by Julie Miller
Even in her turnout coat and pants, she weighed next to nothing in his arms. There was hardly enough of her to fight an attacker. Yet she fought fires. She fought for her boys. She fought off an abusive uncle.
The only thing she hadn’t fought for was him. Them.
Gideon stumbled a step as the observation hit him. But he righted himself and pushed the thought aside. Later. The future could wait. The future was irrelevant if he couldn’t save her now.
“I see light ahead.” He whispered the reassurance and pressed a kiss to her hairline. Her soft skin was sticky with sweat, her silky hair stringy with greasy soot. God, she was beautiful. From the inside out. “The smoke’s clearing.”
She felt her head nod against him. “You came.”
“Shh, babe.” What it must be costing her to speak. When he hit clean air, he stood straight and shouted an order. “Medic!”
“Jus’ like you promised.”
Her words were lost in the sudden onslaught of noise and help and the outside world. He carried her straight toward the ambulance, heedlessly noting the path cleared for them by John Murdock and others.
“How badly is she hurt?” A woman’s voice and a bright light blindsided him. “Dennis, are you getting a shot of this?” Gideon kept moving until Saundra Ames jabbed a microphone in his face. “Can you tell us what happened? Was Miss Wright contacted by the arsonist before the fire?”
“Get that damn thing out of here!” He had no qualms about shouldering the woman aside. Two other firefighters moved in to block the camera, and Gideon left them behind. “Medic!”
With more than enough hands to help, he laid Meghan on the waiting guerney where she was quickly stripped of her coat. An oxygen mask was placed over her nose and mouth. The EMT pushed him aside to check her head wound and vital signs.
“How is she?” Gideon hovered at the fringes, refusing to let Meghan out of his sight.
“She’s conscious and responsive. You need to let us work.” They hooked up an IV and rolled her toward the ambulance.
“Gideon?” The second she called his name, he was there beside her, taking up her hand in both of his.
“I’m here.”
She was trying to talk beneath the mask. On a frustrated cough she tugged it down to her chin and whispered, “The glove. I got his glove.”
She didn’t need to explain whose. She’d stolen a clue from her attacker. “I’ll find it,” he promised.
“Now, sir.”
Gideon stepped back as they loaded her onto the ambulance. A lack of space and an order from the batallion chief kept him from climbing in beside her. If he had his way, Meghan Wright would never be alone again.
But he had work to do before that could happen. Before he could even pray it would happen.
“I’ll be okay.” She lifted her head and gave him a small smile. “My boys need me.”
The EMT replaced her mask and closed the back doors.
Gideon stood rooted to the spot and watched the ambulance drive away. “So do I, sweetheart. So do I.”
MEGHAN HATED hospitals.
She’d lost her mother, her aunt and a chance at a normal life inside one hospital or another.
She couldn’t bear to think what this visit might cost her.
But it had seemed imperative to the doctor that she be kept overnight for observation. Two stitches in her temple, another IV bag and fluids to drink, a fair night’s sleep and half a dozen different tests on her lungs later, she was chomping at the bit to get out.
She’d have snuck out in the middle of the night if there hadn’t been a Taylor brother of one shape and size or another stationed outside her door since her arrival. Whether chatty or tight-lipped, polite or distant, they’d formed an intimidating presence between her and anyone who tried to come see her who hadn’t been cleared by the doctor. But they’d also prevented her escape, forcing her to settle for phone calls to Dorie and the boys, and to John and her chief, to reassure them of her condition.
Even floral deliveries had been turned away to other patients in the hospital once the cards had been removed. Fortunately, there’d been no yellow roses in the lot.
There’d been no Gideon all night, either.
She’d tried to lessen her bitter disappointment by telling herself he’d just been doing the job he’d promised to do when he’d rescued her yesterday. He was an honorable man, with a special gift for finding his way when no one else could. And she shouldn’t read anything like forgiveness or hope in the tender crush of his arms or the soft comfort of his words or the heated concern in his eyes.
