Blogger Bundle Volume I: Dear Author Selects Unusual Heroines

by Jo Leigh, Kathleen O'Reilly, Kay David

  From a podium in front, Reed called for everyone’s attention. A huge chalkboard, a projector and a screen were behind him. “As you know, we’re here today to do some training on dealing with elderly patients on EMS calls and as victims in fires. Since Dutch Towers is so close to both your stations, we’re starting with your groups. But all RFD personnel will receive this training.” He smiled. “First, I’d like a show of hands. How many of you are in your twenties?”

  Seven guys stuck up their hands.

  “Thirties?”

  Fifteen. As Chelsea lifted her arm, she glanced at Jake and raised her brows.

  “Forties?”

  Jake and Reed waved.

  “Hey, Scarlatta,” a guy in the back called, “not long before you get your own place at the Towers.”

  “Over the hill, Jakey boy,” somebody else said.

  Over the hill? Hardly. Chelsea’s eyes were drawn to the gunmetal gray thermal top that stretched across Jake’s linebacker shoulders; it was tucked into black jeans. Beltless black jeans. Tight, beltless black jeans. When she raised her eyes, he was watching her with a heated look. Mortified, she flushed and faced Reed.

  “All right, on the front of the card, write your age and your strongest physical and emotional assets.”

  “That means your good points, Santori,” a firefighter next to them taunted.

  Joey said, “Too bad you don’t have any, Mack.”

  Reed continued. “Now turn the card over, add forty years to your age and write down what your biggest physical and emotional liability might be.”

  No one joked this time. Chelsea squirmed like a kid in the principal’s office. It wasn’t pleasant to picture yourself failing; in her case, top physical condition had always been a given. To think about not having it was chilling. She wrote that the lack of strength and endurance would be difficult for her to handle.

  “Now that you’ve put yourself in their places, let’s talk about our roles in the care of older people. In the next two hours we’ll list the disabilities they might have that would impede our helping them or saving their lives. Then we’ll brainstorm ways to compensate for that. You’ll be out by noon, I promise.” Reed scanned the group. “Jake, since you’re the closest to their age except for me, how about starting us off?”

  “Thanks, buddy.” Chelsea smiled at his dry tone.

  “How about loss of hearing and sight?”

  Reed wrote it on the board. “Johnson, what do you think?”

  “Slowed movements.”

  The board quickly filled with brittle bones, loss of bladder or bowel control, aggravated fearfulness and senility.

  “Good job. Now, each table will work with the one behind it or across from it. For fifteen minutes, brainstorm the problems in EMS calls and fire rescue that result from these impairments. After that, we’ll hammer out our role in dealing with them.”

  In unison the three Engine Four firefighters pivoted to face Chelsea. They were trying to intimidate her, she was certain.

  Jake said easily, “Why don’t you guys work with the table across from you?”

  “Why?” Miller asked.

  Before Jake could answer, Mick stood up and said, “The lieutenant asked you to leave, guys.”

  But the Engine Four firefighters stayed where they were, looking as innocent as choirboys.

  Crossing his arms, Joey lounged in his chair, but Chelsea, who’d turned in her seat, caught a hint of the tension in the set of his jaw. “I saw Billy this morning, guys,” Joey said. “Not a mark on him.”

  Donatelli’s face darkened. “Hey, all we wanna do is work with your group. Nobody said nothin’ about Billy.”

  Jake stood, too, as Reed reached for the captain’s shoulder. “TJ,” Reed said, “table four doesn’t have anybody to work with. Why don’t you take your guys over there?” When the captain hesitated, Reed said, “Now.” His tone was stern, commanding, contrary to the Clark Kent manner he usually assumed.

  Once everybody settled down, the five male Quint Twelve firefighters regrouped, moving their chairs so they surrounded Chelsea.

  She said, “I feel like the wagon trains are circling.”

  Diaz quipped, “Yep, warding off the Indian attack.” He paused. “They have any Puerto Rican cowboys back then?”

  “Nope, you’d a been the cook,” Joey told him.

  “Shut up, guinea.”

  Jake laughed. Huff grinned. And Chelsea felt her eyes mist.

