“Sabina!” Desperately he scrabbled bits of wood and debris off her. As he did so, a blast of flaming gas burst around him like a dragon’s belch. Fireball. He crouched over Sabina, using his body to shield her from the fiery threat. It blew past him, so fierce he felt its heat on his skin, even through the Plexiglas of his face piece. He gave a quick prayer of thanks to the scientists who had invented this gear, who had given him the bubble of clothing that offered firefighters their only chance in the deadly environment of a working fire.
“Help me get her leg free,” he yelled to Vader. Between the two of them, they carefully rolled a huge chunk of marble; her left boot was wedged beneath it.
He bent low to Sabina. Her eyes were closed but her mouth was moving. He couldn’t hear her. Her radio must have gotten broken along with the helmet. The eerie similarity screamed at him, along with thoughts he hadn’t allowed for years. Faulty radio communication had killed Maureen. She’d been in that tower and hadn’t heard the evacuation order due to a fucking repeater going out . . .
“Sabina, can you hear me? I need your help here. Raise your hand if you can hear me.”
No response. She probably couldn’t hear through his face piece. Should he take it off? No, that would be insane. He wouldn’t be able to help her if he did that. Never mind. He’d just pick her up and get her out of here, with or without her help.
“Stand back,” he told Vader. The other fireman backed away. Roman knelt next to Sabina. He pried one arm under her knees and the other under her shoulders. If she had a brain injury or even a concussion, moving her like this was problematic, but he had no choice. The room was getting ready to flash. He rolled her toward him, the tank of her breathing apparatus bumping against his arm.
When she was safely in his arms, he rose up on one knee, tightened his grip, then, with a guttural grunt, surged all the way to his feet. He swayed there for a moment, flexing his knees, as he got used to her weight. Sabina was tall and willowy, not a dandelion fluff of a woman at all, especially wearing all her gear. But it didn’t matter what she weighed. He had her now and he wasn’t going to let go, not if the entire house collapsed on top of them.
“We gotta go, Chief!” Vader yelled. “Call a Rescue Ambulance. Firefighter down.”
Roman felt a hand at his elbow guiding him away from the pile of rubble. Blindly, he followed it. Flames fanned at his legs. He heard his own harsh breathing in the echo chamber of his helmet, the Darth Vader–like in-out through his mouthpiece. Through the murk of smoke and dust he spotted the outline of the doorway, the promise of sunshine outside. Just get her out, get her to the light. He stumbled once, twice, but willed himself to keep going.
And then the bright morning light embraced them, more firefighters surrounded them, the businesslike commands flowing. “All companies on the Walnut incident, back out, we are going defensive. Repeat, back out, we are going defensive.”
Good call, Roman thought with the captain side of his brain. The house was too far gone. Time to put all their efforts toward saving the neighboring homes. But they’d have to do it without him. He had one mission and one mission only. Get Sabina to someone who could take care of her.
A faint moan reached his ears.
“Hang on, cara. We’re almost there.” An ambulance screeched to the curb, lights flashing. Paramedics dashed toward him. He scanned their faces. Did they look capable? Could he trust them? Never mind that. He didn’t have a choice. He’d have to let Sabina out of his arms so the trained professionals could take over. But Dio, it hurt to hand her over.
“Her helmet cracked. She might have a head injury,” he yelled to them.
The paramedic nodded. A gurney appeared. Two guys helped him lay Sabina down. Immediately they checked her vitals and settled her onto a backboard and into a C collar. “BP 110 over 70, pulse is weak and thready,” said a paramedic in a rapid-fire monotone.
She’s alive, she’s alive, Roman kept telling himself as he watched them at work, somewhat reassured by their brisk efficiency.
“Thanks to you,” said Vader, still at his elbow.
Roman realized he’d been repeating the words out loud. He aimed a glare on the man. “Didn’t they call all hands to the other house?”
“Yeah, they did, Chief. We better go.”
Roman’s glance told him where he could put that idea. “Go ahead. I got it from here.”
Vader nodded and turned away.
