by Julie Miller
Gideon knew better. A hero like Luke Redding would be just a name in the wall of a memorial to that kid. And Gideon would be that old guy who used to fight fires. The one who couldn’t cut it anymore. The one who couldn’t save his partner.
He was top brass now. A desk jockey. Gideon stared down at the nearly lifeless fingers on his left hand. Yeah, the new recruits could learn a lot from an old warhorse like him. He tucked his hand into the pocket of his black chinos and pushed the thought aside, not knowing if that was sarcasm or wishful thinking.
Maybe he’d do better to avoid a visit to his old station house and the memories—both bitter and sweet—it held.
Gideon put his sunglasses back on and calmed his emotions on a slow exhale of breath.
He strolled toward the building, pulling out his notepad and pen. He jotted a few particulars from his conversation with Deputy Chief Bridgerton and walked the perimeter of the fire scene before going inside.
A burst of laughter from the crowd caught his attention. Pocketing the notebook, he altered his course and crossed over to see this celebrity pooch that was causing such a media stir. At a solid six-two, he was tall enough to stand at the fringe of the audience and see over most of them.
A bulky television camera blocked his view of the dog, but he recognized the tall, auburn-haired woman holding the microphone from the evening news. She looked straight into the light of the camera without blinking. “Saundra Ames, Channel Ten news, at the scene of a devastating warehouse fire in north Kansas City, between the Missouri River and Levee Road.”
Somehow she managed to relay the basic details of the blaze while continuously showing off a perfect set of porcelain-white teeth. He had to admire a woman who didn’t even pop a sweat when she was in the spotlight on a one-hundred-degree day. The lady was a real pro.
“Now I’d like to introduce you to one of Kansas City’s bravest—the firefighter who saved the puppy we met earlier.” The reporter thrust the microphone toward her interviewee. The cameraman shifted positions.
Gideon’s world froze for a heartbeat in time.
Meghan.
His heart lurched in his chest. His lungs constricted so tightly, for a moment he felt as if he were breathing in hot, toxic air.
She’d stripped her gear down to her royal-blue K.C.F.D. T-shirt and regulation black pants.
But her wholesome beauty was just as uncomplicated and straightforward as he remembered. She wore her hair pulled back in what she’d called a French braid. In shades of amber and wheat and champagne, a few wavy wisps clung to the damp sheen of her soft, honey-freckled skin.
She looked fresh and young, with no makeup except for the blush of color on her cheeks and the natural, peachy tint of her lips.
And though she smiled at the mutt that squiggled in her arms and licked her chin and sniffed the microphone, her big brown eyes still held the same guarded expression he’d come to know so well in the months they’d been together.
It was really her.
Time moved forward again as Saundra Ames asked her next question. “Are there a lot of women firefighters?”
Gideon drank in every nuance of Meg’s expression, every detail of beauty that resonated through his body—waking dormant yet familiar desires.
He breathed in heavily, trying to dampen his body’s incendiary response to the mere sight of her. He didn’t want to feel anything. Not for her. Not anymore.
“There are a few of us,” she answered. “More and more with each graduating class from the academy.”
“How long have you been a firefighter?”
“About four years.”
As the interview progressed, Gideon began to notice the way Meghan shifted on her feet, betraying the self-conscious tension she’d once tried to hide behind a tough-act facade. What had started as a physical awareness moved on to other parts of his body that were harder to control. His compassion. His curiosity. His heart.
“And yet you risked your life for a dog. Why?” the reporter asked, clearly not understanding the size of Meghan’s heart.
Meghan’s gaze went out of focus and she frowned. “She needed me.”
Gideon shifted with a bit of tension himself.
If she pressed her lips together, then he’d know her emotions were getting the best of her. Meghan could handle anything if she set her mind to it. But she’d never really liked to call attention to herself.
She squinted against the bright light shining in her eyes.
“How does it feel to be a role model for young women in the Kansas City area?”