  “Thanks, guys.”

  “You aren’t gonna go all female on us and cry, are you, Whitmore?” Huff teased.

  “Nah,” she said. “I can’t remember the last time anybody made me cry.”

  Jake caught her eye. His gaze burned hotly. It said, I can remember. You were half-dressed and on my lap.

  His look also revealed how much he’d liked it.

  “WANNA COME to DeLuca’s with us, Chelsea?” Mick asked after the morning’s training was over.

  “I’d love to,” she said, glancing at Jake. “But I’m meeting my sister here. We’re, uh, gonna have lunch.”

  Jake thought, After she meets with me.

  “Next time.” She watched them with turbulent eyes. “Thanks again.”

  Mick squeezed her arm. Huff patted her shoulder. Diaz ruffled her hair. And Joey said, “Maybe you’ll bake us another pie.”

  “Maybe.”

  When they filed out, she faced Jake. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “I told you, Chels, all men aren’t alike.”

  The look she gave him melted his insides like candle wax. “Maybe.”

  For a moment Jake was flooded by a resurgence of the feelings he’d had in her bedroom the other night. He took in a deep breath. “Thanks for volunteering to do some physical fitness classes at the Towers. You sure you want to take that on?”

  “I want to help them out,” she said simply. “Anyway, I won’t be doing it alone. People volunteered to help.”

  “Well, that was interesting.” They turned to find Reed behind them. “I don’t mind refereeing, but I wish I’d known what I’d been in for. I feel like we just went the full nine rounds.”

  Chelsea bit her lip. “I’m sorry, Reed.”

  He frowned. “Chelsea, none of this is your fault.” He gave Jake a playful punch in the arm. “But this guy could’ve warned me.”

  “I should’ve. Sorry.”

  “No, I—”

  “Oh, my God, look at you!”

  Jake whipped his head around and saw Chelsea’s sister standing in the doorway of the EMS classroom. Staring at Chelsea, Delaney hesitated a second, then rushed in, dropped her briefcase onto a desk, grasped Chelsea’s chin, examined her cheek and swore like a sailor.

  Chelsea’s tone was dry. “Delaney, we’re in mixed company.”

  Delaney glared at Jake. Her eyes rounded when they landed on Reed. “Yes, well, one of their pals did this to you.”

  “Do you always go off half-cocked like this?” Reed asked in annoyance.

  “Pardon me?”

  “I asked if you’re always so rash.”

  She tossed her head haughtily, making her long, dark curly hair bounce. “Just because you take life at a snail’s pace, doesn’t mean the rest of us should.”

  He crossed his arms. “Being judgmental is not a positive quality in a therapist.”

  She snorted. “You’d know, wouldn’t you, sitting up here in your ivory tower, not having contact with the real world?”

  The amused scorn on Reed’s face died like the flame of a match caught in the wind.

  “The real world leaves something to be desired, Dr. Shaw.” He turned to Jake. “Stop by and see me before you leave, Jake.” He faced Chelsea. “Hope things work out for you, Chelsea. If you need me for anything, I’m here.”

  Possessively Delaney placed her hands on Chelsea’s shoulders. “She has me if she needs help.”

  Reed pinned her with a gaze that was a mixture of disdain and fascination. “We can’t always help
the ones we’re close to.” He nodded and left.

  “Sit down, Delaney,” Chelsea said, “before you alienate everybody here.”

  Delaney rested troubled eyes on her sister. “Sorry. I wasn’t prepared for how you look.” She glanced out the door. “And that guy manages to push all my buttons.”

  Jake chuckled. “Reed?”

  Delaney swung her gaze to him. “He’s the most infuriating man I’ve ever met.”

  “Well,” Jake said, “your experience sure is different from anybody else’s.”

  Furrows marred her high forehead. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah.”

  She shrugged.

  “And he recommended you to me.”

  Her mouth gaped. “You’re kidding me. He went after me in that workshop every chance he got.”

  “Funny, he said the same thing about you.”

