerland could be implying so many things. Ninety-nine percent of which Emmy didn’t want to name. “You know what they say,” she forced a lightness into her tone, “never overlook the long shot.”
“Of course, I knew better.” A bin of bell peppers caught Mrs. Southerland’s attention. “And I told people, but you know how they are.”
Yes, some people didn’t like the idea of others getting too big for their britches. Well, Emmy’s pants had always had plenty of room for growth in them. “I guess my work in Steele Ridge will just have to speak for itself.”
“No doubt it’ll sing your praises.” Mrs. Southerland popped two peppers in the basket on her arm. “But I’m sure it’s a relief that you don’t have to tutor to make ends meet anymore.”
Obviously, the woman had no concept of med school loans.
“I enjoyed tutoring.” And she’d been damn good at it. But she’d turned down any opportunity to do so in college because after what had happened with Cash, she hadn’t wanted to risk that closeness ever again. Something trickled down Emmy’s wrist and under the cuff of her sweatshirt, and she realized that she was squeezing the tomato so tightly that the skin had broken. She casually wiped her arm against her hip and fumbled for the nearest plastic bag. “But Cash Kingston definitely ruined me for anyone else.”
* * *
When he strode into Hoffman’s, Cash was still seething about the debriefing from earlier. After providing them with a step-by-step critique of their technique and performance, Emmy outlined how they would be expected to improve if they wanted to remain on the team.
Who did she think she was…
Cash let the air in his bloated lungs release through his clenched teeth and rolled his head from one side to another.
Everything she said was spot on, and you know it.
Emmy was a doctor with specialized knowledge in emergency medicine and tactical crises. When she’d walked through the scenario with the team, she never raised her voice, never used a condescending tone.
She’d been earnest and had provided excellent guidance. Be quick, but take your time with patient assessment because missing a patient injury could cost a life.
He wanted to be pissed, but that would be stupid. If he let his temper override logic, he would be just as guilty of the big-dick syndrome he’d accused Stan Jackson of suffering from earlier.
Pride would cloud his ability to assess a situation clearly. And that was the kind of thinking that could kill people.
Emmy hadn’t come to Steele Ridge to bust Cash’s balls.
She hadn’t come back to do anything with Cash’s balls.
Which meant he needed to buck up and be a big boy about the tactical medical team. Emmy was his boss, and there was no point in thinking about anything personal between them. That was long over.
Life went on. But to live it, he needed to put a few things on the empty shelves of his fridge, so he grabbed a handbasket and headed for the produce section. All he wanted was a damn cantaloupe and some salad, but one glance at the tomatoes made it clear he needed to shop sometime between midnight and two in the morning if he wanted to get in and out with as little brouhaha as possible.
Because Emmy was standing next to Mrs. Southerland stuffing tomatoes into a plastic bag that would’ve given his dad recycling palpitations. If she crammed them in there with any more force and tossed in a jalapeño, she would be well on her way to a decent salsa.
Maybe some oregano for a marinara sauce.
That made Cash’s lips quirk up.
He needed to rescue the women from one another. In high school, Emmy had worked for Mrs. Southerland, tuto
ring students like him. Ones who had good college prospects because they were excellent athletes, but didn’t have the grades to make the cut. But he’d screwed all that up.
“Mrs. Southerland,” he said, pitching his voice over the store’s country Muzak playing from the ceiling speakers. “I heard you’ve been feeling under the weather.” Or what his granny Kingston would call puny. Puny covered everything from the common cold to a gout flare-up. “I’ve been meaning to stop by and check on you.”
Mrs. Southerland turned his way to reveal kind blue eyes and a smile a few people described as indulgent when it was focused on Cash. “Cash!” She hurried over and hugged him, her lilac scent rising up from hair she’d let go naturally gray. “It was nothing. Just the sniffles. But it’s sweet of you to think of me.”
Over her head, he locked gazes with Emmy. She gave him a pained smile before she stretched over and scooped up several jalapeños. Salsa it was, then.
“I did think you were going to call me about scheduling lawn service.” Mrs. Southerland chastised, patting him on the chest and straightening the collar on his shirt. As a teenager, he’d enjoyed getting a little extra mothering from her since his own mom was often busy with her career. Back then, he’d liked to think he filled a gap in Mrs. Southerland’s life, too, since she and her husband never had children.
Her life had always revolved around serving kids and families here in the area. At one time, she’d been known as a rainmaker for helping high schoolers land scholarships and gain admission to the schools of their dreams.
She’d helped him, but he’d decided to go a different direction as a first responder. And like many first responders, Cash had a side hustle—mowing and landscaping. “Actually,” he said, “you were supposed to schedule it online.”
“Oh, don’t be silly. I don’t need to do that. What’s wrong with good old-fashioned conversation?”
“It’s hard for me to remember without an appointment on my schedule.”
Tasting Fire Page 5