Meghan climbed out of bed and paced the room again, doubting that Gideon’s oldest brother, Brett, would be any easier to get around just because he wasn’t a cop. He’d been big enough to fill the whole doorway when he checked in with her, and the petite detective who was his wife didn’t look like anybody she should mess with, either.
She was trapped in this sterile hellhole. Trapped and alone and slowly going mad with worry.
Who had attacked her? Why? Had the glove she’d pulled off his hand provided any kind of clue that could help? Was Gideon coming to see her? When?
“Oo-oh.” She clenched her fists and shook her head with frustration, immediately regretting the impulse as a throb of pain beat a retaliation against her temple.
Gideon’s soothing patience and steady presence had calmed her fears at the fire scene. But she shouldn’t keep expecting that from him. He needed to move on with his life, to find the mother of his children. One of these days she’d have to figure out how to move on with her own life. Alone.
Back to trapped and going mad while she waited for the doctor to release her, Meghan turned on the television. She flipped through the channels, stopping on a national morning news show when an all-too-familiar image caught her eye. “Oh, my God.”
A panoramic view of a low, flat building billowing smoke segued into a shaky, hand-held, close-up shot. Even cloaked in a blue uniform, she recognized the cut and dimension of Gideon’s broad back. The glimpses of the woman he carried in his arms looked like a bedraggled rat. Her.
While her latest nightmare played out on national television, Meghan upped the volume to listen to the evenly modulated voice of Saundra Ames.
“—the third property owned by Daniel Kelleher to be targeted by the arsonist. A fourth property, C.B. Accounting, was once owned by Kelleher’s former fiancée, Cynthia Burlington. After Ms. Burlington’s death in a car accident ten years ago—”
Ten years ago? Meghan’s hand automatically went to her waist and sank lower, cradling the stab of phantom pain in her abdomen. Ten years ago she’d been the sole survivor of the crash that had taken her aunt Rose and the driver of the other vehicle. A woman. Meghan squeezed her eyes shut, trying to come up with a name. She should call A. J. Rodriguez and have him check. Did she have a connection to Daniel Kelleher beyond putting out fires in his buildings? Or was his loss simply a very sad coincidence?
“Kansas City police are looking for this man, Jack Quinton, a recent parolee from the state penitentiary.” Saundra’s voice cut through Meghan’s speculation and turned her attention back to the TV. A mug shot of the bug-eyed little man who’d asked for her autograph stared back at her. He looked so timid. Defenseless. Had that old man really waited for her in the dark of his fire and clobbered her upside the head? “Having served time for arson, Mr. Quinton is wanted for questioning in the fires.”
“Isn’t living through it once enough?”
Meghan’s heart skidded into her throat at the dark-pitched voice from the doorway. She wiped away the moisture that had gathered at the corners of her eyes and feasted on the tall, dark-haired man who had finally come to see her. “Gideon.”
Despite the fear and uncertainty that still toyed with her conscience, the omniscient light in his dark brown eyes was a balm to her battered soul. Freshly shaven and dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt and his K.C.F.D. ball cap, he was a handsome, sexy, world-weary man. It
was the last observation that tugged at her heart, that made her want to go to him to stroke away the frown that lined his forehead. But she didn’t. She couldn’t be sure her touch would be welcome.
Tearing away her hungry gaze, she looked up in time to see Saundra Ames conversing on a split screen with the national news anchor. Meghan shook her head. “Jack Quinton might be the one person who hates all this publicity more than I do.”
She turned off the TV and crossed to the far side of the room, pressing her lips firmly together and hugging herself tight. “I wondered if you’d be coming. You probably have some questions, I suppose.”
“The questions can wait.”
She glanced over her shoulder to meet his gaze. “Thank you for saving my life yesterday. I don’t know if I had the strength to make it out on my own.”
He tossed the overnight bag he carried onto the bed. “You would have made it. It isn’t in you to give up.”