  Delaney shook her head and sank onto a chair. “Well, it’s all water under the bridge, since the workshop’s over. We’ll probably never see each other again.” She straightened and, just like at the baseball game, assumed a different persona—more professional, less emotional. “Chelsea said you need some help. For one of your children?”

  “More like an adopted child.” Jake explained Derek’s situation to Delaney.

  “I’m sorry,” she said with genuine feeling. “Abandonment at such a young age can be so painful.” Her gaze flicked to Chelsea. The look the sisters shared told Jake they knew something about youthful neglect.

  “Which is why I need to get him some therapy.”

  Delaney hesitated. “Well, I’d like to help. I’ve been interested in the children of emergency rescue people. But—”

  Chelsea said, “I know you’re not taking new patients, Delaney. I thought you could do this as a favor to me.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “What, then?” Chelsea asked.

  Delaney’s face was serious as she turned to Jake. “Listen, I know you were there for Chelsea when she was attacked the other night, and I appreciate it. But my feelings about the fire department right now are not very positive.” She nodded to her sister. “Chelsea’s had a really bad eight months, and I blame it on her co-workers.”

  “Not all of us are alike,” Jake said, parroting what he’d told Chelsea.

  Delaney’s blue eyes were grim with doubt. “Men or firefighters?” she asked.

  “Both.”

  “I’m not sure I can be unbiased with Derek.”

  “Of course you can,” Chelsea said. “Laney, you’re the best. And Derek needs the best.”

  Jake had a feeling about Delaney. Her impetuosity, her forthrightness, her I-don’t-give-a-damn-what-I-say attitude might be just what Derek needed.

  Or is this just another tie to the woman sitting across from you? an inner voice asked.

  He took in Chelsea’s tousled hair, black sleeveless knit top and white jeans. And his entire body hardened. He didn’t need another tie to her. It was dangerous. It would be the best if Delaney didn’t take on Derek.

  Opening his mouth to retract his request, he was cut off by Dr. Delaney Shaw’s sudden gesture. She stood up, smoothed her miniskirt and pronounced. “All right, I’ll take him. Call my secretary and have her set up an appointment for this week. I’ll tell her to make room.” She glanced at Chelsea. “Let’s go to lunch. I want to talk to you alone.”

  “Delaney, you’re being rude.”

  “I don’t care.” She faced Jake. “My sister’s sitting here looking like she went a couple rounds with Mike Tyson, and I want a chance to see how she’s really doing.”

  Jake stared at her.

  “I’ll meet you in the parking lot.” Chelsea stood and gave her sister a warning look. “I want to talk to Jake a minute.”

  “Sure.” Delaney picked up her briefcase and swept out of the room.

  Jake stood, too. “Well, your sister is an…interesting woman.”

  Chelsea smiled. “Don’t be too hard on her. She’s got a wonderful heart and she’s brilliant with kids. She’ll make headway with Derek, I know.”

  “The poor boy won’t have any choice.”

  Thoughtfully, Chelsea stared after her sister. “We had a rough life growing up. She’s the most affected by it. She’s always felt this loyalty and…protectiveness toward me.”

  “It’s easy to have those feelings for you.”

  Chelsea’s eyes widened.

  He raised his hand and brushed her unharmed cheek. “Way too easy.”

  Jake hadn’t meant to say it; it slipped out. To preclude any more revelations, he turned and left her alone in the classroom.

  THE DARKNESS swallowed him once again and spit him out, a giant monster transforming him. Nobody, not even those close to him, knew what he felt inside. Alone in his bedroom at home, staring into space, he tried to think through this whole thing.

  What to do? Okay, so he felt like a hypocrite. He was a hypocrite in some ways. He was good at keeping his other side hidden; he’d joined in easily playing Galahad with the rest of them, hadn’t he?

  His hands fisted. Truth be told, that bruise on her face had thrown him. His father used to hit his mother and him; he hated that kind of violence. Whitmore’s appearance had touched something inside him, and he’d played along for that reason.

  But tonight, he was back to square one with her. She just didn’t belong there. It would be best for her to get her out of there. Then she wouldn’t be making guys like Billy mad enough to knock her around. Christ, she was thirty-six. She oughtta be home takin’ care of babies.