“Firefighter Brown,” barked Roman. “Good work.” He said it over his shoulder, only tearing his gaze away from Sabina for a moment. Had her eyes opened? He thought he’d caught a flash of turquoise. But now they were closed, dark eyelashes fanning across her flushed cheeks.
“Yes, sir.” And the man trotted off. Roman knew he should join him, and he would, just as soon as they got Sabina into the ambulance. He had to stay and make sure they were doing it right, that they didn’t jostle her too much or dump her onto the ground. He wasn’t letting her out of his sight until he absolutely had to.
Before he knew it, they whisked her away. She disappeared headfirst into the ambulance, the back doors closed, and the vehicle pulled away from him. The sound of its siren made him queasy. It felt as if a part of himself had been torn away.
Get a grip, Roman, he commanded himself. You’ve got a fire to fight. He jogged to the neighboring house, only to find it mostly under control. The crew of Engine 1 was reeling in the four-inch hose. He veered in their direction to help.
“Chief Roman,” Vader yelled. “They got it from here. Captain Kelly said we can head to the hospital.”
The hospital. He braced his legs as a wave of nausea struck him. The hospital. No. He couldn’t. Burning building, yes. Hospital . . . “We’ll just be in the way over there.”
“Fuck that.”
“You can go. We still have a shift to finish.”
“But Chief . . .”
He took the hose from Vader. “Go. That’s an order. I’ll wrap things up here.” Ignoring Vader’s befuddled frown, he bent his concentration on the familiar task.
The doctors and nurses kept telling Sabina how lucky she was. An entire staircase had fallen on her head, and she hadn’t even gotten a concussion. Her helmet had saved her. She had, however, suffered multiple abrasions, lots of bruising, and a broken rib, along with a broken left ankle that would take months to heal. She didn’t even have any smoke inhalation, although her throat felt sore and her voice sounded extra raspy when she first used it to ask for water.
They kept her in the hospital for one night and most of the next day, just to be safe. During that time, Vader came to see her, as did Double D, Captain Kelly, Psycho, and Stud. Even Ryan came, bestowing kisses on various nurses’ cheeks.
“Heard they have a new nickname for you,” he said. “Iron.”
“Iron?” she croaked.
“Because that’s what your head must be made from to survive something like that.”
“Crappy. Nickname.”
“Sorry. It’s got to be better than Zombie though. You’re in the hospital, not sure what you can do about it. I’ll try to put in a good word for you.” He winked one summer-blue eye. She noticed how good that simple gold wedding ring looked on his finger, and how good he looked. Not just devastatingly handsome, which was a given, but, more importantly, happy and relaxed.
“Katie?” One-word sentences seemed to work best.
“Great.” A smile drifted across his gorgeous face. “Greater than great. Hey, I heard Chief Roman pulled that staircase off you like a pile of pickup sticks. Carried you off in his own two arms.”
She shrugged one shoulder, which hurt like hell. That’s what Vader had told her, and Double D, who’d witnessed the entire event. Sadly, she hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Roman, though she vaguely remembered being lifted into the air. “Haven’t seen him.”
“Well, when you do, give him a big kiss on the lips from me.” Ryan winked. “Make it a sloppy one.”
She scowled and shook her he
ad violently.
“Word is he called you some Italian name when he was saving your life. The guys are checking the dictionary.”
Her face heated. God, was she blushing? “Go away,” she told Ryan. “Tired.”
“Sure, Zombie. Whatever you say.”
He strolled to the door in his slow-hipped cowboy stride. She threw a pillow at his backside.
She closed her eyes, thoughts racing. Maybe Roman hadn’t come to visit because he’d called her something nice in Italian over the tactical channel. If he came to see her, the guys would talk. He was probably doing her a favor by staying away.
Bits and pieces kept coming back . . . the stairway to heaven, Roman’s dark face, his furious expression, the word “love”. . .
No, no, she’d just been experiencing some strange hallucinations. Even so, nothing would feel right again until she laid her eyes on that big-bodied, fierce-eyed man again.
