Hot for Fireman

by Jennifer Bernard

  Brody frowned. “Why are you coming to me? I’m not involved in this case, except for providing background information.” He pushed at the papers on his desk with a disgusted air.

  So that was Ryan’s file, Katie thought with a chill.

  “I’m coming to you because Ryan trusts you. And you know Ryan. And once I tell you the whole story, I’m hoping you’ll know what’s the best way to clear him. And what I should do so that I face the consequences. Not Ryan.”

  “I’m sensing there’s quite a story to be told here.” He flipped open a yellow legal pad and picked up a pen. “Mind if I take notes?”

  Katie swallowed. Notes made it seem so official. “Of course, that’s fine. Notes. Okay, well, it started with the insurance payment coming due. No, it started when my father had his heart attack. Or maybe when he put me in charge of the bar. No—” She stopped to collect her thoughts. “The idea of burning down the Hair of the Dog was entirely mine. It seemed like the only way out, for me and for my father. See, he was under too much stress, so my mother asked me to take over. I was desperate and went a little crazy . . .” And from there, the story flowed. The enormous pile of bills, her hopeless sense of being alone and in over her head. The appearance of Ryan. Her insane idea of burning down the bar and collecting the insurance. How Doug had offered to help. The fires that Ryan kept putting out.

  “See? Why would he start a fire after putting out so many of them? It doesn’t make sense.”

  Brody nodded gravely. She couldn’t read his expression at all. She barreled ahead.

  “And then he did the bachelorette party strip show, and—”

  “The what?” Brody braced both hands on his desk and leaned forward. “Did you say, ‘strip show’?”

  Oops. How was she to know Brody hadn’t heard about that?

  “Not full frontal, or anything. Just full back-tal. Backside. The front was turned away. And covered by a helmet.”

  “A fireman’s helmet?” His voice was low and dangerous. If she got Ryan into any more trouble, she’d really never forgive herself.

  “All the guests really enjoyed themselves, and no harm came to any San Gabriel firefighters. I’d say the department’s reputation was enhanced by the firemen’s willingness to . . . um . . . pitch in and help out a friend.”

  Brody shook his head. “Never should have gone along with that one,” he muttered. “Go on. What happened after the striptease?”

  She decided to skip ahead to Carson Smith and Doug’s role in locating him. “Ryan thought he looked suspicious, and that his father might know him. So we went to his dad’s trailer.”

  Brody looked genuinely surprised by that. “Ryan saw his father? And he took you along?”

  “Yes, but his father didn’t remember Carson Smith. Until later, when it was too late. Carson Smith set the fire that you put out.”

  “So you paid him to set the fire that burned down the bar.”

  “Well, not exactly. I mean, I was going to, but instead I paid him to go away and not set any more fires. I felt so terrible after you and Ryan put out that fire. I wanted to call it off. But he wouldn’t stop unless I paid him. So I did.”

  “In other words, you paid him not to commit arson.”

  “Yes, but . . .” This was getting off track. “Only after I hired him to commit it.”

  Brody rubbed the dented lines between his eyebrows.

  “I know it’s confusing. The point is, why would Ryan go to the trouble of finding out the truth about Carson Smith if he intended to start another fire himself? That isn’t his real name, by the way, in case you’re writing things down.”

  Brody had stopped writing notes a while ago, so Katie thought he might need a reminder. He picked up his pen, shook his head, and put it down again. “Just keep talking. Might be better if I don’t have all this on paper.”

  “Oh, right.” That certainly made sense.

  “Go back to the part where Ryan visited his father. How did that go?”

  What did that have to do with anything? “Well, fine, I suppose. He didn’t shoot either of us. Apparently he does that sometimes.”

  “And how was Ryan afterward?”

  Katie’s face heated. Afterward they’d steamed up the interior of his truck while parked under a grove of orange trees. She didn’t think that needed to go in the report. “You saw him soon after. On the way back I told him that I’d hired Mr. Smith, and that’s when he called you.”