Though his compliment hinted at double entendre, Meghan brushed it off with a laugh that grated through her tender throat. This polite mutual admiration society was testing the endurance of her lonesome heart. She needed to break the tension before she screamed. “Please say you brought me something decent to wear in that bag.”
“Well, I could point out the advantages of a backless hospital gown from my perspective.”
Meghan clutched at the back of her gown and spun around, feeling an embarrassed heat flood both sets of cheeks. That almost sounded normal. Flirty. When she saw the gentle curve of a smile on his face, she knew something had happened.
“What’s going on?” It wasn’t like Gideon to be secretive.
But he neither acknowledged nor denied that that line had been an invitation to welcome old feelings. He reached into the bag and pulled out a folded-up piece of white cardboard. “I’ve had some very interesting conversations in the past twelve hours or so, but I’ll fill you in later. Let’s get you checked out of this joint and home first.” He held up the cardboard between his fingers. “I stopped to check on Dorie and the boys last night. They made you a card.”
Meghan gasped with joy at the precious gift. Of the card and his caring. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t want them to worry. We finished scraping the garage and started priming it.”
“You have been busy.” His steady influence would have minimized the disruption in the boys’ routine, given them the same sense of security he’d always given her. “I’m sure having you there helped.”
He strode across the room, eating up the distance between them. When he was close enough, he handed her the card. But to her surprise he kept moving closer. He folded his arms around her and dragged her up to his chest.
“I missed you.” His ragged sigh stirred the hair at her crown. “I thought I’d lost you all over again.”
Meghan snuggled beneath his chin and wrapped her arms around his waist, forgetting for the moment that distance provided a buffer of emotional self-preservation. She buried her nose in the clean scent of his chest and felt his strength all around her, sheltering her, becoming part of her. “I wish I could make a miracle happen, Gideon. I wish I was woman enough to make your dreams come true.”
“Shh.” He palmed the back of her head and massaged gentle circles there. “We’ll work on miracles later. Right now let’s just take it one day, one minute, at a time. Okay?”
Meghan nodded. More curious than hopeful at the cryptic promise of his words, she reluctantly let him go. “Okay.”
“I’ll get the paperwork started while you change,” he said.
She opened up the card and laughed out loud, then clutched at her throat as pain and pride and pleasure made her want to cry. Illustrated and signed by Dorie and the boys—from Mark’s scratches to Alex’s painstaking drawing of a heart—the bent-up concoction was a work of art. And the dearest message she’d ever received. But one corner of the cover was punctured and smushed. She displayed the damage for Gideon to see. “What happened to it?”
A hint of a bemused smile eased the fatigue from his expression. “They gave it to Crispy to chew on. Apparently, Eddie thought she’d want to wish you well, too. I don’t think the paw on the ink pad worked the way he expected.”
“Oh, no. Did they make a big mess?”
“As if Dorie really minded.” That was a yes.
Like doting parents, they shared a laugh that reminded Meghan of all they could be together. And all they never would be.
With that sobering thought, the laughter ended.
“Get dressed,” Gideon ordered. This was the investigator at work again. The superior officer whom she respected and admired. The gentle man she loved had gone with the laughter. “We have a couple of stops to make before we get to Dorie’s house.”
MEGHAN’S NEED TO PROTECT her sanity from more sick mind games and physical trauma just wasn’t quite letting her grasp what Gideon was trying to say. “So now two men want me dead?”
“Jack Quinton doesn’t want you dead. He wants you to complete the relationship he starts when he sets those fires.” Gideon steered his Suburban off I-70 toward the heart of downtown Kansas City. His post mortem of the DK Mall fire had revealed the “starter” items she’d come to expect: the remains of a remote triggering device and a crudely drawn Westside Warrior emblem burned into the floor. “He likes seeing you in action, remember? Not dead.”
“So who else would try to knock me unconscious and leave me to suffocate?” She shivered at the cruel notion. “And why?”
“Your notoriety could be drawing too much attention to someone’s plan.”