“Role model?” Meghan’s lips flattened into a straight line. She stuttered to find her answer. “I—I’m…just doing my job. I’m not trying… Please don’t set me up to be something…” She squeezed the dog in her arms.
Gideon pulled off his sunglasses and stepped forward, obeying an unspoken impulse to move in closer to protect her. To support her. To remind her she wasn’t alone. The poor kid had always been so alone.
Meghan’s gaze flew past the reporter, past the cameraman, past the crowd, and connected with his. As if somehow she had known he was there. As if she needed him.
Her eyes widened in startled recognition. Her lips parted in a silent gasp.
Their gazes locked. A familiar, dynamic energy flowed between them. Quickening his pulse. Filling him with want and need and questions and regrets.
Meghan blinked with the force of a slamming door, severing the connection and shutting him out.
Her downcast eyes refused to meet his again.
Stale air from a breath held too long rushed out of Gideon’s lungs. Hell. What had he been thinking? As his heart hammered back to life in his chest, his compassionate instinct died and common sense took its place.
God. Two years. And he still hadn’t gotten her out of his system.
These weren’t old times.
Meghan no longer wanted his help. She’d made that abundantly clear. She’d turned down his proposal and walked out of his life.
And he’d walked straight into hell.
Throwing up a stoic wall of silence that was starting to fit him like a second skin, Gideon turned and walked into the rubble of the gutted building.
At least fire was a demon he could understand.
Chapter Two
“Yeah, yeah. Fifteen minutes of fame, my ass.” Meghan chucked John Murdock’s big shoulder to show the guys she worked with that she knew they were teasing and that she would give it right back. “You guys are just jealous that Saundra Ames didn’t give any of you her card.”
She endured their oohs and ahhs and manly remarks about prowess with women by rolling her eyes and clicking her tongue. It had taken her a long time to learn to take their flirty remarks in sisterly stride—to understand that their teasing was a means of inclusion, not criticism. Now that she was part of their team, the men usually curbed their locker room chatter around her. It also didn’t hurt that the biggest man in the unit, John Murdock, had been assigned as her partner—to compensate for her smaller size, no doubt. She knew him to be a big teddy bear who preferred books to football, despite his pro-wrestler stature. But, intimidating by looks alone, nobody messed with John.
So, normally, the nine men who shared duty with her were on their best behavior. Tolerable, at least.
But right after battling a multialarm blaze, they needed to blow off some steam. And if giving her grief about her instant stardom was the way to do it, she’d let them.
“I keep telling you boys that women like men with a sensitive side.” They paused in a circle around her, waiting for her insight into the secret ways of women. “Go get a puppy and the women will be knocking down your door to meet you.”
Another round of hoots and laughter followed her as the crowd of onlookers began to disperse.
One of the rookies thumped his chest. “I get to rescue the mutt next time.”
“My wife would shoot me if I brought home a dog.”
“Hey, I put up with m
y girlfriend’s cats. Isn’t that sensitive enough?”
“Let’s get back to work, guys.” Meghan pocketed the number from the animal rescue worker who would be taking the dog to the shelter for a thorough check from a vet. Since the dog had been spayed, they also wanted to run the collarless pup’s description through their database to see if she was someone’s missing pet.
But if no one claimed her, Meghan had a pretty good idea where the miniature, German shepherd-marked mutt could find a home. She knew four boys who would benefit from the unconditional love a pet could bring them.
When she’d spotted her team heading toward the trucks to pack up their gear, it had given her the perfect excuse to escape the glare of the Channel Ten spotlight. The whole idea of girls looking up to her as some kind of role model had turned her stomach into knots.
You freak. I’ll make you a real woman.
That degrading voice, slurred by booze and accusation, had suddenly bombarded Meghan’s psyche from the hidden recesses of her memory, robbing her of her temporary confidence. Her skin crawled with the memory of cruel hands and a whiskey-soaked mouth.