  He glanced at the doorway. Women needed to be put in their place by men who knew how to do it. It was for their own good. In a sense, it would be playing the knight in shining armor, sort of like the way they’d protected her at the academy today.

  That did it. He’d known if he thought about it long enough, he’d figure out why he had to do this.

  It’d be for her own good.

  He’d take the first step right away.

  CHAPTER NINE

  IF JAKE SCARLATTA was upset by the fifty-foot tanker that sprawled across the expressway, spilling gasoline like water out of a hose, it wasn’t obvious. Amidst the fine drizzle that had begun about seven and shrouded them in ominous gloom, he barked orders like the commander-in-chief of an army.

  “Huff and Santori, the victim’s yours.” The pair leaped off the rig and headed toward the driver, who’d been thrown from his truck. “Diaz, get the foam ready. Whitmore, you’re behind me on the hose.” As he reached up and pulled the Nomex hood over his head, he asked, “Can you handle this one, Chelsea?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right, stay close. It could get dicey.”

  Sirens blared in the distance. Dimly they registered—the overturning of a tanker and its potential hazards would draw out all the brass, as well as several more fire trucks. But Chelsea was intent on getting her mask in place, adjusting the straps and making sure her gear was in working order. Fiery gasoline was a hungry monster that would bite anywhere it could.

  Slowly, Jake approached it. At precisely the time he reached the spill, he activated the nozzle. “I’ve got foam,” he yelled.

  The hose grew heavy and bucked; Chelsea held on tight as Jake began the methodical, careful task of laying the foam blanket that would smother the fire. As he blew the foam, he followed its path through the lake of gasoline; she was right behind him.

  Chelsea focused, blocking everything else out. Sweat dripped from her scalp under the hood and helmet and mask. In the center of the spill, the heat was an inferno. Every inch of her was sweltering.

  Halfway through, she heard sirens and glanced up as more trucks, ambulances and official cars arrived. Bringing her attention to the hose, her gaze snagged on sparks. Behind her.

  Oh, God, the gasoline had reignited.

  And they were in the middle of it.

  She grabbed Jake’s arm and pulled hard. He turned and saw the fire, too. As cool as a guy watering
his lawn, Jake backtracked and doused the flames. Chelsea blanked her mind, concentrated on the hose and followed Jake. It took a long time, but eventually they’d laid a twenty-foot foam blanket; the fire was out.

  Mick came up and grabbed the line from them. “Goddamn, I thought you’d bought it,” she heard him say as she yanked off her headgear.

  Jake cocked his head. “Haven’t you ever seen a foam blanket reignite?”

  Mick shook his head.

  Jake nodded to Chelsea. “You?”

  “Never.”

  His eyes shone with appreciation. “Then you did good.”

  She smiled. “Thanks.”

  Two hours later they headed to the firehouse. They’d stayed and helped clean up the spill; when more backup arrived, the chief released them.

  Chelsea ached everywhere from holding the hose. Tension had crept into her shoulders, and with the drop in adrenaline, exhaustion hit her like a sledgehammer.

  They dumped their gear in the bay. Peter said, “Let’s get coffee and see if that pie Whitmore made is as good as it smelled when we left.” She’d been baking a pie that was just about done when they got the call.

  “What kind is it this time, Whitmore?” Joey asked, tossing his bunker boots to the floor.

  “Cherry.” She smiled at Don, who let his turnout gear drop to his feet. “Don pitted the cherries.”

  “Just like home,” he muttered good-naturedly as Jake led the way to the back of the firehouse. “I get all the grunt work.”

  Jake said, “But you’re so good at it, Diaz. I think I’ll—” He halted abruptly at the entrance to the kitchen. Chelsea, Peter and Joey bumped into each other. It would have been comical if they hadn’t been so tired.

  “What the…” Joey began.

  “Peter, come up here.” Jake’s peremptory tone silenced them.

  Chelsea scowled. Her first thought was that someone had broken into the firehouse. Just what they needed.

  Quickly Peter threaded through them to meet Jake at the kitchen doorway.

  “You’re the gourmet. Is it just remnants of the spill I’m smelling, or is there gas in here?”.