  “Hm.” Brody delivered another of his long, probing looks. “Something tells me you’re a good influence on Hoagie.”

  “Hoagie?”

  “That’s our nickname for him.”

  “Geez, that’s the best you could do?” Katie sniffed. She could think of many nicknames better than that one. Hottie McHotstuff. Mr. Sexy. Ultimate Dream Man. Focus, Katie. “I’m not a good influence on him at all. In fact, I’ve pretty much ruined his life, especially if he loses out on getting his job back. I can’t let that happen.”

  “It’s not really up to you, is it?”

  She flushed again. “No, of course not. It’s up to you.”

  “Mostly, it’s up to Ryan.”

  “If you knew how much he studied for that exam.” She scooted the chair forward, forgetting how nervous Brody made her. “He worked so hard. He had piles of books at his house. Sometimes he brought the manual to work. And I’ve seen him put out fires. Twice. He’s amazing. How can you not want him back?”

  Brody stood up from his chair and clasped his hands behind his back. He walked in a small circle, as if moving helped him think. “Ryan Blake is the best fireman I’ve ever had on my crew. No one else has ever come close. Here’s something you may not know about Ryan.”

  “What?”

  “Deep down, he’s a family man. To him, this firehouse is a family. He’d do anything to protect his family. Something tells me that now applies to you.”

  Katie stared at him, appalled. “That doesn’t mean . . . you don’t think . . .”

  “Do I think he started that fire? No. It would go against all his training, all his instincts. But some will interpret his history and profile that way.”

  Katie squeezed her eyes shut. It couldn’t be, it couldn’t happen. “Charge me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Take my confession. Isn’t that what cops do?”

  “And priests,” Brody murmured.

  She stood up to face him. “I hereby confess to the intention and committing of resources to willfully and foolishly burning down the Hair of the Dog.”

  Brody walked around the corner of the desk and loomed over her. “Do you know what happens to people convicted of arson?”

  But she held her head high, straightened her spine, and held his gaze. “I don’t care. They can put me in jail, fine me, whatever the law requires. I assume they don’t burn arsonists at the stake.”

  His grim face lightened a bit. “Some would like to, it’s true. In your case, I’m not sure what the punishment would be. No one was hurt, except Ryan. He could probably sue you for damages.”

  She gulped. If he did, she’d deserve it.

  “And then there’s the false confession issue. The law doesn’t like that sort of thing.”

  “False confession? But I just told you the story. I started the whole thing.”

  “And you stopped it. Several times. Using your own money. Someone didn’t get the message. Who actually started the fire, Katie?”

  Staring back at him, she saw why Ryan looked up to him so much, why he had such a legendary reputation. The man was a commander, through and through. She’d seen the same steel in Ryan, though masked by his playfulness. “Captain Brody,” she said, clearing her throat. “I can’t say any more than I’ve already said. I suspect someone, but I have no proof. And I can’t accuse someone without proof. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’m the one who’s to blame.”

  She saw a glint of respect in his charcoal gaze. “Are you so sure it wasn’t someone with a deep-seated grud
ge against the Hair of the Dog? Someone with nothing to do with you?”

  She’d never thought of that. “I’m not sure of anything, to be honest. Except that it wasn’t Ryan, and that I did, at a certain point, have the intention to commit arson. Which is more than Ryan ever had.”

  She withstood more scorching scrutiny from Captain Brody, until he made a brisk turn back to his desk. “I’m glad you came in today, Katie. It was very illuminating.”

  “But . . . what will you do now?”

  “Get back to work.”

  “You’re going to write up my confession? Take it to the arson squad or whatever? I don’t want to confess to the insurance guy.” She shuddered.

  “I’m sure one confession will do,” he said as he sat down. “Maybe you should go tend to Ryan.”

  Right. She’d stood up to Captain Brody, but the reminder of being turned away at the hospital punched the courage right out of her. “He won’t see me.”

  She turned to go, shoulders drooping. Brody murmured something. She turned back. Brody, seated behind his desk again, no longer looked like the fearsome leader of men she’d stared down. Now he looked like a kind older cousin. The type you might have a crush on, if you weren’t already hopelessly in love with someone else.