She hadn’t known whether to scream or to run or to faint—in front of a crowd, on television—as old wounds felt real again.
But then she’d seen Gideon.
Live. In the flesh. Not a memory.
Tall and perfectly proportioned.
Dark brown hair, trimmed short to control its tendency to curl, was half hidden beneath an omnipresent baseball-style cap. His sturdy shoulders tapered to a trim waist, and she knew his legs would be long and well-muscled. His eyes were as she remembered, rich and dark and as inviting as her strong morning coffee.
The strength of his quiet presence had calmed her like the soothing stroke of his hand or the gentler caress of his silky whisper in her ear. For one cherished moment she’d breathed easier. The remembered pain receded.
But then she’d noticed the changes in him.
His rugged features etched in unsmiling stone. New lines of strain marring the taut, tanned skin beside his eyes and mouth.
The cold shutters of distrust that suddenly dulled the warmth of his gaze.
And why should he smile at her?
She didn’t deserve that kind of support from him. She had no right to ask. Not anymore.
So she’d blinked and turned away like a coward before she did something foolish such as run to him or call out his name or beg his forgiveness.
By then, Saundra Ames had been talking again. The camera rolling. Meghan had dug deep into the reserves of her composure and come up with a cogent answer. By the time she’d felt brave enough to look again, Gideon had disappeared.
Thank God she had her work. The physical and mental challenges, the sense of duty and purpose, had given her something to concentrate on besides questions about her past and what advice she could give young, career-minded women.
Her co-workers had gathered at the edge of the impromptu audience to egg her on about getting out of cleanup work. Nine men in K.C.F.D. T-shirts, each eye-catching in his own way, attracted their own sort of attention from the crowd, providing the distraction she’d needed to slip away from center stage to gather her wits and hide her wounds.
Some of the men were still talking about puppies and outrageous ways to impress the ladies as they reached the Station 16 trucks and went to work. There were hoses to fold and stack, ladders to mount on the engine, gear to stow.
Meghan didn’t want to shirk her duties, or she’d never hear the end of it at the station house. She figured her TV interview would already earn her enough razzing to last a week. She picked up a wrench and two axes and opened a compartment door near the cab of Engine 31. Fitting together like a three-dimensional puzzle, each piece of equipment had its assigned place, making the most efficient use of the truck’s limited space.
She slipped the wrench in first, then pressed each ax into its mounting clips. After latching the compartment door shut, she climbed up onto the running board beside the open cab to gather the rigging equipment that had been tossed inside. She plunked down onto the passenger side seat to rest while she rolled a nylon rope between her fist and elbow. She had the length of it tied into a bale before she noticed the conspicuously unofficial item resting in the folds of her black turnout coat on the floorboards at her feet.
“What the hell…?” Meghan stowed the rope beneath the seat and frowned as she bent to pluck a long-stemmed yellow rose from her coat. With the stem caught lightly between the thumb and forefinger of one hand, she rested the silky soft bud in the palm of the other. “Where did you come from?”
An unbidden urge of feminine curiosity made her lift the petals to her nose. Its sweet, fragrant scent tickled her sinuses and nearly gave her a headache. But it was soft to the touch, as gentle as a caress as she stroked it against her cheek. What a sentimental gesture. What a generous gift. Except…
Meghan looked through the windshield and scanned the scattering crowd for any indication of someone watching her reaction to the discovery. Everyone seemed to have a purpose to keep him or her busy that had nothing to do with Meghan. She hopped out of the cab and turned to sift through her coat. Where had it come from? Thirty minutes ago, she’d deposited her gear and had tried to tuck her hair back into its braid before talking to those reporters. It hadn’t been here then. And there was no clue, no note of explanation, for its appearance now.
A giant shadow fell across her shoulders, diverting her attention. She looked over her shoulder into John Murdock’s curious expression. “What’s that?”
“I found it lying in the truck on my coat.”