But the next time she woke up, Annabelle sat at her bedside. Her usual effortless makeup job couldn’t quite hide the violet shadows under her eyes.
“You almost died,” she said, with a sort of outraged anger when Sabina opened her eyes.
“Little. Dramatic.” Sabina gestured for a drink of water. Annabelle handed it to her and Sabina took a long, grateful sip.
“So this firefighter thing. You actually like that. You like nearly dying.”
Sabina closed her eyes, half hoping she was hallucinating and Annabelle would disappear. No such luck. “Yes,” she said, simply, since short sentences still seemed best. “Mostly.”
“I had no idea it was so dangerous.”
Sabina raised her eyebrows.
“I never thought it through. They have all those big coats and boots and helmets and that thing on the back.”
Sabina couldn’t let that stand, no matter how tired she was. “Self. Contained. Breathing apparatus.” She took another long swallow of water.
Annabelle looked affronted. “So technical!”
Revived by the water, Sabina dragged herself into a sitting position, ignoring the stabs of pain in her rib cage. “Firefighting. Needs technical knowledge. I had to study . . . hard for the exam.”
“There’s an exam?”
“A tough one.” Sabina tried to express the rest of her thought, but didn’t have the strength.
Annabelle pressed her lips together. A male nurse came in to check Sabina’s blood pressure. His eyes kept darting back and forth from Sabina to Annabelle. He was good-looking in a beefcake sort of way, but for once, Annabelle seemed oblivious.
“The doctor’s cleared you to go home,” he said. “Do you have . . . uh . . . someone to take you?”
Sabina and Annabelle spoke at the same time.
“I’ll call a friend . . .”
“I’ll take her.”
“Annabelle, there’s no need for that.”
“I’m taking you.”
With an alarmed smile, the nurse hurried out of the line of fire.
“Hand me my phone,” said Sabina.
“No. Sabina, you could have died. I didn’t realize . . . it made me see . . . well, it all seems a lot more real now.”
Sabina eyed her mother in disbelief. Speaking of real, were those real tears making her eyes shine like those of a cat caught in the headlights?
“I’m taking you home and I’m going to stay with you.”
“What?”
“Yes. You’re going to be on crutches for six weeks. Who else is going to take care of you? Vader?”
“You’re staying for six weeks?” For a crazed moment, Sabina wished she was back under the collapsing staircase.
“Well . . . we’ll see.” Annabelle sniffed, clearly offended by Sabina’s reaction. “Maybe we’ll start with a few days.”
Sabina sank back on her pillows. “Let me guess. You’ve installed cameras in my house and we’re actually going to be filming a reality show version of the You and Me reunion show.”
After a long, astonished pause, Annabelle burst into laughter. Not her movie laughter, but her hearty, snorty belly laugh, the one Sabina hadn’t heard in over twenty years.
“That’s genius, kiddo. Should we call Max and set it up?”
But Sabina could only shake her head because tears were grabbing at the back of her throat, clamoring to get out. As if she were seventeen again, all alone and longing for her mother. But her mother had cut her off. Ignored her for thirteen years. Only returned when she needed something.
On the other hand, she’d nearly died. And she’d thought about her mother when the world had been collapsing around her. Sorry, Annabelle. Mama.
“You can take me home. But if you stay, you cannot mention the reunion show. And we’ll take it a day at a time.”
Annabelle dipped her head like a queen granting a bequest.
For Roman, the next couple of days passed in a surreal blur. He kept close tabs on Sabina’s progress. He knew when the doctors discharged her. He knew when she left the hospital. He knew when her mother took her home. Hell, the whole world knew that, since the paparazzi had snapped photos outside the hospital.
“Brush with Death Reunites Hatfields,” screamed the caption in the San Gabriel Gazette. Front page, no less. The newspaper lurked in his desk at the firehouse, taunting him with its glimpse of Sabina.
She sat in a wheelchair, her leg in a cast, bouquets of flowers piled in her lap. They had all come from someone else; he hadn’t sent a bouquet. Annabelle was pushing the wheelchair, oversize white sunglasses and a movie-star smile firmly in place as she waved to the cameras.