  “Give him a chance,” Brody repeated, louder this time. “He’s going through a lot right now. He probably feels like a failure.”

  “A failure?” How could a hero feel like a failure?

  “Firefighters are supposed to fight fires, not get caught in them without a cell phone and no way to escape.”

  “You’re saying he should have put it out?”

  “I’m saying he probably feels like he should have. The bar had fire extinguishers, right?”

  “Yes, thanks to Ryan. I never bothered to check them until he came.”

  “And yet none of them had been discharged.”

  “So?”

  “And why didn’t he call 911? He’s probably lying in that hospital bed second-guessing every move he made.”

  Katie’s vision blurred. She no longer saw a kind older cousin when she looked at Brody. She saw a traitor. How could he say such things about Ryan?

  She strode to the desk. “If he didn’t use the fire extinguishers, he had a good reason. If he didn’t call 911, there’s a good reason. Maybe he didn’t have time. Maybe he was more concerned with rescuing your daughter than putting out the fire. I don’t know. You’re the expert, not me. All I know is”—she poked him in the shoulder for emphasis—“if you doubt Ryan Blake, you’re not the captain he thinks you are. And you don’t deserve to have him back.”

  She’d never forget the look of shock on his stern face. Or the snort that followed her out the door.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Ryan had heard it said that your life flashes before your eyes in the moment before you die. He wondered if he was experiencing a very long, extended death scene interrupted by doctors and nurses at regular intervals. In between medical visits, he kept reliving every fire he’d fought, every rescue he’d performed.

  Dr. Kinder interrupted the Fillmore wildfire, in which he and Double D had worked forty-nine hours straight without sleeping. Ryan knew Dr. Kinder from past hospital stays. He’d endured several lectures about his daredevil ways. The nurses didn’t like Dr. K much. He had a bad habit of talking down to them, when he wasn’t making awkward advances. Logan Marquez had dated him a few times. The night Ryan and Logan hadn’t had sex, she’d fielded a few stalker-ish calls from the doc. Ryan had a feeling she’d used him as a convenient excuse to dump the man, which might explain the nasty expression on his face as he sat down next to Ryan’s bed.

  “Well, Mr. Blake, it appears you’ve sustained some damage to your lungs, which is hardly surprising since you’ve never listened to any of my advice.” With a smugly triumphant expression, the doctor held up an X-ray that showed an array of white blobs. “Patchy infiltrates. High carboxihemoglobin.”

  Ryan knew the lingo well enough. “Smoke inhalation?”

  “No doubt. We see this often with fire victims.”

  Fire victim. Was he, Ryan Blake, a fire victim? That didn’t sit right. He was a fire conqueror, not a victim. “Well, how bad is it?”

  “Hard to say. Bad enough so you should stay away from fires for a good long time.”

  “So I’ll cut down on the camping trips. Sauté instead of grill.”

  The doctor rattled the stiff paper of the X-ray for emphasis. “I would advise you to take some time off from your firefighting career.”

  Ryan stared at Dr. Kinder, who was small and round as a potato bug. “I am taking time off.”

  “More time. A lot more.” The man looked almost gleeful. “Things might be different without that uniform.”

  “Well, that’s perfect,” Ryan drawled.

  The potato bug cocked his little head. “Oh?”

  “Yep. It’ll give me more time to concentrate on my boxing career.” With more energy than he’d had since the fire, Ryan sat up and hauled back his fist. The doctor scuttled his chair backward.

  Ryan sank back against the pillow. Not that he would have actually hit the man, but he’d made his point.

  “That’s not civilized behavior.” The doctor pointed the X-ray at him, the paper shaking in his pudgy hand. “You’re an animal.”

  “And you’re a bug.”

  “What?”

  “Why don’t you treat the nurses like professionals?”

  The man jumped to his feet. “You’ve . . . you’ve bewitched them.”