“You been holding out on me?” he teased. “Who’s it from?”
“Do you really think it’s for me?” She glanced down. Wright stared up at her, the name label clearly visible on the front left placket of her coat. “I don’t want to assume.”
“Since I’m not the rose type, that’d be my guess.” She looked up to see his mouth curved in an indulgent smile. “You’re the only lady on the crew. I’d take it and enjoy it.”
“But it doesn’t say whom it’s from.” She found the idea of an anonymous admirer unsettling rather than charming. Someone had to know something about it. “You didn’t see anyone put it here? Anyone messing with the front of the truck in the last half hour or so?”
Those big shoulders shrugged and blocked out the sun. “I was watching you on TV with the rest of the guys. I suppose anybody could have put it in here. Don’t you like flowers?”
“Well, sure, but roses are a little fancy for—”
“Is Ms. Wright still on duty? I have a few follow-up items I’d like to clarify with her.” Meghan froze, hearing the succinct, curious female voice on the other side of the truck. That damned reporter again.
Her stomach cramped right on cue as the tension set in. She tightened her fingers into a fist, forgetting all about the flower until a thorn pricked her palm. “Ow. Damn.” She tossed the worrisome gift into the truck and pressed her lips against the tiny wound and muttered, “I’m not up for this again.”
“Here.” John pulled a blue bandanna from his pocket and pressed it into her hand. “Get out of here.” He nudged her elbow and nodded toward the abandoned building. “Hide out for a few minutes. I’ll cover for you.”
Meghan breathed a deep sigh of relief. John might be built like a grizzly, but he was definitely a teddy bear. She squeezed his hand and mouthed her thanks. “I owe you one.”
“You owe me a bunch. Now scoot.”
She gladly did as ordered and quietly slipped away from the truck. She moved quickly and within a minute was leaning back against an interior wall of scorched brick, breathing deeply and trying to even out both her pulse and her nerves.
At last. She was alone.
She needed the quiet to regroup and to get her dealing-with-people facade back into place.
That rose had been a kind gesture from someone too shy to reveal himself. But on top of everything she’d
gone through today, it felt like an invasion of her privacy. Saundra Ames’s incisive reporting had already stripped her down to her most vulnerable fears. The rose was just the kicker that sent her over the edge into panic. There’d been a hundred or more onlookers in the parking lot watching her. It was probably a gift from one of those girls Ms. Ames had said she inspired.
Meghan breathed a little easier now that she was alone. She removed John’s bandanna and inspected the puncture wound on her hand. The bleeding had stopped. Maybe she shouldn’t read too much symbolism into the idea of being cut open to expose all her insecurities.
She’d always healed best when she was alone. For her, alone was the safest place to be. The only place where being imperfect didn’t matter.
Tucking the bandanna into her belt, she tipped her chin up to study the empty shell of what had once been a magnificent building bustling with people and commerce. Now it echoed like a cavern.
Though the outer walls and most of the ceiling structure were basically undamaged, the interior was riddled with piles of blackened debris, some of it still steaming from the force of the fire and the heat of the day. The distinctive imprint of acrid smoke tingled her nostrils. Meghan pressed her knuckles to the tip of her nose to conquer the urge to sneeze.
Curiosity as well as a sense of mourning prompted her to push away from her hiding place and to take a walk over to where she had rescued the dog. She picked her way carefully across the wooden floorboards, knowing that even this far from the central source of the blaze, the support structures could be weakened.
Water still grouped in puddles in the sunken places on the main floor, and she could hear the steady drip of it working its way down to the basement level. The corridor where she’d first entered and followed the sounds of the dog’s cries had been reduced to twin piles of ash and rubble.
She stopped near the edge of the last solid board and looked up at the back wall. The second-story platform was gone. The heavy beam and its iron rigging—with her rope still tied to it and hanging out the broken window—was the only structure left. She looked down into the exposed basement area. The rest of the support system had collapsed into a fiery pit.