She touched the bandage at her temple and shook her head. “It can’t be the Warriors, then. They want the publicity—to show what big, destructive excuses for men they are so that the competition runs in fear of them.”
He smiled at her assessment of Ezio Moscatelli and his gang-bangers. “I don’t think it’s about making a statement, either.”
“You figured something out, didn’t you?” She studied the intent line of his profile, which gave nothing away. “You said that you went to Jack Quinton’s apartment with Josh and A.J. Do you plan to share what you found?”
He stopped at a red light and finally looked her way. “No sign of Quinton. But definitely the tools of his trade. Disassembled electronics, a pay stub from—get this—his sister’s floral shop. Apparently she gave him a job making deliveries when he got out of prison.”
“Floral deliveries?” Meghan’s breath whooshed out of her lungs.
“Easy.” Gideon reached out and brushed a lock of hair away from her bandage. “There’s more.”
She concentrated on the gentle touch. She pressed a hand to her chest and forced herself to breathe in and out again, instead of thinking how easy it had been for Jack Quinton to conceive and carry out the torment of the last few days. “Let me guess, he drives a white delivery van.”
“With red letters. Just like Dorie described.” He tunneled his fingers into her hair and cupped the side of her neck in a protective, comforting gesture. “But we also found a shoebox full of cash.”
“How much?”
“A little over ten thousand dollars.”
Meghan’s long, low whistle conveyed her surprise. “So someone paid him to set those fires?”
Gideon pulled away and turned his attention back to driving as the light changed. “Or paid him to teach them how. A.J.’s issued a warrant for his arrest. Once they track him down, he’ll be arraigned for arson. Conspiracy to commit. Accessory.”
“But not assault.” She heaved a sigh that was part impatience, part grim acceptance. “This is where the second man comes in, right?”
“Jack Quinton is a little guy,” explained Gideon, his voice gravely impersonal as he led her through his reasoning a second time. “According to A.J.’s report, he’s not any taller than you. Even the size of his fingerprints are tiny for a man. The glove you pulled off your attacker came from someone with bigger hands.”
Meghan coll
apsed back into her seat. She’d expected finding out who was behind the fires would fill her with relief, if not elation. But the damn torment wouldn’t end. All she felt was the impending sense of dread that lingered in the pit of her stomach.
“So who hit me?” She turned her face to the window and looked up at the gloomy portent of the overcast sky. She hadn’t seen clouds for so long, she’d almost forgotten what they looked like. She wouldn’t even begin to hope that they’d get the rain the city so desperately needed.
She’d given up on hope the minute she’d given up on a future with Gideon. She’d accept his promise of caring and protection now because now was all he could give her. And a few cherished days with Gideon Taylor in her life was more than she had ever deserved. She’d store up this memory of a good, caring man in her life to reflect back on the next time her ugly past reared its head.
She tried to keep herself in the moment and to not start mourning her empty future until she got there. Gideon slowed the vehicle and pulled into the posh business district just east of the Plaza. “Where are we going, anyway?” she finally asked.
“To see a man with big hands.”
“YOU STILL THINK Frank Westin’s out to get you?”
Meghan was impressed. Gideon barely batted an eye as he took Daniel Kelleher’s tirade about big business and organized crime and missing golf games in stride. But she suspected there was something more than showing off his cool-under-pressure facade involved when he invited her to accompany him on his interview with Kelleher.
Meghan continued her polite inspection of the entrepreneur’s posh high-rise office, and tried not to flinch at Mr. Kelleher’s sharp-toned response. “Yes, I think he’s out to get me. This is the fourth property of mine that’s been destroyed by fire. Frank Westin wants to put me out of business. There aren’t many of us left in this town who can compete with him in the realty investment market.” The fifty-something man sat in his chair for all of two seconds before jumping up and pacing another circle around his desk. “And why the hell are you holding up those insurance reports, Taylor? Isn’t it clear I’m the victim here?”