  Ryan snorted at the absurdity of this conversation, in which they’d swung from the potential end of his firefighting career to accusations of witchcraft. The act of laughing drained him. Fatigue tugged at his eyelids.

  “Want my secret?”

  “What?” Frowning, the doctor fiddled with the pen in the pocket of his white coat, as if he might take notes.

  “It’s a magic spell known as not being an ass.”

  “You—”

  Ryan longed to close his eyes, but he had to make sure the potato bug didn’t attack him first. For a doctor, he didn’t seem to have much concern for human life. Then again, Ryan wasn’t sure he had much concern for his own life at the moment.

  “Leave my son the fuck alone.” A caustic voice interrupted whatever violence was about to occur.

  Ryan dragged his eyes open to see, of all people, his father standing in the doorway. He leaned on his cane, his white hair practically flying off his head from fury.

  “Lucky for you, I had to hand over my firearms to get into this place. But that don’t mean I can’t kill with my bare hands if anyone messes with me. Or him,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

  The doctor looked like he might jump out the window. Instead he ignored Zeke and addressed Ryan. “If you have any sense, you’ll listen to what I’m saying. Do you want to have children? Do you want to see them grow up?” He rattled the X-ray again. “Patchy infiltrates don’t lie.”

  He brushed past Zeke, who snarled at him but stepped aside to let him pass.

  Then Zeke stumped to Ryan’s bedside.

  “What are you doing here?” Ryan asked him. “It’s not your type of place. They have doctors and pharmaceuticals and insurance forms here. It’s like the heart of darkness of the health care system.”

  “Don’t I know it. I can smell the evil.” One of Zeke’s nostrils curled.

  “I think that’s antiseptic.” Ryan couldn’t help it. His eyes closed, and he might have fallen asleep for a microsecond. When he snapped himself awake, his father was settling into the armchair in the corner.

  “You sleep.”

  “You’re . . . thtaying?” His tongue seemed to already be asleep.

  “Yepper. If you don’t mind. Someone’s got to stand guard in case that quack comes back.”

  As sleep dragged him under, Ryan wondered if he minded or not. When had his father ever watched over him?

  He didn’t mind that muc
h, he realized, right before unconsciousness claimed him. In fact, he slept deeply for the first time in days.

  Zeke explained his presence when Ryan woke up. “Katie drove out to see me. Gave me a real lecture. Told me that you might be getting down on yourself, thinking you’re a failure, and if that was so, it would be my doing since I’d never given you the proper emotional support as a child. She’s got a tongue on her, that girl.”

  “I’ve noticed.” But amazingly, his father didn’t seem put out.

  “First I nearly tossed her ass out of the trailer.”

  Ryan struggled into a sitting position, ready to let his father have it. But Zeke held up his hand.

  “Don’t worry, I didn’t do her any harm. I like that girl. Straight talker. Cute as a button too.”

  “Hope you didn’t tell her that,” muttered Ryan, wondering if maybe he was having a bizarre dream that just felt like waking up.

  “She gave me something to bring you, too. Said you didn’t want to see her, but you might like this.” He reached into a brown paper bag under his arm and drew out a copy of The Little Prince. He laid it on the bed next to Ryan. “I remember how much you liked that book when you were a kid.”

  The delicate, familiar drawing of the little prince on his surreal planet sparked such a flood of emotion that Ryan couldn’t speak. At all.

  “So.” Zeke cleared his throat. “I’m here to give you some of that support she kept blabbing about. What do you need, boy?” He folded both hands on the head of his cane and looked at Ryan expectantly.

  Ryan dragged his eyes away from the book. What the hell was Katie talking about? He didn’t need anything from his father. He never had. Except an exit door. Silence stretched between them. His father didn’t seem to mind. Zeke kept looking back at him, blue eyes peering from under crazy overgrown eyebrows.

  It occurred to Ryan that he had his father’s eyes. Odd that he’d never thought about that before.

  Zeke cleared his throat. “I knew this was stupid from the git-go. Waste of your time and mine. I told Katie—”