Roman stared at the photograph for what felt like a week, noticing every detail. Sabina’s face looked a little thin. She looked irritated by the presence of the cameras. Or maybe by her mother. Or maybe by the fact that he hadn’t visited her in the hospital.
He crumpled the newspaper and slammed it into the garbage can so hard he knocked it over with a harsh clang.
Stan lurched to his feet, gazed suspiciously at the garbage can, then went to investigate. When he sniffed at the balled-up newspaper, Roman snatched it away. “Sorry, Stan,” he muttered. “I’m not done with the paper yet.”
He smoothed it out and stashed it in the top drawer of his desk.
Chapter Twenty-Four
As Roman sleepwalked through the days that held no Sabina, it slowly sank in that something was bothering Luke. His son kept shutting himself in his room and blasting unfamiliar bands that made Roman’s head hurt. He kept talking to someone on the phone in a low voice, and got quiet the instant Roman walked past.
When he drove Luke to practice, he forced himself to make the superhuman effort to discuss it. It took him the entire car trip to produce the first words, which finally came after he’d pulled up to the curb at the park.
“I’m sorry about Sabina.”
Luke shot him an incredulous look. “Carly said she’s fine. She hurt her ankle, that’s all.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
Luke waited, waving at the coach, who was hurrying past with the bag of bats. “What, Papa? I’m late.”
“Well, I saved Sabina. I got her out.”
“I know. You’re a stud, Papa. Everyone says so.” He jiggled his leg impatiently, an exuberant ball of energy trapped inside the metal cage known as a car.
“It doesn’t bother you?”
“What? No.” Luke looked at him as if he’d just arrived from Mars. “Can I go now? I really don’t want to be late. I have to talk to someone before the game.”
“Oh yeah? Who? What about?”
Luke paused. Roman saw hesitation, uncertainty, and confusion flit across his son’s face. Like a roulette ball, he finally settled on impatience. “Later, Papa. Are you going to stay for practice? Cuz you don’t have to.”
That statement cut Roman to the quick. “Of course I’m staying. I’ll go park. I’ll be in the stands.”
Luke nodded and ran off. Roman slammed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel
. He’d handled the whole conversation wrong. He’d assumed he knew what was bothering Luke. That Luke was upset because he’d saved Sabina, but hadn’t saved Maureen. Of course it should bother Luke, because it bothered—
His mind shied away from the thought. No sense in thinking about Maureen. Or Sabina. Keep it simple, Roman. Work, Luke, work, Luke.
He started to pull away from the curb, then nearly crashed back into it at the sight of Sabina, on crutches, swinging her way across the green expanse of the park toward the baseball field. She looked so beautiful in cutoffs and a sky-blue T-shirt. The white cast on her ankle set off the pale gold sheen of her long, taut legs. The bright sunshine picked out glints of marigold in the long braid down her back. Was she letting her natural color shine through? She looked lithe and nimble, like a ballerina on stilts. The way her hips swung with every step made his cock pulse. Christ Almighty, only Sabina could make crutches look sexy.
He kept the Jeep in idle. This was the perfect opportunity to act like a normal person and ask her how she was doing. He could help her into the stands, fetch her a soda, fall to his knees and cry in her lap from sheer gratitude that she’d survived. He could tell her how it had felt to nearly lose her, and how strange undertows of emotion were tugging him this way and that, and how he didn’t understand any of it. How he couldn’t sleep and how he kept obsessively staring at that newspaper photo.
Or he could put his car in gear and spare her an embarrassing scene. If she only knew what a goddamn fool he was, she’d thank him for staying far away from her.
No doubt about it, Roman was avoiding her. Everyone kept telling her how he’d charged into that house and dug through the rubble with his bare hands to rescue her.
“Bare hands? What about his gloves?”
“Don’t interrupt, I’m telling a story,” Double D scolded when he dropped by her house to bring her ice cream and ogle her mother. She shut up. She owed him, after all.
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